#it’s veil leaving fresh snow in it’s wake

[gilly-moon]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖘 𝖆 𝖍𝖚𝖓𝖌𝖗𝖞 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖙

[littlemissmiller]

Bird in a Cage

Part 1: To Me, You Are Divine

Pairing: dark!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

Summary: a young president snow decided to kidnap you and take you as his prisoner in his palace. he needs a First Lady, and you could be the one…

Warning: 21+ (drinking) eventual smut, non-con, mentions of drugging (reader gets drugged by coryo), toxic themes, possession, stalking, kidnapping

Word count: 3.3k

A/N: hi…still working on Summer Highs and The Shopkeepers Daughter part 2 but in typical ADHD fashion, they have been left still yet to be finished. in the meantime (also in typical ADHD fashion) i got sooooo caught up in this story that i kinda wrote it and can’t seem to stop. The words are just flowing outta me. anyways i need to get a pedro fic out (which i have those started too!) ok so enjoy this y’all it’s so fucking dark 🤍 also…we already almost at 300 followers so I would appreciate the follow (and who doesn’t like a nice round number)

Series Masterlist

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The vastness of the palace made you feel even more alone than you already did. Being trapped in this room all day and night was starting to become unsettling. It is only a few days and still, you haven’t even made contact with the man who is holding you in his possession. Coriolanus Snow, the young president, had taken you as his own. Little did you know that you are just merely a part of his collection. The collection of girls he had taken home, held captive, then released when he wanted a new one. And to keep these women quiet, money and the veiled threats of losing your life or a loved ones. He was no stranger to keeping his promises. So when he saw you at The Gamemakers Gala, you became his prey. He had taken you home to the palace and made you his.

You were sure it was only two days, but still waking up groggy, confused, and unsure of your location can make time feel like a burden. But a maid had told you two days ago, so you went with it. Apparently he has every intention of seeing you, but based on the light outside the window, evening is setting in, so you’re not sure. You had no more tears left to cry as you lay and waited for dinner. You’re not sure how much longer it is, but eventually someone knocks on your door. You pop up, and a maid enters the room. She rolls in a mahogany tray table with fresh polished silverware, and a plate cover to match.

“Your dinner” she announces

She reveals a freshly seasoned sirloin steak, with the most perfect mashed potatoes you’ve ever seen, topped off with fresh cut chives. And he even sent you a slice of chocolate cake. It’s truly the most perfect plate you’ve seen and it was only your second dinner here in the presidential palace. Despite being held captive, Snow was keeping you well fed. You nod at her and begin digging in.

“He wishes to see you after dinner. I’ll wait outside to escort you.”

You look up at her in shock and then another wave of surprise hits you as she hands you an outfit. It was a black two piece. A halter top and pants with the slits of the leg cut out, like a two legged skirt and a pair of lace up, black heels She then hands you a bag with some foundation, mascara, lipstick, and a compact. You take it and she leaves, locking the door. You sit there, fearful and confused. What was he planning on doing to you? Why is he dressing you up like a doll and fattening you like a pig? You look back down at your dinner plate with a new found disgust and push it away. Fuck it. If you don’t finish your dinner, you don’t have to see him. You’ll say you’ve fallen ill, which you practically have when the reality of your situation comes crashing down on you again. You toss the outfit and makeup onto the bed and cross your arms.

A few moments pass and before you know it the maid is knocking again. You assume she’s checking on your progress but she simply walks in with a white envelope in hand. She gives it to you without a word, leaving the room, locking the door again. Your name is printed in fine calligraphy, a deep blood red. You turn it over and notice the, white, wax seal, engraved with a rose. You shakily open it, and reveal a note. It reads:

My dear,

I’ve seen this little show before. I always find it charming and I of course love a good game, however, I know you will not win. No matter how hard you try. This being said, I of all people know how to use hunger as a weapon and trust me your body will crave it soon enough, or I could ask the chef to cook for one less person while you’re in my care. It’s up to you.

Don’t keep me too much longer.

-C.S.

Fuck. He’s watching you. A new wave of consciousness creeps over you and you frantically look around the room, then realize he is probably still watching and stop your movements. You sit on the bed, look at the meal and sigh. Your stomach is growing given lunch was soup and some bread. It was a rich chicken noodle, but not filling enough. He must have planned that too. All a part of the game he was apparently playing with you. You begrudgingly take up the fork and knife, slicing up the juicy meat and biting into it. Of course it’s divine, and a small moan escapes your lips and you scoop up some mashed potatoes.

You take your time to eat though, making him wait even longer for you, despite his request in the note. Maybe you can win this game. In your own little ways. You eventually finish your meal and stare at the outfit and makeup bag. You sigh, seeing that this may be the only way out. You touch the fabric, it’s so silky and smooth. It dances on your fingertips and you can’t help but want to at least try it on. You know once you do that, you’ll be truly trapped in his game. You sigh and want to cry, but hold it together. Now that you're painfully aware he’s watching you, you know the only thing that will please him next will be to do as you're told. Or starve until you die apparently. Would he really do that to a citizen of Panem? You figure he just might, considering you’re this far into his plans. You take the outfit in your hand and walk into the bathroom attached to the room.

As you change, you wonder if he’s still watching you. You hope not. You’d hope he’d give you that privacy, then again you still don’t know what he has in store for you. Given that he’s making you change outfits, it seems like he wants a surprise. Like a gift being presented to him. As you strap up the heels, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. You take a deep breath as the tears start to well in your eyes. Now is not the time to fall into a mess, he wants you beautiful for him and you need to be to make it through this. Once you get a better layout of the palace and his room, you’ll be able to formulate a better escape plan.

You knock on the door and the maid opens in. She is now accompanied by two armed guardsmen, which you assume is to keep you from running. You hold yourself high as you walk out, even though your fear is still sitting in the back of your mind. Without a word, the two men and the maid walk you through the palace. It’s just as beautiful as the pictures you’ve seen. Tall ceilings, marble floors, wide windows, grand staircases. He truly has it all. You follow the group down a long hall, walls decorated with pictures of Panem and Snows of the past. Based on the pictures you see now, he looks a lot like his father. Finally, they arrive at a set of double doors, the same mahogany as the tray table. The maid knocks twice and opens the door. She stands aside and you walk in. The walls of his room have the same white marble as the floors outside, adorned with gold plating. The floors match the door and in front of you is an empty desk and red armchair. Standing beside the wide window, with his back to you, President Snow spares a quick glance over his shoulder, giving a satisfied smile.

“You found your way.”

“I was escorted.”

“That’s not what I meant dear. You look stunning by the way.”

“Well you did pick it” you scoff

“Is that a little attitude I detect?” He clicks his tongue at you “tsk tsk oh my dear, you really want to play like that hmm?”

“I don’t want to play any games, President Snow. Just please, can you tell me why I’m here? Why was I stuck in that room alone for two days?”

“To monitor your health. The drugs I gave you can sometimes make you nauseous for a few days.”

You temper your breathing. So you could have been there for much longer without realizing it. When you woke up that next morning, not in your own bed, in a room completely foreign to you, you did feel slightly groggy, highly confused and had no memory of the night before, which you chalked up to drinking. But no, Snow had drugged you and kidnapped you. And now here you stand, face to face with him. You don’t even remember meeting him until now, now something tells you that you did a few days ago.

“Well why am I here?”

He smirks and walks around to you. You don’t let your eyes leave him. It’s hard not to when his piercing blue ones practically beckon for you to stare into them. They call you, keeping you focused. Now that he’s closer up, you can see the handsome features you’ve only seen in newspapers. The same face that would sit on your coffee table and sometimes be used as a coaster, is now staring at you intensely. He eyes you, and you watch them trail down your body.

“Come closer to me.” He beckons, curling his index finger.

You nervously waltz forward, looking down nervously.

“Look up at me. Did you forget your manners?”

“No…” you breathe, now close enough to be able to touch him.

“No? What did I just say about manners my dear?” He chuckles

“No, President Snow.” You tremble

He reaches out, holding your chin, making you look directly at him.

“Good girl. You’ll learn. Consistency is key after all.” He trails the pad of his thumb against your lower lip and coos at you, almost forgetting his own manners as well. He clears his throat, and removes his hand.

“You want to know why you’re here?” He continues

“Yes, President Snow.” You nod

He smiles at you and tilts his head.

“You’re learning. That’s good.”

He pauses

“I brought you here because I think you’re special. Maybe you are even special enough to keep…”

“To keep, sir?”

“Mhmm” he walks around you, examining you. He brushes your hair back behind your shoulder and wafts in your scent.

“I assume you showered this morning? You smell nice.” He continues

“I did. I used the body wash that was available to me.”

“Good.” He smiles

There is a moment of silence while he continues to look at you. He walks to face you again and you look back up at him quickly.

“So here’s how this will work, you will live here, with me, in the palace. We will start dining together and you will accompany me to events if necessary. People won’t be suspicious since they assume that I was a president of integrity that made sure you got home safe and sound after the gala. They will assume you fell for my chivalry and I under the spell of your beautiful face.”

“For how long?” You stutter

“Well you see, I don’t have an answer for you on that. See I said you can’t win earlier and that wasn’t entirely true. You can win this game.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m looking for a First Lady of Panem. I believe you could be qualified to fit that role, but I like a good trial run with things.”

“So you kidnapped me, because you want me to be your wife.”

“That’s a strong word, but if everything works out then yes, but if not you will be properly reimbursed for your time, a non-disclosure contract will be drawn up, and you’ll be free to live as you please…as long as you don’t go around talking about this, then you’ll have bigger problems. Do you understand?” He raises an eyebrow

“Yes, President Snow…”

“Good. When I’m not around, the maids will tend to you, and you will from now on have armed guards with you at all times. When you sleep, they will guard your room.”

“I understand.”

“You are very lucky either way. I do believe most women would love to be here right now, hand picked by their president. I have fine taste you see, and that applies to the women I make mine as well.”

“What if I win,” you start, putting win in air quotes “then doesn’t that mean I stay here. With you…forever?”

“That’s right my dear, you’ll be by my side, rule over Panem with me.”

“What if I don’t want that?” You mumble, fearful of his answer

He steps closer and smiles at you. He takes a lock of your hair and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. He drops it and smooths it out along your collarbone.

“Oh, I’m sure you will. Once you see what this lifestyle has to offer, you’ll try to be my most perfect girl.”

Your eyes widen and your heartbeat speeds up. You have nothing to say, as if all language has escaped your brain.

“Do you have anything else to ask me?” He smiles

“Why not just find a wife through normal means? Meet someone and get to know them?” You quiver again

“Why would I do that when it’s in my complete power to pick and choose. It’s easier that way too, I hate courting somebody, that silly dance people do. Does she like me, does he think I’m pretty, blah blah blah. All nonsense if you ask me. I know I like you. Like you enough to see if you're a good fit. All I really have to do is get you to like me. It’s better that way. You got to the store to buy things like apples, well I picked mine straight from the tree. I don’t go through anyone for the things I want. I just…take it.”

“And you won’t hurt me?”

“Hurt you? Of course not. Why would I want to hurt a beautiful thing such as yourself. He smirks.

He walks back around you again and stands behind. He places his hand on your shoulder, brushes back your hair and leans into your ear.

“You should know how beautiful you are. To me you are divine.” He whispers, his hot breath fanning the shell of your ear.

He rubs your shoulders tenderly, thumbs moving along your spine. Then unexpectedly, you feel his lips press against your neck. He applies a fair amount of pressure, leaving several kisses behind as he pulls back.

“Did that hurt?”

“No sir.” You breathe

“See. Like I said I don’t want to hurt you”

He returns his lips back to your neck, his hand creeping up to your jaw to push you more aggressively against his mouth. Your breath hitches and heartbeat speeds up. You want to turn him away, push him off and scream that he's an absolute monster, but your body begins to betray you. A slow heat creeps up your body, your cunt beginning to throb. You purse your lips, controlling your breath as he continues to attack your neck.

“Tell me, what can I do to make you happy while you’re in my care. I do truly desire your comfort as much as I desire to find a proper First Lady.”

“I want to be able to speak to my family. Do they know where I am?”

“Right now, they assume that you are away for work, and got called up to model the latest dresses for future Hunger Games contestants this summer. To them, you’re in District 2 for a few days.”

With that you snap and push him away, flinching as he tries to kiss you again. In response, he clutches your arm and pulls you back to him. He tightens his grip, teeth grazing your ears.

“Or I’ll send them another letter saying you were found dead after the gala, popped some pills looking for fun and took your last breath instead.” He grits harshly

“You said you don’t want to hurt me.” You whine

“I don’t want to. But I most certainly can.” He growls

“Please, I don’t want this please just let me go instead, I’ll take whatever money you offer, I don’t want this!” You begin to cry

“Let’s be honest, you don’t know what you really want. If you did, you’d be begging to stay. So I’ll show you. I’ll show you everything you could really want and more”

He once again surprises you, kissing your cheek, softly letting your tears roll onto his lips. He holds you more gently now, and you can feel your body wanting to melt into his arms. You start to stifle your tears and he soothes you.

“I have a feeling you just might be the one. You’re not like the others so far…”

“Others?” You mumble

“Mhmm. They aren’t around anymore. Like I said they got their dues instead. They know what happens if they speak up. I think you should really think about what it means for you to be my prize. Because like I said, even if you lose the game, you still belong to me.”

He kisses your jaw, hands settling on your waist. He coos into your ear, stroking your hair. You sniffle and look down at the floor. He moves his hand and tilts your head back up.

“You’ll be able to talk to your family soon enough darling. I promise.” He kisses your cheek again.

You shutter against him, more cries desperately wanting to escape your lips, but the way he continues to stroke your hair, soothes you. You suddenly feel so conflicted, accepting his comfort, but wanting to turn him away.

“In the meantime my dear…” he moves his hands back to your waist and squeezes your hips. Your body tenses at his actions and he moves his lips back down to your neck. You are somewhat frozen, trying your best to focus more on the pleasure he brings you.

“I’d like to get to know you better. Show you how beautiful you are? Hmm would you like that?” His left hand trails up your body, stopping just as he reaches your breast. You quiver at his touch, and turn to look toward him. Your eyes are full of fear and Coriolanus can see it. He sighs.

“Or perhaps another night. I’ll let you get more settled in…” he kisses your cheek one last time, before stepping in front of you. You look up at him and nod. With the pad of this thumb, he wipes a tear away. He calls out for the maid and she opens the door.

“I think we both shall retire for the night.” He tells her.

He holds your chin one last time, and you face him fully.

“I expect to see you at breakfast tomorrow. What do you like?”

“I’ll eat anything you give me.” You quiver

He gives you a faint smile and a simple nod. He sends you off with the maid and armed guards back to your room, watching you as you go. Once you return, you are left alone again and remember that he can watch you in this room. Which he is. As soon as you left, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and turned the video feed back on. He watched you enter the room. As you sit on the bed, trying not to cry, then look over into the bathroom and huff. You stand back up and storm in, closing the door behind you. You let out a huge sigh of relief. You were sure he would be persistent, not stop and until he truly got what he wanted. Which is you. You sink down onto the floor, bury your face in your knees and let out a slow, soft sob.

꧁🝮꧂

Next Chapter

[eletricheart]

Hiii! I have a request for Donna. You can write about Donna and f!reader who don't speak or understand English but they were injured and lost

Wounded

(Donna Beneviento x Reader)

*image creds to owner

Word count: 737

i did my best😭 hope u like it🫶 its all fluff i promise

ps: i didnt specify the gender, it didnt really matter in the story, i wrote a lot "you" so...idk

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You were running through the snow, desperately trying to gain distance from whatever creature was chasing you. You didn't know what it was, all you saw was blood and a howl, then you ran.

Your legs were burning and the trees were leaving multiple scratches on your face. Suddenly you were pushed to the side, your brain barely registering the pain of falling down a slide.

Your breaths were coming in hard, your lungs were hurting and there was blood dripping down from your head to your eyes. All you could see was a grave surrounded by flowers, ironic since you felt like dying.

You tried to stand but after running, falling and having an unknown pain in your side, you fell back down.

At least the place was nice, the moon's shine left the flowers sparkling slightly.

You heard shuffling and thought the creature came to finish it's job until little doll feet stood in front of your face. You noticed the doll speaking to you, unfortunately you did not speak the language so just stared at her confused.

Your eyes were starting to close when the smells of fresh paint and leaves slightly woke you up. You could feel someone lifting you, wincing when she touched your wounds.

You didn't stay awake enough to see the path, all you remember is waking up in a bed in a strange room. Your body was covered in bandages and there was a doctor doll sitting next to you.

You barely could move but managed to turn your head enough to properly look at them, a chuckle left your lips hurting your ribs a bit.

You were close to falling asleep again when the door opened gently. A woman dressed in black was holding a tray with what appeared to be tea and some fruits. She settled it on the nearby table and approached you.

She pointed at your bandage. "The tea will heal it." Her voice wasn't louder than a whisper, cracking on a few words.

You furrowed your brows, not understanding what she says. You attempted to speak in your language but three words in and the woman shook her head, held one finger up(as in one second) and left.

You couldn't move therefore waited. She didn't take long to return with a notebook and pen.

She wrote down her name and pointed at herself. You nodded and told her your name, also asking her to carry on.

Donna understood your name but the rest was messy, so she tilted her head momentarily confused, to which you picked up on and looked at the tray.

The dollmaker nodded and laid it beside you, helping you into a sitting position. You ate in silence, she would occasionally stare at you but most of the time looked at the floor. Once you were done she took the tray and set it back on the table before moving back to sit beside you.

Donna kept wondering on how to speak to you, she could find a dictionary but there weren't many options in her house and she didn't know what language you were speaking. Perhaps she could ask the name, but she also wasn't sure on how to.

