#it’s worth watching for those with iron stomachs and noble hearts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

achillieus · 4 years ago

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let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

quick note: i wrote this back in 2018 after meeting sebastian in greece but i redited it now, so if you see any mistakes or typos please tell me :)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, sebastian desperately needs to hug the reader, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning

part: 2/6

(other parts) (masterlist)

It’s Monday when they come back from their small trip to the south. You’re watering the jasmine in your balcony when you hear the engine of Argyris’ car slowly shut down and see two figures getting out of the back seats.

It’s him and a blonde woman. You remember meeting her that night in the terrace. You’ve learnt that she’s a great actress and will play the other main character in the film.

When she notices you looking at them, she waves.

“Hey, Sebastian it’s your friend there.” She gives his shoulder a soft nudge.

We’re not friends. That’s what you almost yell back at her.

His head shots up, smiling.

He’s always smiling. It’s getting annoying.

You can see him going through his bag as he calls your name.

“Look, I brought you some traditional sweets.” He’s holding a small wrapped up package. He starts wiggling it in the air.

He looks so jolly and proud of himself. It makes your throat dry.

And before you can control it, you laugh. You can’t see it from where you’re standing but he bites his bottom lip at the sound.

Two hours later he’s sitting in your kitchen devouring half of the pastries he got you.

“These are actually so good, how can you not like them?” He says and it comes out all garbled. His mouth is full of sugary dough.

You do like them. But he does too. And you can find them anytime you want here. You doubt it’s the same in New York.

“They’re just not my favorite,” he nods “but thank you anyway.”

“Well let’s say you owe me,” you furrow your brows in confusion “and will repay me by sending me some of those once I’m gone.”

He laughs before taking another bite.

And as you stare at him, you notice that he’s different. His gaze is tranquil, his voice is soft and he has some cream at the corner of his lips.

Like that, he looks more like a guy you met at college than a well known actor.

Like that, we could be friends, you think.

You talk a lot. He tells you about his time in Romania and his first audition. It makes you realize you are far more interested in acting than what you thought. You tell him how you think team Iron Man is the superior team. He gasps, as if he is hurt.

He doesn’t mention his girlfriend. You don’t ask about her. It’s easier for both of you this way.

A stifling heat rises to your body as you walk under the burning sun. You don’t realize how Argyris gets you to give Sebastian a tour around the city, but you can remember a pair of light eyes pleading you.

You can easily hear him humming to himself. You turn to look at him. He’s wearing a hat and his forehead is sweating. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re in a very good mood today.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Well I’m stuck with you for the day so what choice do I have?” You shrug.

He makes a face at you. You crack and a huge smile forms in your face.

He leans closer, mouth to ear and then he speaks.

“You know, I can’t tell if you hate me or just like me too much.”

His breath hits your cheek.

You try not to blink at the sudden foreign touch.

His words find your skin and they’re so clear and powerful. Suddenly you’re an open page to him.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and waits for an answer, a nod, a glance.

You are still standing close, the city sounds doing nothing to ease the heated silence between you two.

He realizes you’re not going to give him any response so he lowers his eyes.

And then, when he looks up again, it almost feels like he gives you mercy and agrees to let you get away with it this time.

He smiles.

“So where is Acropolis?”

When he’s lying on your couch after six hours of being a tourist and under the summer sun he looks exhausted. Still he’s his typical talkative self.

“You are always so pumped.”

“And you rarely are.”

“Doesn’t it get tiring?” you ask each other at the same time. It seems like you are two different sides of the exact same coin. One body. One heart.

“Today was nice.” He stretches his arms. “Thank you.”

You open the window. There is barely any wind out there. The air smells of hot cement and flowers.

The man on your couch has closed his eyes, breathing softly.

You try to ignore him over and over for the last days. Until you cannot ignore him anymore; your world has come to an end.

So many people know who Sebastian Stan is.

Only few will ever know him like this; falling asleep on a cheap brown couch with his hair messy, his chest rising and falling and his mind empty of thoughts.

These are photographs of your memories now.

An involuntary smile spreads across your face at the thought.

You see him swift and his hand clenches tightly around a throw pillow.

“Stop looking at me like that you creep,” he says.

“Come closer,” he means.

The sun is long gone and he’s still asleep when there’s a knock on your door. It’s Argyris.

“Please tell me he’s here.”

You nod and motion towards Sebastian’s drifted away body.

“When I left you this morning, I didn’t actually think you’d last this long together.” He tells you the moment he sees him.

The words fall out of his mouth too easily for your liking. “But I should have known better.”

You don’t understand much. You take a step out of your door. You don’t want to wake him up.

“Do you know how many times he mentioned you while we were away?’

Everything stops and falls quiet in the hall.

The words choke you. You shake your head.

“I need you to be smarter than him.” He says and touches your shoulder. “His world moves too fast for people like us.”

It’s effortless not to look at the man in front of you. It’s hard not to shallow his saying.

He wakes up an hour later. He looks at you and it feels sacred. His eyes are still red and the pillow has left a mark on his left cheek.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep here.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it was rude, you should have yelled at me to wake up or something.”

“But you looked tired.”

You carry on with doing the dishes and you hear the couch squeak as he stands up and steps towards you.

The water is refreshingly cold on your skin and the soap smells like lemon.

His hands find your waist and his touch is burning. You wish he disappears. You wish he stays for the night. You don’t even know what you’re wishing for anymore. He comes closer and rests his head on top of yours.

And then he wraps his arms around you and you get flashes of days and nights where there was not enough air for you to breath and your ribs ached.

His action is not so noble. It feels like his body steals all the rationality you have. But it gives you this feeling that there will be no more starless skies at night. And that’s enough for now, so you don’t complain.

His skin feels soft and he smells of sweat and vanilla. Somehow you find that alluring.

He looks at you for a second, like he’s trying to memorize your face. And then he pulls away completely silent.

You try to understand what he’s thinking but he gives nothing away. You were never good at reading people.

You blink and he’s almost out of your apartment.

“Goodnight” he shouts.

“Goodnight” you whisper.

You close the window. You wonder how he will spend the night. He probably won’t sleep soon. He just woke up.

But you can’t sleep either. You just move around in your bed. You sink into the sheets and try to close your eyes.

Your phone buzzes.

He follows you on Instagram.

I need you to be smarter than him.

You go through his profile. You want to think he’s doing the same. You want him to do the same.

His world moves too fast for people like us.

You sigh. Perhaps there could have been a time when you would have stayed away from him, but you can’t pretend to ignore it for much longer. And you’re scared of it. And you’re scared of him.

But you’re more scared of how hard it’s for loneliness to fade. And you wish this doesn’t end like a greek tragedy.

One day of the following week you go out for coffee. The curly haired woman comes with you. You don’t understand why. And while you’re adding more sugar to your espresso, she tells him she loves his acting. She uses all kinds of adjectives to describe it; hopeful and poignant, celestial.

You like the way she talks. She sounds beautiful. You almost envy her abundance of words.

But Sebastian stops listening.

He watches the way your fingers wrap around the sugar box. He can see your nerves and your synapses move underneath your skin and he thinks he’s watching a dance show.

He will never tell you, but it’s then; under the morning sun and with sugar in your hands, that he feels his heart beat with the power of cymbals for the first time.

He thinks you don’t have to know.

He’s wrong.

You learn the girl is an actress herself. They’ll be in the movie together. They look stellar together.

Looking at them, gives you a violent feeling that wrenches your stomach around.

You can’t hate her for that. You feel like it’s more your fault than hers. That feeling however, grabs you by the shoulders and doesn’t let go. You try not to let it show.

But for some reason when Sebastian almost touches your palm, you look at her and you’re certain this is entirely mutual.

You make a silent agreement to not include him in any of this.

“You were extremely quiet earlier.” He says as you reach the building you call home.

He wants to spend time together until his scheduled shooting. You don’t complain.

“You always say that.” You try to joke. He looks right at you.

And then you notice that his eyes aren’t the color of the sea. They’re more grayish blue. They’re like a frozen lake in December.

“I know,” he starts messing with his hair “But you can’t deny you barely talked back there.”

When you enter your apartment, he immediately throws himself on your couch. These last few days it feels like he owns that right spot there in front of your big window.

“I’ve told you, I talk when I have something to say.”

He smiles at your words.

“Then I must be lucky you talk to me.” He whispers softly.

You sit next to him. If you move a little closer you could touch him, feel his warmth. You don’t.

You never thought of how easy it has become to talk to him. You don’t keep your thoughts locked and your teeth clenched around him. And that’s a novice feeling for you.

You let your eyelids fall close and lay back.

There’s a language between you two. It starts with secret glances and whispers and now it contains words that build and ruin bodies and souls.

Sometimes you want to say them all together. Sometimes you just want to open your mouth and let everything flow out but then you’re scared you’ll make him mad. Or you’ll make him love you.

You can’t decide which is worse and that’s enough to stop you.

“What is this thing between us?” He sounds all tender-like, but his blood feels heavy at the moment. He’s not sure if he can keep breathing. He regrets the words that leave his lips, when it’s already too late.

You have the answer figured out long time before he asks. But you’re not ready to give it to him.

“I don’t know” you open your eyes “I don’t know.” You repeat.

He doesn’t tell anyone but sometimes he feels nauseous before a shooting. You can clearly see that now. His pacing up and down the room and his roaming eyes give him away.

You are surprised. You never thought he could be nervous. He looks so confident and radiant all the time; you sometimes forget he is still a regular human being.

“You have no reason to worry.” His lips twitch.

“I know.”

“But you still worry.” You grin and catch his arm to stop him from moving.

The look he gives you is acute.

“You have no reason to be sad,” he starts, without breaking eye contact “but you still are.”

You feel naked and hug yourself close.

It’s very strange to have someone scratch everything from you and see your raw truth. You’re not certain it’s something you enjoy. You wish it didn’t make you quiver.

Sebastian wishes he could scratch deeper under your dermis and your fingernails and slither there between your muscles and your heart where blood runs thick and melancholy hasn’t conquered yet.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head.

“You didn’t say anything hurtful.”

You worry your words may come out bitter. You don’t want that.

“It won’t last forever.” he says and then your name appears in his tongue. You like the way he says it. It almost sounds like poetry. “You won’t be sad forever.”

You smile and, in that moment, you aren’t a worldwide known celebrity and a girl in her early twenties. You are just two people seeking comfort.

The same night there’s a party for the first day of shooting. You don’t feel like going, but he doesn’t let you stay home.

What did you do last night?

Went to a party with Sebastian Stan, typical Thursday night.

You can picture the look on everyone’s face. It makes your lips turn upward just a little.

“I told you to be careful.” The voice sounds almost far away but your neighbor is standing right next to you as he mutters.

“I am.” You say with a laugh. He crosses his arms.

“No, you are here, watching him starry-eyed.”

Your fingers start playing with the rough fabric of your dress.

“I don’t know how to stop it.” You whisper.

He tells you to not entail yourself in something you don’t know the way out of. But what does he know about solitude and rushed breaths?

What does he know about a pair of eyes that look like a frozen lake?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

He’s watching you from afar while you talk with Argyris. He notices how your chest moves along with your breathing in a way it looks like it’s made of pure glass.

For a while he thinks of staying there and keep observing you but then Argyris leaves and you’re all alone. And he starts walking closer to you.

All eyes are on him as he goes through the main dance floor. The curly haired actress stops moving to the beat and follows him with her gaze.

They both reach you.

And you know he’s moving towards you before you can see him. It’s like your body is aware of his presence madly fast.

His eyes seem darker under the hazy light.

He grabs your hand.

You almost heave.

“Let’s get out of here.” He breaths.

You walk for some time. It’s late and Athens is quiet around that time. There is only a soft broken sound of cars and you think about that time you saw a car crash happen in front of your eyes.

You sit close in an old dirty staircase in a forgotten back alley. The city has a lot of those, but people don’t notice. They just walk past them, always in a hurry.

Sebastian sighs heavily. He looks at you in a way it makes you think he’s trying to memorize everything. The way midnight air caresses your body, the way red lighting falls in your hair from that street lamp. He looks at you for an indefinite and long period of time and it feels exquisite.

You place your fingers on his palm and the world flickers. He’s still wearing the rings they gave him for the movie and they feel cold against your skin.

“Do you ever miss Romania?”

The question startles him.

“Every day.”

You nod. Maybe he knows more about sorrow than you give him credit for.

“I remember the dog fence and our neighbors’ daughter and the orange sky through my window, minutes before sun set.”

Your hand locks around his and you stay silent for a while.

“This is the Lyra constellation.” His eyes light up as he looks up.

You remember reading about how much he’s into space. It’s intriguing.

“Where?”

He doesn’t let go of your hand. Instead he picks it up and guides it with his own. His body moves closer. There’s no cold in the air.

As your eyes search for the stars that your hands point at, he watches you and he’s certain that one day he’d love to lay on his back, with you on his side and show you all the little dead planets in the sky. Show you the secrets of the universe.

And he feels like this is the type of beauty that musicians try to write songs about.

“Ah!” Your grip becomes tighter and you smile. “I can see it!”

He laughs at your childish enthusiasm.

You laugh too.

And then you let your head fall on his shoulder, your hair touching his bare skin. You don’t blame them for making him wear sleeveless shirts for the film.

You can him feel shudder at your sudden motion, but then he exhales and his muscles relax.

He observes the features of your face from this angle. He almost traces them with his fingers.

“They’re probably going to kill me for stealing you away from the party.” You whisper.

“I think I was the one who grabbed your hand and left.” He laughs again and you can feel his chest pounding.

His phone buzzes. He doesn’t look at it. He closes his eyes.

“Δείξε μου όλα τα αστέρια. ”

He doesn’t understand a word but your voice sounds too close. You feel too close. And that’s almost tearing him apart.

“What does that mean?”

You turn to look at him. The neon sign on the old building behind him keeps trembling.

“It means, show me the stars.”

And he does. And he feels like he could burn alive.

And you will never tell him; but you still think of him when you catch a glimpse of burning stars.

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged :)

tagging: @lharrietg @awkward117 @dannaloureen @broccoligf @cutestfangirlvevo @caitdaniels @arymb @buckybarnesishot310 @roguesthetic @itsaliceheree

#sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan imagine #monday the movie #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #letyoudown

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thgreatestblue · 4 years ago

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cold as you [part l]

➜ pairing: douma x fem!reader ➜ warnings: murder, blood, religious fanaticism, gore. ➜ words: 5.2k ➜ a/n: hello everyone, i’m back! this time with a character that i thought i would never write for, but here we are. you can also read and leave a comment on my ao3, i would really appreciate it! <3 ➜ ao3

summary: You always believed the best course of action was infiltrating; little by little gaining their trust, and when they would less expect, you would bolt out of that place with all the information you could gather. Not wasting one more day of your life inside that covil of madness and cruelty — of twisted faith and demonic rituals.

The chill of the night crept into your bones as you walked down the dirty path alongside the followers of the Paradise Faith Cult. The only sound you could hear with your sensitive ears was coming from nocturnal animals and cicadas singing their creep melody all together with the cries from the crickets; blended together in a harmonic haunting song.

The soundless steps from the Cult’s members were almost unnatural, as if you were surrounded by ghosts; a phantom presence of what once were people with their own ideas and beliefs — now transformed into shells of indifference and fanaticism.

It took a couple of years, a lot of hard work and blatant lies for you to be finally accepted for the trial of the Paradise Faith Cult. You have been investigating their whereabouts since the day the Insect Pillar died. Since the day Kanae lost her life in a bloody fight against their Leader, a Demon called Douma.

The smell of the chemicals from the laboratory was all you knew for a long time, working together with Shinobu to find a way to win against one of the strongest Demon in all Japan — trying to find a way to win without using an absurd amount of strength, something both of you lack.

However, by the end of the first year, you were fed up with the scent that had impregnated even your skin; no matter how much you scrubbed it. And, although Shinobu never made any effort to convince you to stay, she still said between cold words how stupid you were being for dropping something safe. Even though she was right, the nagging feeling of annoyance wouldn't leave your mind — you needed to go out and find his trail by yourself.

Once you packed your things to leave, she appeared at the doorstep of your room, watching you with her big, purple eyes. You were already used to her trying to control her anger inside her tiny body by smiling too forcefully. After Kanae’s death, she became another girl, more mature. Angrier, though.

“I wonder who’s going to die first,” You said bitterly between your teeths, the silence from her part isn't totally unwelcomed, there was nothing left to say anyway, “You, with all those poisons. Or me, with my desire for danger.”

She clapped her hands together, the smile never reaching her eyes, “Let’s make a bet, then.”

You squint your lips together in an effort to not let an ironic laugh escape your mouth, wondering if Shinobu was at least slightly happy with your achievement — how close you were to finally win the bet.

As you walked with your hands tied in front of you, the dark welcomed you as an old friend. If it wasn't for the blindfold, you could try to excuse the need to have a hand on your shoulder. However, the path pulled some tricks and you were afraid of falling on your knees. But the heavy weight of their palm and the touch of the member’s stained fingers on your skin made your insides turn in disgust.

Despite the taste of acid on your tongue, you needed to keep the composure you fought to be seen for so long. A noble and pure candidate for the Paradise Faith Cult; with no bruises or scars, hair as silky as satin, a skin so delicate that even the followers that came to escort you chose to not tie the ropes too tight, afraid of accidentally making a single bruise. The Leader would not be happy to see his next servant with a bruise — at least one not caused by him anyway.

Once you were accepted for the selection, you knew you had to prepare yourself to be someone else completely. All those years training under the harsh sun now were almost like memories from another life; stacked up in a corner of your mind. However, inside you were still a Demon Slayer. So, you straightened your back, walking proudly with your chin up; even if the blindfold would leave your senses in a disarray of red flags.

In order to be selected for the Paradise Faith Cult, you had to let go of your old life. Although, sometimes you would miss the blisters, the fresh wounds after a tough mission, the scent of chemicals coming from Shinobu’s laboratory and even the way your body ached after training alongside with the Sound Pillar; building a new life from scratch in order to have at least a single advantage against the Demon was your top priority since day one.

“We are almost there, my lady. I’m sorry for the barbarian way we are escorting you,” The man holding your shoulder apologies, his tone never faltering. You could almost believe he meant no harm, “But we have to make sure to keep the place a secret, we already had cases of assassins coming and trying to steal our Leader from us.”

You had heard about those cases; after all, they were once your friends. Fearless and so confident with their skills, they would brag about how easy it was to spot their hideout, how weak the people inside were compared to their sharp katanas. What they seemed to never take into consideration was that, between masses of devotion, lived a King — who was, apparently, hungry all the time.

You always believed the best course of action was by infiltration; little by little gaining their trust. And when they would less expect, you would bolt out of that place with all the information you could gather. Not wasting one more day of your life inside that covil of madness and cruelty — of twisted faith and demonic rituals.

“Thank you for your concern, I understand wholeheartedly your methods,” You say with the softest tone you could managed it, trying your best to not spill the acid boiling on your tongue, “All I wish is to serve your Leader, nothing more.” You bow just a little, touching your heart. The rope brushes against your skin uncomfortably.

At first, those lies were hard to formulate — hard to accept that you were talking down your own family. However, one day, they stopped tangling your tongue; stopped making your lips tremble as you pictured your friends judging your behavior. It was all for a purpose, Shinobu never judged you for choosing this way of action.

So, when your squad left you all by yourself in the middle of the mission, you said nothing. And when none of them came back, there were no tears left for them. Only the purpose of keeping moving forward, anything to make this mission worth it; to honor the name of those who failed to see the bigger picture.

“We appreciate your compromise with the Paradise Faith Cult,” The man continued, seeming pleased with your answer. His scent was too sweet and the grip on your shoulder was too tight for your liking, “It’s not everyday that someone so well mannered and royal seeks for us. The Leader is going to be very happy to have you.”

“I’m flattered that you think so well of me,” Swallowing down the bitter words that always threaten to escape, you gently smile instead, “I hope your Leader will think the same.”

By now, the lies that came out of your mouth were second nature. So easy to come up with, that most of the time you had to ground yourself in your past, remembering all those horrifying things you saw when it was part of your daily life taking down Demons. And even though the Corps itself agreed to let you live this fake life, it still pained you to sit down and do nothing. It had to be worth it in the end.

Suddenly, your ears picked up a few voices in the distance, the quiet steps of shoes on wood, the rustling of clothes. Even with the blindfold, you could sense the lights coming to view, warming your skin from afar. And with that, the sensation of being caged in a twisted universe finally settled down in your stomach — a universe where a Demon was worshipped.

There was a sudden stop, a few whispered words you didn't make any effort to listen to. You were too occupied thinking that the moment you have been working on for years was finally happening. You were here, right at the entrance of the Demon’s domain, and none of those members around you suspected that you were working undercover.

Just keep the facade and you will be fine.

“We are here,” The heavy touch of the man finally leaves your shoulder, making you involuntary sigh in relief. It was starting to be unbearable the feeling of his sticky fingers moistened in lotion to cover the smell of blood he must clean off the floors everyday.

“I’ll be taking off the blindfold now, excuse me.”

As the darkness was lifted from your eyes, the lights coming from the huge temple blind you immediately. They shone so bright against the dark blue of the sky, that for the first few minutes you blinked helplessly, adjusting your vision to the sight in front of you.

The temple seemed to glow on the top of the mountain, lights reflecting the intrinsic details of pure gold on the walls; like a savior beacon on the coast, guiding ships towards safe land. Or, like a flame to a moth, the warmth not only blinding, but also cruelly burning it till the bone — for you, it was definitely the latter.

It was no wonder why this place was easy to spot if you were really looking for it, it screamed royalty and fortune as the outside walls were decorated with beautifully handmade flags. The few people walking around the entrance were also wearing neat and clean clothes, without a single hair out of place.

“Please, follow me.”

Although the blindfold was gone, the rope that tied your hands together was still wrapped around your wrist. The rough material was starting to leave red marks on your skin, but what bothered you the most wasn't the prickling material bruising the delicate flesh you had always taken good care of.

No, what bothered you the most was the way all eyes turned to look at you as you walked inside the temple.

You were being judged, examined — just like a caged animal, ready for the slaughter. Those eyes bore down your body; crawling under your skin, making the blood underneath it boil with the intensity of the stares you were receiving. Despite the amount of mental preparation you did for this moment, being judged by them was still an outrage. I should be the one doing the judging! You wanted to scream; shout at them, try to put some sense on their empty heads.

Instead, you held your head higher, smiling down to those who dare whispering about you.

Arriving at the main room, you could see how large the temple was on the inside as well. But of course, for someone surrounded by his own food and adoration, the place had to be as big as his appetite. The walls were filled with fancy tapestry, adornments of gold decorated the pillars, all together with expensive rugs and pillows — it was all too much to take in.

This was more than a simple home for a Demon, it was a heaven to its God. And the massive throne sitting at the top of the stairs, was a proof of that power.

The whispering and stares never stopped. Actually, they intensified as the crowd grew bigger, you could almost hear their words behind those filthy hands, questioning if you were worth being in his presence. And again, you had to hold the smile on your lips, hold your hands in place — even though your fingers would twitch from now and then, wanting nothing but to punch a whole in their faces.

The man who was escorting you comes to a stop right in the middle of the room. He doesn't say anything else, only unties the rope around your wrists, letting you go finally. You bow respectfully as you were trained. He offers the same treatment, leaving you alone to the eyes of the crowd. Involuntarily, you reach for your wrist, rubbing it to release the tension that was starting to bottle up inside you.

Staring straight ahead, you analyze the indentations on the throne. The sounds of their voices are muffled by your thoughts as your mind drifts away, remembering every moment that led you to this instant. All those years trying your best to be the perfect example of a woman, learning all the aspects that were needed to be selected by the Cult. Years spent behind closed doors only to serve a purpose many people thought was hopeless.

Shinobu was right, she always is anyway — you were crazy for danger. How far would you go, now that your life was at risk? Now that you were in his domain, at his mercy? What if they asked for something you just couldn't give?

For now, just smile.

When their empty eyes finally left your face, you turned your head slightly to see what was happening. Caught by the corner of your vision, the commotion was caused by the arrival of another three candidates. They were well dressed just like you, but there was something different in the way their eyes were gleaming with adoration, looking at the place as if they were arriving at heaven's gate.

It turned your stomach, leaving a bad taste on your mouth. Even after everything you had heard about this place, victimizing the way people around here acted was frightening. The amount of blind faith scared you to the bone, at the same time that it left you pitting them. They slowly approached the center of the room, amazed with the amount of fortune the place oozed.

For a moment, you wondered if you should have interpreted the role of a fanatic — if it would've been more convincing. However, the way they were so baffled by those around them, speaking excitedly about the Cult, showed thet it would’ve been impossible to replicate then — not even years training your smile would’ve been enough to tell such a lie.

Suddenly, like a lighting announcing the arrival of the rain, the musicians started to pound the drums. The heavy sound spreaded throughout the room, and the conversations abruptly came to a stop. There was only the sound of the synchronizing beat enveloping the place, announcing the arrival of the Leader.

You pinch the back of your hand to stay calm; a terrible habit you developed after the time you spent at the etiquette school. This way, the teachers could never tell if you were inflicting anything to stay grounded. After all, it was highly rude to show signs of anxiety to the person you would serve. However, being in the middle of the room, so out in the open, with all those eyes watching you as a hawk watches its prey before the fatal attack; it was definitely maddening.

You hear the sound of a door opening, the sound of people crying, shouting praises, excited to see their Leader. Holding your breath, you prepare yourself to see the Demon that has taken over the course of your life for the first time ever.

You had only heard rumours about his appearance, about his habits. But they were only speculations, no one really knew how the Upper Moon Two really looked like. And hopefully, you would be able to fill in those gaps with the discoveries you were going to find here.

As the star of a play, he enters your view. And it is definitely not what you were expecting.

His hair was long, falling like a waterfall down his back. Flawless and elegant, it swung around as if it weighed nothing, the pale golden color of it matched perfectly with his skin that was in a shade of white that reminds you of snow. The strands framed his face perfectly, giving him an almost angelic appearance that if you didn't know better, you could be so easily fooled.

The black cloak around his shoulders sways as the Demon waves to his followers, basquing himself with their screams of adoration. Douma was a young man, tall and well built, his clothes were perfectly tailored to his strong body, the red garment he was wearing underneath contrasted with the pale of his skin, but you couldn't say it wasn't a good look on him. He gracefully smiles at the crowd, and a slight shiver ran down your spine when you spotted the obvious fangs on his demonic grin.

But then, something made you stare for longer than you should’ve. Your eyes grew slightly bigger as you watched him from the ground. An array of colors filled his iris like the rainbow, they blurred into each other so smoothly that if you haven't seen it for yourself, there was no way you would believe it to be true.

They were so… Beautiful.

You didn't know that something so extraordinary was even able to exist — and maybe that’s why you were standing in a room full of worshippers right now. For a moment, you lose control of the beating of your heart, making goosebumps break throughout your entire body. The blood flushed through your veins faster than they were supposed to. It was a miracle to have such a distinctive eye color like that. Almost like a cruel joke that someone blessed with such beauty was actually a monster underneath.

As his eyes scan the crowd, you can hear your own heartbeat, beating so loud in your ears that the screamings of devotion are muffled; it all becomes a blur as you watch him move around, examining every inch of his face — that carries a facade you unfortunately knew too well.

The first thing you realize is that Douma is too perfect. The corners of his lips are frozen in an impeccable smile; but it's not the kind of stiffness you would find in someone who's lying. It’s the type of crooked smile that only manipulators wear on their faces. The oddness of his being is contradictory.

He’s faking it.

But for what reason? Isn't he satisfied with the way he manipulated entire masses of people for his own sake? Free food walking straight into his claws, he doesn't need to move a single finger to have whatever he wants. Isn't it enough for him?

In a moment of carelessness, your eyes met. And, immediately, a piercing feeling hits your heart, like a dagger cutting through flash. The moment shifts, and the current of air suddenly hits the exposed skin of your arms and you shiver. Something heavy settles down on your heart, corroding it to a forceful stop as he holds your stare in an open invitation for defiance.

Not being able to hold still, your personality splashes into the blank canvas you had put in front of you. And maybe you should’ve painted the fanatic role for yourself instead of forcing a white canvas to stay white. It was too easy for him to spot patterns after decades looking at the same hopeless faces of those who wanted nothing but to bring him down.

It slowly suffocates you as his eyes take a little bit too long to leave yours. Those mere seconds of being under such a dangerous, yet extraordinary combination of colors is enough for you to rethink everything you thought about this mission. Were you being too naive to think that you would come out without one or two scars? If you were to ever come back.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are reunited here today to celebrate another successful selection,” The man announces to the crowd, seeming so full of ecstasy that it contaminates the other candidates, making them smile and clap in excitement. And you have to force yourself to keep smiling, holding it with a tight grip that almost hurts your face.

“Today, our benevolent Leader will choose another fortunate member for the Paradise Faith Cult, who is going to serve and adore him for the rest of their lives!” The way he says those words is so oddly normal that you have to stop your mind before it goes to a darker place, a place where not a single light ever survived. Do not think of those who came before. What’s done, it's done.

Douma moves gracefully as he steps down from the high podium, the gold around him shines against his paleness, making his skin glow in different tones of yellow. Each time that his feet move to step down the stairs, your heart skips a beat or two. They were bringing him closer to you — closer to your facade. You wonder which lie was going to crumble first, he had decades to refine his, after all.

However, before he could reach the center of the room, a woman breaks down running in his direction. She’s clumsy and desperate, and even though you could see the tragery forming right in front of you, you don't make a move. Right now, your life's was on the line, if you made a single movement outside of the character, it was highly possible you wouldn't have the privilege to try the scene again.

“Douma-sama, I love you!” The woman cries, getting on her knees as soon as he reaches the end of the stairs.

She holds the fabric of his tunic for dear life as tears start to run down her face. The disgust that crosses his face is frightening for those who were paying close attention. And for your, oh so lucky, you couldn't stop analyzing every single wrinkle on his face.

“You're a blessing to this world! You’re the chosen one! Please let me —”

The sickening sound of bone crushing fills your ears when her head is cut in half, so fast you couldn't follow his movements. Staring ahead, you could see the blood pooling down the clean wooden floor underneath his feet. No one moves. No one even bats an eye to the headless body on the floor. It’s so sickening that the taste of blood fills your mouth while you watch people around him apologizing for her behavior.

You wonder if your friends found the same faith by his hands, or maybe even worse.

“If someone is disrespectful on that level, they don't deserve to be here. Don't you agree?” Douma raises his voice to the crowd, running a hand through his clothes. For everyone else, it seems he was composing himself after such a dangerous attack. For you, he was clearly disgusted to be touched by the hands of someone so insignificant.

Not a second later, everyone is agreeing with him, nodding their heads collectively. Bowing until their noses touch the ground, almost kissing the place where his feets once were. They offer him gold jewelry, fancy fabrics and relics of an ancient era. The devotion was suffocating, and you feel extremely sick to the sight. How could people live like that?

Douma carries on, finally reaching the first one of the line. He bows a little, analyzing the young man in front of him. The long nails are painted purple and well trimmed, they are long against his smooth face, dangerously sharp. The boy was paralized, you didn't know if it was for fear or adoration. You can see his mouth opening, but there’s no sound coming out of it. The boy’s head is sent flying across the room.

The amount of unrestrained violence in an environment where there should exist a benevolent God is a cruel joke. If a God really did exist, would they be like that too? So cruel in the name of power. In a world where Demons existed, where hundreds of people were killed in cold blood in a nonstop night of horrors, then yes, they would be just like Douma.

You can feel sweat running down your nape as he approaches the woman by your side. She’s visibly shaking, eyes wide open in a display of fear. The trembling of her hands are so strong you wish you could just hold them in place, for your own sanity. However, what you did not predict was that her voice never faltered through.

“You're a monster!” She screams in his face, as the reality of what the Paradise Faith Cult truly was, rapidly comes crashing down, and dreams of a better life are shattered by the Demon in front of her.

You could choke on the silence that followed soon after those words left her mouth, the amount of predatory eyes that fell into her small frame could burn holes on her skin. Yet, Douma’s expression never changed. That sinyal smile still stood proudly on his demonic face. However, the crack on the smooth glass appeared for a fraction of time, the twitch of irritation in his eyebrow gave away the ending of the poor girl.

“You're a monster! And everyone here is bewitched by—”

If you thought you had heard terrible sounds coming from someone when they were dying, the sound of someone being sliced in half was nothing in comparison. Her body splits in the middle as the halves fall apart on the floor. It’s gruesome, hideous. It was good that you didn't eat anything before the mission, the nausea was almost unbearable even when you weren't looking at the sliced body right next to your feet.

“I’m getting impatient,” Douma says, too sweetly for your liking, as if he was trying to show emotions even when he seemed unfazed. He throws a glance to a man standing next to the stairs, “I thought you said it would be a successful selection, huh?”

You can see the man shaking on the spot, already kneeling for forgiveness. And even though the blood, thick and hot against your face, disgusts you to the bone, you don't dare to blink. Don't dare to move. Even when all you wanted was to scrub that dirty blood off your face until you could see the rawness of your own skin. It turns your stomach again, painfully aware of the place you got yourself into.

Douma then switches his attention to you, the last one standing in a room full of dead bodies of what once were believers at heart. Hawk eyes start to scoop every inch of you, from the dirty garment he himself got stained, to the still well tidy hair. Walking around your body as if he’s evaluating a new piece of art that was just acquired.

Although there were so many things to analize, why the red of your lips was the one thing his eyes stayed for longer was beyond your imagination.

“And what about you?” Douma says, almost in a singing tone, “I hope you can give me an acceptable answer, this batch of servants they brought me is showing to be the worst until now.”

The air becomes colder as each word pierces little daggers in your heart. You were sure it was midsummer, it wasn't supposed to be so freezing. Not inside a place where so many people were crammed together nonetheless. You could even swear there was a little snowflake floating in between you and him, but it was gone as soon as Douma stepped closer, wrapping his hand around your neck.

It isn't the weather, you come to a conclusion then. It’s him. He’s the one who’s freezing. How fitting, you think. Just like the dead Demon he is, inside and out.

“I’ve always wanted to be here, Douma-dono,” You don't falter, holding your head high with a slight defiance in your stare, which you couldn't help show in full display. There was something in submitting completely to him that makes your skin crawl in despair. His nails dig a little on your smooth neck.

“And why’s that?” Douma leans closer, still holding your neck in a tight grip, nails starting to dig deeper on your skin. But you don't budge, not even when his face was so close that you could see each color of his eye bleeding into themselves, in a rainbow dance that left you almost speechless. Almost.

“I believe I’m right where I'm supposed to be,” You answer, the rehearsed script you had prepared thrown out of the window. However, your tongue was still sharp enough to give him an acceptable answer — It wasn't like you were lying anyway. “There’s no place in this world where I would rather be.”

Douma’s smile sends shivers down your spine, one that you couldn't hold to yourself. He could probably feel the trembling of your body through his touch on your neck, and you hated that you could tell how much he was enjoying this just by the sadistic way he still held the fragile part of your body in such a tight grip.

He represented the kind of cold that only the harshest winter would bring. First, it was your face, then the tip of your fingers. Slowly bringing you closer to death, painfully slow to those who don't have a place to stay, to those who are out in the open without any cover. Just like you were right now.

It seems a long time has passed before he releases your neck from his freezing touch, it’s carved in such a cold grip, that it burns instead. Douma does not spare a second glance in your direction before motioning to one of his servants. The relief on their faces is palpable, it's disgusting.

Two servants come quickly towards you, pulling back the sleeves of your kimono, exposing the skin of your forearm into the air, that surprisingly enough, is hot again. As you watch Douma going up the stairs again, they bring a golden goblet in your direction. You don't understand what is happening, you can't even begin to process their hands on you; but it doesn't take too long for you to find out.

Another one brings a very sharp knife, and there’s not even time for you to protest. The cut isn't deep, but stings all the same. You watch your blood fall into the goblet, slowly filling it. And for your surprise, you catch the moment Douma’s eyes grow a little wider from his place on the throne. It’s not a good sign.

It takes some time to fill, but once it's enough for at least a satisfied sip, they let go of your arm. While one is taking care of the cut, wrapping around bandages, the other offers the goblet to the Demon. You nervously watch Douma take a long sniff at the content inside it, before drinking it all in a single sip.

The creep smile that spreads through his face is enough to make your heart skip one or two beats faster than it was supposed to be, you were so nervous, that at this rate you were going to collapse from anxiety. Doumas’s eyes shine with a different type of malice and suddenly it's impossible to control the beat of your heart, it breaks down in a frenetic beat that has your head spinning.

“Aren't you something else?” He licks his lips, stanned with the red of your own blood.

A long time ago, Shinobu had said something about the power that it carried. But after so long, you had forgotten the Marechi blood running through your veins.

Today was the day you would never forget about that simple fact.

#douma #douma x reader #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny x reader #kny #sometimes I write #god it's good to be back #at times like this i remember how much i like to write

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mintyfrosty · 4 years ago

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Simple Melodies (A Medieval AU Fanfic)

Melody echoed through the abandoned avenues of the garden pathways, a small, deep humming following along and hypnotising whoever heard it with its minor notes. It wasn't often that particular individual placed his lute. But there was always a time for anything, and tonight was one of those times. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do. Well, other than lie his bed thinking about the same thing over and over and over again.

"Thank you, Right--!"

The sensation was still on his hand from the prince placing a small kiss there, even if it had been a couple of hours ago now.

It wasn't as if it a bad thing. At least, the peasant didn't seem to think so. It was a comforting sort of feeling. The prince was one of the big things in the castle that kept Right from losing his mind. Heh, sometimes the royal brought a fuzzy feeling in Right's stomach. Reginald always tried to make time for him; powered through his work to talk to him. It, well, made him feel valued. Special, perhaps. People didn't give a damn about him, generally - unless you wronged him and had a cold plate of revenge on the way. However, for some reason, those small moments with the prince touched him. And after today's events? Heh-- oh man. A blush blotched over his face, fingers drifting over the instrument.

But... sigh

There were so many factors at play. Reginald was a prince, a prince, for God-sakes. A prince who happen to talk to him and ask about his day and...

...

It was probably for the best that he came out to the garden to play his lute. More for his sake to get his mind off of the prince. Right was a commoner; he had to remember that.

Stupid royal code.

Granted, it had only been able four or five days since he got 'assigned' this job. Yet he already found himself growing close with the brunette, even when he shouldn't. Well, 'close' was a stretch. It was more so comfortable acquaintances. The prince was a mystery; no one should be 'close' with him, even if he wanted to.

There were rules.

And who was he to opposed them?

He was simply a peasant with dreadfully bad luck.

Amid his thoughts, his caramel eyes caught sight of a shadow moving behind a tree in the near distance. Curious, the guard turned his head slightly, only to see the shadow completely conceal themselves at his gaze. Odd. Someone was watching him. And judging by its reaction, it was either someone scared of him or scared of being caught. Or both. Maybe he'd be able to catch them in the act, his mind thought, cheeks beginning to brighten with a smirk.

And so, the guard returned to his song, looking back forward, yet making sure the corner of his eye could still catch sight of the tree. Casually, of course, even adding a small whistle to the melody. That bundle of shadows proved to be way too curious, sneaking forward out from the tree's protection to see the music come off the instrument. A small grin met the guard's face, now tapping his foot to appear to be lost in his music, trying to lure in the unexpected audience. He waited, kept strumming the strings of the lute until the person had come out enough for their face to be visible. Right quickly snapped his head in the direction, slamming the music to a holt with his hands.

Ah.

The prince.

Said prince made a small 'eep' at being spotted, quickly slinking behind the tree as though he wanted to stay hidden, even if he wanted to watch. A small sense of curiosity filled Right's soul, putting the instrument down onto the bench he was setting out, gesturing a hand to himself.