After what felt like ages for the dollmaker, she picked up the notebook and wrote a sad face. She presented to you and pointed at the bandages.

You were happy she was trying to talk to you, not hiding your smile and making a more or less gesture. You still needed to thank her and the language barrier was an issue, so you pointed at your wounds, gave her a thumbs up, pointed at her and made a heart with your hands.

Donna was thankful you couldn't see her face through the veil for she was blushing furiously, she still nodded politely but was melting on the inside.

The next days were the same, she'd come in, check your wounds and you'd talk through drawings. Angie absolutely adored this, believing it was all a game, eventually she understood you couldn't understand when she talked so the doll would tease Donna and tell her secrets to you. You would always look at her with a confused but smiling face.

Donna did find out which language you spoke and arranged a dictionary, now both of your days were filled with studying and giggling when one would say something in the other language.

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requests are open: masterlist

[elfwreck]

Oh you cannot understand the full horrific glory of this text from an image scan.

Here, I will share with you the actual contents, under a read more tag, so it will be forever searchable on Tumblr, you're welcome and I'm sorry.

As a teaser (or warning), this two-page scan includes the following:

Her buttocks were fresh-baked loaves; they were ivory eggs, they were the eggs of the lonely phoenix. They were a fist.

and:

Her pubes was a field of wheat after the harvest, a field neatly furrowed; it was a nest, a pomegranate, an arrowhead, a rune. It was a shadow. It was moss on a smooth white stone. There was an orchid within the moss. There was a drop of dew upon the orchid.

The glorious fanart:

As Spikenard watched, Bronwyn slipped the transparent cloak from her shoulders; it fell with a whisper. She let her hands drop to her sides; she pulled her shoulders back and stood erect, feet apart, legs straight. This is what he saw:

Bronwyn standing pale and tall in the nervous light that shimmered through a vibrating canopy of green leaves. The shifting bands of milky light and emerald shadow made her seem luminous, translucent, as though she were a tallow candle glowing beneath its own flame. Like a porcelain lantern. Like a curtain fluttering in a window at dawn. Like a ghost that came and went with the twilight and darkness, that first veiled and then revealed.

Her hair had the sheen of the sea beneath an eclipsed moon. It was the color of a leopard’s tongue, of oiled mahogany. It was terra cotta, bay and chestnut. Her hair was a helmet, a hood, the cowl of the monk, magician or cobra.

Her face had the fragrance of a gibbous moon. The scent of fresh snow. Her eyes were dark birds in fresh snow. They were the birds’ shadows, they were mirrors; they were the legends on old charts. They were antique armor and the tears of dragons. Her brows were a raptor’s sharp, anxious wings. They were a pair of scythes. Her ears were a puzzle carved in ivory. Her teeth were her only bracelet; she carried them within the red velvet purse of her lips. Her tongue was amber. Her tongue was a ferret, an anemone, a fox caught in the teeth of a tiger.

Her shoulders were the clay in a potter’s kiln. Her shoulders were fieldstones; they were the white, square stones of which walls are made. They were windows covered with steam. They were porcelain. They were opal and moonstone. Her neck w;as the foam that curls from the prow of a ship, it was a sheaf of alfalfa or barley, it was the lonely dance of the pearl-grey shark.

Her legs were quills. They were bundles of wicker, they were candelabra; the muscles were summer lightning, that flickered like a passing thought; they were captured eels or a cable on a windlass. Her thighs were geese, pythons, schooners. They were cypress or banyan; her thighs were a forge, they were shears; her thighs were sandstone, they were the sandstone buttresses of a cathedral, they were silk or cobwebs. Her calves were sweet with the sap of elders, her feet were bleached bone, her feet were driftwood. Her feet were springs, marmosets or locusts; her toes were snails, they were snails with shells of tears.

Her arms were a corral, a fence, an enclosure; they were pennants; they were highways. Her fingers were incense. They were silver fish in clear water, they were the speed of the fish, they were the fish’s wake. They were semaphores; they were meteors.

Her spine was a snake. It was the track of a snake. It was the groove the water snake makes in the glossy mud of the riverbank. Her spine was a viper, an anaconda. It was the strength of the anaconda. It was the anaconda’s unknown hieroglyphic. Her spine was a ladder, a rod; it was a chain, a canal, it was a caravan. Her buttocks were fresh-baked loaves; they were ivory eggs, they were the eggs of the lonely phoenix. They were a fist.

Her breasts were citrus, they were soapstone; they were bright cumulus and the smooth fingertips of Musrum. Her breasts were honeycombs and dew-beaded windows, or soft, sweet cheese. They were sweet apples; they were glass, they were cowries. They were the twin moons of the earth. The nipples rose like mercury with her heat. They rose like monuments atop flowered hills, above deserts of hot sand; the nipples were savory morels, with the flavor of the forest.

Her ribs were a niche, an alcove, an apse; her stomach was an idol in the niche, alcove or apse, an effigy, a phantom. Her stomach was a beach, a savannah, a flagstone warmed by the sun, a cat asleep on the flagstone, a bleached canvas sail in hot southern winds. Her navel winked like a doll’s eye, like the eye of a whale, like the drowsy cat.

Her pubes was a field of wheat after the harvest, a field neatly furrowed; it was a nest, a pomegranate, an arrowhead, a rune. It was a shadow. It was moss on a smooth white stone. There was an orchid within the moss. There was a drop of dew upon the orchid. It had the breath of moss-beds, of the deep seas, of the abyss, of scrimshaw and blue glass, of cold iron; she had the sex of rain forests, the ibis and the scarab; she had the sex of mirrors and candles, of the hot, careful winds that stroke the veldt, the winds that taste of clay and seed and blood; the winds that dreamed of tawny, lean animals.

“You are quite beautiful. Princess Bronwyn,” Spikenard sang, with his sardonic grin and eyes as violet and hard as amethysts. “Your body is halfway between earth and dream, neither magic nor elemental, neither animal nor spirit.”

His long fingers reached toward her face, brushed her eyelids . . .

“Your eyes are the sound of rain.”

. . . followed the contours of her cheekbones and jaw . . .

“Chalkbeds and moonlight.”

I am fucking haunted by a terrible piece of writing that was shared on Livejournal (though it from an older actual published book) sometime in the early 2000s

If anyone knows what it is or can find it PLEASE let me me know as I need to read it again

Its an excerpt from a story about a woman and the fey? And there is a moment where the fey king? Prince? Casts a spell on her and then there is this long ass section of the worst purple prose of your life

Dude uses like 5 metaphors for every single body part! Like this isn't an exact quote but it's like "her toes were like snails, small white stones delicate bones, small white shells"

And the dude describes her ENTIRE BODY like that feature by feature!

This was posted in a writing group and blew up

There was a dramatic reading!

There was fan art!

AND I CAN'T FUCKING FIND ANY TRACE OF THIS TERRIBLE WRITING ONLINE

It's SO bad and I need to 1. Read it again and 2. Make sure Tumblr is aware of it because good god

[goldenempyrean]

Empyrean’s Advent: Day 14

Prompt: “Oh you poor thing.”

Pairing: Lizzie Olsen x Sick Reader

Wordcount: 621

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‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿ ‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

The trailer bedroom is drenched with a gentle, golden haze. The sun was bright and low in the sky, shining down on the cool ground below. It was a picture example of a comforting winter afternoon with the last traces of the previous day’s snow clinging to the ground.

The smell of Lizzie’s rosewater shampoo infuses the air. You sigh as she gently dries you off with the soft white towel, which was wrapped around your body, gently drying your soaked body off from the shower you’d both shared.

“How do you feel?” She purrs, trailing her fingers down your hot cheek before she begins to carefully towel-dry your wet hair.

Truth be told, you didn’t feel well. Your cold hung like a heavy veil that's wrapped around your head, keeping your nose and throat stuffed up as they drip but that didn’t matter. There was no time to be sick. Being actors meant following deadlines, doing things on time, especially when those things were filming scenes and nowhere in your schedule was there time for you to be sick.

“Im alright.” You lied, clearing your throat to attempt to remove the rasp from your voice, “We should get ready for set, we’re filming the fight scenes this afternoon, aren’t we?”

Your fiancé raised an eyebrow at your claim, seeing your body shudder under her touch because despite the coolness of the shower, your skin still retained its previous feverish glow. And pressing the back of her hand to your forehead only confirmed her fears, “You aren’t going to be filming those, neither of us are.” She said bluntly but soften her tone, seeing how your eyes had casted down to the floor, “Im sorry sweetie, you need to rest and let your body get rid of this bug and there's no way Im leaving you here alone.”

“But it's our job!” You whined only pausing to paw at your nose, feeling the burn of a small itch spread across it, “Hh’itshhiew!” Hh-hih’iiishiew!”

“Gesundheit!” Lizzie cooed and she tapped her finger on the edge of your nose, causing you to sneeze again, “Oh you poor thing, let me get you some tissues.”

Lizzie left the room, and you took the opportunity to change into some clean clothes. You stood up, ignoring the wooziness and the shudders which overcame you as you dropped the towel which had been the only thing covering you, with great effort you managed to search the nearby closet and pull out a pair of black joggers and sweatshirt, both belonging to your fiancé.

When Lizzie came back, she had two fresh boxes of tissues tucked under her arm and a hot-steaming mug in the other, with a slight smirk she raised an eyebrow as she looked over you, “Are those my clothes?”

A small mischievous grin tugged at your lips as you gratefully accepted the tea, “Maybe,” You took a sip of the hot liquid, it felt amazing against your throat, “Thanks for this.”

“It's not a problem darling, now crawl back and get under the covers, catch up on some sleep.” Lizzie smiled as she helped you get comfy before picking up a copy of her script and sitting beside you, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“God, I love you sometimes.”

“Love you too, now shush,” She wraps an arm around you, and in the comfort of her safety, you feel as if nothing could possibly ever go wrong ever again, “Get some sleep.” Lizzie presses against you with a motherly kiss on the top of your head. She hums gently as you feel yourself being carried away by the lull of sleep. Right here, right now, there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

✧*̥˚ Taglist! *̥˚✧ @somber-sapphic @lyak12 @natashamyl0ve @scrambled-brain-eggs @ceiestiaie @santana1437 @lovethewhumps @likefirenrain @snifflesandchills

[a-crack-in-the-universe]

He dreamed of Claire that night. She lay in his arms, heavy-limbed and fragrant. She was with child; her belly round and smooth as a muskmelon, her breasts rich and full, the nipples dark as wine, urging him to taste them.

Her hand cupped itself between his legs, and he reached to return the favor, the small, fat softness of her filling his hand, pressing against him as she moved. She rose over him, smiling, her hair falling down around her face, and threw her leg across him.

“Give me your mouth,” he whispered, not knowing whether he meant to kiss her or to have her take him between her lips, only knowing he must have her somehow.

“Give me yours,” she said. She laughed and leaned down to him, hands on his shoulders, her hair brushing his face with the scent of moss and sunlight, and he felt the prickle of dry leaves against his back and knew they lay in the glen near Lallybroch, and her the color of the copper beeches all around; beech leaves and beechwood, gold eyes and a smooth white skin, skimmed with shadows.

Then her breast pressed against his mouth, and he took it eagerly, drawing her body tight against him as he suckled her. Her milk was hot and sweet, with a faint taste of silver, like a deer’s blood.

“Harder,” she whispered to him, and put her hand behind his head, gripping the back of his neck, pressing him to her. “Harder.”

She lay at her length upon him, his hands holding for dear life to the sweet flesh of her buttocks, feeling the small solid weight of the child upon his own belly, as though they shared it now, protecting the small round thing between their bodies.

He flung his arms about her, tight, and she held him tight as he jerked and shuddered, her hair in his face, her hands in his hair and the child between them, not knowing where any of the three of them began or ended.

-----

He made his way down the ladder into the half-warm, horse-smelling fug of the barn, nearly falling in his haste, ignoring a splinter in his bare foot. He hesitated in the dark, still urgent. The horses wouldn’t care, but if they noticed him, they’d make enough noise, perhaps, to wake the others.

Wind struck the barn and went booming round the roof. A strong chilly draft with a scent of snow stirred the somnolence, and two or three of the horses shifted, grunting and whickering. Overhead, a murmured “ ’ugger” drifted down, accompanied by the sound of someone turning over and pulling the blanket up round his ears, defying reality.

Claire was still with him, vivid in his mind, solid in his hands. He could imagine that he smelled her hair in the scent of fresh hay. The memory of her mouth, those sharp white teeth … He rubbed his nipple, hard and itching beneath his shirt, and swallowed.

His eyes were long accustomed to the dark; he found the vacant loose box at the end of the row and leaned against its boards, cock already in his fist, body and mind yearning for his lost wife.

-----

At the second stop, there was wine—decent wine. He drank it cautiously; he hadn’t tasted anything stronger than small beer in years, and the lush flavor clung to his palate and rose like smoke inside his head. The soldiers shared three bottles—and so did he, welcoming the slowing of his racing thoughts as the alcohol seeped into his blood. It would do him no good to think, until he knew what to think about.

He tried to keep his mind off their unknown destination and what might await him there, but it was like trying not to think of a—

“Rhinoceros,” Claire said, with a muffled snort of amusement that stirred the hairs on his chest. “Have you ever seen one?”

“I have,” he said, shifting her weight so she rested more comfortably in the hollow of his shoulder. “In Louis’s zoo. Aye, that would stick in the mind.”

Abruptly, she vanished and left him sitting there, blinking stupidly into his wine cup.

Had it really happened, that memory? Or was it only his desire that now and then brought her so vividly to life, in snatched moments that left him desperate with longing but strangely comforted, as though she had in fact touched him briefly?

-----

Willie. God, Willie. I’m so glad they gave him your name. He seldom thought of his brother, but every now and then, he could feel Willie with him; sometimes his mother or his father. More often, Claire.

I wish ye could see him, Sassenach, he thought. He’s a bonnie lad. Loud and obnoxious, he added with honesty, but bonnie.

What would his own parents think of William? They had neither of them lived to see any of their children’s children.

He lay for some time, his throat aching, listening to the dark, hearing the voices of his dead pass by in the wind. His thoughts grew vague and his grief eased, comforted by the knowledge of love, still alive in the world. Sleep came near again.

He touched the rough crucifix that lay against his chest and whispered to the moving air, “Lord, that she might be safe, she and my children.”

Then turned his cheek to her reaching hand and touched her through the veils of time.

Jamie dreaming of Claire and remembering her. 

[emospritelet]

Homecoming - chapter 27/?

I know it's been ages...

Last time, Belle and Ogilvy spent the night together, and were walked in on by one of the maids. Here's what happened next

[AO3] - 3,758 words

-

Belle hurried along the corridor, the shawl clasped tightly around her shoulders, ears pricked for the sound of a footstep, the creak of a floorboard. It was still early, and she heaved a sigh of relief when she reached her room without meeting anyone. Closing the door quietly behind herself, she went to wash, stripping off the nightgown and wrapping a robe around herself. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, and paused, turning her head this way and that. Nothing had changed as far as she could see, and yet it seemed that everything had. She could see the corners of her mouth wanting to curve upwards, and she allowed herself a wide, contented grin. Her fortunes had certainly taken a wonderful, if unexpected, turn.

By the time she was dressed and her hair in place, the children were awake, letting themselves into her room while rubbing sleepy eyes and yawning. Alice was behind them, already dressed and still trying to brush her blonde curls into some sort of order.

“I was about to ring for their breakfast,” she said.

“I can do that,” said Belle. “Is anyone else up, do you know?”

“Only the servants, I think.” Alice eyed her curiously. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly.” She could feel a blush start to rise in her cheeks. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, you just look…” Alice shrugged, turning away. “Never mind. May I borrow a ribbon? All of mine seem to have disappeared. I think I must have packed them in the trunk rather than my valise but I can’t find them.”

“Of course, help yourself.”

Belle rang the bell, and set about getting the children ready, ensuring that faces were washed and hair brushed. Their breakfast was brought up by a dark-haired maid that Belle didn’t know. The maid seemed to be glancing at her out of the corner of her eye every chance she got, and Belle wanted to sigh. All the servants knew, then.

She focused on getting the children to eat their porridge, stewed prunes and sweet rolls, and Alice chattered about the journey ahead of them, and how much she was looking forward to getting home.

“Papa said we’d be leaving around midday,” she said. “Are you headed out for a walk this morning?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought.” Belle chewed her lip, glancing around. “Will I have time before breakfast, do you think?”

“It won’t be served until nine-thirty,” said Alice. “You should go. I can sit with the twins.”

“In that case, I might take a turn around the lake,” she said. “I think some fresh air would do me good.”

“You do look a little tired,” observed Alice, eyeing her. “Didn’t you sleep? My bed was ever so comfortable, but perhaps yours wasn’t.”

“No no, it was fine,” said Belle quickly. “I just didn’t sleep all that well. I’m sure I’ll feel better once I’ve taken some exercise.”

She took up her hat, securing it on top of her hair with a pin, and drew on her coat and scarf.

“If I see Papa, I’ll tell him where you’ve gone,” said Alice, and Belle smiled to herself.

“Thank you.”

-

The air outside was crisp and cold as she left the house and took the path to the lake, gravel crunching beneath her feet and the chill from the snow already biting at her feet. She shivered, pushing her chin down into her scarf and quickening her pace as she left the relative shelter of the house and headed down the long avenue of beech trees that led to the lake. A set of footsteps marked the snow in front of her, and the tracks of birds crisscrossed the trail.

The trail turned to the right, and Belle rounded the last of the beech trees, looking down on the lake, its surface frozen in all but a few places and covered with a layer of snow. Brown reeds poked up through the ice, and she heard the cawing of rooks from the oak trees to the east of the lake. The sky was clear, the orange sun rising over the dark veil of bare branches, and a low layer of mist hung over the lake. The trail of footsteps led down to the water’s edge, and Belle broke into a smile as she saw Ogilvy making a slow circuit, picking his way through the snow with his walking cane. He seemed to sense she was there, and turned as she approached, his eyes gleaming with that soft light she loved so much.