"Aye, it's a'right! I ain't gonna report ya."

...it seemed to have work, as the brunette slowly pushed himself into the light. It was much more casual attire the commoner had ever seen the prince wear. It was a simple combination of a baggy, long shirt and pants for nightwear with a fluffy robe over his shoulders. Big azure eyes of the young royal filled with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. The commoner caught sight of it, lips curling up in a bright smile and waving over the prince with a friendly wave of his hand. It message got to the prince, Reginald taking a small seat next to him with a tight posture and stressed muscles.

"I apologise--" Began the prince immediately, fumbling with the gloves on his hands.

"I just-- heard it from my room and wanted to hear it better--"

Mm...

Nervousness covered the prince's posture, gloved hands reaching up to grab the edges of his robe sleeves and looking down. There was a small dash of crimson that painted over the young royal's face, a shy look in his eyes. In a way, the guard found himself to be surprised. The prince, the prince, coming down from his room, fully dressed to be asleep, to watch him play his music. The commoner plucked an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat and propping a leg up against the other, his right ankle rested against his left knee. There was a mixture of pride and satisfaction that filled his spirit, even when he intended to play music without an audience. Heh, almost ironic. In his efforts to get his mind off the prince, he only lured him out of his room.

"Izat so?" Murmured the guard, picking up his lute again and letting it rest in his hands. The hue on the prince's face deepened. To hide his embarrassment the royal buried his face into the fur, nodding slowly to answer his question.

Uh...hm.

Right never considered himself to be good with his words, but the prince looked so embarrassed that he felt the need to say something. But nothing came to surface, brown eyes drifting down to the instrument. It was a rickety old thing. Some of the wood was peeled off and the engraves had lone since eroded.

"Well..." Began the commoner, turning toward the smaller male with a grin. "Might as well giv' ya a front-row seat t'en." The commoner kicked up his song again, careful fingers strumming along with the notes. The emptiness within the garden evaporated immediately, now replaced with its minor notes. Despite the melancholy tone, there was a brightness that filled the space. It was obvious with how the prince slowly began to uncurl from his tight posture, eyes glued to the stringed instrument. As if a burden had lifted off of his exhausted shoulders. A grin of giddiness grew to Right's face, voice beginning to hum lowly in sync with the string's song, creating somewhat of gentle harmony.

"So, ye like music, eh?" Commented the guard, glancing over to the prince with one eye whilst his fingers still danced across the strings. Reginald gazed his eyes up to meet the commoner's, a hand falling to the back of his neck and rubbing it.

"I, erm..." There was a hesitation in his voice. "I do-- I haven't heard it in such a long time--"

...what?

The music slowed down the smallest bit, the commoner caught off by the comment. Never heard music for a long time? How much was a long time? Ah-- maybe that was a bad question. Skewing his lips in thought, the commoner turned his head completely toward the prince, who now looked down with shyness.

"W'y not?"

God-- he didn't even think about the implications of a question like that. It spewed out without a second thought, unlike the first question. Goddammit Right. The commoner facepalmed in his head. It was probably sensitive--

"Oh, uhm--" Surprisingly, the prince answered, gaze still refusing to look up. "I, uhm, just don't know how to play anything-- th-that's all..."

Don't...know how to play?

Well, that was NOT the answer he was expecting or anything along those lines. Didn't the royal have endless entertainers to play for him if he wanted to hear it? People would do anything for a royal. Royals were above everyone. Everyone. The prince had that power, didn't he?

The music had come to a stop at that point, Right putting the instrument to the side and turning toward the royal to make the conversation more one on one. "Can ya not...I dunno, ask someone to play f' ye?"

Whether it was because of Right turning to him or the prince acting on his own according, Right wasn't sure, but the royal turned his eyes up to meet those caramel ones that belonged to him. The crimson still lingered on his face, even more, a few shades darker. After a visible swallow, the prince's voice came to surface. “I...I don't like...asking people. Everyone's always, erm, busy with something--"

...

Ah.

Never in Right's whole life did he think he'd meet a noble such as Reginald. A royal that had all the power to command people but far too humble to use it. Even though his heart cried to hear music, he didn't want to disturb anyone. A pity formed into the guard's heart grin long gone and replaced by a deep frown. Right himself got the idea that the prince was hesitant to do a lot of things, but not to hear music?

That was upsetting.

"Aye, well..." The commoner wiped his mouth. "We ain't busy now; 'ow's 'bout I teach ya?"

The prince's reaction was immediate, blinking his eyes that went wide. There were probably a million thoughts going through the young royal's head, the prince probably needed a second to digest the thought. Right needed that moment too if he was being honest. The words tumbled out again (he found that happened a lot when he talked to the prince), and he just offered to teach him music. It was a mixture of a mystical feeling and a flustered one, heart pounding hard in his ears when his mind caught up with him.

Heh, maybe it was a bit dumb but it was worth a shot.

A small shot to see that amazement in the prince's eyes when he first saw the commoner playing.

Until eventually, very eventually, the prince found his voice again.

"R-Really--?"

It was giddy, filled to the brim with excitement. The frown that once rested on Right's face curled up into a smile. He didn't see the prince giddy often, since he was usually so busy with the ridiculous amount of work he had. But now there weren't any deadlines or paperwork. Just a simple offer to teach the prince something.

Heh. That'd be a first.

With a nod, the commoner felt a grin grow to his face, picking up the instrument again. "'course. Now, c'm'here. 'll show ye the basics."

XxX

Minty: I got in a fluff mood so have a smol fanfic :D

#medieval au #medieval fanfic #mintyfrosty au #mintyfrosty's au #mintyfrosty #princey #medieval!Regianld #medieval!Right #fluff #fanfic #thsc au #thsc #the henry stickmin collection #the henry stickmin collection au #reginald copperbottom #right hand man #rhm #long post

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jay-and-dean · 4 years ago

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Firefly Chapter 1. Five years old

By Roonyxx and Jay-and-dean

Pairings : future Dean x reader ?

Summary : 40 years in Hell, but he didn’t spend all this time all alone, he had her.

Prepare to know what happened during those years Dean never talks about. To immerge yourself in Hell, only lit by the mysterious kid growing here...

And to see some of your favorite villains again : Crowley, Lilith, Lucifer... And also Sammy and Jack...

Serie Warnings : Hurt!Dean, Hell (torture, even if we tried to not give it graphic descriptions, creepy demons, blood, violence), swearing, angst, future fluff and smut.

This story is in both Reader’s POV and Dean’s POV

Wordcount : 2645

Note : This is our second collaboration. We can’t both edit the same post, so we decided we would post 1 chapter/2 each, like we did for Same.

We both worked as much on this story and it’s the result of both our brains but also both our hearts.

Please, if you want to show love for this story, don’t forget we were together in this.

This story will be around 10 chapters and we intend to edit it every Saturday if nothing delays it.

Roonyxx Masterlist

Jay’s Masterlist

_________________________

Reader’s Pov

She should have stayed in her room.

She should have stayed in her room for many reasons. Because her huge, warm and luxury bedroom was far enough from the horrible screams first. Desperate calls for help echoing everywhere, useless begging and strangled howls of infinite pain.

Because her room was neither burning hot nor cold like bleak ice.

Because there was no smell indescribably vile between the rock walls and along the velvet curtains…

But in her child mind, anything was better than eternal silence, even cries for help, better than the lonely torpor of comfort, than that unbearable loneliness.

And boredom.

So, as usual, she took Mister Teddy Bear in her arms, holding him close against her tiny body. With her finger she stuffed the foam escaping from the hole where his head should be, and smiled at his pathetic form.

She didn’t miss his head, for the same reason she didn’t miss the sky : because she had never seen it.

Hell was big enough to get lost forever but she never did. It was vast enough for her to never go twice in the same place if she decided too. And for now, she had only found one place worth going back, the rest was only screams.

She shivered a little, today was cold, at least in this area. And even if she was shaped to handle Hell, she could see the steam coming out of her mouth and taste the metallic smell of blood on her tongue.

When something moved on the wall of that infinite corridor, she took a step back, bumping the opposite sweating blood wall. It was the skin of a human being, empty and limply nailed on the wall, but somehow still whining and crying.

She looked down at Mister Teddy bear and noticed it had been stained again, by the thick smelly blood constantly seeping from the tall cold dark walls. She sighed and gave the shaking empty skin a reprimanding look, frowning her thin and small eyebrows.

And she kept walking.

A demon appeared at an intersection. He wasn’t wearing a human form, his giant body scrawny to the bones, with a crest of rotten wood along his visible spine, transparent skin, no eyes, and a huge pair of horns above him. His arms were long enough to touch the floor, and he was raising his legs too high while walking, which gave him something of a spider.

She recognized Jael.

He passed by, ignoring her tiny form as usual, leaving a trail of smoke and sulfur behind him. For him, she was probably not bigger than a cat would be to a human being. Annoyed by his complete indifference, she closed her tiny five years old fists and punched his leg in a grunt.

The demon didn’t even acknowledge her and she watched him walk or crawl away.

She stayed still for a moment, holding Mister Teddy Bear tight, looking around at the infinite numbers of boring corridors this maze had. She turned on herself in a little dance, her dress flying like there was wind, closed her eyes and stopped randomly, a little dizzy.

This way today.

She sighed in content, she had never been this way before. So she put her tiny patent shoe in front of her and started walking.

She walked for a while, going in any direction like a little mouse in an abandoned manor. Avoiding the walls and covering her ears when the screams were too loud. Once or twice she looked inside the rooms, her eyes meeting pieces of humans, arms reaching to her, eyes without eyelids following her tiny form while beasts with their demon faces or a human costume were feasting on their guts.

She turned left and found herself in front of a door opened on a large room with a man in the middle of it.

He wasn’t screaming.

Chains were maintaining him up and straight, his arms stretched toward the ceiling. The chain was going through his stomach and one of his thighs. Weights were at his hips probably slowly tearing his back.

She stopped in front of the door and held Mister Teddy Bear closer, studying his silhouette, hidden in the shadow of the corridor.

He was brighter, he was stronger. His silence made her shiver for she was so used to the din of despair.

Did he really belong here ?

Mesmerized by his noble aura, she took a step in the room and looked up. His face was held by a chain around his neck, his eyes closed and face unexpectedly calm, almost as if he was sleeping.

When she took another shy step, her potent shoe hit a piece of the chain she didn't notice and the metallic sound made him gasp. His eyes opened and their green light fell on her.

He stayed totally motionless, but it was not like he could really move anyway. Only his eyes weren’t still, trembling in her direction, struggling to focus. Like all the damned souls, he seemed really surprised to see her here, she was just a little girl anyway ; and there was no child in Hell. But his eyes had no expression of supplication, only a mix of distrust and pain.

Demons had never frightened her much, some of them were impressive and ugly, disgusting even. But they couldn’t hurt her. What made shivers run along her tiny back were the damned themselves. Their screams, their begging, their despair... And in her immature mind, she had come to think they were fouler than the creatures of Hell themselves.

Not him.

Her fascinated wide eyes were magnetized to his face, forgetting the chains and the pool of blood at his feet, everything broken about him. She just stared at his face and thought he was beautiful in a way.

She forgot her boredom for a second, and took another step. In front of her little form, with his arms almost reaching the ceiling, he appeared as tall as a mountain. She lifted her chin, frustrated a little to not be able to come closer to his face.

Despite his dusty and grimy skin, she could see little light brown stains around his nose, his eyes were very green and bright, and bloodshot only made their natural color lighter.

Her tiny hand moved a little, not sure what she wanted to do, maybe poke his thigh, like little children tend to do when they find something curious. But he flinched, and she got scared. The whole mountain of his motionless body suddenly making the iron of the chains scream.

She took a step back and put Mister Teddy Bear on the floor, away from danger, before she came closer again. Keeping her eyes on him to tame the reactions of this huge and impressive wounded beast.

This time, she showed him her hand. Her little palm raised gently, she stood there, tasting his blood on her tongue, and the smell of metal and pain.

His face was confused, and his eyes still trembling from the intense fear of being touched, but he kept them on her, going from her innocent eyes to her tiny clean hand.

Dean’s pov

His eyes followed her as she sat down cross-legged a few feet from him, watching him in silence, she took Mister Teddy Bear and put him in her lap.

Dean’s eyes flickered from her little form to the door, waiting for the next torture to begin, but it didn’t.

She just kept watching him, her eyes shining with innocence only a child has. Was she really a kid ? Was it a trap ? A trap to what, nothing could really get worse anyway… Trying to ignore the horrible pain, he focused on her eyes to try and read them.

Everything was weird about her. Her age, her beauty, like she came from another world, Earth or even Heaven… Nothing was dark or vile on her feature. She didn’t seem to mind that her little pink dress was getting soaked in his blood.

With one last glance at the door he cleared his throat, hoarse from screaming hours and hours, and from not really talking for what ? Years...

“Hey little girl?” he cleared his throat once more, surprised by his own voice.

Not controlling his tone perfectly, he spoke a little too loud which made her shuffle back a little. He really didn’t want her to disappear just now, maybe if he managed to talk to her a little, get a name...

“No stay, s-sorry… I’m not gonna hurt you.” His voice seemed to calm her this time, she held Mister Teddy closer to her chest.

“Are you, lost ? What’s your name?” He tried, but she just kept watching him not saying a word.

He gave her a little smile through the unbearable suffering. It felt foreign smiling, he hasn’t done it in years.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

It looked like she smiled back but he was too far to see it clearly, could she even talk anyway ? She looked human, but here… a kid ? Was she dead too ? How did she end up here ?

“Where you from, little girl?” he tried again, speaking was horribly painful but this moment was priceless to him.

How he would love to hear a voice other then the screams of Hell or the filth the demons spat at him. But she kept her lips sealed, taking her little bear by the legs, making him walk through the blood. She didn’t seem phased by the horror of it at all.

“I’m Dean” he said.

She looked up at him and slowly took the arm of her bear to wave at him. His eyes widened, so she could hear and understand him. If he had been able to, he would wave back, instead he chuckled lightly for the first time since the Hellhounds got him; almost forgetting the the chains in his back.

“What’s your little friend’s name? He looks badass.”

Still no answer.

He needed her to be real, to not be an hallucination caused by pain or loneliness.

“Well I guess I’ll give you a name then, is that okay ?”

She shrugged slightly, wiping her headless toy to her perfectly ironed dress.

“What you think of… Firefly?” She looked up at him, now he was sure he could see a smile gracing her little face.

“You like that ? You remind me of one” he tried not to cough at his dry throat, knowing it would be enough to break his back. “A little light in the darkest place…”

He started to look at her thoroughly. She didn’t look too skinny, she was a little dirty, blood stains on her arms, dress and shoes, but in a place like this that wasn’t surprising. Her eyes didn’t look heavy so she had a place to sleep, to rest… How he missed resting, to be able to close your eyes and just sleep, to not fear the never ending pain.

“How did you end up here ?” he asked more for himself, as she didn’t seem to talk at all.

Maybe she couldn’t speak at all. How old would she be, four ? Maybe five ? The blood stains on her face made it difficult to see her child like features.

She was so remarkable, in this screaming pit of misery and despair, there was not one ounce of fear in her eyes. She didn’t seem faced by the fact that she was covered in blood, that her teddy bear was missing his head, that he himself was dangling by chains and seeping the very same blood she was sitting in.

“You have been here for a while haven’t you ?”

He could tell she probably didn’t know anything else but Hell. The absence of fear, the indifference, like everything was just as it always had been... He was sure of it. But then again, how did she end up in the pit ?

A cautious dark chuckle left his mouth.

“I lost count of how long I’ve been here but I heard it’s been about 10 or 15 years.”

She looked up at him, her little E/C eyes shining with curiosity, he hasn’t seen that in years, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them. They remind him so much of Sammy’s eyes when he was younger.

A heavy door fell shut in the distance making Dean flinch, grunting loud when his cruel bonds rattled. She got up and came closer, inspecting the chain going through his thigh, her face showing little interest in it.

Then, her curiosity visibly winning against her distrust, she crawled between his legs to watch his back. And he closed his eyes in apprehension of her touching something. But she didn’t.

Reader’s Pov

He was different from everything she had seen in her short life, he wasn’t screaming like the others, or begging, he just… endured it. He seemed stronger.

She circled him to come back to where she could see his face. Her little hand reached for him again, but she remembered the damned didn’t like to be touched so she took her hand back.

Heavy footsteps suddenly echoed in the hallway.

She grabbed mister Teddy Bear from the floor and moved to stand beside the door, Jael entered, still in his demonic form.

“Dean Winchester, ready for your next session ?” his croaky voice came out of his mouth full of teeth in a strange way. “The master Alastair is waiting.”

He steps on the chain making it shift in Dean’s gut. When Dean groaned hoarsely, she moved to punch her little fist into the creatures leg again.

With a sulfur stenched sigh the creature looked down her.

“What are you doing in here” he said in a growl. “You know it isn’t allowed.”

His long bony fingers wrapped around her left ankle to pull her upside down into the air, she weighed nothing. She started to struggle but totally in vain, her palms clenched around Mister Teddy Bear to not lose him, and her free leg trying to kick the demon.

“I’m not a damn babysitter” the demon sighed, a cloud of smelly sulfur reaching her face, and making her sneeze. “I’ll tie you again if you keep wandering, child.”

He turned to leave the room, his creepy gait making her dangle left and right.

“I’ll be back for you Winchester, you’ll say yes to Alastair soon enough.”

Still dangling from Jael’s grip, she took her bear arms and waved it at Dean before the Demon turned in the hallway.

Jael walked back to where her room was, when he pushed the door he came face to face with a Demon in the shape of a man, wearing a suit and a brand new watch, Crowley.

“Sir, your filth has been wandering” he dropped her to the floor bluntly. “Again.”

“Careful Jael, that’s my daughter” the smooth, human voice of her father echoes with no affection.

Crowley bended to pull her up by the arm, grimacing at how dirty she was, and put her in the corner where he had put the chain a few times ago, that was a little to big for her fragile foot anyway, around her.

“Now sweet cheeks” Crowley bended to her eye level “You know you aren’t allowed to leave this room so do us all a favor and don’t?”

She stuck her tongue out to him.

“Just kill her already” Jael grunted.

Crowley stood up and ushered Jael out of the room, he locked the door behind them, while she already took her foot out of the too big chain to run at the door, failing to open it.

“Patience Jael, one day this girl will lead us to victory, you’ll see.”

___________________________________

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crimsonrae · 4 years ago

Text

The Wiles of Men and Women

Chapter One

Summary: Georgiana Stafford has just become betrothed to a man older than her father. Her last chance to enjoy society on her terms comes the night that court celebrates the birth of Princess Mary. She was prepared for just about anything, but she hadn't been prepared for him. Charles Brandon.CharlesxOC, Warning: Spanking

Rated: NC-17

A/N: This may be a one-shot, actually, honestly, it'll depend on how it's received by you lovely readers. This is my first time posting on tumblr (and I’m super nervous about it), I also have an account on AO3 and FF. I’m posting this here because I’ve notice a distinct lack of Charles Brandon stories and thought I’d share. Also, I've developed something of a crush on Henry Cavill recently and while watching the Tudors the line from the very first episode where Charles Brandon says "No. No. She begged." became stuck in my head and I wanted to explore this dominant, arrogant side to him with a character that is a bit bratty and arrogant herself. Please read, review, and enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own what is mine. Please don’t steal. Also, there is a good deal of smut and some spanking here. You were warned.

A Night of Revelry

"You are to be married."

The words echoed in Georgiana's ears as she watched the colorful swirls of silks and velvets that made up the dancers of the ballroom. It was the celebration for the birth of Princess Mary. Another Tudor had graced the world, though sadly not a male.

Georgiana could not have given a damn.

Her thoughts were made up of her engagement to the Earl of Worcester, a man only slightly older than her father. While many of her social circle would have born the indignity of being traded from one master to another with the cheerfulness of a summer butterfly, she could only feel the lock tighten on her ever-gilded cage.

She wanted to stamp her feet and scream at the unfairness of it all. Angry tears pricked at the edges of her blue eyes, but she refused to let any sign of weakness show. She was a Stafford; she knew her place in this world. Her father and uncle had beaten her worth into her on more than one occasion. Her father had no use for a daughter.

In truth, he had no use for a child, it was why he had gained special dispensation to marry her mother. The lady being nearly twenty years his senior, Henry Stafford had thought her incapable of bearing any further children than those from her first marriage. However, it took only their wedding night, the first and only time Henry and Cecily laid together, for the coupling to result in Georgiana's unwelcomed birth.

Now seventeen years later, Henry Stafford was unloading his only daughter off onto the first man to make him an acceptable offer. It was why she was to be presented at court on the morrow. It would be her intended's first chance to meet and gaze upon her. It was also the reason she had been forbidden to attend the festivities before her.

Georgiana felt a faint smirk pull at her supple lips, forbidding her from anything was a sure-fire way to ensure she would not do as requested, however. Her father had forbidden her from fighting. She had her half-brother, Edward, teach her to fence. Her mother had forbidden her to gamble. Her half-brother George, ironically now a man of the cloth, taught her every variation of cards and darts known to high and low society.

Her introduction to court was a mere formality. Her intended an old fat boar of a man that she had identified upon her arrival to the celebration was standing beside her father and uncle. Her wedding was to be in a month's time. This night of revelry, the first for another noble lady, would perhaps be the last for Georgiana and she intended to make the best of it. She would dance, she would drink, and if fortune favored her, then she would find a man to take her maidenhead in the most pleasurable way possible.

After all, why did men get to have all the fun?

She tightened the ribbons securing her mask to her face. Her dress, while not as ostentatious as some of the ladies, was still well-made and allowed her to skirt the line of either noble or servant. She didn't want to draw too many eyes, should her father discover her presence... she shuddered to think of what he would do to her.

Feeling confident enough to mingle, Georgiana stepped gracefully around the milling crowds to the side of the dance floor and found a glass of wine. It amused her to stop and listen to snatches of conversations. Most were comments on the Queen's failure to produce a son, though others were more scandalous.

The Earl of Pembroke had taken who as his mistress?

The Lady Annabel was with child? Hasn't her husband been in France for the last few months?

You'll never guess. His lover was a man!

Georgiana sipped at her drink and bit her tongue as she listened. Was this to be her life if she were allowed to stay at court?

As entertaining as the gossip was, there was an undercurrent of maliciousness that made her skin crawl. It wasn't difficult for her to ascertain that friendship here would be as hard to find as water in a desert. It was disheartening, to say the least.

Before long a courtier approached her for a dance. She slid her glass onto a passing tray and took the man's hands with a simpering smile, a pleasing rush warmed her veins, though this quickly dissipated.

His name was Owen Mayfield and she learned that was perhaps the only interesting thing about him. His palms were sweaty from his earlier exertions which Georgiana could forgive, but he seemed to have bathed in some overly floral perfume that had her holding her breath.

It was a relief when the dance finished. She tried not to giggle as she took the opportunity to hide back away in the crowds. She kept up her game of listening to gossip, not willing to enter into conversation, and willing to be more judicious of any further dance partners.

Perhaps it was because of her hesitance to engage in conversation that drew attention. Or perhaps it was the way she calmly wove a path around the room that allowed her to avoid her family as she observed.

Whatever it was, Georgiana slowly became aware of the fact that she was being watched. She had felt it first while dancing with another courtier. Her heart had raced and her head had felt pleasantly fuzzy as she had glided through the quick steps with her partner. She had initially dismissed the watchful feeling as too much wine, unwilling to let a trifle paranoia ruin her current joy.

Still, she had laughed and quickly begged off another dance with the rather charming Mr. Anthony Knivert. The need for fresh air suddenly becoming great as she slipped back into the shadows. It was here, she knew that her early realization of being watched had not been a trick of the mind. The sensation of eyes burned her and she felt a twinge of fear as she fought the urge to seek out her admirer's gaze in case it was her father.

Instead, she kept her head down and made her way to the hall. If it was her father, then she would make a quick escape. If not, perhaps her admirer would follow.

Quietly, she meandered to a tall window at the end of the aisle which overlooked the gardens. Clouds had moved in and a light rain fell over the courtyard. Away from the bodily warmth of the ballroom, she could feel the midwinter cold seeping into the palace. A shiver coursed through her back...but not from the chill.

Slowly, she shifted her gaze over her shoulder and back to the jeering celebration. A man stood just within the entrance to the hall. His deep blue eyes shined dangerously at her from behind a black and gold diamond pattern mask.

Her admirer.

Her stomach clenched at the sight of him. Despite the fact that half of his face was hidden from her, she liked the shape of his mouth and jaw, even the dimple of his chin. He was young and his form was pleasing to the eye and he knew it... A slow smirk pulled at his lips as she took her fill of him.

"Are you well, milady?" He asked almost mockingly. His voice was deep and smooth like the sonorous notes of a cello.

She refrained from answering.

A new game began to form in her mind as she gazed at him. Timid excitement swelled within her... Swallowing tightly, she smiled at him and breathed a faint laugh at her foolishness before taking a step back.

He followed.

She took another step.

He followed again.

Anticipatory recognition sparked in his gaze.

Her smile nearly turned triumphant as she whirled and slipped further away from the party. She didn't run, but it was a near thing as she listened to his heavy steps growing closer to her.

Georgiana thought her heart had beat fast before, but now it thudded in her chest so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Her hand grazed across cold stone as she dashed around a corner. She snuck a quick glance behind her and nearly yelped to see him only a few steps away. A ferocious grin painted his lips as she laughed and flew from his reaching grasp.

She only made it a few more steps before she felt his fingers grasp her arm and whip her around. He quickly backed her into a dark alcove away from any prying eyes. Though, she doubted that any would find them this far from the festivities. Breathless giggles spilled from her throat as she gazed up at him and he hummed amused.

A hand slipped to her waist and somehow impossibly, he moved closer to her. Her laughter slowly diminishing as her curiosity started to take over. She had never been this close to a man before... she liked the strength she felt in his grip, the warmth that emitted from his form. Tentatively, she smoothed a hand up his chest and reveled in the firm feel of his body.

His lips hovered just inches from hers, "Do you submit, lady?"

Submit?

Was she not a woman? Did the world not demand that she submit to men? A faint resentment burned in her heart at the word. She would only submit when forced.

Again, she refrained from answering and instead stole what she wanted. It was quick, a faint brushing of her mouth against his before she pulled back when he pressed for more. A low growl rumbled through his chest that made her smile.

"What's your name?" He asked, brushing his lips over her ear.

The sensation tickled her and sent a strange tingling heat to her core. Licking her lips, she gave her middle name, "Charlotte."

He pulled back with a faint frown, "Are you mocking me, milady?"

She pursed her lips, confusion apparent as she met his suspicious glance. He reached up and removed his mask, allowing her to see his handsome features fully. When she merely arched a brow at him, he realized that she did not recognize him.

He couldn't hold back a faint laugh, "My name is Charles, milady. Charles Brandon."

The name meant nothing to her.

"Charles and Charlotte. How fortuitous." She murmured, sagely amused. She drew a finger down his cheek and to the very lips she wanted to taste again. She gasped startled when his tongue darted out to suck on her delicate digit, all the while he held her gaze.

A flush spread across her cheeks and her stomach clenched again... how improper, but she dared not look away. Charles captured her wrist as he pulled away and placed a light kiss to the sensitive flesh, "Do you submit, Lady Charlotte?"

It took her a moment to remember how to speak, but even she was surprised by what fell from her lips, "...No..."

Charles raised a brow and slipped tantalizing fingers beneath the hem of her bodice, "No?"

Georgiana leaned into his touch as she tried in vain to suppress a moan that rose to her tongue, "No... I do not submit...But I do consent."

The distinction was important to her, maybe foolishly so, but it mattered little because he was upon her in a second. He claimed her mouth with the ferocity of a winter storm. So harsh, his lips bruised hers, but so pleasantly cool as his wicked tongued enticed her. He swallowed her whimpers and delved desperate touches to the small hints of skin her gown revealed. I

It wasn't enough by half. Her game of chase had whetted his appetite and he was so very hungry now. He needed her undressed and prostrated before him.

Abruptly, he pulled back and wrapped his hand firmly around her wrist as he pulled her down the hall. They weren't far from his chambers, but Georgiana wasn't to know that as she stumbled after him, flushed and bewildered.

She opened her mouth to demand an explanation, but he seemed to sense her confusion as he smirked at her over his shoulder, "A bed would be preferable, lady... and you will submit."

The surety in his voice had her baulking on principle, but a smaller part of her thrilled and fluttered at the pronouncement.

So, he had made the distinction.

Unbidden, her maidenhood clinched and shuddered around nothing and she had the sudden desperate desired to know what it would be like to be filled... to submit.

Oh God...What devil had she surrendered to?

The question reverberated in her consciousness as she was pulled into a dark room and Charles soundly locked the door. He didn't give her time to protest or rethink her actions before he attacked her lips again. She groaned as his expert touches drew her further into a curious sparking pleasure. Her own hands divested him of the colorful broach that held his collar closed as she sought the smooth flesh that laid underneath. He was so incredibly warm and felt so hard.

How could one man be this dizzying?

Time seemed to blur and disappear as articles of clothing littered the ground and they both became consumed by taste and touch. Rough fingers teased and tweaked at her nipples, pebbling the sensitive dusty pink skin until it was a darker blush. Georgiana whined and whimpered as her body was assaulted with these new and strange touches. Her nails raked across his bare shoulders as she arched into him, his responding growl, a pleasure in itself.

It was only when his hand slid down to her mound that she suddenly became aware of the wetness seeping from her. Unthinkingly embarrassed, she pressed her thighs together seeking to hide, but Charles would have none of it.

"No. No hiding." His blue eyes blazed down at her as he purposefully grasped her knees and forcefully parted her legs and pressed them to her chest, "Look at how wet you are... Absolutely, delicious."

She went scarlet and mewled lightly in protest as he chuckled sinfully. His gaze disappeared as he dipped down and she jumped when she felt the firm press of wet tongue to her most intimate area. Another rumble of laughter came from him, but Georgiana suddenly didn't care as the vibrations sent a strange tingling sensation to her belly and down through her legs.

She squirmed and wiggled, not sure if she was trying to get closer or further from him. Then she felt it. The press of something foreign at her entrance. She looked down, her chest heaving for air, only to find him staring back at her with wild dark eyes as he pushed a finger into her and then another.

It was uncomfortable, but not. It was invasive, but not. It was painful, but not... and she nearly bit through her lip as she watched him slowly pump those thick fingers in and out of her.

Something was building.

A light sheen of sweat started to bead over her skin and she wriggled as she tried to understand what her body was instinctively searching for, as she tried to find relief from this strange new pressure. She jerked when his thumb brushed over her swollen nub and white sparks of pleasure shuttered her eyes. Her walls clenched desperately around his fingers and she moaned, grasping at the sheets beneath her. She ached so sweetly and then he did it again.

A soft brush back and forth, barely-there – just enough for those sparks to ignite again, but this time he didn't stop. She cried out hoarsely as her legs jerked and her walls spasmed, releasing that exquisite pressure so swiftly that she was lost in seconds.

It took several minutes before she spiraled down from the heavens, he had sent her to. When she opened her eyes, it was to see him sucking on the fingers that had been in her, "Delicious."

A low whine left her at the sinful sight and he grinned darkly at her before he suddenly crouched and smoothed a trail of kisses and feather-light touches up her belly and over her chest, "You came so beautifully."

It was such a stark contrast to what had felt like a violent release that her body seemed to hum in response. She bit back further whimpers but spread her shaky legs to accommodate his broad body as he worked his way back up her.

Charles pressed a light kiss to the corner of her mouth and reached out to undo the ties of the blue lace mask that had managed to stay on this long. To his surprise, she tilted her head away from his touch, "Leave it."

"I want to see you. All of you." Yet, he didn't reach for the mask again.

Georgiana nearly acquiesced to the light demand in his voice, but a mischievous spark batted down that need. She smirked and nuzzled his cheek as she whispered, "Only if you're very, very good will I remove the mask."

Charles huffed a small laugh, "Have I not been good already?"

She shook her head, "Do better."

"You will regret that, lady." He murmured softly and started to tease her core once more. They were playing his game now after all, "Submit to me."

"No, sir." She breathed.

His cock twitched at being addressed so, though he knew that she hadn't meant it to be provocative. More than ever before, he was determined to get her to submit to him. He twisted her onto her stomach and straddled the backs of her knees. Biting kisses peppered her shoulders before he yanked her back by her hair into a kneeling position.

A smile crossed his lips as she caught sight of herself in his dressing mirror and gasped. Her body glistened, nipples hard, face flushed. She was an appetizing sight, but she could only stare as his hands reached around to caress at her intimate areas. He nudged her hair to the side with his nose as he nibbled lightly on her ear and enjoyed the small noises of pleasure she couldn't help, but emit, "Submit."

"N..n-no." She stuttered. Her hands grasped at his hips, pulling him closer in an attempt to find stability.

He bit punishingly at her neck and was rewarded with a lewd groan. His hard cock pressed firmly into the seam of her ass and she whimpered when he began to rock gently against her, "Submit."

A choked denial fell from her lips and he growled.

Her eyes were forced to watch as his hands slid over her stomach to her breasts as he groped and teased at her soft mounds. If it were possible, she flushed darker at the erotic sight of her body being handled so. Shame and embarrassment twirled in her veins despite the heated pleasure he was giving her and she attempted to look away. A particularly hard pinch to her nipple had her crying out as he brought her head back around, "Who said you could stop looking, lady? Eyes forward."

"It's unseemly, Charles." She whimpered pleadingly.

He laughed and pressed a kiss to her cheek, "And you enjoy it. I can tell. As wanton as a whore, you are."

She should be outraged, but only a low moan echoed from her mouth as she felt that lovely heat pool even hotter in her belly again. She shouldn't like being debased like this, but she did. He seemed to know what she was thinking as he smiled against her neck.

He scooted forward and pressed his legs into hers, keeping her thighs locked together tight before shifting ever slightly to slip his cock along her slit tauntingly. They both groaned at the sensation. She was so wet that he was able to grind against her easily. The head of his cock rubbed teasingly against her clit and she writhed back against him breathless. Unwittingly trying to angle him into her tight little entrance. He locked his arms around her as he fucked her shapely thighs and watched as her coil of pleasure began to wind tight again.

"Submit." He breathed and when she shook her head, unable to voice her denial, he shifted again and his cock left her well-attended and swollen clit alone. Georgiana whined in protest as he continued to chase his pleasure, but refused hers, "Submit or I'll continue to bring you to the edge with no relief while I find mine so close to your shuddering little hole."

"Charles." She gasped pleadingly.

It wasn't enough and he slid a hand over the curve of her ass and to the other hole that had thus far been neglected. It was almost as wet as her entrance and he prodded the rim tentatively, smirking as she tried to jerk away, "Even this little hole is winking in need."

He toyed and played with the delicate flesh, making her moan and cry, "Submit, Charlotte."

Instead of answering him, she pressed back against him suddenly trapping his hand between them. He found her gaze in the mirror and his breath was stolen by the desperate fire peering back at him. The muscles of her thighs tensed around his cock and he groaned at the exquisite feel. The little minx was trying to give him a taste of his own medicine.

That just wasn't acceptable.

Before she could try to take further control, he pressed her down into the bed and soundly smacked her bottom, "That was very naughty, Charlotte."

"You...enjoyed it."

A surprisingly delighted smile tugged at his mouth and he spanked her again, "Mouthy, brat. Submit."

She yelped and shook her head.

"Very well." He murmured and continued to turn her little bottom red.

She yelped and whimpered with each strike, but to his amazement didn't try to pull away. Low sobs began to pull from her throat as he continued her punishment before finally, he stopped and placed a hand to either side of her head. He lowered his body down onto hers and nuzzled lightly against her cheek. He wished that she had let him remove the mask. Ever so gently, he ground against her warmed bottom until he felt her arch into him and stilled, "Submit. I can feel how much you want it. Submit, darling."

She was close to giving in, he could practically taste it. Georgiana whined lowly as she pressed desperately against him, "Charles, I... I..."

"You?" He drawled softly.

"Please."

He kept still and allowed her to writhe against him, "Please what, Charlotte?"

She grunted in frustration when she couldn't get him to move, "Please I... I need you..."

"You need me...?" His tongue lathed at the rim of her ear, "Come on, darling, just a few more words."

"I need you to..." She choked as his hand moved under her and swallowed the last of her pride, "God... I need you to -to take me. I –I s-submit. I submit. Please."

A pleased hum sounded above her before she felt Charles press a kiss to the crown of her head, "Good girl."

He sat back on his heels and widened her legs, admiring his handiwork as she presented to him. He placed a light kiss to either cheek before he pulled her hips up. No more teasing. They were both at the end of their patience. With little warning, he positioned himself at her weeping hole and entered her in one swift thrust. She cried out at the intrusion and he lost his breath at her velvet tightness. He wasn't going to last long if she kept gripping him this titillatingly.

Georgiana's breath shuddered and groaned as she wiggled and attempted to adjust to his girth. He was much bigger than his fingers. Painfully so.

He pressed his head between her shoulder blades and groaned with every twitch and shift of her stretched muscles. His fingers left bruising marks in her hips before he withdrew and slammed into her again. She choked on a cry, lost somewhere in the realm between pain and pleasure as he set a punishing pace. It wasn't until he brushed against something that made her see stars that she found the strength to meet his thrusts with her own. It felt so good... so much better than his fingers.

It didn't take long before she felt that beautifully exquisite pressure again, building and swelling around his cock. However, this time she felt a heat tremble from the tip of her toes to burn through her legs to her core. It was almost unbearable.

Sensing she was near her end, Charles slid a hand further over her hip and to her swollen nub. His rough fingers pinched lightly at that sensitive organ and the resultant eruption was magnificent.

Georgiana cried out, her legs locking against his as she stiffened and trembled. It was too much and she pressed her face into the mattress as she spasmed around his cock, sobbing her release.

Charles moaned as she clenched tightly, her walls attempting to milk him of his seed. His hips stuttered in an irregular rhythm before he spilled into her. For a few moments more he continued to undulate against her, reveling in everything she gave him before his strength began to wane. With a heavy breath, he collapsed next to her and slowly drew her into his arms.

Their coupling had been intense...more than he expected. Her sobs had turned to quiet sniffles as she fought to regain control. Charles pressed a comforting hand to her back as he shushed her, "You're alright. You were so good, darling."

Georgiana clung to him. She wanted to ask if it was always like that but didn't want to betray the fact that she had just handed him the only thing that made her valuable in the world. Her virginity was gone and she couldn't find it in herself to regret it. Somehow, she doubted her wedding night would be this good. She took a few steadying breaths, allowing herself to take the comfort that Charles was offering. His soothing touches and whispered praises were doing much to settle her.

Slowly, the late hour began to dawn on her and she realized she needed to get back to her chambers before her father realized she was missing. Gingerly, she sat up, cringing as sticky seed and blood slid down her thighs. The pain to her bottom was secondary.

Charles frowned as he watched her, "Where are you going?"

Georgiana smiled faintly, "I need to leave before I'm missed."

She leaned back down and stole a last kiss before she stood on shaky feet and quickly donned her chemise and petticoat. Charles sat up and snatched her hand before she could get much further in her escape, "Stay. I hardly doubt a few more hours will matter."

"I'm not foolish enough to risk it." She countered, gently shaking him off and gathered the rest of her clothes. She could put everything else on in the hall. If she stayed then she would simply end up in his bed for the rest of the night.

Georgiana made it to the door before Charles spoke again, "Lady Charlotte, I believe you made me a promise if I was good."

She paused and eyed the smug glint in his eye and the arrogant smile painting his lips. The pride she had swallowed earlier reared its head again, "Bold of you to assume you were good, sir."

Instead of bringing him down a peg, his smile grew as he cocked a brow at her, "Charlotte, do I need to warm your lovely arse again?"