“Good morning again,” she said lightly, stepping close to him, and he grinned.

“Miss Marchland,” he said formally, with a tiny bow. “May I say how very well you look?”

“Alice doesn’t think so,” she said dryly. “She said I looked as though I hadn’t slept at all.”

“She always was observant,” he remarked. “Goodness knows what she’d make of my appearance this morning.”

Belle covered her mouth with a gloved hand to hold in a giggle.

“Considering I had so little sleep, I feel quite - refreshed,” she said, and his grin widened.

“In that case, would you walk the rest of the way with me?”

“With pleasure.”

She took his arm, enjoying the excuse to be close to him, and they made their way along the lake shore at a steady pace.

“I’ve missed walking here,” she said. “A circuit of the lake was part of my morning routine when I lived at Furton Grange.”

“It’s a beautiful estate,” he said. “Living in town is convenient in many ways, but I must say I enjoy the peace and quiet of places like this.”

“Would you ever move out of London?” she asked, and he glanced across at her.

“It would have to be a family decision,” he said. “I feel Alice would want to stay there for a few more years. I daresay we’ll need to travel around, in any event.”

“I see.” She pursed her lips. “I think I’m rather looking forward to it. I’ve seen so little of the country since I arrived here.”

He smiled, his eyes gleaming in the early dawn.

“I want to show you everything,” he said softly, and she smiled, ducking her head as she felt her cheeks heat. Really, she had to stop blushing every time he looked at her. He was still staring at her with that tiny smile when she looked up. Belle could feel her heart thump hard at the warmth in his eyes, the look of utter devotion. How had she not seen it before? He held her gaze for a moment longer, and she could feel that pleasant tug low in her belly before he glanced away again.

“Are the children awake?” he asked. Belle nodded.

“I got them dressed. Alice is sitting with them while they have breakfast.”

“She’s a good girl,” he said, and she made a noise of agreement.

“I had some very curious looks from the maid that brought the breakfast,” she said. “I fear everyone downstairs knows how we spent our time last night.”

“Thankfully Lady Ella is a late riser,” he said. “It may mean we can slip away before she finds out.”

Belle giggled.

“Will she be very cross with me, do you think?” she asked, and he laughed.

“No, not at all,” he said. “She’ll be delighted to have been proven right and will want to interfere in the wedding plans.”

“I very much doubt she’d approve of our notion of a small and understated ceremony.”

“Certainly not.”

“Time is of the essence, then.”

He turned to face her, still smiling, and she stepped closer, until they were almost touching. Belle inhaled deeply, pulling the cold air in through her nose, sharp at the back of her throat, and let it out in a sighing plume of white.

“I almost don’t want to leave this place,” she said. “It’s so peaceful. It feels as though you and I are the only two people in existence.”

His hands rose up to cup her cheeks, fingers surprisingly warm in the cold air, and he gently pressed his brow to hers, white breath billowing into the air between them as he exhaled deeply. Belle closed her eyes, nose brushing against his, feeling the brief warmth of his breath against her lips.

“The time will fly once we return home,” he said quietly. “A little over a week, and we shall be together forever.”

“Yes,” she breathed, and he bent his head to kiss her.

She rose up on her toes, hands finding his waist and sliding up his back as the kiss deepened. The harsh caw of a rook startled them, their lips parting, and Belle giggled a little, burying her face in his chest as he kissed the top of her head.

“Perhaps we should head back to the house,” he suggested. “I want to make sure the trunks get onto the carriage in time for us to leave.”

“You really are hoping we can get away before she wakes up, aren’t you?” said Belle, amused, and he pulled a face.

“Would you prefer we had the inevitable conversation here or by letter?” he asked dryly, and she giggled again.

“An excellent point,” she admitted. “Let’s go.”

Ogilvy smiled broadly, and turned on his heel, offering his arm to her once more as they headed back to the house.

They entered the hall together, stamping a little to get the snow from their boots. Ogilvy watched Belle as she did so, cheeks pink with the cold and eyes bright, her breathing a little quicker from their walk. She was so beautiful it made his throat catch, and if Hatter and Ivy had not appeared to take their coats, hats and scarves, he would have been tempted to kiss her again. He was unwinding the soft wool from around his neck when Doc appeared by the staircase, giving him a pointed look and inclining his head in the direction of the drawing room.

“Breakfast smells delicious,” said Belle, making him glance around. “I - ah - I think I might go and see if Alice has come down yet.”

“She’s in the breakfast room,” said Doc. “Our hosts have yet to arise, I fear.”

“I should think they won’t be up this side of noon,” said Ogilvy, and nodded to Belle with a smile. “Please tell Alice we’ll join you shortly.”

Belle sent him a soft-eyed smile, biting her lower lip a little and smoothing her skirts with her hands as she hurried away. He watched her go, well aware he was probably looking like a lovesick fool.

“Shall I bring the trunks down, sir?”

Hatter’s voice made him start, and Doc snorted softly, turning on his heel and heading into the drawing room. Ogilvy turned back to his valet.

“Ah - yes,” he said vaguely. “What time did you arrange the carriage for?”

“Eleven, sir.”

“Good man.” Ogilvy clapped him on the arm. “I’ll make sure we’re ready.”

“Very good, sir.” Hatter hesitated. “I think you should know that there’s been some talk amongst the servants, sir.”

“Has there, indeed?”

“Yes, sir. About you and - and Miss Marchland.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” said Ogilvy impatiently. “As long as they keep that talk within these four walls, I’ll pay it no mind.”

“Yes, sir.” Hatter opened his mouth to speak, appeared to think better of it, and hurried off with the coat looped over his arm.

Ogilvy sighed, staring after him, then headed for the drawing room. Doc was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, looking impatient, and he turned on his toes as Ogilvy closed the door behind him.

“Well?” he demanded. “I mean, I don’t want the details, but my Sight told me to switch rooms last night and there must have been a good reason for it.”

Ogilvy smiled.

“She believes me,” he said. “She accepts it. All of it.”

Doc seemed to sag with a deep, sighing breath, his shoulders slumping.

“Oh, thank the gods!” he whispered. “She came back to us in truth.”

“Yes.” Ogilvy stepped forward, pulling him into a hug and squeezing. “She’s home. She doesn’t remember yet, but she wants to.”

“Then we must find a way,” said Doc, his voice muffled by Ogilvy’s chest.

“We will, I promise.”

“Of course.”

He hugged Ogilvy tight before pulling back, snatching off his glasses and plucking a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his eyes.

“You told her what the Seer said?” he asked. “The unknown price for her memories?”

“Yes. She said she would think about it.”

Doc nodded, using the handkerchief to polish the lenses of his glasses before putting them back on.

“Good,” he said, his voice wobbling a little. “After all this time - gods, I can scarce believe it!”

“Nor I.” Ogilvy hesitated. “She has Elizabeth Willoughby’s diary.”

Doc stared at him, mouth open.

“She has what?” he breathed.

“I know.” Ogilvy began pacing restlessly. “She found where it was hidden at Willowbrook Grange. She - she had a dream about hiding it there. A memory, I suppose.”

“Well.” Doc shook his head. “Perhaps she’s nearer to waking than we thought. That’s encouraging. What did the diary say?”

“I didn’t read it,” said Ogilvy, stopping his pacing. “It was - somewhat tragic, I believe.”

“I imagine so.” Doc’s face was grave, and he patted Ogilvy’s arm. “Still, if it helped her realise the truth…”

“Yes.” Ogilvy took off his glasses, running his hands over his face with a sigh. “I think that was what convinced her. Elizabeth’s tales, and her own dreams, and things I had said to her… I suppose it’s good that something came from that tragedy.”

“Indeed,” said Doc quietly. “We must be thankful for that, at least.”

“Yes.” Ogilvy put the glasses back on. “I asked her to marry me, by the way. She said yes.”

“Hmm.” Doc sounded amused. “That was short work.”

“I could hardly not under the circumstances!” he retorted. “She spent the night in my bed!”

“Yes, well, we don’t need to go into the details,” said Doc hastily. “Have you mentioned anything to Alice yet?”

“No. I thought I’d talk to Alice on the train,” he said. “The servants know. One of them walked in on us this morning to light the fire. I believe Hatter heard them talking.”

“Is Belle aware?”

“Yes. She says it won’t go beyond the house. Ella will see to that.”

”As long as it doesn’t,” said Doc. “I’d hate for Belle to suffer.”

“We’re marrying as quickly as I can arrange it, so there’ll no doubt be gossip from some quarters,” he said. “Nothing too severe, I imagine, but you know how small-minded society can be.”

“I have a feeling we’ll be called away before too long, anyway,” said Doc. “That should help. Out of sight, and all that.”

“Indeed.” Ogilvy eyed him. “What do you mean, away?”

“Nothing certain yet,” admitted Doc. “Just a feeling. Give me a few days and I might have something more definite.”

Ogilvy felt an odd, swooping feeling in his stomach, almost a sense of apprehension.

“Nothing too sinister, I hope,” he said. “Dealing with Lady Tremaine’s imaginary ghosts was one thing. I don’t want Belle facing a demon before she’s ready.”

“The forces of darkness are unlikely to wait around while we teach her what she needs to know,” said Doc, in a dry tone. “I’m afraid we’ll just have to do the best we can.”

Ogilvy nodded reluctantly. The work was never-ending, and the price for failure too high. Belle is a quick learner. She’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.

-

Lady Ella had still not risen by the time they left, and Ogilvy was secretly relieved. He had no doubt that the servants would relay everything they had seen, and while he was sure that Ella would be delighted by he and Belle being intimate (and self-satisfied at having noted their mutual attraction) he was not in the mood to be quizzed about it in front of the others. Hatter and Ivy must have known, but to their credit they gave no indication. As long as Mrs Wolfe could remain blissfully ignorant, they should be able to reach the wedding day without any scandal touching the household. Not that he gave a damn about that, but Belle no doubt would.

They managed to catch the train in plenty of time, and once they had changed at Derby to the London train, Ogilvy took the seat opposite Belle and the children. Doc settled down beside him with a sigh of relief, folding his hands over his lap as Alice squeezed in between them. Ogilvy glanced at Belle, who had Nicholas on her lap and Ava tucked beneath one arm. She smiled at him, blushing a little and dropping her eyes before looking up again, and he wanted to lean across the carriage and kiss her. Unconsciously, he began turning the ring on his finger. Belle eyed him, touched her own finger, and briefly inclined her head towards Alice and Doc. He understood, and cleared his throat, catching the attention of the others.

“Miss Marchland and I have an announcement to make,” he said, meeting Belle’s eyes to ensure she was happy for him to proceed. She smiled and nodded.

“What announcement?” asked Alice eagerly. “What’s happened?”

“She’s agreed to do me the very great honour of becoming my wife,” he said, and winced as Alice squealed in excitement, throwing her arms around him.

“Oh! That’s wonderful news!” She jumped up and almost fell on Belle, kissing her cheek. “Oh, I knew this would happen! I knew it!”

Belle laughed, hugging her before embracing each of the twins and kissing their heads.

“This is so wonderful!” said Alice. “I knew you would be a part of this family from the moment we met, I just knew it!”

“Will you still be our governess?” asked Ava, a worried look in her eyes. “You won’t send us away, will you?”

“Of course not!” said Belle soothingly. “You will always have a home with us, I promise.”

“Does this mean you’ll be our mother?” asked Nicholas, and her smile widened.

“It means we’ll be a family,” she said. “And you may call me mother if you wish.”

The twins shared an awed, delighted look, and Ogilvy bit back a grin.

“When are you getting married?” asked Alice excitedly. “Do say it’s soon! Papa has been lonely for far too long, and you’re perfect for each other.”

“I believe we can arrange it quickly enough to satisfy you,” said Ogilvy. “I shall make enquiries as soon as we return home.”

“Oh!” Alice sat down beside Belle with a thump, beaming widely. “This was the best present I could have asked for! Mrs Wolfe will be delighted. She always said you needed a woman to keep you in line.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was out of line, but very well,” remarked Ogilvy.

“Papa, you know as well as I that most people consider you very odd.”

“Then their lives are lacking in colour and variety,” he said, and she giggled.

“Oh, I can’t wait to tell Ivy! She and Hatter were convinced that—”

She cut off, mouth snapping shut.

“Convinced that what?” asked Ogilvy dryly, and a blush rose in her cheeks.

“Never mind,” she said lightly. “Oh! Belle, what will you wear to the wedding? Perhaps the dress that Madame is making for you.”

“I don’t think that will be ready in time,” said Belle. “I don’t know. You must help me choose.”

“Of course I will!”

“Can I help?” asked Ava, and Nicholas chimed in with an offer. Belle laughed, hugging them both.

“This will be the best prepared wedding in history,” she told them.

-

It was dark by the time the train pulled into London, and the carriage ride home jolted weary bodies. The children were sleepy, and Doc grumbled about the state of the roads. Only Alice had kept her cheerful disposition, and Ogilvy heard a chorus of relieved sighs as they drew up outside the house. Hatter was immediately at the carriage door to help them down, and Ogilvy spied Mrs Wolfe waiting at the front door to welcome them home. Belle guided the children towards the stairs, speaking in a soothing tone about warm milk and comfortable beds. The twins leaned against her as they climbed, and Ogilvy watched them go with a faint smile. They would probably be asleep before he could read them a story. He rolled his shoulders to get out the stiffness as Hatter removed his coat, and went through to the living room, followed by Doc and Alice, Mrs Wolfe gliding behind them.

“We’re very pleased to see you all safely returned, sir,” she said.

Ogilvy took a deep breath, the familiar scent of beeswax and burning coals filling his nose. Lamps were lit, sending out a cheerful light, and the room was pleasantly warm. The Christmas greenery had been removed from the mantelpiece, along with the tree, and he found himself missing the scents of pine and rosemary.

“It feels good to be home, Mrs Wolfe,” he said. “Anything to report?”

“The chimney above the rear attics has started to leak, and there was an incident with the grocer’s boy teasing one of the maids,” she said. “I’ve arranged to have the chimney repaired next week, and have spoken to the grocer in the most severe terms.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. Alice flopped onto one of the couches with a sigh, and Doc sat across from her in his usual chair, head rolling back against the leather.

“Would you please ask Mrs Potts to send up some mulled wine?” he asked. “I think we could all do with a glass.”

“It’s being prepared, sir,” she said.

“I knew we could rely on you, Mrs Wolfe,” he said, earning one of her rare smiles.

“Oh, there’s a telegram for you, sir,” she said. “It came this afternoon. I left it on the salver on the hall table.”

“Ah, thank you.”

He stepped out into the hallway again, spying the envelope and opening it up. It was marked as being sent from the Furton Post Office earlier that day, and he smiled.

“I KNEW IT!” declared the note. “STRONGLY WORDED LETTER TO FOLLOW!”

Ogilvy bit his lip in amusement, slipping the telegram into his pocket and returning to the living room. Ella knew, then.

[nagia-pronounced-neijia]

WIP WEDNESDAY

tagged by @ejunkiet

Warnings: Catholicism, somebody being extremely sarcastic about the holiest of the sacraments; if those things trigger or upset you, scroll on by.

So, the thing is, it wasn't supposed to go like this.  He gets about four seconds of, "oh shit" when he puts his foot down inside what was apparently a circle of something.

A whole lot of things seem to happen in those four seconds.  He recognizes the circle -- formed in salt!  He doesn't know much about magic, but he knows you can't write spells in salt! -- and looks up at the witch chief.  She looks over-fucking-joyed, and expectant, and he can't watch that, so he looks to Alucard and Sypha.

Sypha reaches for him, fingers splayed and arms out like she's trying to cast.  He sees the determination locking down her jaw, thinning her mouth, and the wide edge of real fear that makes the corners of her eyes smooth out.

Alucard reaches too, and he's fast.  He blurs red around the edges; Trevor almost doesn't see him coming.

Their fingertips touch.  Sypha screams something, ragged and desperate and horrible --

His hand slips through Alucard's, somehow translucent, like a silk screen or a chemise.  Like a ghost.

Alucard's eyes go so wide, the red burning away inside them out of what's probably rage.

The world falls away.

He wakes with a bony elbow prodding him in the ribs.  He jabs back reflexively without opening his eyes, muttering, "Fuck!" as he does.

His voice sounds weird. 

Those are the two stupid, stupid things he first notices: some arsehole's bony elbow and that his voice sounds higher pitched than it should.

He opens his eyes to find a pew in front of his face.  An actual church pew, complete with the kneeler and the carved cross cut-outs and everything.   Hell, his knees are on the kneeler, how's that for hopelessly wrong?

He looks around out of the corners of his eyes.  He hasn't been in a church in thirteen years, but he remembers how shitty people get about other people not paying attention.  It just looks like a normal congregation; everyone in what's probably their best and the women all have their hair covered.  Their eyes are all on the priest ahead of the chancel.  He looks and sounds and moves like every other parish priest Trevor has seen.

At the front, the priest calls, "Oremus," in that rhythm they have, and apparently Trevor is still a Christian in deed, if not in heart, because he rises smoothly, automatically, with all the rest.

This church looks familiar, he thinks as he rises.  There's the transept with the little crack in its window.  The chancel is a little more in shadow than it ought to be; it takes the shine off the altar, which is arranged simply.

Something is fucked.  He knows something is just in a new land of wrong and upside-down.  He just can't tell what it is, besides his presence.

The priest chants in Latin.  Trevor fights not to roll his eyes.  Yes, yes, he wants to say.   Praise be to God for the Eucharist.  What would we do if we didn't literally eat and drink our Savior?  Praise him, praise him, forever and ever.

Everyone around him repeats after the priest.  It's all such garbage and he's still trying to figure out how the hell he got from the salt circle to a church, and how he's not on fire for being in said church. 

The person next to him jabs him again with their bony-ass elbow.  Trevor jabs back, again, muttering unkind things about their parentage.  The next jab is harder, and shortly after that there's a familiar cuff to the back of his head.

He almost starts looking around more, but fourteen years of getting cuffed for looking any way but forward are very fresh in his mind.  Best not to draw any more attention to himself.

With no better options, he recites with everybody else.  His voice still sounds wrong in his head, and it cracks and feels uncomfortable when he tries to speak lower.

After the Postcommunion, they all kneel again, then rise.

"Benedicamus Domino," the priest sings.

They all chant back, "Deo gratias," and the general shuffling toward the exit begins.

And now that Trevor can actually look around without getting smacked, he's starting to see precisely why everything seems so familiar.  He knows this nave.  Knows this church.  They'd come here his whole life.

And, filing away toward the narthex, he sees four familiar dresses, four familiar white veils, made of fine linen from Targovişte.  They move with the smooth, graceful glide over the rough stone floors that he'd thought he'd never see again.

His sisters.

It hits him like an actual sucker punch, like somebody slamming a chair into him in a bar fight.  His stomach clenches up like a fist.  He makes some sort of horrible choking noise as all the breath in his lungs decides to leave.  He wheezes in another breath, feels it whistling down a throat that doesn't want to open. 

And ahead of them, his mother shines in the doorway, outlined and turned into a smudge by the early afternoon sunlight.

Ahead of her, Father turns.  He makes an impatient gesture, calling Trevor's name.

His whole body feels numb.  He goes anyway.  Now that he's doing something more complicated than standing and kneeling, he can't help noticing his balance is off.  Like he's not just shorter but slimmer, lighter.

Like, for instance, he's fourteen or so.

This can't be happening.  Salt doesn't work magic.  People don't step into salt circles and find themselves in fucking consecrated churches from thirteen years ago.

Near Father, Luminița gives him a smile from under her hood.

Trevor smiles back.  Even if this isn't happening, even if it's some cruel dream, she's his closest sister.

They walk home from church in a thick knot, exactly the way he remembers.  The way he's longed for.

It's Sara, his second-closest, who laces her arm in his and leans in.  The hem of her cap has frayed a little; it needs re-sewn.

Ha.  Like he can talk.  He only launders his clothes regularly because otherwise Sypha and Alucard probably wouldn't speak to him.  And sure, he can darn his own socks, but that doesn't mean he actually does any mending when it needs done.

"You seemed distracted during Mass today," she says, and her voice is the same mixture of high pitch and dry delivery that makes everything short of a threat sound kind of funny.

It's not real.  Can't be happening.  Not.  Real.  Just a fucking vicious, painful dream a witch came up with.  Somewhere above him, Sypha and Alucard are dealing with a small coven and trying to wake him up.

Knowing all that doesn't stop the warmth in his chest, that huge bubble of impossible fondness that always accompanies seeing his most precious people after a long absence.

"Just thinking about things."

It's Luminița who asks, "What kinds of things?"

"Just things."  One good point of being probably four-and-ten again: he can get away with that.

Both his sisters laugh at him.

The walk home is long and surprisingly warm.  He thinks it must be Lent, and that means early spring.  He would have expected grayer skies, the last few flurries of snow, but instead it's all an expanse of blue.  The sun pours down on his head, gradually warming him.

They reach the great gate by late afternoon.  A nod from Father, and Mother takes her keyring from her belt and fits key to lock.  There's a resounding click and then they're swinging it open.  Trevor, as the last one through, pulls the gate shut, listening for the sound of the mechanism.

He still has a hard time believing any of this is real.

He stares up at the stout walls, of good oak and better stone, at the windows with real leaded glass, at the pennant of the Belmont crest hanging from one of the windows.  A hunting party must be away; they only display that when someone's left the house on a hunt.

This all feels… It's completely crazy, but at the same time, it feels right.  Accurate, maybe: it feels like he's walking, all too aware, through a Lenten Sunday that really happened to him.

Father and his sisters go directly into the house.  Except for Luminița and Sara, none of them has ever had much patience for him when he's being slow.

It's Mother who waits on the front step.  She reaches out to catch his face in between her palms.  They're softer than his own, than Father's, but they're still callused and chapped, just in different places.

"You've been out of sorts," she says, sweeping her thumbs over his cheekbones before resting the back of her hand against his forehead.

He doesn't protest the touch.  Maybe he would have, at fourteen, but he hasn't been anywhere near his mother in thirteen years.  Instead he allows it, unwilling even to close his eyes if that means losing sight of her.

"I'm fine.  Just thinking."

His mother hums.  "If it's about Old Marta… Well, you're kind, Trevor, but there was nothing we could have done for her."

Old Marta?  He thinks back, trying to remember.  He has the vaguest, dimmest memory of an aging woman with apple cheeks who always smelled of onion.  She sold cheese, maybe?

His mother mistakes his confusion for something else.  She does the thing where she squeezes his face in her hand.  Squeeze isn't the right word -- but she cups his cheek and grips, and instead of threatening, it's comforting.

How had he forgotten that she did things like that?  Does things like this?

"It's not the fire or the heat.  It's the smoke.  It's very quick -- minutes, at most.  Almost as good a death as a beheading, and then they're made pure and good again.  She didn't suffer."

The sheer fucking irony of those words coming from the mouth of this woman.  This woman, who didn't die of fire or heat, but of being trapped in a smoky little room, who died coughing, is telling him that burned witches don't suffer?

He squints at her, looking not with the eye of a self-absorbed youth, but of a man.  The last thirteen years taught him to read a room, to read a face, to listen to what people weren't saying.

That's why he sees it: the faint tremor at the corner of her mouth, the flickering of her eyelids.

She's lying.  She's lying to protect a boy who's always been a little too soft to be a Belmont.

And that's when the memory finally settles in place, and he remembers Old Marta.  Burned as a witch in the town square in Sighișoara, and they hadn't been able to do anything about it.  It had been uniquely galling to the whole family.  Even Grandfather Rafael, who always focused more on killing what was wicked than on protecting his countrymen, had hated everything about it.

Of course, less than a year later, they'd all been accused of black magic, excommunicated, and burned alive.  Fuck.

[imnotwolverine]

The Monster’s Lair - Where Wolves Cry

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

< Chap 10 | Chapter 11 - Where Wolves Cry | Chap 12 >

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale - depictions of hunting and killing, bloodlust, smut, bloody oral (f), but also fluff  

Author’s note: This chapter is not Disney approved mkay? *cough* smut *cough*. May you enjoy..the hunt, fair maidens of mine! 👀Also, I totally fell in love with this absolutely gorgeous Hebrew love song ‘Evening of Roses / Erev Shel Shoshanim’ (based on a like-named poem). I’ve added a few versions of it in my playlist, listen to them if you find the time ❤️

Thank you again sweet @thelastsock​, for beta’ing for me!  🌹

Word count: 5.261

Reading music: Sheku Kanneh-Mason - Evening of Roses 

(Link to my Masterlist)

--

Late afternoon rays of sun trickled through the darkening trees. They were casting a rather pretty myriad of tiny lights on the snowy forest floor, bringing with them rich hues of orange and gold. Pretty, but not important as of right now. In this small time frame of dusk, the evening provided him a perfect moment to hunt. And today he wasn’t hunting alone. Looking over his shoulder his azule eyes found the young maiden, her large brown eyes fixed on him, unsure of how to proceed if not for his clear instructions. Good. He’d never forgive himself if anything was to happen to her. This forest was, after all, not a safe place for young maidens like her.

Gesturing her to halt, he looked left and right, his eyes and ears picking up small tremors and movements in the icy landscape. As winter had fallen, most animals were hibernating in their homes. But not all. A herd of deer was not far, and from the sound of it one of them was ripe for the taking; an inflamed hoove stood nervously on the icy ground.

*Tic-tic..tic-tic*

The poor thing wouldn’t make it through the harsh winter anyways.

The Master silenced his breathing and looked back at Belle, her breath quieting as well. On their way here the Master had explained his tactics. You see, the hunt required finesse. Knowledge. And Belle was more than curious to learn about it, her body folded snugly into his arms as he used his beastly powers to move nearly unnoticed through the snowy grove.

He had explained the way he mapped out all the animals and critters that were around. The way he studied the weather and wind. How he made sure he wouldn’t hurt an animal that would live, if not for him. And Belle listened in awe. It was both frightening and a relief to hear how well-thought out such a hunt was. How the Master tried his best to keep nature balanced. Where humans would probably hunt down all, he only took what he needed, leaving the rest of the forest to its own devices. And those devices were deadly too. On their way here he had pointed out some frost-bitten cadavers.

Nature was cruelly beautiful like that. Life and death circled around each other in an eternal dance. Old bones would bloom. And blooms would fade. Year in year out, until the end of time.

‘There is one.’ The Master whispered, gesturing Belle to get close so he could pick her up again. At first this picking up had been at best awkward. Belle had insisted on walking now she could. But the Master wouldn’t have any of that. For one, because she would probably alarm the animals - her dainty feet not as quiet as his. And for seconds. Well. He would never admit to it, but he did enjoy carrying her. Through the cold winter air he could smell the soap in her braided hair, the stiffening starch in her blouse collar and the sweetness of her warm blood.

She smelled like heaven in his arms and he wouldn’t deny himself the pleasure of having her close.

Especially not after so many centuries of loneliness.

He could remember the first time he had been truly alone. His staff gone, his wife deceased, the castle quiet..and the hunger great. It took him more than a week before he dared to admit that the food in his larder didn’t quench his thirst or hunger. With long teeth - quite literally - he would eat the cured meats, washing them away with wine. But none of these fine foods would taste, their substance ashen on his tongue and gravel in his stomach. No, he required different nourishment. And such nourishment was not found in any larder.

He had to hunt.

‘What are you thinking of?’ Belle whispered ever so quietly, her warm breath puffing in the cold air. The Master shot her a warning look to be quiet, his eyes tracking the bushes as the target was now close-by. From here he could hear the restless buzz of its heartbeat, the animal having noticed something was amiss - though thankfully not making a run for it yet. With ever-most carefulness the Master placed Belle back on her feet, making sure she wouldn’t make another sound, feet landing on already trampled snow. Gesturing she had to stay, Belle nodded, eyes glimmering with wonder as the Master sneaked away.

Oh yes, he remembered the first time he went on a hunt. It had been a mess. The animal had managed to get away, blood springing from its torn arteries. The Master had been too young during the hunts with his father, so up to that point he had never seen the death of an animal up close. He had never seen the lights die out, eyes glossing over. And never had he seen the blood spout from a struggling, convulsing heap of limbs.

The first hunt as a monster..well..it had been catastrophically bad. Yes. He had drank but a few drops of blood before he had retched it all out again, the onslaught of blood and agonizing ..lust, confusing the young Master terribly.

Lust. Fuck. He had forgotten all about it. Walking past some snow heavy branches, he could see both now. Like two worlds separated by but a thick wall of white, on his left he could see the stinted deer, her wounded leg lifted awkwardly from the cold ground. And on the right Belle, her arms wrapped around her chest, eyes not quite managing to see him through the dimness of dusk. Both knew something was there. Both couldn’t see him.

And one he would eat. One he would love. How cruelly beautiful nature was indeed.

Forgive me, he thought, before he leapt like an owl in flight onto the deer, the animal not standing a chance against the surprise of his teeth.

*snap*

With an unpitying twist of his hands he broke the animal’s neck, her eyes washing over with death’s glare. A last breath escaped her slightly agape jaw, heartbeat silencing. And apparently the sound had been enough of an indication for Belle to come, her feet crushing the fresh snow as she manoeuvred through the bushes. From the clumsy drop of her feet it was clear that her sight was waning quickly, pupils large as she noticed him.

Had it been a mistake to bring her? Probably. But there was no way back now. Clicking his nervous fangs he looked back at her, curiosity sparking on her features as she slowly crouched down, hand reaching for the deer’s soft fur.

‘She’s beautiful.’ Belle whispered, fingertips gliding down her neck before reaching the small two holes that bled a deep crimson. Hesitantly she dipped a finger in the red, tongue darting out to taste. ‘Oh.’ Belle scrunched her nose as the taste washed onto her taste buds. Tangy and tasting like old coins. Well, this proved that she wasn’t a monster just yet.

Waking from her dreamy haze, she looked back at the Master, his silhouette all she could see. But even then it was clear he was nervous; the snapping of his teeth was clearly heard. ‘You must..’ Belle swallowed harshly and pointed at the deer. The Master agreed, head dipping down to sink his teeth back in the warm neck. So succulent, soft, warm..so...hmmmm…

Fuck. He was getting aroused already. Contain yourself! Contain yourself! Not now! Just a few drops, just a few...HMMM...so tasty.

Grunting and moaning the Master feasted on his victim’s blood, hands moving out to card through the soft fur, only halting when he found her. Long cold fingers interlacing with his. Belle.

OH fuck. He couldn’t do this. With her so close. He couldn’t...GRRR...he couldn’t contain himself. Why had he been so foolish to bring her along? Why was he so weak for her? Why..?!

*cr-rack*

Shooting up, eyes and ears alert, the Master looked around. His whole body throbbed as the fresh blood washed down his throat, warming his cold veins. Supernatural strength was quickly building in his muscles and the throbbing length in his breeches was heavy against his leg. He was glad that the darkness veiled him, so Belle could not see his..condition. Then again, she could also not see what was around them. And from the sound of it..someone was here. Or better yet. Something. Oh..merde! Shit! What had he done?! Could he even protect her here, out in the open? He should have never..never..

*FLUNK*

With a loud thud he was smashed against a tree, snow falling down on his marble face, blocking his view.

What the..?

Quickly jumping on his feet he clawed at the strange intruder, loud howls screeching when he hit target. Shaking off the snow he now noticed what it was; a young new predator indeed.

Meanwhile Belle had lowered herself close to the deer. It was difficult to make out any details in the half-dark, but she had noticed the Master’s silhouette stiffen, a gentle crack heard just outside of reach. Was something there? She couldn’t be sure, and being completely out of her element and in the dusk of night, she had to trust in the Master to keep her safe.

*wooshhh*

And just like that he was gone, leaving her here, out in the open with a bleeding animal beneath her fingertips. Immediate panic started to course through her veins, heartbeat racing and fingers clutching. Darn..what was happening? Loud snaps and scratches echoed through the forest, snow falling from weighted branches before someone howled a loud cry just a few feet away from her. Belle could not make up her mind fast enough, the sounds moving further away before she could flee, her body trembling on the cold ground as she pricked her ears. But it seemed to come from everywhere. A fight. Fast and furious, two voices groaned and cried as trees staggered when their bodies crashed into them.

Wait..was that another monster? It sounded like it. What was happening? Oh, she should have never..never..never begged to come with. She…

Another bone shuddering cry reverberated through the air, covering the sound of soft footfalls until a long strong arm wrapped around her. Suffocating she started to protest, her trembling fingers pushing away a face as it breathed sharply.

‘Shhh..’

The Master’s voice. Oh thank God. He was slightly panting from the exertion as he clutched her close to his chest, strong legs making them both rise up to a standing position. Belle trembled like a leaf, terrified tears blinking in her eyes. She could not see him. But it must be him, right? Reaching out her hand again - with him flinching away slightly - she traced his jaw, nose, eyebrows. Yes, it must be him.

In the meantime the Master nervously eyed their surroundings, the eerie quiet feeling like a storm was about to burst.

‘We must go.’ He whispered, hands fumbling with her skirts so he could lift her up again. And Belle, for the first time ever, let him do so without complaints, head quick to lean into his chest as he started running, snow barely crisping beneath his speedy feet.

--

‘Say mama. What do you think?’ The teacup looked with expecting eyes out through the window, the night engulfing the garden in a blanket of darkness.

‘What is it, son?’ The teapot sighed, her gaze turned towards the fireplace, the flames on their way of dying out slowly. For a few hours now her son had been babbling on, launching a million questions and monologues at her exhausted ears. As children do. But she couldn’t help but see evil foreboding in the dying fire. The hour was growing late and as of yet the Master and Belle had not returned. Had something happened?

‘Well. Tis dark, you see. He said he’d return before dark.’ Her son broke through her thoughts.

The teapot sighed again. ‘I know son. I know.’ Apathetic melancholy was painting the teapot’s voice. She didn’t wish to think of what may have happened. Nothing here seemed to ever have a happy ending..so it would not be a surprise if today would be yet another dark chapter in the long history of this haunted castle.

‘OH OH! MOM MOM MOM-MOMMY-MOMMA--M-O-M! -’ The teacup bounced up from its saucer, his little arm reaching out to poke his mother in the side. ‘What?’ She grumbled. Her son’s squeaky voice lowered to a whisper;

‘I think that’s them!’

They returned?!

With a swift twirl the teapot turned on the windowsill, her eyes needing a moment to recognise the darkened silhouette of the Master, Belle in his arms. ‘Tis, indeed!’ The teapot chimed with a relieved squeal, her large body awkwardly hopping down on a tray table before landing on the floor.

‘OPEN THE DOOR!’ She exclaimed, hopping as fast as she could, awakening her fellow enchanted souls. Clocks, wardrobes, spoons and plates, they all blinked up as the teapot rushed past, her teacup son not far behind.

In the long centuries they had lived between these castle walls, there had been but few interesting events worth mentioning. In fact most of these events happened during the first months of their enchanted lives. First it had been their Master as he started turning into his monstrous self - pale skinned and agitated to a painful degree. But then it had been them who started turning. Night after night more would disappear, only to wake up the next morning in a new skin, made of wood, copper or porcelain.