She blushed darkly at the reminder of their actions and even worse felt her walls clench in anticipation. At his chuckle, she sharply turned to the door again. Without giving herself time to think her actions through, she undid the lace of her mask and threw it back towards his bed before bolting out the door. He never had a chance to see her face.

It was only as he reached to grab the memento, that he noticed the blood. He stiffened and drew his fingers over the wet spot. He hadn't thought he had been that rough and she hadn't mentioned any undo pain to him. It was only as he replayed their affair that he remembered her tentativeness in touching him initially, the curiosity that had burned in her gaze... all that he had taken as an act of well-played coyness. Gods, it hadn't been an act. She had been truly innocent.

He quickly scampered for his trousers and leapt for the door, concern, and sudden possessiveness rearing within him. He wanted no one else to see her as he had or touch her. Odd considering, he wasn't even fully sure what she looked like, but it was too late... she was already gone.

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#charles brandon #charles brandon fanfiction #charles brandon fic #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #duke of suffolk #anthony knivert #henry cavill #tudors fanfiction #tudors fanfic #the tudors #The Wiles of Men and Women

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barnesandco · 4 years ago

Text

White Feathers and Melting Wax

Bucky’s trigger words are redefined with Sam’s help.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Word count: 7029. Square filled: “Mutual Pining”

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood, questionable food preferences (blame Hasan Minhaj), slight language, nightmares, slow burn, fluff that will make your teeth ache, cliche ending.

A/N: This one is dedicated to @searchingforbucky because I saw her post something about how much she loves SamBucky, which gave me an idea for my SSB, and one thing led to another, so long story short, this story is for you, Meg. Thank you for providing an invaluable and unimaginably difficult service to our fanfic community - you’re a real gem.

It’s Armageddon. Hell on Earth, as if its crust has been made to split open, and all that fury and heat and horror, alongside creatures that nobody could conjure in their worst nightmares, is pouring out. Taking revenging for millenium upon millenium of imprisonment, it is biting and scratching and clawing its way through the best of humanity, bringing out the worst of humanity – the murder, the anger, the rage – in the process. Wakandan skies, once bluer than the surface of Lake Tiorati on a July day, are raining ash and smolder.

Sam’s arm is bleeding. A particularly agile alien caught the bared portion of his bicep – stupid, stupid, uniform design – and blood drips as he tries to increase his altitude, and find a better angle. Steve notices him from over the shoulder of his own opponent – of course he does, Steve never misses anything – and frowns in a moment of concern that the enemy recuperates in, because Sam is now a more visible target, but he is also good at math. The risk-benefit calculations are telling him that it’s worth it, and the glint of gun-metal fingers he sees in the distance, the owner of which is struggling to cope with half a dozen demons, confirms that.

Barnes is doing the best he can, teeth bared as he attempts to fend them off with a very impressive, but near-empty machine gun and a dagger that’s doing more harm than good. Moments away from defeat, and from an unholy death. His hair is nothing but a second skin sticking to his face and scalp with sweat and monster slobber. Should’ve tied it back, Rapunzel, Sam has time to think before landing in the thick of it. Growls and roars and snarls mix as he manages to join backs with Barnes, both at each other’s six, until nobody can tell which battle cries are animal and which are human. He must be longing for a fight like the one at Leipzig now.

Within minutes, the horde has thinned, but not ended, seemingly infinite in magnitude and strength, and they’re still fighting. The pain from his arm has dulled to an aching throb, lulled into faint numbness by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and has joined the other innumerable wounds that litter his body. He can hear Barnes’ gun behind him, like bass-boosted fireworks. It’s a square dance – an intuitive one rather than practiced, because he knows his partner as well as he knows what else the cosmos might hold for them - his back against Barnes’ as they parry and spar with each of their individual opponents. A twist and a turn, a lucky, peripheral glimpse at someone trying to blindside the other resulting in as short a tight-lipped nod as they can afford to convey their gratitude.

Sam’s stomach is sinking, he wants to throw up in the face of the evil creature he’s fighting; the scent of ozone an impending warning. They seem to have understood that the winged man and his metal-armed companion are a threat, and a ring of them has coordinated to close in around them. Sam finds a gap in which to press the for emergencies only button on his control panel at the same time as Barnes’ unleashes a series of small grenades in his arm.

The wings leave Sam’s back and turn to lethal blades, spinning like a deadly boomerang around them, and his ears ring when the grenades detonate. In the eye of the storm, Sam and Barnes are safe, but shooting adrenaline-deaf and fear-blind, the battle overcoming their every sense and soul. When the smoke clears, there is a moment of quiet amidst the terror, where sparrow brown meets ice blue, framed by blood spatter, and they quirk the sort of intrinsic, basic, smile at each other that can only emerge from overcoming something inexplicably tremendous as one unit. But then the moment ends.

Barnes shouts – an unintelligible sound of shock - and the sky cracks like an egg.

---

Bucky wakes up in an open field, the sky the color of egg yolks, golden, glistening, nourishing. For a moment, he thinks he’s still in Wakanda, the threat miraculously eliminated, but then he gathers enough strength to sit up and note the absence of obsidian skyscrapers in the distance. He can’t evaluate any other landmarks before his eyes lower to the ground he’s lying on and realize that he’s not alone. Scores of bodies litter the grass; his stomach flips and writhes, and he turns onto his hands and knees and heaves up the contents of today’s – is it still today? – breakfast. Closes his eyes to shut in the water that elicits. When he opens his eyes, the vomit is gone.

Moreover, his hands are clean. Not a trace of blood, dirt, and death on the metal or the accents that run across it like tributaries of a golden river, nor on the white skin of his human limbs. In fact, it looks like it’s been scrubbed pink, his epithelium infused with roses. There is no risk of tears now, the surprise so visceral he knows not how to treat it. It doesn’t lessen when something stirs, in the corner of his eye, and he stills the scream in his larynx just long enough to recognize the shape of Sam Wilson, his dark-brown skin shimmering topaz in the sunlight they seem to be laying in. A sigh of relief – intuitive, subconscious - loosens Bucky’s shoulders. He’s not as alone as he might have thought. Sam is confused, too, and he stands up quickly, reaching for a gun that isn’t there.

Bucky waits, knowing better than to scare him as he reorients himself, and watches as Sam grapples with the black trousers and shirt he finds himself wearing instead of the weapons he’s seeking. Others move, and Bucky – not knowing where this cold peace that fills his lungs is coming from – finds it prudent to speak up now.

“Wilson,” is still all he can say, but it’s enough. That one word, two syllables, six letters – sufficient to erase the taste of rusted blood from his mouth. Sam turns to him as others call for their loved ones, the amber gold of his irises meeting his icy ones. Bucky doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know how he got here, he’s so tired dammit, but if this man – this man who has defied law and land for the people he trusts and the values he holds, this man who he knows nothing about besides the fact that he has a moral compass like the North Star – if this man has his six, they can fight their way out. Sam’s eyes and Bucky’s brain tell him that this isn’t heaven or hell or purgatory. They’ve both seen too many prison walls to not recognize more, be they grey concrete, the insides of their own skulls, or a vaulted arch of sunshine above their heads.

---

Clouds have built and gone grey-black, iron heavy, and are preparing to mourn the loss of a good man, but not a single tear escapes Sam’s eyes the day they bury Steve. Old, feeble, fulfilled Steve, that is, who passed on to wherever noble souls go. Bucky couldn’t make himself give the eulogy, so it was, like the mantle of Captain America, passed on to Sam. Sam, who has spent every other day of the past year on the porch of his house with Steve’s wisdom and wit, and knew him better than Bucky who forced himself to make a trip every week.

Bucky, who now stands in front of his tombstone, head bowed and brow furrowed, couldn’t make himself reconcile this Steve with the one he knew. Sam doesn’t fault him that, would never give himself any right to. They’ve all seen some shit, but he can’t bring himself to even touch the tip of the iceberg that weighs on his companion’s shoulders. He’s tied his hair back into a bun at the nape of his neck, chestnut waves tamed to an orderly presentation. Domestic, even. Sam looks behind him and through the graveyard gate at the sound of a car door shutting, as Sharon gets behind the wheel and smiles at him, her own tears long gone, before making her departure.

Intentions to give Bucky his silent farewell are also interrupted by that background sound, and he turns to look at Sam, whose heart leaps to his throat at the sight of him. He’s been seeing him all day, but the veil of public appearance has fallen, and Bucky – Sam reprimands himself for the morbid comparison – now looks like as much of a skeleton above the ground as those under it. He’s pale, eyes not hollow but sad. His hands clench and unclench, reflexively, protectively, drawing Sam’s gaze. Those knuckles must be sore with how tightly the ghost-white skin over them is stretched. Sam’s own hands are in his pockets, and he looks back at Bucky with the warmth of seventeen bonfires.

A desperate attempt, futile in result and heavy in empathy, to ease some of the hurt, the hurricane that Sam is certain is throwing Bucky’s insides around like a rag doll. Bucky’s recovering, he’s better now, he’s working to be alright, and it’s working, but climbing the glaciers of his trauma is a Herculean task. Which, now that Sam thinks about it, can only be accomplished one step at a time, like any other. Ice melts a drop at a time.

“Hey, man, how are you feeling?” He says, approaching him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. To anyone else, the question might seem insensitive – his best friend, or this new version of him – has just been buried, of course he’s not feeling good, but their language is like that. Straightforward. Blunt and no-nonsense, but layered with understanding that has come to be through shared experiences and an emotional connection that speaks more between them than any words they exchange. Bucky turns back towards the tombstone, and Sam, too, looks at the epithet of Steven Grant Rogers, beloved husband, father, and friend. Human, not superhuman, in the end, the way they all want to be. They way they long to be acknowledged as.

“I’ll be alright, Sam. Just a little confused,” he answers eventually, after a long-suffering sigh. Sam is relieved, because the hope in Bucky’s voice is the best he could want to hear. And the fact that even now, when articulating what he feels must be the hardest thing in the world, he still manages to, as honestly as he can. Honesty is the beacon Sam’s heart searches for, and he’s found it here. It’s incomplete sometimes, and offered in brief words because Bucky isn’t always fond of sharing, but it’s always the truth.

“Me, too. Me. Too.” Sam nods in agreement, thinking of the muddle of thoughts and prayers and desires in his mind, as the first drop of rain falls from a steely sky, washing away old wounds, cleansing their skins for new ones.

---

The mass of blue-black ink that is the night sky is the first witness when Bucky starts writhing under his sheets.

He’s stuck in the cold. Not the glass walls of the cryochamber he knows so intimately, no, he’s buried in snow up to his neck. The unending scene of the icy mountainside stretches out before him, like a postcard from a nightmare, and he can’t move. Tries to wiggle his toes, and the snow bites and nips at his feet. Hands are frozen to his sides, and the panic starts to claw at his chest. Icicles seem to have wedged their way between his ribs, and pain sears through his abdomen.

He screams. An echo. He screams louder, hot tears turning to ice halfway down his cheeks. He screa-

Eyes the color of the first hour of daybreak appear inches from his sweat-stained and misery-sodden face, and he sits up, almost hitting Sam’s head with his own. His breathing is broken, every inhale cuts at the inside of his lungs, and every exhale tears at his trachea. Sam, trying to fix that, takes Bucky’s clammy hand in his calloused, safe one, places it over his chest.

“Breathe with me, c’mon,” he urges in a midnight rasp, exaggerates his breaths, and Bucky follows the movements he is making. Follows the way Sam’s bare chest, dusted silver by moonlight, rises to accommodate the air he takes in. Follows Sam’s eyes, the silent plea they convey to do as he does, holding that breath. Follows the release, pretends that he can hear the breath traverse his trachea, and exit his lips as his mouth parts to release it. Bucky’s calmer now, eyes fixated on how Sam’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips, the lush pillows of light brown now shining wet. It’s only when they start moving that Bucky’s gaze returns to Sam’s eyes, and his words reach his ears.

“You haven’t had one that bad in ages.” It’s a fact. A statement, an accurate observation, but because few serious words ever go wasted between them, it is also an open assertion. An invitation for Bucky to say more, with the option to nod and agree left on the table.

“Yeah, it was. I’ll be alright, though, Sammy. Thanks,” he responds, and Sam nods warily. Sits back on his haunches, knees digging into the mattress.

“Good. Do you, uh…” He scratches the back of his head. “Do you want me to stay?” He asks, and Bucky is suddenly, keenly aware of how close they are. He swings his legs over the edge and stands on shaky knees, hiding the blush that originated from fear and adrenaline and has been maintained by something he can’t name or explain. A nervous laugh as he makes his way to his dresser and pulls out a fresh pair of sweats.

“No, no, I’m going running. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep right now, and it’s almost dawn anyway.” Bucky waits in front of his bathroom door. Hears Sam get up and make for the door.

“Alright, Bucky. I’d go with you-“

“You pulled that muscle yesterday, yeah. It’s okay, don’t worry about me,” Bucky says, and when the door shuts behind Sam, rushes to the bathroom to wash off the watercolor that interaction painted across his cheeks. Gripping the granite vanity with both hands, he watches it drip off, eyes radiating a bewildering plethora of emotions. Hears the nightingale depart from his bedroom windowsill, and fly off into the night.

---

It’s a beautiful morning, punctuated by the dot of the golden, glowing Sun in the distance, but Sam doesn’t have it in him to appreciate the first sunshine after a spell of rain. Sam is disgusted. Horrified, mortified, petrified by this new development. He didn’t think the former Winter Soldier could get any scarier when he wanted to be, but he has grossly underestimated the cruel ways of his best friend. Anyone without a direct line of sight into the cereal bowl in front of Bucky would not know what he’s so upset about. But Sam, standing at the stove on the kitchen island across from Bucky, watches in horror as the latter lifts a spoonful of dry-as-the-Sahara-desert Froot Loops to his mouth, chews, and then takes a sip from a glass of milk.

To say that Sam regrets introducing Bucky to sweet breakfast cereals in an effort to sate his incurable sweet tooth is a severe understatement. When Bucky had disapprovingly forced down soggy, sweet Froot Loops the morning before, and grumbled about the disgusting experience for the rest of the day, Sam did not think that this would be the solution. He thought he’d be forced to finish off the rest of the box, and dreaded the toothache that would follow.

“I’m eating it like this, or not at all.” Bucky finally addresses the outrage written all over Sam.

“I think I prefer not at all,” he says gravely, his tone out of sync with the cheery scent of sunny-side-up eggs that his words waft across to reach Bucky.

“Too late, I love these,” Bucky says through another mouthful of dry cereal. He’s intentionally pushing as many buttons as he can at one time, a master at multitasking his way to maximum irritation. Sam shudders. Puts his eggs on a plate and goes to sit down next to Bucky at the island, one stool between them. Saturday mornings after a good night and a better workout are a good look on Bucky, as much as he hates to admit it.

Aureate beams of bubbling sunlight illuminate his side profile, his cheekbones glowing rose-gold and light dispersing through a bead of water that slides down his temple. All of a sudden, Sam isn’t hungry anymore. The last bite of his first egg feels like clay in his mouth, and he empties his glass of water in one go. Bucky looks up from his almost-empty bowl – thank God it’s almost over - and looks at Sam with concern. It takes all of Sam’s power, and then some, to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s teeth biting into his pink lower lip, and up to his blue eyes.

“You okay, man?” He asks, and Sam nods.

“It’s nothing, just got lost in thought,” he answers, and he’s being truthful. Doesn’t know what came over him, just that the slow surveillance of Bucky’s features led him down a different path than it usually does. They’ve always watched each other cautiously, know each other’s movements with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if the haven’t known each other for centuries rather than years, a couple of which were spent in animosity. Bucky’s eyes flit between his again, and they find nothing to prod at further, so he returns to his cereal.

Sam hurries to finish his breakfast and clean up after himself, before heading back to his room with a half-coherent excuse and a heat in his cheeks too hot to be caused by morning sunshine. Thanks God for melanin and for intimate knowledge of the super-soldier hearing range on his way down to the garage.

The rumble of the car’s engine is a relief, and the first breath he takes off the premises of the compound even more so. A little guilt nibbles at him, but it would’ve eaten him alive if he didn’t know that Bucky intended to work on the plans for the library today, and so he keeps driving.

Sam isn’t stupid. That furnace warmth, the magnetic way Bucky’s being drew his gaze, it’s unmistakable. In his sound head and solid heart, he knows what it is. And that’s why his heart is beating so fast, why it won’t take a goddamn break around those blue eyes and sunny smile. Sam is too self aware to be too stupid, too blind to his feelings. He’s just nervous. A cup of coffee from his favorite place downtown won’t do much to settle, but it will give him room. And he needs room.

Because Sam has never done this before. Never acted on feelings for someone who he can’t afford to lose. Maybe, the risk-benefit balance is not tipping in his favor. However, he can’t say for sure, if he knows what result is in his favor anymore. Is the torment of this schoolboy crush worth not risking his friendship?

Sam exhales through his teeth, and looks out the window. Decides to go flying when he gets back in order to clear his head. Maybe that canopy made from blue satin holds the answers.

---

Birds are chirping on the balcony railing, their silky brown bodies picturesquely contrasting against the cottony blue sky behind them. Pretty enough to frame, and Bucky commits another scene to memory that he might want to paint some day. Closes his belt buckle and then picks up the brush but does a double take at the reflection that looks back at him from the dressing table mirror.

He looks healthier than he has in years, but that’s not what’s remarkable. No, it’s the length of his hair. The brown waves reach his collarbones, and he runs his hand through it with a huff, putting down the brush and leaving his room. Sam’s in the living room, and he can hear Earth, Wind, and Fire playing from down the hall. He enters the room to see Sam lounging on the sofa with a laptop in his hand.

“Hey, Sammy, you busy?” He asks, walking up to him. Sam looks up, turns the music down.

“No. Why, what’s up?” He says, placing the laptop down next to him, and Bucky sees that he was online shopping for clothes.

“I need you to cut my hair,” he tells him, sitting down on the sofa. Sam blinks. Once, twice, thrice. His face splits in a toothy grin of agreement, and it disarms Bucky so much that he forgets completely to be angry at the smug look on his face.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to ruin your hair, Rapunzel, but are you sure you don’t wanna go to a barber?”

“Yes. You do it.” Bucky nods assuredly, willfully ignoring the nickname, relieved to be rid of it soon, too, but hoping that Sam will know, unspoken, what he is trying to say. He’s gotten better around people, around strangers, but he doesn’t trust them. Not with sharp objects, and especially not with handling sharp objects in such proximity to him. And there’s a part of him, perhaps the old romantic, the one who is just a little on the sentimental side, that prefers for such a change – small though it may seem, it speaks magnitudes to someone who craves stability now – to be made by the person he is closest to. So Bucky is grateful, when that person, Sam, agrees, with a nod back.

Fifteen minutes sees them in Bucky’s bathroom, him sitting on a stool in front of the vanity, a towel over his shoulders, and Sam behind him with scissors. He lifts the spray bottle from the counter with his free hand and spritzes Bucky’s hair. It’s cold, refreshing, and gentle stray drops land on his face. Bucky’s hands are clenching around his knees, red fingerprints growing darker on the skin just below where his shorts end. It took him two summers to feel comfortable enough to wear those. Sam has a matching pair.

He raises the scissors to the side of Bucky’s head, just by his right ear, opens them, and then pauses. Moves to the back instead, raises the scissors, stops again. A heavy sigh ruffles Bucky’s hair, and he looks at Sam’s reflection. He looks back.

“I don’t know where to start, man. I have no clue what to do with this,” Sam says, exasperated already, gesturing towards Bucky’s head with one hand and almost running the other over his own head before remembering the scissors he still holds in it. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but throws him a look up and over his shoulder that seems to say You think I do?

Shaking his head, Sam starts again. Bucky closes his eyes, his body hairs standing on edge as the scissors start clipping. A coarse, large, warm hand rests on the back of his neck to steady his head, the point of contact burning.

“I think it’s short enough to use the machine,” he whispers, as if conveying a holy secret. He turns on the clippers and soon, the buzzing sound fills the room. Bucky doesn’t reopen his eyes, lets Sam trim the edges short on the sides and back, and keep it a little longer on the top, as per their pre-determined plan of action.