It had been terrifying. Gruesome. Miserable. No longer could they fulfill their wishes of escaping from these castle grounds. No longer could they live a life of their own. And for many days, weeks, months their howling wails were heard at night, causing the Master and his wife to lose the last of their cool-headedness. They were all cursed, they were!

But then, after all had come to pass, the Master and his staff remaining.. the world quieted again. This was their new reality, their new life. And though quite boring and still somewhat frustrating, they grew accustomed to their new husks, their new traits. No longer could they do what humans can. But can you tell the time by shaking your head? Can you live without ever eating? Can you love without a heart? You probably can’t. But they could, even though their love and care was not quite so appreciated. For many long years the Master had been unwilling to be helped - resulting in his pig’s nest of a room and worn, thread-bare outfits.

With Belle’s sudden arrival, everything had changed. Days were colourful again. And the Master’s heart seemed to have warmed as well. He had not scolded Belle for entering his room. In fact, he had invited her inside. Like he was now inviting her into his heart, his soul - Psyche.

They all knew what was happening, and it excited everyone to a terribly delightful degree.

Love! Oh LOVE!

How hope bubbled with little sparks in their weary souls. How sweet - though painful - it was to reminisce about the beauty of what life could be..had been... OH...Love..Oh…

‘HMMppff.’ The Master stalked in without offering his staff a glance, brows furrowed as he stormed up the staircase, a trail of wet snow and icy wind left behind his speedy feet. In his arms he held a trembling Belle, her eyes widening with his every step as the low candle light finally revealed what damage had been done in the forest. The Master’s face was laced with a number of small scratches and bruises, his eyes wild and jaw tight.

Was he in pain? Was he worried? Angry? Belle couldn’t be sure and as of right now she didn’t dare to ask, her breath choking in her throat and her fingers wrapping around the lapels of his coat, holding on tight. What had happened? Were they safe? Questions whirled behind her cautious eyes as the Master walked into her room, careful to settle her down with restrained strength.

Belle nervously eyed the Master as he turned on his heel, his shoulders stiff and face turned towards the door. And then he just stood there for a moment. His nose sniffed in deeply before he warily turned around again, meeting Belle’s gaze before his eyes dropped lower. A confused frown puzzled his beautiful face.

‘You are hurt.’ In two large strides he was back by her side, Belle’s legs stepping back until she was met with the edge of the mattress, her frame tumbling back onto the bed. ‘W-what? No. I’m..’

Without hesitation the Master squatted down before her, hands and eyes roaming over her skirts, looking for gashes and tears. But there were none. Strange.

Belle closed her legs a little more, unsure of what to make of this. She wasn’t hurt at all. Maybe uncomfortable since, from the feeling of it, her period was about to start, but…

Wait.

Her eyes blinked back up into the cerulean gaze of the Master, his expression worried, beckoning her to tell her where she was hurting. And then it clicked. Of course. He could smell her. Before she had even noticed that her monthly bleeding had started, he had. And at what inconvenient a moment!

‘Tis nothing.’ Belle blurted out, a sudden heat rising to her winter cold cheeks. She was very acutely aware of how the Master had carefully placed his hands at either side of her skirts, caging her in the trap of his arms. A tremor ran through her legs, making her squeeze her thighs even closer together.

‘Said the trembling maiden.’ The Master spoke in a silky hush - both menacing and alluring. Did he realise what was happening to her?

With slow meandering eyes he trailed down her slender frame again, though this time not to find nips or naps. No, with her legs writhing against one another it had become quite clear WHERE the scent of blood was coming from. A little light danced in his cold eyes, nostrils flaring. So sweet and intoxicating was the smell, mmm! He couldn’t even walk away even if he wished. With the deer’s blood still on the edges of his lips he licked. First his bottom lip, than his top, savouring the bittersweet remnants of a life that was now no more.

No, he should leave.

Using the last of his restraint he raised back on his feet, but Belle did the same, her hand once more snaking quickly around his wrist. Just like she had done a few hours before. What was it with this peculiar woman? Had they not just escaped a wild chase? Did she not see the remnants of a fight on his skin? Did she not fear his strength? Speed? Ability to kill?! Was she mad?

Then again..was he? He couldn’t really blame her for trying to come to terms with their weird relationship. He was a bloodthirsty monster and she was like a pet. No, no. Not a pet. More like a..like a.. More obscenely arousing scents drifted through the air, the Master finally finding what he was looking for. She was..a treat.

Belle took hesitant, shallow breaths as she watched the Master’s eyes meander over her form. Lower and lower..and..yes, it was obvious that he knew what was happening between her thighs. That little light in his eyes grew stronger. And unlike most men, he didn’t seem appalled by the knowledge of what was happening between her thighs. In fact, it only seemed to stir arousal in his clawed-at and marked face - the little cuts and bruises already seemingly far less angry than they had been just minutes ago.

‘I’d better..clean up.’ Belle whispered, keeping her hand wrapped around his wrist, eyes piercing into his. Lust brooded deeply and she couldn’t help but feel aroused for it too. She had never felt like this for a man and it was an intoxicating feeling to have. Something worth nourishing. Feeding. Latching your hands around. It hadn’t been her who had gripped his wrist, it had been another Belle, a Belle she did not know. A Belle that was eager for touch. For those big blue eyes, silky soft lips and….

More heat flushed up her cheeks.

Slowly sitting back on the bed she kept her eyes and hand locked with his, her free hand slowly starting to hike up her skirts, silky stockings appearing from beneath the many layers. She had read about this in a book once. This was what happened, right? Between men and women? The Master’s eyes finally tore away from hers, finding it hard to pass up on this new display of dainty ankles that melted into shapely legs.

Like a deer’s.

No, he couldn’t even escape if he wanted to. Glued to the visage of Belle’s fraying modesty, he sank back down through his knees, eyes gazing up those long pale legs, hands placed back beside her slender frame. Nothing could have prepared him for what followed. Not the many well-read erotic books he had gathered. Not the greatest poems he had memorised. No, nothing could hold a candle to the way his heart jumped in his chest, blood tingling in his loins. Had she gone mad truly?

Where the deer in the forest would flee from him, this one stalked him back. With a delicate brush of both hands Belle encapsulated his wrists, eyes burning into his. In one way she seemed small and scared, unsure of what to do. In the other there was curiosity. And curiosity always got the better of Belle, the Master knew that now. He saw it glimmering in her eyes, the small fire in the fireplace reflecting in her large doe brown eyes. They reflected the fire in her heart, soul, mind...

Oh this was bad! What vile a monster he was! He had tainted the girl! No matter how clever the pretty thing was, he had tainted her! Look at how her bosom swelled with anticipation, her lips parted with forced little breaths. Look at what he made her do! He was vile, so vile..! OH. -

‘What was there in the forest?’ Belle asked, legs still squeezed together, skirts gathered up to her upper legs, eyes boring into the Master’s. The Master flicked his eyes back up at her, finding that curious glimmer undiminished. She wished to talk about that? Right now? Then why was she..why..?

Licking his lips the Master inched forward, Belle not backing away, though her mouth tightened as she swallowed back a lump.

‘Monsters hide in these parts. You know that Belle.’ He said, not once looking away from her large awestruck eyes.

‘Was he like you?’

The Master quirked his head slightly. ‘Not anymore. He is gone now.’

‘Did you kill him?’

A coldness washed over his cerulean gaze - he really didn’t wish to speak of this now. Not after...ARGH..

‘Do you fear death, Belle?’

Belle blinked, unsure of what he was going at. ‘Not.. yet.’

She couldn’t really get a hold of what he thought, felt, wanted. From the way his breeches strained, he was probably very aroused. But then there was this coldness in his eye. There was this predatory gaze that promised how easily he could overtake her. Snap her neck. Drink her freely. Make her fear death for real.

Belle knew how strong, agile and fast he was. But it didn’t stir fear as much as it created anticipation, the thought making Belle’s legs rub together even more. The looming of death struck a chord in her. It kissed her untouched skin with sin. She couldn’t deny the poison in her lonely heart as it crept deeper and deeper.

It was difficult to explain. After a life of being mocked and misunderstood, this tar black loneliness was less heavy with him near. In fact. She couldn’t quite remember how much the loneliness had stung, now she looked into these undead eyes. The Master was different from the people she had known. He was like her. Misunderstood. And it was enticing.

The Master sniffed the air, tongue flaking back over his silky lips, the piercing tips of his fangs shining just between his semi-opened mouth.

Misunderstood, that’s what he was, she mused quietly. He could have killed her a long time ago, if he wanted. But he hadn’t. Like in a story of great fantastical love, they seemed a perfect fit. The naive maiden and the menacing master. Unlikely in pairing, but balancing just right. Sweet versus sharp. Hard versus soft.

‘Will you kill me?’ She asked, that curiosity still winning it from the mixture of reason and fear that roared in her tight chest.

‘Never.’ He breathed, confirming her assumptions. His nostrils flared dangerously as Belle’s intoxicating smell drifted further and further into his muddled brain. The hunt, the fight, the flight..it had all triggered excitement in his beastly bones and as he now sat here, like a beggar before the altar, it all came washing over him. He could no longer stop himself. He would take just..a little…

His strong palms gripped Belle’s legs, steadying her softly yelping body.

..a little..

With silvery tongue he licked a searing path into the inside of her thigh, her hands gripping the sheets in a white-knuckled grip, lips opened in a silent gasp - nothing hid her greatest secret from him now.

..a little..

He reached the apex of her legs, the sweet rose of her essence hitting his nostrils hard, his anguished veins throbbing with need.

.. sip..

‘Ha....’ Belle breathed, eyes faltering to keep their full focus on the Master. Like little pricks of a hundred roses she felt her skin caressed from within, the touch of his tongue sparking an euphoria that not even her own curious fingers could elicit from her thighs. There was something about the way he danced on her skin, the way his strong fingers delved into the plush of her thighs, the way he beckoned more entrance as low rumbles tore from his large chest.

Beastly in spirit, but surprisingly tender in touch.

For a man who had just near-threatened her with death, he was terribly tender. In fact, for just a split-second, Belle couldn’t help but think of Psyche’s first night with her monsterly husband. He had denied her to look upon his face, his visitations only at night - For he was a monster! And a dangerous one at that! - the room dark and her eyes closed. Belle remembered the intrigue she had felt when she read that passage, though now it received a wholly new meaning, her very own monster doing what only a few words in the book had mentioned;

“When night approached Psyche went to bed: and when she was laid, she greatly feared her virginity, because she was alone. Then came her unknown husband and lay with her: and after that he made a perfect consummation of the marriage.”

As a young girl she had mocked these words. ‘Consuming a marriage’ - HA! What a strange way to call it, right?

But as she now lay here, eyes fluttering closed and her thighs trembling with the brush of sweet rose in her veins, she understood. She understood how Psyche grew to love her husband. Grew less pained by the loneliness of her existence. Eyes still shut Belle reached a hand down to the monster’s mane, more grumbles and moans eliciting from his consuming mouth. It was like he was eating her truly! Soft teeth that nibbled, a sweet tongue that lashed, strong fingers that braced, appreciating rumbles that loved. Loved! Oh that is what she felt.

Nothing could stop the touch of Cupid’s arrows. Not even a monsterly disguise. Love, that is what she felt! Like Psyche, she had learned to love the monster. And with that realisation a soft tinkling laughter escaped Belle’s quivering frame, the Master instantly stopping his administrations to ask if something was amiss.

‘No..good Master.’ Belle chimed, more laughter sprinkling from her rosy lips. ‘I beg you kiss me more. For I feel Cupid’s touch has bereft me.’

Slowly the Master crawled atop her frame, mild confusion glimmering in his blue eyes as he caged her with his limbs, looming over her dark as thunderclouds. Belle’s eyes fluttered open and it was not pain or fear he saw - like he expected after his previous experiences in the bedroom. No. She laughed merrily and it struck him like Cupid had indeed shot an arrow in his heart, the cold muscle straining as it fluttered and ached. Where the Master had only known cries of pain, not pleasure, in his bed, it was strange to see the smile on Belle’s cheeks.

‘Please.’ She whispered.

But if he had not hurt her.. Had he..? He quirked his head slightly. Had he pleased her?

The once nervous energy that coursed through his veins whenever he got aroused turned into something else. Like on much lighter, merrier clouds, he drifted above her. Licking her blood from his lips he watched her for just a moment longer as another fit of giggles escaped her lips. She was merry! She was..

His lips pulled awkwardly at the seams, a tight curl stretching them wider and wider until he could feel his cheeks dimple like hers did. And as he did, his cold heart beated warm, little wings flapping in the undead muscle.

She was ..HAH!..The Master couldn’t help but mimic her infectious laughter, his lips pulling uneasily with this unfamiliar movement. But Belle didn’t seem to care. Her tender fingers wrapped around his dimpling cheeks, begging him to join her down here on her earthly bed. For he was her Cupid and she was his Psyche. Love and Soul entwined.

For a short moment the Master forgot about all that had come to pass that day. In fact everything became a bit of a blur. The past days. Weeks. Months. Years. Centuries. All the pain, death and suffering was but a hazy memory that was washed away with the touch of her lips to his. All the want, desire and arousal that had tortured him was now a gift. A gift he could pour onto her. Groaning with need he let her pull him closer and closer still, his weight grounding her to the feather mattress as their lips danced and hands caressed.

For a moment he forgot about all that would still come to pass. More pain, more fear, more death.

He could hear a lone wolf cry into the cold night outside, reminding him of what he had left behind. Was he wrong to not tell Belle of what happened in that forest? The unfinished business that remained? The danger that lurked there still? Was he wrong for wishing to keep the truth from her? Keep her blind?

‘Please.’ Belle begged again, hands pulling him back through the forest of his thoughts. ‘Please.’

Oh, how he wished to please her.

But the truth was not a pleasing thing. It never had been. As more wolves howled and cried, the truth felt like the ice that was biting on the window panes. Begging to be let in. The matter had to be settled, he knew that. But not now. Right now the hunt for vengeance was temporarily forfeited, as he first wished to drink merilly from the sweetness..that was Belle.

--

Chap 12 > 

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[btswishes]

Mistakes made

BTS Au (Medieval x Fantasy) 

Chapter 1 “Welcome to the rest of your life” / Part2 

A/N:  This is a trial run of an idea I have with Taehyung. I would really appreciate some feed back on it. This chapter is not much since it is just an introduction so far. Sorry for any mistakes made.

Word count: 2,115

Warmings: Blood, killing, torture and murder, graphic content 

                                    ---------------------------------------

Candle flames dancing under the command of the wind. A candied tango in pair with the ringing laughter and fulfillment, radiating from the near by village. What a sweet place it looked like, carefree. The music was loud and so were their voices, your eyes but a mere mirror reflecting the light. 

  In front of you there was the pureness of life, behind you the end. Agonizing screams ran through the hallways, reaching even the deepest of crevasses in the walls. The voices soon came to a blood curdling stop, letting a veil of silence fall over the building. The moon kept illuminating the titan like façade of the castle, buried deep between the forest trees. 

  Eerie sounds acquainted themselves with your home. Soft, tinted in the colors of nightmares, were your clothes. The bone chilling cold could not reach your as the garments shielded your elbow from the stone sill of the window, gently flowing away from your skin further up they went. Refreshing coolness lingered onto your arm, opposite of the elegant and gentle palm on which you were resting your chin, as you marveled at the distant festival.

“You are looking at them again.” the deep voice behind you did not come as a surprise “ Wasting time away with meaningless celebrations.”

“You speak like we ourselves do not celebrate.” your lips parted gently- chin pressing into your skin

“Do not lump us together with the likes of them!” a mild sound echoed in the room, as a towel hit the wall aggressively “We celebrate success! Achievements! Not...living another year. ” 

  Your eyes moved to their corners, focusing onto the discarded piece of cloth laying on your floor “Brother, as much of a vulgar man as you may be, I would wish for you to refrain from such manners.” his head crooked to the side “ Next time do not tarnish my room with your blood soaked towels. I do quite fancy for that carpet to stay snow white, than be tainted with the crimson color of some unknown corps.” you hissed at him, coaxing a loud laugh. 

 He took a few steps and picked his belongings up from the ground. “ Would it have satisfied you if it belonged to an innocent noble, or is red not your cup of tea sister?” he spoke calmly 

“No soul that enters these walls has even the tiniest drop of innocence in their blood. Filthy bugs thinking they can overthrow father and receive titles from some unknow king, disgusting. So please refrain from bring such filth in my room. I can smell how rotten this man was from just that cloth.” leaning back, you stretch gently. Your words hopefully reached your brother, leaving a permanent mark on his mind. The carpet though was already filthy.

“I shall try my best dear sister, with the next batch of bumbling idiots arriving tonight.” your heels clicked and clanked under the flooring. Candle flames took over your eyes, as your hand lifted the white wax cylinder out of its holder, dropping it onto the soft hairs of the carpet. The small spark soon engulfed the fur rug into a violent flame. “A shame. It was so pure once.” 

 “Y/N, now why would you do that my darling.” a tall dark eerie figure stood by your door, towering over your brother with ease. His steps were heavy, loud and unbelievably fast. He walked past the small fire like it was nothing and laid his big hand onto your cheek, encouraging you to lean into it. “ Wasn’t this your favorite carpet in the whole house. Your eyes used to light up the moment you saw it.”

“It was tainted father but dirty blood.” you spoke, emphasizing on the stain  

“We could have washed it like the dungeons. No one would have known what was on the hairs.” his voice reassuring you 

“If Yunan was a bit more considered and not a vulgar beast, this wouldn’t have happened.” your eyes glistened as the flames under you sored in the air with your anger

“Now now. I said I was sorry. I tend to forget how fragile and elegant my little sister is. Mostly during hunting season.” your brother sighed, rubbing the back of his neck “How about I compensate you?” your ears perked up.

“How so?” 

“Ramel and I will take you hunting again so you can slay another snow tiger.” your eyes widened at the offer

“I will skin it for you again my princess.”your father ran his hand through your hair when the flame extinguished under you, leaving no trace of a carpet ever being there. The sound of horses pulled your attention towards the window with a glance of your eye “ Seeing as you both settled that, let us join your brother in welcoming our new guests. Yunan?” your brother smirked, his arms rising to his sides 

“Their new homes have been emptied out, we just want our sweet Y/N to come and finish the disposal, as per usual.” with a nod of approval your father walked over and placed his big hand onto Yunan’s shoulder. 

“I expect you to behave next time in your sister’s room.” from such height, his eyes glowed in anger. 

“Yes father.”

  With the head of the family walking out first, the newcomers saw fear on two legs. His vest was black, tiny compared to his massive frame, contrasting the white fox tail resting upon his left shoulder. His eyes were just as the animal upon his body, lines bend upwards into a creepy smile. 

“Welcome to my lovely home. My name is Wiraem and I shall be your host on this beautiful full moon.” his arms rose in acceptance “I hope you like it here, since...” his eyes opened up still keeping the half moon shape, as a smile exposed his teeth “You won’t be leaving here again.” 

“How many is it this time around?” Yunan fixed his suit, speaking out towards a tall figure. He was almost the height of your father. His hair was dark and slicked back, face stoic and cold. This was Ramel, a handsome man with a body giving the illusion it was made from the strongest matter on earth. 

“About 10.” he threw a man in front of your younger brother’s feet “I caught them doing the usual snopping, trap laying and all that comes with trying to assassinate us.” your hand rubbed over your arms as the night winds cooled off your body more than desired. The men under your feet couldn’t speak, they were trembling in what one could call fear, not even noticing you. Your father’s expression changed, softened as he heard you next to him. 

“Yunan, Ramel get them all in. Let’s introduce our new housemates to their rooms.” With a swift motion of his huge arm, he picked you up. The warmth from your father’s body was pleasant, letting yourself indulge in it as you grabbed onto him. The walk to the dungeons was long and slow, your family did not enjoy rushing things. The night was not young anymore leading you to be swept away by the lullaby of silence. Fatherly and gentle, his movements did not even let your body twitch with his step. Skilled he was after all. No one dared to make even the smallest peep, it became an unwritten rule.

  Your father looked upon you with warmth. Yunan would crack an occasional smirk looking at your peaceful sleep, resting so calmly with the lingering smell of blood not even alarming you. Ramel was one to show his emotions through actions more than face, which he did removing a strand of hair from yours.

*Clank* 

 Someone’s chains sung out, before being picked up in panic. As rudely as the song hand been silenced, it was not fast enough - noticed by the family, stopping their steps. The man froze, no breath, no sound, not even a faint heartbeat. The three men turned to face him in unison flashing him disgust, a smile filled with murder and a stone face that could do anything.

“Mmm.” you mumbled under your nose, nuzzling yourself into your father’s chest. The sign of you potentially waking up contorted their faces. The smile was accompanied with blood shot eyes, Ramel’s head crooked up half covered by a shade casted upon his face and Yunan expressing even more anger.

“Would you look at that.” you father whispered sending chills over the already sweating humans “ It seems as though one of our lovely visitors just disappeared. I wonder where he went?” 

 Wind blew the curtain in the hallway ,as a howl joined inside. As the fabric calmed down the rest of the new arrivals noticed that their number had gone down by one - 9. The man that dared to make a sound was gone without one. No one noticed, no one saw, he just vanished. Magic was common in these times, yet this was far beyond what any wizard kin could explain.

“Hmmm silence.” Yunan smiled “Keep it that way.” he pulled on the shirt of a man with dark long locks of hair and thick eyelashes, the aura of a bear cub. His heart was calm, focused on you with bubbling interest and sane.  

  The men kept looking around the dungeons. They looked clean, they looked like no one used or had  used them, but there was a residual stench that one would notice immediately. A mix of old and fresh warm blood, maybe a few hours old and a few minutes new. The prisoners stopped in their tracks, falling back as silently as they could, as they laid eyes upon the scene in front of them.

  A pile of human remains if you could even call them that at this point. Bodies, parts of them all randomly throw upon one another and the star on top of the tree, our lovely missing tenant number 10.

“Oh my.”your father gasped “I am sorry to have shown you this. How unconsidered of me.” His head shifted towards the men “ I forgot to make sure your old roommates left for good. Seems as though they couldn’t...” 

  Their voices were stuck in their throats, stomachs convulsing trying to keep whatever food they had down. The floor wasn’t chilling no more, you could say the fear conjured such drop of their temperature, that they were making the room colder. Heart beats were faintly heard as all of these men, these soldiers, assassins and who knows what ,were ready to piss themselves at such sight. How useless. Coming here and thinking war could have prepared them for this land. One of them, one of them was still trying to stay calm. Young and so mentally strong.

“Princess?” the gentle warmth ran over your cheek “My little flower petal.” you frowned and tried to roll up in a smaller ball “It pains me to wake up so rudely my angel, but daddy needs your help.” the men watched as your half asleep self rose gently, leaning onto your father’s shoulders for support. Eyes still heavy, you peeked gently. The rocks beneath everyone illuminated in a faint golden color of fire. 

“ Evanescet...” but a faint whisper sneaking out from in between your tinted lips. Blazing fires enveloped the bodies, the flames sounding like the agonizing screams of their souls, as they vanished into thin air. Never to be seen again.

  The flames spread around, igniting all organic lifeless matter. Blood stains burned with passion, leaving only the stone cold walls and floors spotless clean. The smell was gone and the room filled with the crisp night breeze. For a moment it felt like no one had ever stepped foot inside these rooms.

“Thank you my little rose.” 

  Ramel stepped closer, placing his hand over your eyes, closing them. His gentle side put you back to sleep almost immediately, picking you up in his own embrace. Your father removed the fox fur off his shoulder and made sure to tuck you in well in your brother’s arms. With a swift motion, Yunan removed your shoes and hooked their ankle straps onto his slender fingers.

“I never understood why she chose such uncomfortable garments.” sighing, his hands ran over the small red patch of skin, heeling it. ”I have gotten her so many boots, yet here we are.” The prisoners were astonished at the warmth these men had for you and only you.

“We are not meant to understand ladies, but marvel them and protect.” Ramel tore the silence with his deep, sharp voice filled with righteousness. You drifting off slowly but surely, eyes turned in the direction of one boy. His front chunky eyelashes battered at you ,as his lightly tinted skin glowed in the moonlight . His face was too serious and focused on you, yet sleep took over and you drifted off again.

[themanicnami]

Fog in Witchcraft

Fog is often a forgotten aspect of weather that seems to get passed over when it comes to witchcraft despite it having some powerful and noble uses as well as a history in the craft. Though not all areas get fog commonly, many do, almost every morning depending on the time of year. Allow this small post to perhaps be some help to those who have interest in harnessing fog into their craft.

History and Fiction

As stated above, in many literary sources witches of both historical senses and fiction harness fog as a powerful towel. In popular lore, witches were said to summon fogs to roll across the lands to protect fleeing mothers and children during wars to hide from invading soldiers, though this lore is hard to pin point down, it is often said to come from Celtic and Gaelic origins.

In other tales witches would summon fog to protect traveling royalty or heroes who are on a quest to reach lands that may be unfriendly to their arrival. At some other times fog was related to almost like the “witching hour” it meant it was a time that the supernatural were out and witches were casting their spells.

Fog as a Liminal Space

What is a liminal space? To put it simply it means a “transforming space” or a place that the Veil or energies are thinner and overcross one another. Often they are associated with spirit work, energy work, astral work and over all witchcraft. Some call these places or areas “places where one area and time stop and another begins”.

In many cases, places that are covered by fog often are said to be liminal spaces during this time, due to the surrealism and energy fog brings with it. It turns something mundane looking to mysterious, confusing and even to some creepy. Its concealing nature brings the feeling of the unknown and the unseen.

Traditionally and theatrically fog is often used to represent the Veil between worlds and afterlife, often used in settings of literature and movies by covering graveyards before something supernatural happens or by filling the streets at night when magick is about to begin. Often when many people who don’t practice the craft think of supernatural energies and the Veil they imagine a foggy night or a wall of fog, this imagery is for a reason.

Often, fog is seen as an important tool for spirit work both fictionally and modernly due to its relations of being a liminal space and therefore seen as easier to contact spirits with the barriers weaker when it arrives.

Correpsondences and Uses of Fog

Generally Fog Corresponds with - The Veil, Spirits/Spirit Work, The Hidden, The Unseen, Invisibility, Protection, Obstruction, Curses/Hexes, Warding, Meditation, Astral Work, Fear, Patience, Calmness, Serenity, Peace and Travel

Often times, fog is useful to one when they wish to cast or enchant items for invisibility and protection during travel, often necklaces or items enchanted while out in the fog. Others will take the opportunity of using fog for spiritual communication, past life work and astral projection, taking advantage of the weakened barriers and Veil for these purposes.

Associations

Crystals - Clear Quartz, Smokey Quartz, Thunder Egg

Herbs/Plants - Cotton, Broom, Saffron, Thistle/Thicket, Wheat, Pansy

Colors - Gray, Silver, Black, Blue

Other Tools - Steam, Incense/Smoke, Wands, Besoms, Branches, Storm Water/Rain Water, Ash, Dust, Mirrors and Gray Candles

Fog Summoning

There are many ways said to summon fog. A few of those ways will be listed below

Method 1: Using storm water boiling it until it has thick amounts of steam rising from it, carefully move it outside or to a window (if one is not already outside) and offer it to the sky. Many will chant or call to the weather or winds to bring them fog much like the steam of the pot.

Method 2: In water on a burner add storm or sea salt and a sigil on paper for fog. Close the lid to it and wait until it is boiling. Remove the lid and allow the steam to rise. Here chant if desired for fog or let the water boil until it is nearly gone.

Method 3: With a besom go outside if it is a private space and much like wind summoning call to the fog to come to you, using your tool as an extension of yourself and your energy. Remember to ask it to come rather than demand for it.

Method 4: Using storm water or rain water, ash and a jar fill it with these ingredients and shake it thoroughly to summon fog. Be sure to center yourself and focus on your energy to put into this fog summoning jar. Leave it outside or in a window afterwards for further effects.

Fog Water

Fog water is a tool that can be used for witchcraft when fog is not rightfully available or in place of rain water/storm water in fog summoning. To capture fog water is pretty easy though you must be able to accept small amounts.

First you will need either very fine fabric or mesh or screen similar to what can be found in windows or for fishing nets. Tight it taunt onto something to hold it up like rods or sticks. Make sure it is held up at least a couple feet above the ground and somewhere the fog will roll through it. Base it off of how high the fog in your area tends to be, if you have low rolling fogs it may work better lower to the ground. After or during a time of fog you should be able to see droplets of water forming on it, you may use a jar tied below a corner of it to capture these drops or you can collect it yourself during/after they have formed. You can build much larger versions of this for potable water gathering and tutorials on this can be found easily online if that may interest you.

Store your fog water in glass containers and in the fridge, be sure to date and label to ensure you are using fresh water. Do not drink this water unless you set up the proper potable filtration systems.

Diffusing Fog

Often witches will find themselves tasked with fog being a hindrance rather than helpful. Its a dangerous weather condition especially for those on the road or at sea. 

Historically, sea witches would be asked to disperse fog for the safe return and port of sea vessels and the men upon them. Though it is difficult to find exact spells from these times, often broom or heather is used by facing the sea with it in hand and waving at the fog, putting energy into it and telling the fog to disperse. Other times it is said using a broom/besom to summon winds to remove the fog was a preferred way.

Other options for witches is to sing a fog removal song and often dance accompanied with it and with either a besom or wand in hand, direct the fog to travel away from you and somewhere else. Other witches have found success in praying and working with weather deities to move the fog back to the sky or to lead it away.

Omens, Superstitions and Dreams

In omens it is said fog represents blindness. It blocks our ability to see clearly and makes normal directions seem impossible to follow. It can go hand in hand with confusion and the feelings of anxiety. When fog appears in visions it is to be seen often as a warning that things are about to get just that - foggy.

Though it is also related to shrouding oneself, it may be a sign that it is time for you to create a fog about yourself and to build up those wards.

Superstition wise it was believed fog would steal people, often due to people getting lost in it and vanishing, because of this fog is seen as a warning of loss to come. Some cultures even associate it directly with death.

In dreams fog holds many meanings. If the fog is throughout the whole dream then it is a warning of deception. Someone is deceiving you and deep down you know it to be true. If you dream of being wrapped in fog and it is too thick to see through or escape it is often related to feeling that someone has stolen something from you. Dreaming of wandering in a foggy environment is a warning of dangers to come, keep on your toes. If you escape fog it means you are avoiding danger or theft.

If one dreams of fog just being around their head, eyes or following above them like a halo/hat, then it is an indication that you are lying to yourself. You are refusing to let yourself see the truth. It can also be a play of the saying “its all in your head” meaning you are overthinking a problem.

If you dream of fog and snow together, it is often said to be a dream related to sickness soon to come. Others say its a sign that illness of the mind and emotions is going to creep its way in.

If one dreams of their home, bedroom or apartment being filled with fog it is often taken as a bad omen and sign that a large family drama is soon to come.

Seeing a figure in fog in dreams can have different meanings. If it is someone that you know it means they may be hiding things from you or that you are going to have a fight with them in the near future. It can also indicate if you are in the fog and you see them outside of the fog, that you are guilty about something you did to them. Seeing a stranger in the fog or a shadow you do not recognize is often due to anxiety or fear in one’s waking life. They represent the unknown and the future to come, which you are currently stressed over. Animals in the fog can represent both anxieties and fears looming about you but also can represent that you a repressing your own desires and natural wants.

If you see fog rolling in from the distance of a dream it means something is looming in your waking life. If fog starts descending down on you in a dream from the sky to the ground, many take this as a bad omen for travel especially by air or sea. Historically it is said a foggy sea in your dreams means a shipwreck in your future. Though fog over a lake or river means dream-like wonder and is said that young women who dream of this can expect a mysterious stranger in their future.

Fog and Different Types of Witchcraft

Sea Witchcraft - Fog is often seen as more of a hindrance in ocean magick, especially historically when fog at sea or port could be rather hazardous and bring tragedy to many. Due to this, fog in sea magick is often used for more negative tasks like cursing.

Storm Magick - Fog is often seen more in the light of a less harsh type of weather compared to storms or rain but still one that can be used to harness energy. The energy of foggy weather is much more mysterious, calm and hazy than that of storm or wind. It can be used for such purposes.

Death Magick - Fog is often related to the barriers of the other-side as some may say, so many death witches will take advantage of fog to use it to communicate and commune with the dead. Many report that it can make using tools of communication like Ouija boards and pendulums easier.

Divination - Often fog can be seen as a hindrance for divination though it is often deeply routed with self discovery and past life work. Many will take the opportunity of foggy weather to explore their past lives and the history of themselves and others. 

[sweetwritertanya]

Stormy Night (Original)

Summary: A snow storm leads to you losing your chance to not only see your boyfriend, as it was planned, but also communicate at all with him as the blizzard worsens. Little did you know, that would be the last time you would ever spend a stormy night alone.

Warnings: HORROR! Nothing too bad, hopefully it just sends those spooky scary tingles down your back. No trigger warnings, no violence or anything of the sort. Tell me what you all think of it, if you can! Did it spook you a bit? Did you guess what was about to happen?

Word Count: 2345

“Hun, I hate this” you complain into the phone in your hand against your ear, pacing around in the living room and looking out the window to the dark threatening sky.

“I know, muffin, I know. I hate it too” your boyfriend reciprocates on the other side of the call.

“I mean, I had everything ready, I was going to make your favorite meal, went to the supermarket and got all the freaking ingredients and whatever, bought the expensive wine, booked the tickets to the play and…” you sigh heavily. “All for nothing.”

“We couldn’t have predicted this, Y/N. I mean, this storm came out of nowhere, not even the weathermen saw it coming” he tries and console you, like he always did whenever you were frustrated at something you couldn’t quite control.

“It just… sucks! I haven’t seen you in three months!”

You didn’t mean for the last sentence to come out almost like a sob, but your pent-up feelings surface quickly and you start snuffling as you try to keep the tears from falling.

“Fuck, baby, I know and it’s killing me too. I just want to hold you in my arms again and kiss the pout I know you have right now away” he confesses, sounding every bit as disappointed as you. A small smile comes to your lips when he mentions the pout that you, in fact, had been sporting the entire call. “If only I had booked a flight one day earlier, I could have been snowed in with you during the storm. Keep you protected and warm.”

“It’s not your fault you’re so busy with work. You know one of the things I love about you is how dedicated you are.” It’s your turn to console him and that somehow helps you feeling better, focusing on making him feel better instead of pitying yourself any further.

“The only thing I hate about my job is how it keeps me away from you so much” he murmurs, groggily.

“You know what? It’s fine. This is fine” you decide with a renewed determination, walking out of the living room you were at and making your way to the kitchen. “We’ll meet after the storm is all over and we’ll make it an even better stay! I’ll get refunded for the tickets, use the money to instead take us out for dinner so I don’t have to cook and we can have our own movie session at home. Which is better anyway, because we can get comfortable and snuggle how much we want without disapproving eyes all around.”

You gasp loudly and jump in place as a loud thunder shakes the ground, lightning tearing apart the cloudy sky outside. The wind seems to pick up in response and you can only see a blur of white snow falling out your windows.

“Y/N? M-ffin, are yo- o-y?”