He starts running his fingers across Bucky’s scalp as he’s finishing up and making the final touches, and every nerve ending of his lights up. When Sam announces that he’s done, and Bucky’s lungs collapse and then swell like balloons at the sight of his new appearance, and his eyes meet Sam’s, the world stops.

They’re inches apart, once again. Eye to eye, nose to nose. Heart to beating, fluttering heart. Thank you’s are glued to his tongue and his tongue is paralyzed in his mouth, his mouth dry and wanting. He counts nine heartbeats, and begins to lean in on the tenth, but the eleventh brings the obnoxiously loud sound of his phone ringing from the bedroom, and the bubble bursts.

Bucky answers Peter’s call with less concern than he usually does, the affection and mentorship for the teenager overshadowed by the almost-moment. The one that makes him want to scream into the New York skyline.

---

Flaming red hair reaches as far as Sam’s eyes are concerned, accentuated by the backdrop of the setting sun, an unusual hour for sparring, but a crucial one today. Nat is visiting from the European headquarters in Budapest, where she is SHIELD’s head of the region. It’s a calmer job, safer than Avengers duty, but she works herself to the bone and lets out her frustration in the gun range or the sparring mat, with the latter making for better quality time with her teammate today. Not that Sam’s much for competition right now, and she doesn’t mince moves or waste time. He puts up as much of a fight as he can, but she has him on the ground in fifteen minutes. A new record.

She helps him up and he passes her her water bottle in return as the sit on the mat. Her outstretched legs prod at his knees.

“You were off your game, Wilson,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know. As if he doesn’t know he was too busy counting days since Bucky’s haircut to counter her moves. It’s been twelve, and every hour exponentially increases the tangible awkwardness between them.

“Distracted.” Sam shrugs truthfully. Nat’s laugh isn’t cruel or taunting, but teasing and friendly, a lightweight windchime.

“Yeah, I can tell. Want to tell me why?” She asks, with another sip from her bottle.

“Like you don’t already know,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. Tilting her head, she looks at him like a curious robin. Like she’s trying to pluck out the secrets like wildflowers in his head.

“I just know it has something to do with Barnes. You can hardly look at each other.” She says, giving him her hand to take off the boxing tape, and he picks at the edge it’s bound at. Tries to ignore the piercing stare she’s focusing on his head.

Once the tape is off, he tries to drink from his bottle again. His throat is parched, and he doesn’t think it has much to do with the exercise any longer. Natasha’s stare turns to a glare, but eventually, she seems to relent, trying at another joke.

“What, did you kiss him?” She murmurs, reaching for her bottle. Sam sputters, water going in his windpipe, and Nat’s eyes widen as she watches him cough and cough and cough. “Are you serious? Oh my God, Sam, did you really?”

“No, no, no, shit, no. That’s crazy, Nat,” he says, standing and starting to powerwalk to the showers but Nat follows quickly, light on her feet and heavy with her questions.

“Then what was that for?” Nat asks, pointing towards the mat where he just had that undue coughing fit. Shit. Keep digging your own grave, Wilson, keep digging.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine,” he says, and she quirks an eyebrow. Crosses her arms. He’s known Nat for too long and too well to not be entirely aware that talking to her is for his best. And Sam is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. He follows her back to the mat like a lost puppy, and consoles himself with the fact that he’s reduced a master assassin to near-gossip.

“Well?”

So he tells her. Sam picks at the mat with bitten fingernails as he relays the tale of the five years of pragmatic planning and professionalism under imprisonment in the Soul Stone, during which they talked little but shop and pretended not to see the fear in each other.

Sam avoids Nat’s emerald gaze while he tells her about the first year as Captain America, with the weight of the mantle so heavy that Bucky became the crutch he leaned on, a super-soldier it took everything to put back into the world.

Sam closes his eyes when he recalls Steve’s funeral, and the instant he decided that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a miracle, he was one of the most beautiful people Sam had ever met.

Sam watches the punching bags sway while talking about the warmth that spreads like bushfire whenever Bucky is near, but also about how he is at his coolest and calmest next to him, because he gets him.

Sam sees the sky transition from peach to indigo telling Nat about the moment in the bathroom, where that emotional connection almost manifested itself physically, and how those feelings that he thought were benign became dangerous, boiling under the surface, and how he doesn’t know whether to bury them, or set them free.

---

Icarus. The legend of Icarus and his melting wings, his broken body drowning is the first thing to enter Bucky's mind as the quinjet lands on the helicarrier and Sam is wheeled out on a stretcher and rushed to Dr. Cho's cradle. A trail of blood follows, dripping slowly despite the medics' attentions, and that's what seals Bucky's trance. He doesn't have answers for Hill or Fury - it's a morbid game of Hansel and Gretel, right up to the entrance of the medical wing.

The sterile whites and greys, alongside the vague hum or nurses barring his entry into the trauma bay and Fury's raging demands for answers are secondary sensations. Lost behind the veil. He has to watch through the glass as Sam is put in the cradle, but there’s so much blood. The Director and Assistant Director talk calmly now, suggesting that Bucky get his own wounds checked, but he is blind to their concerns, so they give him the space they see he needs.

It takes an hour to heal Sam. A torturous, unending hour, that has Bucky pacing across the floor, smearing blood and mud across pristine tiles, his mind humming so loud he can’t hear himself think. When it’s over, he has just enough presence to follow Sam’s unconscious body as it’s wheeled to a recovery room, where he sits at his bedside.

However, he doesn’t stay seated for long. Can’t look at his friend’s wounded form, helpless and undoubtedly in screaming pain, although he may not feel it. His body does, and he will feel it when he’s awake. Bucky stands and moves to look out the window. Absently, he scrapes at the clots of blood drying under his nails and in between the panels of his other arm. Part of him recalls the term dissociation, used by his SHIELD appointed psychiatrist, and the consequent recovery techniques. An alert corner of his subconscious is grateful that these episodes aren't as frequent any more. Or as debilitating, most of the time. Just… distracting, with the fog that pierces his ears and diffuses inside his skull until he's numb. Weightless. Recovery techniques. Right. Touch, taste, smell, sound, sight. Glass and metal, blood and sand, jet fuel, whirring engines; open, open, sky.

Bucky likes the sky. Likes to watch clouds form, transform into something new, drift onwards to a better place. A better view than he must present. The infinite stretch of blue. Sometimes, he paints his own clouds on the sky in his mind's eye, but right now that canvas is dripping red - fists clench tight above his thighs - dripping red, white, and blue, Sam is dripping red, white, and blue, and he's falling, Icarus to the ocean.

Falling, falling, falling.

Oh.

Bucky jerks upright. Shakes his head, wipes a blood stained strand of hair back. Forces air into his lungs - it's thinner up here, colder, too, so he has to focus, feel the bite, good - and then: clarity.

He remembers where he is, the smoothness of tiles under his feet, the sweat sodden uniform sticking to his skin, the physicalities of his position return, as does the feel of his beating heart. But there's something new in the way it hammers against his ribs. Something gentler, that prompts a flutter of intrigue, until he realizes what it is, until he can name the newborn emotion screaming to be heard inside his heart.

Hot forehead against cold glass. Hot tears on hotter cheeks. Bucky lets them fall as he tries to face the sky again.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he tells the clouds. Not because he doesn’t want to be in love, or because he is love with a man instead of a woman, or because said man is Sam Wilson, but because it’s just so inconvenient. Because there is no happiness to be found in lives like these, and because it is an impossibility that a man with a heart as pristine a golden could want one with bruises and stains that stretch across every inch of skin. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

And he swears he can hear his Ma answer from the sky: Why of course, you didn’t, my baby boy. No one ever does. Doesn’t mean it isn’t right, or meant to be so. The universe has a way with these things. Knows how to put people together, just like a starling knows to hide her nest from crows. It’s nature, James.

Nobody’s called him James since Winnifred Barnes. Nobody ever will. But “Bucky” doesn’t sound so bad coming from Sam’s voice. Returning to his bedside and slumping into the chair, Bucky hopes he’ll only live long enough to tell him so.

Bucky, post-war, post-Winter Soldier, doesn’t know all that much about fate or the universe, nor does he know a thing about love, but he knows homecoming. And Sam, his eyelashes delicate against skin like gold poured over tourmaline, is home.

All resistance leaves Bucky with a muted sigh. It’s like he can feel the adrenaline, the fight-or-flight, both physical and emotional, evaporate when he takes in the expression of calm that has washed over Sam’s features. He takes half a dozen deep, deep breaths. Allows the oxygen to cleanse him from the inside out, and now, he has enough presence of mind to feel the exhaustion entering his bones. Aside from the scrape on his cheek, none of the blood on his being is his own. He should clean up, he knows that, but he thinks he’ll throw up if he tries to stand up again, so he breathes instead. Breathes in the fact that Sam is alive like he needs that statement to live. So that he doesn’t forget it, and wake up screaming - wouldn’t be the first time - he imprints it into his memory.

Only then do his shoulders stop guarding his neck, relaxing and hitting the back of the chair he’s sat on. The air conditioner whirrs on, and Sam’s breaths are puffs of cotton in the air, that if Bucky focuses enough on, he can envision as clouds. Clouds that turn to sheep, sheep that he counts, and it doesn’t take many of them before he is fast asleep.

---

The day Happy and May get married, Sam almost asks Bucky for a dance, under a starlit sky that twinkles like fairy lights. The months since his injury have been better than those before, contrasting a new smile, and a lighter face, against the tangible sense of will-we-won’t-we. They’re still tense, still have moments where they can’t read each other, still almost talk about it, but their companionship has returned.

This is obvious in the grin Bucky throws him with a roll of his eyes over Nat’s shoulder, as Sam twirls May around like he’s trying to make her nauseous. The poor bride tolerates his hijinks for all of one song before politely excusing herself, as does Nat, pretending that Bucky hasn’t gotten better at dancing again after practicing for months on end. She throws Sam a wink as she leaves the dance floor, and Sam swallows before turning tail and going to get a drink, leaving Bucky to find another dance partner. He quells a bubble of his own nausea as a wonderful girl – Annie something, from May’s work – tries to ask for a dance. To his surprise, Bucky refuses, and then Sam feels guilty for the cheer that goes up in him.

It’s short-lasting, overwhelmed once again by the anxiety that comes with interacting with Bucky. Sometimes, he thinks he sees roses bloom under Bucky’s footstep, the scent of him so alluring. At others, like now, the weight of his gaze is so heavy, he thinks he should drown under it if he doesn’t release the secret in his chest. If he doesn’t tell Bucky that he remembers waking up in that hellicarrier holding an asleep Bucky’s hand, with an asleep Bucky’s lips pressed to the back of his own. And that he liked it.

“It’s a nice party,” he says, tipping back the champagne flute in his hand. He can’t get drunk, and it takes large sips for him to even feel the spark in his throat, the movement exposing a stretch of slender, soft skin. It’s a matter of milliseconds, barely one breath, but Sam’s mouth is dry, useless but for a nod of agreement with a survey of the hall. Nat is wiggling her eyebrows at him from across the dance floor, and Bucky has to repeat his name twice to regain his attention, something that he immediately loses to the color of Bucky’s eyes upon turning towards him. He breaks eye contact and looks away again with another nod.

“Yeah, yeah, it was a great day. I’m really happy for those two,” Sam says honestly, gesturing towards the bride and groom, who are chatting away with Pepper.

“So you’re happy for Happy?” Bucky murmurs and Sam snorts, downing his glass, and shaking his head.

“Ha ha ha, what are you, twelve?”

“You may have to check my birth certificate to find out,” he deadpans, and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose as Bucky cackles. He glares at him, but soon, the corner of Bucky’s eyes crinkling while the sound of his laughter echoes comes into alarming focus against May and Happy swaying in the background, and Sam doesn’t need to wonder what it’s like to feel so much joy and such magnanimous love from someone that you decide to bind yourself to them forever. In fact, Sam decided a long time ago that Bucky was the one person he couldn’t live without any longer. The only difference now is that the emotions that went into that definition have changed. The twinkling sky winks down at him, as if to reaffirm that that realization is correct, and to tell him that he’s on the right path.

---

The city of New York stretches out through the window before them, buildings piercing the dusk that is settling above, and Bucky and Sam sit against the freshly dried paint in the living room of Bucky’s childhood home. It has taken four years after the Blip, four years of newfound stability, of recovery and building up and breaking down and defining his life for his own, to come back to what his life used to be. He thought it only fitting that the man who played the most invaluable part in helping him to his feet be with him at the most magnificent landmark of his progress, of his new life.

The building had, wondrously, been the same one, in that it hadn’t been demolished and rebuilt, only thoroughly renovated. Bucky had bought it several months ago, and Sam had instantly been enraptured by the idea of rebuilding this apartment. Only the furniture remains now, the empty rooms freshly painted and smelling of paint and paper, sawdust and sandalwood and sweat. Bucky looks over at Sam as he closes his eyes, and watches the sunset light his skin like honey on dark silk. Glimmering, glowing.

It hits him like a freight car. The notion that even though his life has been longer than most, it is too short to abandon what you love. Bucky is scared. He’s been scared his whole life. He was scared to go to war that first time, he was scared for his life when he was captured, he was scared for Steve when he went after Hydra, he was scared when he became Hydra, he was scared. And angry. And he doesn’t want to be any longer, even if the alternative is regret and shame. Those would still be new emotions.

That’s what has him turning to Sam, the rustle of his jeans alerting him so he opens his eyes. A question swimming in their content depths. Bucky answers it.

“I love you, Sam,” he says, heart in his throat. Sam gulps, like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to, that there are words lodged in his throat that he longs to set free, and Bucky tells him he knows what they are already. Doesn’t need the words spoken, now or ever, when they’re so visible in how Sam can do nothing but lift his hands and cups his face in them. The I love you, too, is folded like a hidden love note between their lips, passed to Bucky when they meet, and Sam moves his mouth like flower petals over glass. Bucky kisses back. He kisses back harder, tilts his head so they’re like puzzle pieces, his heartbeat taking flight. When they stop, the sky is as pink as roses, the gold accent wall behind them is smoldering, glowering with light. Their foreheads rest against each other’s, Bucky’s hand rests over Sam’s to hold him there, and they fit together like the stars fit in the sky.

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#ayesha writes #SSB2020 #bucky barnes #sam wilson #sam wilson x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x sam wilson #sambucky #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #fanfic

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disgraceddogstar · 4 years ago

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Sirius Orion Black III

birthday: november 3rd house: gryffindor blood status: pureblood loyalty: order of the phoenix clubs: astronomy, astronomy homework, dueling zodiac: scorpio mbti: enfp-t (campaigner) alignment: chaotic good

✓ Humor ——- “Did you like question ten, Moony?”

He is barking laughter and poorly timed jokes, puns upon puns - seriously. A grin as wide as the day is long, carefree and easy. Light in the black of war; white sheep in the Black family. His good humor has covered him and carried him through all that he’s seen. It’s as much a shield for himself as it is those with whom he surrounds himself.

✓ Loyal ——- “Died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!”

He is fierce, heart full for those he holds dear. Not many are kept that close, but there is no hesitation when asked to give his life. Warmth and comfort, in the crook of his smile and the corners of his eyes. Brilliance and steadfast companionship: a dog is man’s best friend.

✓/✕ Strong-Minded | Judgemental ——- “Besides, the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside us.”

He is a tree rooted to the earth, tall and proud. Unmoving and firm against the hailing storm. Beliefs, unwavering, unwilling to hear. Opposition is wrong, and he knows it as well as he knows the stories written in the night sky. He is strong-willed and stubborn; a brick wall would be more receptive. He thinks himself open-minded, but it is only another belief.

✕ Impulsive ——- “What is life without a little risk?”

He is snap decisions made in the heat of the moment. Turbulent and emotional, judgement shifts as easily as debris caught in the tide. Words, biting, leaving scars as easily as laughter erases them from his mind. Passing thoughts in an endless stream of chaos - why waste time paying mind to outcomes when you can just act?

✕ Rebellious ——- “There are things worth dying for!”

He is 2 am, leather, and a mess of discarded liquor bottles scattered about the floor. Blood-kissed knuckles and knuckle-kissed jaw. Smirks and sighs toppling from carved lips. Caught in a tempest, winds whipping his hair about his face, unable to see, blindly stumbling along, deafening roars threaten to consume him - one foot in front of the other. Raw magic crackling in the air, electricity against your skin; a beautiful sight when it implodes.

headcanons: (tw: mania, depression, alcohol, slurs, mentions of dysphoria, mentions of abuse)

Patronus: It’s commonplace that a Patronus will match a witch or wizard’s Animagus form, if they happen to be such, and Sirius is no exception. His Patronus takes the form of a dog, matching that of his Animagus counterpart: a bear-like German Shepherd. German Shepherds are known for being intelligent, loyal, and fiercely over-protective. Any close friend of his would attest to the fact that Sirius exemplifies those qualities. He is a bright wizard, and he would do anything for those he cares about.

Wand: As badly as Sirius sometimes wishes his wand was made from Dogwood (think of the irony! the puns! the beauty of the universe!), he was chosen by a Cypress wood wand with a Dragon Heartstring core, 15 inches, rigid.

“Cypress wands are associated with nobility. The great medieval wandmaker, Geraint Ollivander, wrote that he was always honoured to match a cypress wand, for he knew he was meeting a witch or wizard who would die a heroic death. Fortunately, in these less blood-thirsty times, the possessors of cypress wands are rarely called upon to lay down their lives, though doubtless many of them would do so if required. Wands of cypress find their soul mates among the brave, the bold and the self-sacrificing: those who are unafraid to confront the shadows in their own and others’ natures.”

Sirius won’t think about the wandlore behind cypress wands and their masters dying a heroic death until the fleeting, infinite moment in which he begins to fall in the Department of Mysteries. He will think it ironic, then, that his death is hardly heroic at all; that, naturally, James and Lily had far more heroic deaths than him. (He will also think about finally, finally reuniting with them again, and he will think of how sorry he is for leaving Remus and Harry behind, but James, here I come.)

“As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.”

It is of interest to note that dragon wands tend to be easily swayed towards the Dark Arts. Sirius thinks it should be noted, and then he will tell it to fuck right off, thank you very much. He knows that, had things gone just a little differently, he wouldn’t have had any difficulty using Dark Magic; in fact, he’d have been rather adept at it. Sirius laughs at the notion - and would like to tell the Dark Lord that he can fuck right off, too.

Sirius is a very quick learner. He is intelligent and, when he puts his mind to a task, he is able to stay determined and focused. Magic runs strong in his veins, so it’s only natural he be paired with a wand that is able to keep up with him and his raw power. That being said, however, Sirius’ magic is - too often - unpredictable. It has been since he was a child, and he still experiences outbursts of unintentional magic when his emotions get the better of him; the dragon wand nurtures his accidental magic, at times.

&--------Little Lion Man

He is named for the Dog Star, the most brilliant star in the sky, visible from anywhere on Earth - an actuality he embraces and carries with him from the moment he is able to understand its meaning. Ancient namings signify he is scorching, sparkling, bringing destruction and rebirth. He is important, and his name informs everyone of such.

But he is the point of Canis Major, a hunting dog, ever looking towards his master, Orion. Later, he would think it ironic that he was intended to obediently follow the hunter across the sky. When he was young, though, he did follow his father, his master, with wide eyes and a thirst to learn, to emulate. He did, after all, carry his father’s name as one of his own. He thought it only right that he be his hunter. He learned quickly enough to leave Orion Black be.

His name embraces the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black - a reality he despises when he is older. He is taught to believe that to be a Black, to be a Pureblood is to be royalty. He believes it.

He spends the majority of his childhood being trained to be the perfect Pureblood heir, to be the perfect Black. He attends many Pureblood-only balls and events, and is taught the proper way to mingle with other Purebloods. He learns manners and etiquette, and he is expected to be a proper child. There are never many other children at the balls, but he is reminded that it is improper to run about and make a fool of oneself like ordinary children; he is, after all, anything but ordinary.