The signal of your phone call weakens and you can barely make out what he is saying from the other side.

“Babe, I’m okay! Can you hear me? I’m fine, but I think I’m losing signal” you yell into the phone, hoping that he can still comprehend what you are saying so he doesn’t worry.

“I hea- you. Ok-y, you’re oka-. Cal- -morrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll call you tomorrow! Love you!”

“Lov- -ou, bye muff-” And the call ends abruptly.

“Damnit…” you whisper in a sigh. “Was supposed to be spending the day with him and now I can’t even have a phone call or a video chat with him. Stupid weather!”

As you had predicted, both your wi-fi and even the television feed were struggling due to the conditions outside, so you weren’t even bothering turning them on. Taking out all of the candles you had available, which were mainly scented candles you received from people you barely knew, you left at least one in each room and picked the largest one to carry with you around the house, expecting the lights to go out some time during the storm.

When living alone in a small one-bedroom house in the outskirts of town, one could never be too prepared. Especially a woman living alone. So, you have thought of every situation you could find yourself in and came up with solutions that didn’t depend on someone else coming over to fix. The candles were a wise decision, as it turned out, since early in the evening, while you were trying to entertain yourself by reading a book in bed, the only lamp turned on by your nightstand went out and the moonlight was all you had.

“Figures” you dryly say, reaching for the lighter you kept on the first drawer and lighting the large vanilla and coffee scented candle.

Even though it was earlier than when you usually went to sleep, there was really not much you could do without the modern commodities you were used to, especially in the dark of the young night, so you just laid down in bed and covered yourself with the blankets, keeping the candle going in case you needed to go to the bathroom during the night and the lights weren’t back on yet.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t take much for you to fall asleep, even with the wind owling loudly outside and the occasional thunder. And yet, it was a loud crash coming from somewhere in the house that wakes you in a jerk, sounding like one of your plant pots had fallen and shattered on the ground. You grimace just thinking of having to get up and clean it all up, but the thought of just leaving your plant on the ground to wither guilt trips you into doing so.

With a grunt, you remove the covers and put on your slippers, picking the candle up and opening your bedroom’s door. Walking to the kitchen, much like you suspected, you find that the plant you kept on the windowsill above your sink had fallen to the ground and the window’s doors were blasted open with the furious wind, making you shiver from head to toe at how cold it was.

Automatically, you go and close the window before anything else, making sure to close the latch securely this time. It was such a mundane task, something you did every night before going to bed, that you almost missed it.

Just as you were about to turn around and pick up the broken pieces off the floor, your numb mind picks up something strange. You look back outside, frowning as you don’t quite understand what seems strange. It takes you maybe five solid seconds of staring for you to see it.

The footprints, on an otherwise completely immaculate white veil above the ground. The snow was falling so quick and so much that the tracks were starting to be covered up again, soon to disappear beneath a newly fresh layer of pristine snow. But you still saw them.

And they were leading straight to your window.

Your whole body freezes, heart stops and your breathing comes to a frightening halt. Blankly, you stare at the outside for a few more moments before the terrifying realizations hits you. Your silent hammer switches to a hammering beat against your chest, blood rushing loudly in your ears and sold sweats prickling up your skin as you slowly turn around and scan your house.

The dirt of the pot, it had been moved. A snow trail melting in your wooden floors, from your sink where the open window was to across the kitchen. Your eyes follow it and you fight back a fearful whimper once you notice the opened door to the small basement. A door you always closed and seldomly opened.

Your mind races, working in overpower as survival mode seems to set in. There was someone at your house. Someone broke in. Your first thought is to run to your phone and call for help, but your last phone call proved that the storm was interfering with means of communication. And you didn’t have a landline.

You slap your hand against your mouth as a shriek escapes you and you scrunch down to your knees when a creak comes from bellow. Your eyes start to swell up with dread and you force yourself to silently move away. The basement door was made of cement, which meant the creaking could only be made if someone was coming up the stairs.

There were only two options in your brain now. Fight or flight. You couldn’t call for help, hiding would do you no good when there were only a handful of places to do so, and even if you screamed in hopes that your only neighbors from across the street would hear you, the loud storm would drown you out.

The stairs creak again and you are maybe seven feet away from your front door. The door to the basement is still within your view and you wide scared eyes miss nothing at this second. So you see it. Even with the only light sources being the candle you left on the counter and the streetlight from outside, you see it.

The large grey hand with dark dirty nails that clutches around the side of the door, as if about to open it. And the sparkle of something metallic coming from the darkness.

Gathering all of the strength you could master in your panicked state, you stand up and run towards the front door, fighting with the latch to open just as you hear heavy footsteps that didn’t belong to you. Swinging the door open, you run into the blizzard with a shrieking scream that contended with the owling wind, barefoot and only in your pajamas, too caught up in the moment to even feel how cold it was.

You are screaming the entire path across the street, even as you hammer against your neighbor’s door so heavily you might actually break down their door.

“HELP! HELP, I NEED HELP! SOMEBODY! HELP!”

The man from the mid-aged couple is the one who opens the door for you, looking half worried and half annoyed, the woman coming down the stairs hurled up in her robe with concern.

“What the hell is go-”

“Call the police! Somebody broke in to my house and they are there right now. Please, call the police!” you beg, starting to shiver as the cold starts to get to you.

“Dear God, let her in a lock the doors!” the woman tells her husband immediately, taking off her robe and giving it to you as you enter their home.

Thankfully, their landline telephone was still functioning despite the storm and the police was contacted. They arrive an excruciatingly long thirty minutes later, knocking at your neighbor’s door and asking what happened.

That’s when the weirdest thing happens. You walk with the officers back to your house, feeling more secure now that you had two people with guns next to you. The blizzard had almost erased the footsteps from you running away from the house, your door still swinging open and moving with the strong wind. Looking around, you don’t see any tracks other than yours leading out of the house. One of them goes inside the house first, the other keeping you safe outside.

“All clear!” the policeman yells from inside.

Frowning and uncertain, you and the other officer enter the house to inspect.

It’s mind boggling, really. How immaculate all of it was. The flowerpot that had fell to the ground was gone, no indications of any dirt on the ground, all completely clean as if it never happened. The window was still shut just as you left it, candle still burning on your kitchen’s counter. No snow or water trails on the floor anywhere.

They checked the basement and found nothing; it was just as you always left it. The policemen made you search for any lost valuables, any expensive items you might have had that could be stolen, but everything was in its place. Nothing was missing.

You beg them to look for fingerprints, namely on the door where you know you saw a hand. After a bit of pressure, they grant your request and gather all of the fingerprints around the spot you assured them the person had their hands. It would take a few days for them to come back with any result.

Obviously, you didn’t stay back in that house. In fact, you were almost entirely decisive on moving out as soon as possible. The only way you would even consider staying there again was if the police found and imprisoned the person who broke in.

They never did. The fingerprints they collected at the scene, as it turned out, were all yours. There was no indication of anyone ever having broken in. And with nothing stolen or damaged, they couldn’t continue the case and it was closed.

Up until months after you moved out, you were still bothered by vivid nightmares of that night. If you were ever home alone and it was dark, you would see grey nasty hands in the darkest corners. And you made sure from the on to never spend a stormy night alone ever again.

[strigwrites]

Conviction

(Art source)

The whipping winds raced across the battered snowscape, all hounds of winter searching out the smallest crooks and crevices and promptly muffling the jagged mouths with a spray of white powder. The highlands hadn’t known warmth in half a decade, but its stalwart denizens remained unfazed, found ways to move with the breakneck turn of climate. A throng of wooly folk gathered close around a sputtering fire and thawed their ice-caked gloves until they could be summarily peeled from hands beaten ruddy even well-hidden in shearling. A clever hand exchanged a flask around, red cheeks peeking up from cloak wraps and tipping back to warm their insides on hooch brewed strong enough to resist freezing on all but the most blisteringly cold nights.

“Thought we’d never get back when the clouds started rolling up...but I have to admit, fellas, death weren’t lookin’ so bad when I knew I had seven hells to warm up in on the other side!”

Laughter pierced the suppressive cloak of an impending blizzard from where they nestled at the foot of a steep and rocky valley, hardened people who eased the frigid wastes with laughter and back-slapping that nearly sent the smallest of the throng sprawling face-first onto the ground. They stomped their boots and whistled at the weather, cleared space to start a fire, and in no time at all turned an inhospitable pile of stone into a passable place to wait for the worst of it to blow over.

“I tell you, Ragnheidur is out there yet, and I intend to claim her head to match the tail mounted on my cabin wall!”

“For the sake of the newcomer, why don’t you tell him how many times you’ve changed that story since I heard you tell it first, what, ten? Fifteen years ago?”

“Everyone knows the tail you’ve got mounted belongs to some lesser lizard, old man!”

The resident storyteller waves them all off with a sweep of his hand and focuses every ounce of aged charisma toward the most fresh-faced of the grizzled lot, daring the younger man to look away from his intense, over-earnest expression. “Don’t listen to these sour pricks, son, they just don’t know what to make of old men who ain’t yet hung up their big ambitions. This lot thinks that when they get to be my age, they’ll be content to fade away in some rocking chair until Death comes to collect. A load of shite, you hear me? That big bitch has a target painted on her ugly head and I’m keen on collecting.” He punctuated his proclamation with a spirited thump of his padded chest, eliciting a round of guffaws from his audience.

“You don’t have to comfort him, Pietor. He’s quite clearly lost his marbles half an age ago and anything left froze out here! Don’t let him drag you under with him.”

The young man now identified as Pietor offered a gamely smile, visibly more reserved than his raucous comrades, but before he could get a word in edgewise, the storyteller heaved a great arm about his shoulders and dragged him to his side. “They’ve been trying to paint me as a mad old fool, but you take a look around you, boy,” and the young man did indeed do that, “And you tell me if you think anyone who comes to the godsdamned Convictory hasn’t had their gourd knocked around a few times before!”

The camp erupted in spirited shouting that never quite ceased even as the last tender flames of daylight receded swiftly into a deep and brumal night with precious little in-between. Their clever hideaway was spared the worst of the drifting snow, but even the heartiest of them eventually retreated one by one into their respective tents when the booze could no longer prop them up against the climate and settled down for the evening, leaving only Pietor perched next to the fire as the first watchman of the night.

An iron ring haloed his boyish face, the kind that looks half his true age at all times even from a mile away, and he was not inclined to correct anyone on the matter. His notice turned upward, well past the broken teeth of stony peaks to where the stars winked blithely as tempestuous clouds began to break apart and yield to clear, crisp winter skies. The tilt of his chin revealed a stretch of tender neck to the brisk breeze, but for the moment he seemed perfectly content to be wrapped in the veil of night under foreign skies, a stranger until before long, he would not be.

May my bolts be as gifts to these wicked hearts.

When his eyes slid shut, was it home he was dreaming of? Not simply a place of residence or an origin point, but of another life and another him all together. In the margins of this newer, humbler existence, he could still feel the haunt of who he’d been reminding him that there was a time when he’d been ferocious, a panther who could still smell the blood of a fresh kill from inside his concrete cage. The phantom of old claws extended and retracted.

Sever the spirit that pilots his innocent flesh and deliver it unto our Lady of Fury, and may her righteous fire cleanse it whole.

A low chunk was lost to the dying gasps of the passing storm. He couldn’t have been surprised.

--

“W-whoa—hey...Hey! Wake up! Wake up!”

“What the hell’s the matter, Haften?”

“Something’s not—This isn’t right! This isn’t right, something’s happened to Pietor...”

“What? Godsdamnit, where are my...”

“Pietor? Shit.”

“Hang on, dammit, I’m coming...”

“Oh, hell. The boy’s dead.”

Fine snow dotted the young man’s eyelashes, an empty gaze now permanently fixed skyward. One hand had fallen limp at his throat, where the wooden shaft of a crossbow bolt thrusted proudly outward from its lethal mark. All eyes shot to the canyon walls, but the clarity now granted by fairer skies gave no indication of threat in their midst. Baffled hunters rummaged through pockets and travel packs, but whoever Pietor had been before joining a band that never asked too much, clearly that man did not want to be found. Not a letter or a token of sentiment to give answers to such a swift and absolute act.

By morning, a solemn line trudged slowly away from camp and its new, lone occupant, barely a wink of sleep between them.

“You think he might have been an Imperial or summat?”

“If he was, then he’ll be some beast’s meal and then some beast’s shite soon enough.”

“Never liked him much anyway.”

[he-is-mine-i-am-his-blog]

Wild geese 7/18

Fandom: Painter of the Night

Pairing: Baek Nakyum/Yoon Seungho

Ratings: M

Word count: ~1900 words

Story summary: When Nakyum enters an arranged marriage with Lord Seungho, he does expect to find himself in a situation where he does, fighting for his life. ***An arranged marriage AU, set in the Joseon period like the canon.

Warnings: This story contains graphic depictions of violence. These scenes are not terribly gory, excessive, pointless, and violence is not glorified in anyway. I will not give warnings with specific chapters as not to spoil the plot.

Read below or on AO3.

***

When Seungho’s personal servant is set to go out to run some errands at the town a few days later, Nakyum asks to join him.

He hasn’t ventured much outside the walls at the Yoon residence. Now, he is filled with such nervous, restless energy – from the events of the past days, from the vague threat looming over him – that he feels as if he is suffocating from it.

In the past days, Deokjae has unexpectedly made himself more present to assist him, but he doesn’t hide his disdain for Nakyum, for the very thought of him having to serve a commoner – even when he no longer is one. It makes Nakyum’s life at the residence only more distressing.

Nakyum does not wish to stay, hiding inside his room all day. It clearly isn’t a safe haven even if his suspicions are not correct. He wants to go just to get out of this place for a moment.

When he asks Mr Kim, the older man hesitates at first, but then, he nods.

The first step outside the gated entrance comes with a subtle wave of relief washing over him. Though, his tangled thoughts do not fully leave him until they get to the busy main street of the town.

They stop several times along the way to see what the different merchants have to offer. It is often Nakyum who stops. The older man is too kind to indulge him with these small freedoms during their outing, especially when it only causes further delay for him.

When Nakyum once again stalls outside the small shop selling a variety of books and illustrations, Mr Kim suggests that he stay there while he quickly goes to another shop just a bit down the street. Nakyum looks at him for a moment, uncertain, until he inclines his head in a wordless agreement.

As the older man walks off, Nakyum returns to look at the books that are settled in a shelf just outside the shop, under the shelter of the wide awning.

He is examining a book of illustrated fairy tales when he hears someone approach him.

“What a chance encounter, meeting you here.”

Nakyum lowers the book, and he looks behind him to find two men standing at a polite distance. He recognizes them as being Seungho’s friends. He had briefly talked to them at the wedding celebrations. One of them has a lively face, Min was his name, as Nakyum recalls. The other more familiar yet was Jihwa. He is the man who Nakyum had seen arguing with Seungho at the Yoon residence days ago.

When Nakyum doesn’t say anything, the man speaks again, “Ah, I’m not sure if you remember. I’m Min, and this is my friend Jihwa. We met briefly at the wedding.”

Nakyum puts the book away before turning to bow at them.

“I hope you have been well since we last saw you,” Jihwa says with a kind smile on his face.

“As well as I can be.”

It is not a lie, even if it is not the truth either. He does not wish to express his current miseries to men he barely knows.

Min nods along, ”Married life is clearly treating you well.”

His eyes flick down Nakyum’s frame. He pastes a cordial smile on his lips, as he lifts his eyes to meet Nakyum’s again.

Nakyum inclines his head, not knowing what to say, feeling slightly awkward under the attention.

“It’s a shame we haven’t really got the chance to make further acquaintances yet,” Jihwa says politely after a moment of silence, smoothing over the awkwardness, “We should take our horses and meet for a ride in the forest someday.”

Nakyum tenses at the words. The loss is still too fresh in his mind, time has yet to fully heal the wounds.

Min turns to his friend, nudging him at his shoulder.

“Have you not heard”, Min admonishes him, with a twitch of lips, before he continues, “Ah, yes, you were not at the hunt. See, Nakyum got into the most horrible accident with his horse during. Had to end the poor creatures suffering then and there.”

Nakyum swallows. He blinks away the tears that are threatening to well up in his eyes from just hearing Min’s recount of the events. The words are not unkind though, neither is the look that Jihwa gives him when he turns back to him.

“My deepest apologies, for I did not know.”

Nakyum lowers his eyes, as he cannot look. He doesn’t wish to see the concern, the pity in his eyes. He is quiet when he replies, “It’s okay.”

“I’m glad to see that you are well enough though,” Jihwa says, “Perhaps we ca-“

His words are cut short though, when someone calls for Nakyum.

Nakyum lifts his eyes to look back. It is Seungho’s servant, who walks up to them in hurried strides.

The older man looks at the two young lords for a moment, before he turns his attention to Nakyum once again, “We should return to the house – if you are ready, Lord Yoon.”

It is the first time that Nakyum has been called as such. It is his title, but only through his relationship with Seungho. It is not his name though, not officially, but Mr Kim had called him by it anyway. Likely to associate him with his husband in a more perspicuous manner.

Nakyum nods silently.

He must’ve already taken far too much of the servant’s time, so he does not wish to delay him further. He turns back to Min and Jihwa to say his goodbyes to them.

After cordial bows, Min smiles and says to him, “We shall hope to see you soon again.”

“As do I,” Nakyum replies in kind.

They part ways, and both parties go in different directions. Nakyum follows after the servant, as they make their way back towards the residence.

It isn’t until they near the entrance that the older man turns towards Nakyum. They have remained silent much of the way, but he speaks now.

His eyes are serious and sure on Nakyum’s, as he says, “You’d do well to keep your distance from the young lords.”