How could he be? His name attests to his brilliance.

&--------My Manic & I

Sirius is living with undiagnosed Bipolar 1 Disorder. It won’t ever be diagnosed or named in-game since they’re living in the 70s (it’s still fairly misunderstood now), but it definitely affects him. I feel like his upswings are pretty intense, and it usually results in him wanting to be out all the time and doing things, and he feels infallible and invincible, and he’s a lot more likely to be reckless (even more so than what is typical for him) and make snap decisions. He definitely has a tendency towards dangerous ideas that he thinks are absolutely brilliant (see: the Prank with Snape). On the other end of it, though, Sirius’ lows are very low, and he self-medicates with alcohol when he’s suffering from the worst of his depression (see: pretty much all of Order of the Phoenix). But I don’t think that Sirius recognizes the depression as such. It’s a lot easier for him to acknowledge when he’s feeling great and on top of the world as opposed to when he’s feeling like shit and struggles with getting out of bed in the morning. He’s a lot more likely to hide that side of himself, too, and play it off with a smirk and light-hearted joke at someone else’s expense. He became an expert at hiding his emotions at a young age, after all.

&--------I Want to Break Free

If someone were to ask Sirius his gender and sexuality, he would quirk a brow and scoff and let out a bark of laughter because what sort of daft question is that? But, secretly. he enjoys the company of both men and women.

Sirius doesn’t remember the exact moment when he realized that he was attracted to men. Maybe it was sometime in his third year, when he had accompanied James to watch the Quidditch team practice. Maybe he had caught himself staring at one of the seventh years - a boy with shaggy brown hair and a strong jaw - as he flew around the Pitch. Maybe he had felt the distinct swoop in his stomach as he had watched, and maybe he had imagined what it would be like to kiss the older boy.

But Sirius only really remembers being too afraid to say anything to James, Remus, and Peter, being afraid that it would change everything and they would think him a freak that they didn’t want to be friends with, anymore. Especially after his “prank” on Snape in 5th year, Sirius doesn’t want to do anything that could again alienate him from his friends. They’re all he really has.

Something else he would never admit to is the many times he has passed frilly shop windows and imagined being able to wear whatever clothes he wants that he sees, or wished he could be as comfortable in his own skin as David Bowie, or Freddie Mercury. Sirius doesn’t always feel exactly right in the body he has, and he doesn’t understand it even a little bit. After all, it’s hard enough to deal with the war; he doesn’t want to even begin to focus on the whole gender bit.

In modern terminology, he would identify as gender-fluid demiromantic pansexual, but that’s too fancy and way ahead of his time, so all he knows is that he’s queer - just another way in which he would have disappointed his family.

&--------The best thing that has ever happened:

“I know that you will make us proud, Sirius.”

No one ever expected Sirius to be a Gryffindor; he certainly hadn’t when he had stepped up to the stool to be sorted his first year at Hogwarts. His entire family had come from Slytherin. He even knew that, somewhere in his lineage, he was related to Salazar Slytherin himself. But as Sirius’ attention had drifted to the far table of green and silver, he had felt a tug in his stomach that he hadn’t really understood.

….“GRYFFINDOR!”

He ignored the shouts and jests coming from the Slytherin table to rightfully take his place amongst the lions of Hogwarts. He was joined, thankfully, by James and the redhead he had met with the greasy boy (he was grateful - and always would be - that the greasy one ended up in Slytherin).

It wasn’t before he was whisked away to his dorm and he got to know his fellow dormmates: one sickly-looking boy named Remus and a short, ordinary boy named Peter. Sirius thought he could do without Remus and Peter. Who needed them when he had James, his best friend? But Remus and Peter did prove themselves when they turned the greasy boy’s hair a bright shade of pink for a week. That, Sirius decided, was enough to earn his respect.

The four of them quickly became inseparable, and Sirius decided that being a Lion was worth the consequent Howlers he received, even if meant returning from the Christmas hols with bruises hidden beneath scratchy sweaters.

&--------And the worst: "Blood traitor! Filth! Scum!“

He tried not to cry out as his mother punished him one final time for being an insolent disgrace; he wouldn’t give her the pleasure. He was worse for the wear, however, when she finished with him and sent him off to think about his disobedience. Again. Sirius sat, on the edge of his bed, trembling; it was out of his control. He thought, but it didn’t take long for him to realize what he must do.

He needed to leave.

He hastily threw what belongings he could into his school trunk, gathering up anything he deemed important. He was able to perform a simple expansion and levitation charm - he decided he could deal with the Ministry later - and led his trunk out of his room. But he knew he needed to stop at his brother’s room before he left.

Sirius loved his brother and he has always loved his brother, but Regulus was not like him. He was weak-minded and bent to the wishes of their parents. Sirius always wanted to keep Regulus safe from them, from Mother, but he went to school and was sorted into Gryffindor and it changed. He became the disgrace, and it had been up to Regulus to be the perfect son. Sirius never wanted that for him, and he didn’t want that for him now. So he tried to bring Regulus with him. He wanted to ask, wanted him to leave and escape the hell they had grown up in.

But Regulus didn’t leave with him. He wasn’t like Sirius. He was an idiot, and he didn’t leave. So Sirius goes. But not before he watched as his mother blasted his name from the family tree.

(Sirius will always regret not making Regulus leave with him.)

#abintro #bio #hc&.{the boy with the broken halo}#writing&.{my manic and i}#aesthetic&.{killer queen}#abuse cw

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youngster-monster · 5 years ago

Text

live and die by the sword

There's is something deeply meaningful in a knight handing his sword to another. It's not only the symbol of his nobility: in battle, a sword is all that stand between a knight and death. Without it, he can't protect himself. By giving it to another, he gives him the mean to strike him down while disarming himself.

Gives him his life, the ability to protect or end it.

It's not a risk most knights are comfortable taking. Even brother-in-arms may be wary of leaving themselves unprotected, if only from outside threats.

Arthur, of course, has no idea. It's one of the many things he didn't know when he became king. He wasn't raised a sword in hand. He wasn't even raised a noble, only a squire to his brother. He knows what a sword does. It's a weapon. A knight's sword or a woodsman’s ax aren't that far apart in terms of use. They cut things and that's about the gist of it. Mostly he's aware of what a sword represents to the people, the farmers, even the blacksmith that forged it. It's nobility. Power. Knighthood.

He doesn’t know what a sword means.

And Arthur really, really wants to be a knight. Wants to earn the title, more than inherit it; that's how it's always been, in his mind. One can only be made a knight, not become one of his own volition.

That's why it doesn't quite register, when he takes Excalibur, that this is it. He's a knight now. To him, he only got the sword and none of the power and duty that comes with it.

He tries asking Gawain, first, and is confused by his protests.

"I am not worthy of this sword," the knight explains, half bowing in deference.

"Yes you are. I'm handing it to you," he replies, puzzled.

"No, I– I can't. I'm sorry, sire." He goes to explain, maybe, either himself or the situation.

Arthur waves him off with a tired sigh. "Leave me."

"But –"

"I want to be alone," he snaps.

Gawain leaves without another word.

It hurts, still, that he'd refuse. Hasn't Arthur proved himself already? Isn't he worthy of the title, the responsibility? Wasn't the sword trial and proof enough?

And if Gawain was telling the proof, if he's truly not worthy of the sword–

If he can only be knighted by someone his equal or above him–

Who will knight him, he who was already crowned king?

(It never crosses his mind to be satisfied by that much. King isn't enough. Nothing will ever be, with his heart set on knighthood.)

No knight worth his salt as ever handed Maleagant his sword in anything but defeat.

He doesn't begrudge them their lack of trust: he's not exactly a trustworthy man. They may trust in his strength, his cleverness, but his character? They're not foolish enough for that.

Excepted for Arthur Pendragon, apparently.

He looks up the long blade presented to him hilt first, to the bloody, ashen face watching him wearily. The… king holds himself awkwardly, half cradling the wound of his stomach, but the offer is made with complete confidence.

A desperate kind of it, nonetheless.

Surely it must be the blood loss, Maleagant thinks as he struggles to his feet, beaten and bruised. Or it's a trick. That must be it.

But Arthur's eyes are earnest as he says, "Take it and make me your equal."

The would-be king knighting the rightful heir... Ironic, in a way, but fitting.

He takes the sword, gingerly. Excalibur is lighter in his hands than he expected it to be. As if it would go back to its previous immovability at his contact.

There's a bitter, angry weight in his chest as he lifts the sword, poising for a strike. The other knights shift, drawing theirs–

Arthur only kneels, silent, expectant.

He doesn't know what it means to hand his sword, but... Maybe a part of him does, still.

(He can never say no to a pretty man on his knees.)

An invisible fish hook catches onto the underside of his ribs, pulling him half a step forward, closer yet–

He chokes out the ritual words. "Arthur Pendragon. By Excalibur... I make you a knight of Britain."

A shock goes up his arm, sparking from the point of contact between his palm and the hilt. Excalibur almost seems to sing, clear and brief as a silver bell before it settles in a low, comforting hum.

He throws the accursed blade at Arthur's feet. It clatters to the ground, no more than mere metal, but it's still a phantom weight in Maleagant's hand, warm right through his gloves.

It's unfair. It's so, so unfair, that he would be given Arthur's life on a silver platter and could only give it back to him. He wishes he could plunge his own sword through the damned king's throat and paint the cobblestone blue with his royal blood.

There's old magic at work here, wrapping around his bones. He knows it, son of old magic as he is himself.

He held his king's life in his hands and deemed it just and worthy enough to save and give back whole. It's as good as an oath on his own life and honor.

His hand spasms at the thought of bathing fresh, hot blood. The old hunger, tampered like a fine blade by the curious wrongness the idea inspires him. Arthur, dead, is no longer something he can achieve himself. Not when Excalibur offered it to him and he refused, all because he was–

What? Too honor-bound to strike a foe who already bested him? Or to afraid to fall at the hand of the dozen other knights loyal to the king?

It doesn't matter. Pride and cowardice are equal admissions of defeat, and defeat means servitude.

(This is how you tame a wolf: early enough it doesn't realize you're a threat yet, with a gentle hand and a steel resolve.)

Arthur rises to his feet, wavers, collapses, blood loss finally hitting him. Gawain surges forward to hold him up. Maleagant is closer. He catches Arthur easily, lowering him to the ground with more gentleness than he deserves.

"Put him down," Gawain snarls.

Maleagant sighs wearily. Gingerly he shifts his hold until he can lift Arthur in what he's unwilling to call a bridal carry. "He needs medical attention, and quick. He's bleeding out."

"Because of you!"

"And it will be your fault if he dies now."

It shuts the argument effectively. How sweet it is, to be feared still, if only for the power he holds on their king.

Guinevere is sweeter still as she takes a step forward. "Bring him inside and I can tend to his wounds."

Sweet and far out of his reach, even if she was promised to him. Already it feels as if his bones are turning to steel, too sharp and jagged to be held. Excalibur burns in the corner of his vision like the afterimage left by the sun.

He stubbornly refuses to look at it. The capricious thing can rust for all he cares.

This time, when Arthur wakes up, it's not to Genevieve's angelic face and the brush of a wet cloth on his feverish forehead.

Instead he wakes up to Maleagant's thunderous face as the witch-knight jabs him in the side with his pointy gauntlet.

He protests the rough treatment weakly before the situation registers and he attempts to sit up. "What-"

Maleagant makes an annoyed sound, low in his throat, and pushes him back down with a hand on his chest. "Do you have a single idea what you did?" He snaps, more wolf than man for the span of an enraged breath. His face is cast in impossible shadows, too dark and fey for his traits. "Handing the sword of kings to anyone passing by, expecting them to knight you and be done with it!"

He twists a wet cloth as he speaks, putting all his anger and frustration into wringing it.

That's when he realizes he's half naked. And Maleagant, for some obscure reason, is helping him rather than finishing him off.

"What-" He coughs. His dry throat won't let more than that single word slips out. He scowls in frustration.

"Shut up, for once, that will do you some good."

He's tempted to try again, if only to be contrary, but a truly thunderous look from Maleagant makes his jaw snap shut on its own accord.

He takes a moment to study the other knight, instead. Maleagant looks the same as ever, his delicate face drawn in a resentful expression that his long hair can't properly cover. His armor still glint beetle-black, the skull on the pauldron glaring back when his eyes settle upon it.

His handsome features don't make him any less of a fearful sight. If anything they make it worse: there's something off about him, something strange and fey weaved in the inky hair, glinting in the depth of his green eyes.

Witch-knight, they called him in court, only in whispers, as if afraid of summoning him. Sorcerer, changeling, bargain-child.

He can't help to wonder if there was any truth to those rumors. But Maleagant is oddly... Not gentle, but careful as he treats his wound. He cuts off the dirty bandages in a single, graceful twist of a knife and sets to cleaning the wound with brusque but light movements. Arthur winces at the sting, which doesn't elicit any sympathy. He hisses between his teeth when Maleagant prods his stitches, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. His lips twist, not quite happy but satisfied of the work.

Silence lingers as Maleagant wraps clean bandages around his middle and ties it in a strong knot.

Finally he seems to take pity of Arthur, though he avoids his eyes too much for his intentions to be read easily. With one hand he brings Arthur to a sitting position. He bears his weight easily, his gloved fingers splayed over his back. With the other hand he brings a goblet of water to his lips and tilts it slightly, forcing Arthur to swallow slowly despite his thirst.

When the goblet is empty and Arthur feels less like his throat is filled with sand, he rocks back on his heels. His hand trails over Arthur's back, slow to let go in case he is too weak to stay upright by himself. For a moment he seems engrossed in the simple act of putting away the goblet, setting it down with infinite care and never letting it out of his sight, as if it were the Graal itself.

"What are you doing?" Arthur finally managed to ask. His voice sounds raspy from disuse even to his own ears.

"Cleaning up," Maleagant innocently replies.

"What happened?" He asks instead, hoping a different wording will make Maleagant more likely to answer.

Maleagant wrings out the bloody rag over the basin one last time before a great sigh seems to take over him. His shoulders drop with it, and the rag slips through his fingers and land in the pinkish water with a splash he doesn't seem to register.

"What do you think happened?" He asks back, seemingly out of the blue. "You handed me Excalibur, gave me your sword, and asked me to knight you. Heedless of the threat I represented, especially armed while you were not."

"You didn't kill me, though. You're tending to my wounds right now."

A glimpse of– something flashes in his eyes. Some complicated, incomprehensible emotion like a lightning strike. His fingers tense, the only outward sign of his agitation. When he speaks his voice is strained, almost shaking in his effort to remain calm and unaffected.

"You gave me... Maybe the most powerful magical artifact of the isles, yours by right of blood. And had me make you my equal." There's a weight to his words. Like he can't believe what happened himself. He repeats, "What do you think happened?"

Arthur groans. Nobles, with their mind games and twisting words and refusal to say things straight. "I don't know, that's why I asked. And I didn't make you do anything. You could have refused."

"You fought me and won. Whatever you asked, I was bound to do." Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. He can taste it, unexpectedly, like bitter wine at the back of his throat. "And so I did. Congratulations, my king: you are a true knight now."

Maleagant never calls him his king, not since he claimed the crown as his by right and set to bring Arthur down by any means necessary. He seems to read the confusion in Arthur's silence and finally lifts pale, green eyes to meet his.

"You gave me your sword and had me knight you. In the eyes of magic, in accepting to do so, I accepted you as my rightful king as well." He lets out a mirthless chuckle. "The king is dead. Long live the king."

Arthur blinks owlishly. His sleep-muddled brain works through the information slowly, laboriously, like the wheels of a cart stuck in mud.

"So you're not going to fight me for the crown anymore?" He finally asks.

Maleagant casts a willful glance at his side, as if wondering if striking Arthur down right now was worth it. In the end he decides against it.

"No, I won't. I can't."

"Why, though?" Oaths never stopped anyone from committing regicide before. Even the most loyal of knights can be swayed by love or money, and Maleagant... Doesn't strike him as the 'most loyal' type.

Maybe Maleagant understands his meaning, or he reads it in his eyes – jumping to his dark armor, his bloodied sword. "Old magic is not so easily disobeyed as Merlin. Even the druid, powerful as he is, answer to someone. Something. Old magic only answers to itself." He looks away, not in shyness but bitter regret. "An oath on Excalibur is an oath on the old magic. No one would be foolish enough to swear on either – except for me, apparently."

"Well, I'm glad." At Maleagant's burning stare, he explains quickly, lifting a placating hand. "I saw you fight, that day, in the tournament. You're a fearful opponent. I'd hate to have to face you in battle again." At this he gestures to the bandages around his middle, a clear example of what would happen were he to fight Maleagant again. "I do prefer my guts to remain inside of my body."

The flattery is far from unfounded and it shocks a chuckle from Maleagant. "I suppose I will have to let you keep them, then."

He rises to his feet with a fluid grace that doesn't even disturb his armor, where another knight would have made at least some kind of clatter. He gathers the water and other healing supplies in his arms and turn on his heels. Arthur is ready to believe he will leave without another word but he stops in the doorway.

"Rest," he orders. "Leodagan insisted on a feast tonight. It would be a shame if you fell asleep in your plate."

Against his better judgment he asks, "What will you do in the mean time?"

But he's already gone.

Maleagant is rarely a good man, and he definitely isn't a kind one. That why he grins when he sees Arthur is still sleeping, and empties a bucket of ice cold water over his head to wake him up.

The king sits up with a gasp, spluttering. Rivulets of water drip down his neck, his chest, disappear under his bandages. Maleagant doesn't let himself stare and throw Arthur a towel. It hits him in the face and puts a quick end to his undignified noises.

"Dry yourself, it's time."

Arthur throws him a mulish glare but complies, or tries too. It's obvious his wound still pains him, and he can't lift his arms much higher than his chest without wincing in pain.

Taking pity on him – it is, after all, his fault he is wounded – Maleagant kneels to his side and pries the towel from his fumbling hands. He rubs his hair until it is somewhat dry and sticking up every way.

"It would have been quicker to not throw the water," Arthur says, the pout easy to hear in his voice.

"Yes, but much less amusing. Can you stand?"

Arthur tries, bless his heart, but he can't do much more than sitting up of his own power. He looks up pleadingly.

Pleadingly. At Maleagant. Dear god, they will eat him alive out there. If he's ready to trust a former enemy so blindly – they were at war less than a week ago –then what of his allies?

Someone, eventually, is bound to take advantage of his naivety. Something in Maleagant recoils at the thought. For better or for worse they're connected now, and he'll be damned if he let anyone abuse his sovereign.

There's a brand on his soul, claiming him as Arthur's – the same, he expects that will mark all those he knights himself in the future.

He wonders if they will feel it too, pulling taunt against their ribs like harp strings. Ringing in their bones whenever Arthur strums them, a touch or a word, unsaid orders he doesn't notice and Maleagant can't quite escape.

Shaking his head he brings himself back to the present. He takes Arthur's arm over his shoulders and hoist him up. The other man grunts in pain and lays more on Maleagant than on his own weak legs. Holding him up is kind of awkward: their height difference is slight, barely noticeable, but he can feel it all the same as he bends slightly forward.

"If you can't stay up of your own volition, I don't see the point in dragging you down there," he says offhandedly.

Arthur pushes him off. He lets go, amused despite himself at how easy it was. He can't keep the smirk off his face as he watches his king wobble in place, trying to stand on legs weak after days laying down.

This time he doesn't bother letting him dress by himself. They're on a bit of a schedule here. And there are no servants coming to help any time soon. Merlin was quite final in his decision to put Arthur's convalescence his responsibility alone as a punishment of sort for putting him in that state to begin with.

(The damned felt the old magic as soon as he approached Maleagant. He finds the situation all too amusing, if his constant cackling is any indication, and hasn't seen fit to worry about leaving the two of them alone.

He knows there are no reasons to. Whether it's a blessing or a curse remains to be seen.)

Maleagant doesn't waste time dressing Arthur. He stomps down the vague humiliation of acting like a squire or a servant.

Part of him chafes against the feeling, knowing it could have been him wearing the crown.