  ***

  Nakyum is walking alone in the garden of the Yoon residence. It’s colder than it has been since the seasons changed, and the ground is blanketed by fresh snow from the previous day. He has bundled himself in his thickest winter jacket, and he has put on his bonnet and mittens too to ward off the chill.

He felt too restless staying in his room, having been indoors the entire morning and the day before too.

He does not wish to go to the town unaccompanied, nor could he ask for Seungho’s personal servant to escort him whenever he wants to go. He would not ask his own servant either.

He has not seen Deokjae all morning, and he barely saw him the previous evening, but he doesn’t mind. After receiving far too much of his attention and time in the preceding days, it’s a welcome change. He does not wish to be in the man’s company any more than he must, as it only ever comes with the obvious scorn.

And so, Nakyum finds himself alone outside on this grey, dull day.

He looks around the empty garden. It looks so different from how it did on the day he saw it for the first time. He was so different then too. It’s hard to believe that it hasn’t even been two months since that day.

Slowly, he steps onto the platform that is still there, only now covered by a layer of untouched snow. He walks up to where he stood then, and he stops to stand right there again.

Nakyum has not talked with his husband since their argument and the following exchange at the courtyard, nor has he seen more than a few glimpses of the man. He wonders if Seungho is purposefully keeping away, if he is carefully avoiding him because Nakyum asked him to do so.

The thought – bothers him – more than he expected. He isn’t sure if he truly meant his hasty words, or he isn’t sure that he means them anymore at least.

A lifetime would be a long time to spend trying to avoid someone who lives in the same house, who interacts with the same people.

Nakyum isn’t sure at all if he wants that, but he doesn’t know how to have anything else with Seungho either, nor what that else would even be.

He looks up at the sky that is nothing more than a canvas of solid grey. The sun is hiding behind the thick veil of clouds. He already misses its warmth, its brightness, although the winter has barely begun.

He carefully steps down from the platform, and he begins trailing the pathways of the garden again.

There have been no more attempts to harm him since the day of the hunt. There have been no hints of such attempts either.

It would be easy to dismiss his concerns as being only figments of his imagination running wild, the oddities as being nothing more than coincidences. He can’t rid himself of this eerie feeling inside, as if it’s foreboding of something bad yet to come.

The lingering dread is only made more pronounced by this sense that someone is watching him, observing him – secretly. He felt the eyes on him during his exchange with Seungho after their argument. He has felt them half a dozen times since.

Nakyum wakes up from his thoughts with a startle, when he notices that he has trailed down to a pathway that he has not taken before. It’s a narrow passage running alongside the walled edge of the residence. It is most likely only used by the servants, as it passes the two smaller structures that are used for storage.

When he walks further down the path, he soon arrives at a small clearing in front of a side entrance. Since even the servants use the main entrance at the front, this must be used rarely. The distinct lack of footprints in the snow corroborates the notion.

He shakes his head at himself for having wandered there thoughtlessly. He is about to turn back, when he notices something towards the edge of the clearing. There is a piece of woolen clothing lying in a crumpled pile on the ground. It is then that he notices something far more chilling.

Nakyum takes a step forward, his heart thumping hard in his chest. He takes another step and another, forcing himself to move. He walks slowly, carefully to what he found. He stops only a few steps away.

He looks at his findings then.

Right there next to the woolen garment, there is a red smudge, bright and stark, mixed into the pure white snow that has been trampled upon. Blood, Nakyum thinks to himself. It cannot be anything else.

Nakyum stands there staring at the scene before him.

While the family kept some animals, they would never be killed or butchered here at the residence. It would be considered impure, ill-fated to do so.

He can look nowhere else, as he is shaking, trembling at this discovery, at the very realization of what this must mean.

The woolen garment that sits next to the blood-stained snow – he recognizes it.

It looks just like the scarf that his servant Deokjae often wears, the servant who Nakyum has not seen since the previous day.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Saorsa, Chapters 17 and 18

A/N  Here is the next installment of Saorsa.  I’ve combined two chapters, because Chapter 17 is very short, and the two chapters are linked, only told in the alternating Jamie/Claire POV of the entire story.   This time, it’s Jamie’s turn to divulge a secret.

Rather than link to all previously posted chapters, I’ll just direct those of you wanting to catch up on your Saorsa-reading to my AO3 page, where the fic is posted in its entirety.

Thank you to each of you liking and reblogging!  It does my little fanfic writer’s heart good.

It was long past time to do something he’d been putting off since he first regained consciousness and realized that he had somehow leapt forward through time to a Lallybroch that was no longer his family’s estate.

There was a dusting of snow on the ground, and large, lazy flakes fell from a steel grey sky.  He slipped once, climbing the low hill in the pasture beyond the stables, and swore fluently in Gaelic.  His back still ached, but it was his lack of strength and endurance that truly bothered him.  Accustomed to ruddy physical vigour, it hurt his pride to be a mere onlooker in the day-to-day labour about the estate.

There were trees growing up through the ancient dry-stone walls.  The whole hillside had a forgotten, neglected air, but he would know the place blind-folded.   He knelt in front of the largest gravestone and began peeling moss away from its chilled, damp surface.

“Halo da.  Halo mam.  Is e mise a th ’ann.”

Brian and Ellen Fraser had lain in this earth for more than two hundred years, but he could still remember his father’s hearty laugh, his mother’s sweet smile.  The pain of losing them at a young age was still as fresh as the pink scars on his back.

He wished they could reach through the veil and guide him, just one last time.

In a few weeks, he would be fully recovered.  He’d read voraciously since Claire laid her late husband’s library at his disposal.  He knew what happened to the Scots who had supported the true king in the aftermath of Culloden.  Treason charges.  Imprisonment.  Death from a thousand petty hardships.  And for those who survived, the slow decay of their language, their customs, their very way of living.  Here in 1942 he saw only the softest echo of his culture, of the places and people he called home.

He longed to return to his time and to his remaining family, back through the stones on Craig na Dunn and back into the story he had been writing for himself since he was a young lad.  It felt dishonest to live on this estate that was no longer his, comfortable and well-fed, while back in 1746 Scotland was suffering.

But what would it serve, to return to certain bondage?  And who was he to say that the stones would send him back to his time?  He had carried with him from a young age a sense that he was meant for some larger purpose, that he had been forged for something bigger than sheer existence.  Surely it wasn’t merely to add his name to the list of Scotland’s glorious dead, moldering away in those dusty tomes he spent his days poring over.   Lallybroch’s history was already written, and it ended with the estate in the hands of a bonnie pregnant Sassenach widow carrying the child of his tormenter’s descendent.

He tried to clear his mind, to listen for words of wisdom whispered from beyond the grave.

None came.

He dashed at his eyes as tears of frustration welled up.  And then he began to pray.

By the time he rose, knees stiff and cold from kneeling in the snow, he knew what he must do.

Tha toil Dhè air a dhèanamh.

***

She muttered a stream of curses under her breath as snow crested the tops of her boots and spilled inside, puddling around her stockinged feet.

“Has no-one e’er remarked to ye that ye swear like a sailor, Sassenach?” Jamie said, pulling her uphill by her chilled hand.

“I only swear when provoked, you bloody bastard.  What could be so important that it couldn’t wait for me to don my gloves?  Or for spring, for that matter?”

Jamie didn’t respond, but he had the same nervous hum of anticipation that had glowed around him for days now.   When he’d suggested they take a very unseasonable walk in the snow, she’d gone with him purely in the hope that she might glean some clue to his strange mood.   It wasn’t the despondency of his earliest days at Lallybroch.  At strange moments, she caught him looking at her as though trying to solve some arcane riddle written on the lines of her face.   It wasn’t a lascivious glance, but it warmed her insides all the same.

Finally they came to a halt in an old graveyard she hadn’t known existed.  There was a stillness about the place that held all her inquiries at bay.

“I have a strange tale tae tell ye, Sassenach, and I want ye tae hear me through afore ye speak.   Can ye promise me that?”

She nodded, suddenly apprehensive what he was about to say would break her heart.

He knelt by a gravestone and dusted off its covering of snow.  Taking a deep breath of frosty air, he began to talk.

“Brian Robert David Fraser met Ellen Mackenzie at a Mackenzie clan gathering in 1716.   She was promised tae Malcolm Grant, but instead the pair snuck out of Castle Leoch t’gether in the ded of night.   Their first bairn, William, was born nine months hence, and by then the Mackenzie were resigned tae the union, e’en though Brian was only the base born son of auld Lord Lovat.  It was a love match, and they were verra happy t’gether.  A daughter, Janet, followed.  And eventually, another son.   James.   James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.”

She gasped but didn’t dare speak.

Jamie continued with his story, seemingly speaking to himself, lost in reminiscence.  It was an unfathomably detailed tale of childhood memories and family lore, and she found herself caught up in the web of words he was weaving, not stopping to question how they could possibly be true.

He spoke of his mother’s untimely death, of growing into a young man surrounded by the bucolic familiarity of home.  About the burden of being the son of a lesser laird with no fortune.   Going overseas as a mercenary, first for the Dutch and later for the French crown.  Coming home to find the English abusing their power over the Highland Scots, being fostered to his Uncle Dougal, a committed Jacobite, and his father’s sudden passing.  Feeling adrift, without the firm anchor of home, and enlisting in the Catholic cause.   Fighting bravely at Prestonpans and being awarded a position of tacksman in the Jacobite army.  Leading mere boys and undisciplined farmers into battle, knowing that the Scottish position at Culloden was unwinnable, but being willing to lay down his life for the cause of seeing his country free of English tyranny.   Waking as a prisoner.  The unbearable pain of his torture at the hands of a nameless Redcoat officer.  His escape.  Fleeing blindly at dawn and collapsing near death at the feet of a circle of standing stones.  A magical place, left over from the time of the Old Ones.  And then, silence…

She came back to herself as though waking from a profound sleep.  Frozen tears crusted her lashes.

“Do ye believe me, Claire?” he asked, voice broken and unsure.

She had no rational framework on which to measure his truthfulness, so she listened to her heart.  It told her that this man had no conceivable reason to invent such an incredible story.  It told her that the passion and homesickness that had travelled over his face as he spoke could not be manufactured.   It told her that there was a fundamental truthfulness about Jamie.  It told her, above all, that this was the reason for his voiceless, stoic suffering in the weeks since he’d awoken at Lallybroch.

“Murtagh…” she whispered.

“Aye, Murtagh knows.  I dinna ken what I said in my fever, but he ‘ad all sorts of strange questions when I woke.  He harkens from the Isle of Lewis, ye ken, and he… weel… he’s a believer in the Old Ways, in the po’er of those stones.”

They crouched there in the snow next to a forgotten grave for so long her muscles cramped.  She stared at her bare hands, twisting the gold wedding band Frank had placed on her finger in endless circles.  There was little noise, except the occasional bough of fir releasing its burden to the ground.

Jamie finally stood stiffly and offered his hand.  “Come, yer cold.  I’ll see ye back to the house.”  There was resignation in his tone, and in the set of his shoulders.

She rose but did not move nor release his hand.

“Tell me again about the stones,” she requested.

He hesitated, then described again the ring of standing stones at the top of the hill called Craig na Dunn.

“They beckoned tae me.  I dinna ken how else tae say it.  I was more than half ded, but I remember a hum, a force, like… like a tide that pulls ye out tae sea.”

“And then?”

“And then, nothin’.  Next I kent, I was ‘wakening in the laird’s room at Lallybroch, seein’ ye watch o’er me.”

She blushed, remembering that strangely intimate moment of looking at, and then into, Jamie’s Delft blue eyes for the first time.

“Do ye believe me, Claire?” he asked again, pleading with those same inexorable eyes.

“Yes, Jamie.  Yes, I believe you.”

His relief was so great he stumbled forward on watery legs, catching himself just as he fell into her embrace.  Holding her there, in front of his parents’ graves, he drew his first deep breath in what felt like ages.

“Does this mean… that you’ll be leaving?  Is that why you’ve told me?”  She trembled in reaction.

“Nah, Sassenach.  I willna say it didna cross my mind, and Murtagh offered to bring me back tae Craig na Dunn once I was healed.”

He pulled back to look into her upturned face, pale and hopeful, with eyes so deep they trapped his soul.

“But I couldna go.  All tha’ awaits me in my own time is violence and death.  Here, wi’ ye, I feel useful.  Needed.  When I traveled through the stones, they burned away all my yesterdays, but this is a fine place tae build my t’morrows.  If ye’ll permit me tae stay, that is.”

She gave him another quick hug before releasing him.

“Of course.  I wouldn’t know what to do without you, James Fraser.”

They grinned at one another and slowly began to make their way down the hill towards the estate.  Neither seemed in a hurry to release the other’s hand.

“Jamie?” she asked as they approached the stables.

“Aye, Sassenach?”

“What made you tell me?  Don’t get me wrong, I’m humbled you trusted me enough to do so.  But…”

He paused in the snowy meadow and glanced upward, as though looking for an answer in the overcast sky.

“Nevermind,” she hastened to say.  “Your reasons are your own, of course.”

“I ken what ye’er asking me, Sassenach.  I’m only searching fer the words tae explain.”  After several moments, he went on, “Have ye e’er passed a day so bonnie and blue that God ‘imself must be smilin’ o’er yer shoulder?”  At her nod, he continued, “And yet all the while ye ken that if ye dinna honour tha’ day by bein’ the best version of yerself, it would disappear wi’ the wind, aye?  There’s a truthfulness between us Sassenach, I believe, and I dinna want tae break it, by no’ tellin’ ye who I really am.”

Claire mulled over this declaration as they returned to the main house.  Before they parted to their respective chores, she had one final thought on the matter.

“I never could have predicted what you shared with me today, Jamie.  And I’m sure I’ll have more questions, with time.  But on one point I’m absolutely certain.   Nothing that you’ve told me or will ever tell me could change my opinion of who you truly are.”

***

Halo da.  Halo mam.  Is e mise a th ’ann. - Hello Dad. Hello Mom. It's me.

Tha toil Dhè air a dhèanamh. - God's will be done.

[ichorflame]

          @slvrictus​ — ♛.

          PRISTINE was the blanket of white which enveloped the mortal realm. Moonlight twinkled across those immaculate plains and the gentle dusting upon evergreens to illuminate the darkness which seemed to encompass all. The stillness of the night stole the breath from one’s lungs, begging SILENCE so as not to disturb the peace. Unaccustomed as he was to the visible passage of time, the wandering Prince of the Underworld took a moment to admire the unfamiliar surface — brief though it were. Clouds drifted past parted lips, climbing upwards to the heavens, only to dissipate still far from reach.

                    An OMEN, one might say.

         Try though he may, a denizen of the Nethers would not be pardoned by the FATES. One born of Hade’s House was destined to return, tethered to the abyss. BLOOD-BOUND, Zagreus could not escape his heritage — not that he would cease his attempts by any means. Each time the life fled his immortal form to send him drifting back down the crimson current of the Styx only served to further his resolve. For the godling would risk it all to share but a few words with HER. To cradle her frame close ⟅ dwarfed in the embrace of the son she had once been robbed ⟆ even as those carmine tides beckoned him back — 

          DEATH could not restrain the son of Hades, the son of Persephone. 

          Cruel were the Fates to curse him with the same fatal flaw as his father. Even beyond the Realm of the Dead, the tyrant still held power over him. Like a noose about his neck, with each step he could feel the undeniable pull. ASPHYXIATION, the Underworld demanded to smother his soul back within its depths. To claw at that hangman’s hold would be futile, for the gallows’ call remained FINAL. Yet he would continue to run back to that hell regardless of the consequences. For years the Prince was raised within a bed of lies. Nurtured with deceit, Zagreus was none the wiser for so very long. Now that the TRUTH laid bare before him, he could no longer deny himself the hunt for answers. Did he find fault within all who left him blissfully unaware as they stowed away the secret of his birth? Not entirely, however TRUST would take time to restore — if at all.

         Thus the crestfallen heir could only rely upon himself, wary of BETRAYAL.                    And so he walked on.

          Snow pooled within each step, hissing and snapping at his heated heals as if to cry that he simply did not belong here. Blasphemous, Nature called out in utter defiance as it shriveled and died in his wake. Each stride, constricting, to cause the Prince to waver. Strangled coughs and gasps for air — a bitter CHILL to his lungs — echoed about the silent forest. The luminous glow from his exposed toes dulled like fading embers with the distance. Upon his crown, laurel leaves lost their luster, withering to ASH to taint the ground below. Muscle clenched as joints locked from the frigid wind which gusted about him, calloused hands raised in a weak embrace to retain some semblance of warmth. Winter seemed to sap the very marrow from his bones to leave them brittle, HOLLOW.

        A DEAD MAN walking, yet he continued towards his demise.

         Odd eyes appreciated those strange lands, indescribable even as they sought to banish him. Years of nothing but the same shadows — of BLOOD and DARKNESS — blinded him to the true beauty of life. Even cloaked within the veil of night, there remained a boundless wellspring of energy that was lost within the Underworld. Though his vision blurred about the edge, the glimmer of admiration did not escape his hues. A fragile, but resolute smile lingered as he trudged down the now familiar path to HOME. Yet the strength continued to trickle away from his body, drained inch by inch from what little remained of his reserves. 

         The final battle which barred his way to freedom had not left the Prince unscathed. Though kin, Hades knew not the meaning of self-restraint and sought to push his son to the very limit. A test of his of his DETERMINATION which Zagreus very nearly failed. Wounds littered his person, some still oozed fresh and stung from the gnawing cold. Bones broken and flesh torn, only a divine could endure such suffering and march on. Whether sheer strength of will or merely dwindling sanity, he refused to succumb to the PAIN — not yet ready to call this attempt a failure. Even as his blood defiled the land and his prospects grew dim, he fought on. 

         Nearly there...she will be happy to see me, won’t she?