The rest thrums with magic, sings with it. He breathes it in, hold his breath, releases it, and goes back to his task. He bats Arthur's fingers away from where they're trying to clumsily tie his laces. Once Arthur gets the hint and stops hindering him he makes quick work of the rest of his outfit. The cloak goes last, covering his lack of armor.

They stand like that for a moment, toes to toes, Maleagant's fingers curled in the ruddy fur around his shoulders.

The black knight looks deep into honest, steel-willed eyes, and makes a choice.

It's one he's already made, he simply hadn't noticed before.

He takes a single step back and slowly, deliberately, kneels.

"Maleagant–"

"Arthur Pendragon," he intones, cutting him. His eyes linger on the boots in front of him, cataloging the creases in the leather rather than facing Arthur head-on. If he did he's not sure he could do this at all. That rebellious part of him rears up, clawing at the inside of his skull. He chokes out the rest of the sentence before it can break through. "I, Maleagant, pledge myself to you. On my blood and on the old magic I swear to follow you and protect you, in war and in peace, through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered. My sword will be your sword. My shield will be your shield."

Arthur attempts to speak, but he's not done, dammit. He keeps his eyes stubbornly downcast as he continues. "I give everything to you. My arm, so it may guard you. My heart, so it may beat only in your name. My soul, so I may be entirely devoted to you. I shall live to fight for you and die before dishonoring your name."

His blood sings, high and clear as a chorus of silver bells. Eagerness and fear struggle for superiority in his mind, a sickening anticipation sending his heartbeat in a frenzy.

"That sounds more like marriage vows than..." Arthur's voice trails off. He wets his lips, tries again. "Are you sure?"

Finally he lifts his head and looks Arthur dead in the eyes so he may know he means it. "Will you have me, my king? At your side in battle and court, as your sword and shield, a right hand to help you lead in battle and out of it?"

It's a sacrifice for the both of them. Maleagant may lay all he is at his feet, but Arthur entrusts him with his life and kingdom in return. A dangerous bargain to do with any knight, let alone one like Maleagant.

But he has one advantage on the rest of them: he doesn't get a choice on loyalty. It's been thrust upon him and now he must follow wherever it leads, for better or for worse.

"I will have you," Arthur says. First he sounds hesitant but seems to find assurance as he speaks, his eyes never wavering from Maleagant's. "And all that you will give him. I will watch over you as I watch over my kingdom, and never ask of you that you shame yourself. Your honor will be my honor, your name will be my name, your sword an extension of my arm."

Something snaps into place inside of Maleagant. As if his entire being, unbalanced since he had taken Excalibur, had finally settled. A loose end tying itself around his soul. He lets it sink in, welcomes it.

Arthur fumbles then, realizing he had to close the ritual somehow and unsure how to do it. He stumbles forward, as if pulled by some invisible strings to close the distance between them. He brings his hands to Maleagant's jaw. They hover there, not quite touching him, before he cups his face.

"Arise, Maleagant, my sworn shield," He whispers.

Maleagant follows the lead of his hands, rising to his feet and resting his forehead against Arthur's. He dares not blink, almost holding his breath until his world becomes nothing more than Arthur's eyes on his, Arthur's breath on his lips.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak. They are drawn closer, until they are almost flush against each other–

The door slams open.

"Arthur-"

Leodegrance stops short at the sight of the two of them. He clears his throat. Slowly, Maleagant turns his face and shoots him a glare so dark he feels his soul cringe back.

He turns on his heels and walk out of the room without ever saying what he came here to say.

When he turns back to Arthur, his king has a dazed look on his face, as if coming out of a dream.

"What was that?" He asks. His hands fell from Maleagant's face to his neck and he digs his nails in without realizing.

"Magic," Maleagant says, and drags him forward by the front of his cloak to kiss him furiously.

They don't make it to Leodegrance's feast. He very carefully doesn't remark on it.

#writing #la légende du roi arthur #meleagant #arthur pendragon #king arthur #check ao3 for Actual Pics Of Melegant #he's stupid hot

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pacificbookworm · 7 years ago

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6. The Labyrinth

Trigger Warning: There is undead, insanity, evil, hopelessness, and unhappiness in this. A big trigger warning on the undead, there is a scene not for the faint of heart.

This is a long chapter. Sorry, it didn’t seem right to split this up.

Mora slept without dreaming. She opened her eyes, confused and unsure where she was. She was lying down and looking up at a stone ceiling and had a strange feeling of being underground. After several minutes of orientating herself she sat up and looked around. She was in a large room which looked to be a gathering room. The stone was seamless, as if it had been carved from within a mountain.

She could hear nothing, it was more silent than death and her own breath seemed loud. As her awareness came back to her she felt cold and the soreness in her neck. Remembering what happened she lifted her hand up to her neck and touched her throat, it was tender. Her throat inside felt scratchy and she was sure she wouldn’t be able to talk much.

She stood up and looked around. Behind her was an alter that was now shattered into pieces on the floor and a broken statue of a goddess behind it. Her head was laying several feet away and Mora felt like she was looking at a corpse. There were rotten pieces of tapestry on the floor where the walls and floor met. There were runes carved into the stone that had eroded beyond comprehension. Her warrior sense screamed danger but her curiosity was strong.

She walked up the crumbled alter. Mora wasn’t learned of the gods and knew only her own. The stone goddess’s skin looked soft and seemed delicate. The expression carved onto the face was one of compassion and kindness.

Her fingers touched the alter and she looked down for a few minutes in silence. There was little else in the room. Mora was sure at one time it had been decorated gaudy and had seating areas, but that was all gone now. Ahead of her she saw the door and she headed towards it. It was an old wooden door that had aged. It reminded her of the wine barrels deep in the castle’s underbelly. She tried the iron handle but it was locked. She had nothing on her to unlock it and she did not have the brute strength to break it. She sighed and rested her head on the door

She had gotten herself into some fine mess. With the amount of undead that had attacked she knew she was in far over her head. She sighed and turned her back to the door, sliding down until she was sitting. She looked at the head of the statue that lay on the floor. She put her hand to her breast, expecting her mithril pendant, but found only flesh. She knew she should have suspected as much. Instead she opened her hand so her fingers could touch the tattoo on her chest. She sighed and leaned her head back against the door as she stared.

“Ran away from home and got in trouble too?” she said to the unblinking statue. “Yeah, I hope I don’t end up like you” she said. She hugged her arms close to her as the cold started to make her feel uncomfortable. She had no idea how she would get out of this one, or if she could. Mora felt a longing she refused to admit and forced it to stay deep within her.

Mora sat in silence for a long time thinking about things. She found her thoughts were loud in the silence and there was no alcohol around to drown them. She wasn’t sure how much time passed, but it seemed like an eternity. The sound of the iron lock being turned broke the silence and echoed on the walls. Mora stood up and moved away from the door.

Mora had missed the worn spiral carved on the floor that she now stood in the center of. The door opened with a loud creaking and a tall shadow of a man stepped through. For one brief moment, she thought the bulk was familiar. She was soon disappointed when a black-skinned elf in archaic armor stepped through.

He stopped at the edge of the spiral and looked down at her with his cold, blue eyes. “Mora Shandra, I have been watching you for some time. Your removal from your companions at last allowed me to intercept you. I had not intended such a meeting, but my lord demanded new flesh”. Mora felt her warrior instincts scream and she felt such a strong urge towards flight. She was weaponless, without armor, and only had her clothes and boots. She was helpless. She felt like a mouse in the gaze of a fox.

“Wh-” Mora had begun to say. As soon as she had tried to speak the pain in her throat erupted and she found it hard to speak. “Who are you?” she finally asked in a raspy, quiet voice. “Nalshis Veyas. I was once a justifier, but that was very long ago. Now, I am in service to a god.” Mora stood in a defensive stance.Tthe dark elf put up his hands in a calming gesture, “I do not wish to harm you. I am here to liberate you from those who wish to use you. Three decades ago, when you were still a young flower, your party awoke me from my slumber. I was not enraged but curious. I could feel your sorrow and see your strength. I followed your party until you returned to the light where I could not follow.”

“I watched you, saw your struggles, and came to know the world as it is now. You and your companions awoke me to the changes. This world has been tainted and turned vile. People pray on the weak and innocent and thrive on others pain and suffering. You know what I speak of, you have seen it since birth”. Mora stood very still as she listened to the man. She tried to think of what he could be talking about when he spoke of the Blades waking him, but nothing came to mind. “My heart broke like yours and I grew angry, even more so when I failed to find my kind and found the old places gone. With this new god I serve, the world will be made new again, once it is cleansed of its taint”. As the dark elf spoke these last words his voice grew deeper and there was a tinge of danger in it, like the sound of a wolf before it pounced on its prey.

“What do you want with me?” she asked. “I want you to join me. You have an unbreakable spirit. I can protect you and grant you strength beyond the physical. Strength that will help you seek revenge on those who have harmed you, on people like the baron”. Mora was surprised when he spoke of the Baron. She had never spoke to the others about her childhood. They only knew she had ran away from her home and an orphanage. They didn’t know about the atrocities she had at the hands of the Baron.

“You are alone in this world Mora, a pawn of some bored wealthy noble who seeks glory. With me, you would have purpose and you would have a hand in changing things”. Mora looked up at him, tears in her eyes, “But not before I murdered a bunch of people. That is what you mean by cleansing the taint of the land, isn’t it?” The dark elf made an attempt to move closer to her but stopped as he reached the edge of the spiral.

Mora noticed and looked at him. “Killing the emperor or a few nobles is not enough. We must reclaim the land. Fire is a destructive force with no mercy, but it also purifies. When the volcanoes erupt and scorch the land with poisonous clouds and make lakes of fire. They also leave behind nourishment for the land to blossom. To create one must destroy”.

She understood what he said, but she couldn’t rationalize destruction for the sake of creation. To her it made no sense. Mora wished to see change, but not at the cost of others lives. She had often believed she would turn her back if ever commoners overtook a castle and murdered the ruling family, but now she was faced with that very decision. She could feel Zale’s cold stare on her, feel his disappointment at her for ever having considered it.

Mora shook her head no. “I have taken lives. I have done so in the service of Zale, but that does not change anything. I will walk the halls of hell alongside those I have killed. There is no endless reverie for me. We all pay for what we have done, whatever our reasons. The path to hell is paved in good intentions”. Nalshis was making her speak aloud thoughts she had held within for a long time. They struck her heart like a dagger when spoken out loud.

He shook his head and walked into the spiral. He began to feel burning on his body but he ignored it as he walked forward until he was a breath away from Mora. “No Mora, you are wrong. You have never taken a life not worth taking. He touched her pale face and she swat his hand away and moved back to the edge of the spiral. She could smell burning flesh and her stomach turned. She didn’t understand what was going on but she could tell he was being affected by something.

“You do not understand the situation . It will not be just the mortal plane. We are cleansing both his realm and the next of its taint. The gods will pay for allowing these crimes to happen. Should you go to hell, I will be the one to free you, my dear. But you must accept. I cannot do so by force, not you. Your spirit is too strong to be broken by magic. You are fortunate the Septrinaians did not find you as a child”.

His words made her think of Travinter. He was quiet and did not speak much of his childhood, but she remembered something of what little he did say. The dark elf caught it and moved out of the spiral and took a breath as the pain subsided. “Yes, the spellbane. He has seen first hand what I speak of.

He turned his back on her and walked towards the door, “I cannot break you, not matter how hard I try. I can break you body, but something keeps you from breaking like a wild horse. With most, it is a person or idea. They hold on to someone they love or an idea they believe in and their mind and spirit remains whole. But you, I do not know”. He turned back to her and looked at her. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, it made her feel self conscious. “It is as if you are too stubborn. You will not bend to anyone’s will just to spite them.”

“I will leave you to think on it, but know this Mora. You must join me, for this no alternative. My god will not allow it. For bringing you here, you will die if you do not join us. Your life is not one I wish to take.” He left and the door slammed shut with a loud thud, making her jump. She was left alone again in the silence where her thoughts were loud.

Mora sat with her back against the largest piece of debris from the alter, her knees were drawn up in front of her. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the dark elf had come in but she was beginning to feel tired. It wasn’t the sort of tired she felt after a long day on the road. It was more of the kind of tired when you forgot to eat and your emotions were high. The cold was beginning to make her fingers ache and she put her hands behind her knees to try to help.

Mora understood Nalshis’s madness but knew he was wrong. Her life had been fraught with pain and suffering, but there had been brief moments of happiness. To kill to reign in a better world seemed mad to her. She had heard legends and tales of sentient sacrifices but had never seen it herself. Mora always thought the tales were just old legends.

But Nalshis had chosen her well. She looked down at her hands. She did not have the soft hands of a woman. Her palm and fingers were calloused and some of her knuckles were a bit larger for having been broken once. She had taken life and she did not regret it. Most were assholes who had it coming, some though were like her. People doing the best they could with the life they had been given. A slight different choice in the road she took could have made her into a bandit like them. They were her people, better or worse, and yet she felt no guilt. The reality of it had kept her up some nights. She was a creature of death.

Yes, the dark elf had chosen her well. She was a murderer and cared little for her crimes. Whether done with good intentions or not mattered not. Better that then the life of a whore, she told herself. There was little else for her in life. Daughter of a sometimes whore and a bastard, she was not born with a pretty enough face to be married to a craftsman. There was little work for plain faced girls except servitude of one kind or another. Mora had no desire to be a washerwoman like her mother had been.

To kill an innocent to reign in a new world was a line she was not willing to cross. She put her hand to the tattoo of a crescent moon over her heart and closed her eyes again and looked down. “Septriss, strike me down should I ever raise a hand to a child” she whispered. When she opened her eyes again, she noticed the eroded spiral.

She crawled on her hands and knees till she reached the edge of the old worn carving and sat back down. She reached down and touched the carved lines with her fingertips. She looked over her shoulder at the door as she remembered the encounter with Nalshis. She had seen spirals carved into the older places and ruins, but she didn’t know what it meant. She wondered if the spiral was affecting him and what it meant. For now, she was left to ponder in the forgotten temple.

It seemed such a long time when the door finally opened again. She had fallen asleep on the spiral and her dreams had been filled with strange images and blood. They were too chaotic for her to make any sense of it. She awoke to the loud sound of the old iron lock echoing in the room.

Mora stood up and backed to the other edge o the spiral, waiting to see what would happen. A man stepped through the door and stopped short of the spiral. The man looked like any ordinary man except that he smelled of death. His eyes looked like anyone else’s and it was this that most disturbed her. It was a reminder that this creature was like her, like anyone. Like the wights, he had been twisted by magic to rise again and do the bidding of someone else. The very people she had brushed shoulders with in the market of Victarith could be flesh eating monsters. It unnerved her.

The creature would not move into the spiral and actually frowned at her. “Come” it rasped at her and turned his back on her, heading for the door. Mora was not strong like Travinter or Zale, but she had little doubt she could overtake the creature. There was little point, though. She had no idea where she was and no way of defending herself having been stripped of her weapons.

Hesitantly, she walked through the spiral towards the door. She took one last glimpse at the corpse-like statue on the floor before crossing the threshold into the darkness beyond. On a sconce was a lighted torch and the creature looked at it, then at her, before turning and heading down the hallway. She took it from the sconce and followed behind the creature.

The structure she was in was the same as the sanctuary. The walls and ceilings were seamless and eroded runes were everywhere. They passed many rooms as they turned down one hall into another and then another. They were empty of furniture and looked as if they hadn’t been occupied for over a decade. There was nothing here but the worn away runes to serve as clues to the previous occupants. It was as if they picked up everything and left. Mora had been in a few forgotten places with the Blades and she had never seen anything like this before.

The place was a labyrinth and she followed closely behind to ensure she didn’t get lost. Finally they came out of a narrow hallway into a large circular chamber with hallways in every direction. Without hesitation the creature-man walked towards one and she followed. As they entered the new hallway she saw the telltale flicker of light at the end. When they reached the end of it they came to a cell with a handful of people within it. The creature pulled out a keyring and with shaking hands opened the lock. She willingly went into the cell without protest and turned and watched as the creature locked the door and shambled out of the room.

Mora threw the torch on the ground and turned and looked at the disappointed faces, three men and a male dwarf. How in the world would she get out of this one? Perhaps this was it for her. She cursed and banged on the bars in frustration. She wanted to die with her boots on and be free of this world. She wanted to die under the sky, not locked deep within the bowels of the earth, cursed to roam as an undead creature.

Nothing was said because there wasn’t anything to say. What good were introductions if you were all doomed to die or become undead? She folded her arms as she turned around and rested her back against the bars. She looked at the others who looked back, unspoken words passing between them. Finally she closed her eyes and let her thoughts roam where they wished.

More time passed, another eternity. After some time, she could hear the shuffling of feet, but there was no change in darkness in the hallway. Mora had sat down and now stood up and turned to face the hallway. Another undead thing came out of the darkness carrying a large bowl of what looked to be slop. As it came near the door it growled at the door.

Mora felt someone move near her, “Step back lass, it won’t open the door until you do” she heard a deep, accented voice say. Mora moved away from the door and looked at who had spoken, it was the dwarf. He nodded at her and stayed between her and the door. The creature tried to hold the bowl and open the door. For one brief moment it looked as if it would drop the bowl on the floor but it managed to steady the bowl and finally open the door. One of the other men stood up to make a move but Mora waved her open palm at him and looked at him and shook her head no. The creature set down the bowl, hissed, then backed up and slammed the door shut, locking it. It turned and shambled out of the room.

The skinny, younger man stood up, irritated. “Why did you stop me? There is more of us then it.” Mora wasn’t sure why they hadn’t rushed the door when she came in. She couldn’t understand why her presence made any difference. “I traveled these halls with one of the creatures, there is no way we will find our way out on our own. Plus, we have no weapons. What do you suggest we do if we make it out alive and have to fend for ourselves? I hope you know how to catch fish with your bare hands, because I don’t”. The stone walls made every quiet words seem as loud.

The younger man said nothing but nodded that she was right. Their situation was quite hopeless. Mora moved over to the bowl and knelt down and reached her hand to it. It was the worst slop she had seen, but it was food. Many years on the streets had taught her not to refuse food, no matter how disgusting it seemed. “Are you going to eat that?” the skinny man asked. Mora looked at him, “If you do not eat, your body will start digesting itself and you will die slowly and painfully.” She ate some it and thought she would gag, but swallowed it down. Everyone else was soon to follow suit.

The older man looked at her, “What’s the point?” Mora didn’t look at him, just looked at the horrible slop. “The elf wants me for something. I’m biding my time, see if I can find out where my weapons are and where the hell I am. I am probably going to die, but I am not dieing on my knees cowering.” The older man smiled at her and so did his friend. The fat man said nothing, just looked mournfully at the slop.

More time passed, another eternity, another decade. Mora sat with her back against the left wall and thought of home and the people she had left behind. She was sorry now that she had left without word. Another part of her reminded her that she was never close to them and they were not her keepers. In the last month she had begun to distance herself from them as she thought about leaving. No one hand noticed or said anything. She was in conflict about how she should feel and she sighed, irritated. “Damn it” she whispered. The young man looked up from his reverie and looked at her and smiled. “How did you end up here?” he finally asked. Mora looked at him briefly before looking at the floor again. “I got restless and left home” she said without offering more details. “My name is Adrian. This old bastard is Leif, the dwarf Kilmar, and the big guy is Lord Albert”. Mora raised an eyebrow at Lord Albert. He frowned, “I don’t want to be here. I was comfortable in my home in the Imperial City. There has been rumors of trouble and unfortunately the emperor sent me out”. Adrian replied, “Sent us out”. Mora nodded. “My name is Mora” she said. The young man sat forward and opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the sound of heavy boots echoing down the hall. Mora stood up and turned towards the door, knowing exactly who it was.

Nalshis walked into the torch lit room and stopped before the door. His cold blue eyes pierced through her and made her feel self conscious again. “Have you had time to consider my offer?” The others watched Mora. Mora walked closer to the door with no fear. “I have had time to consider things. I don’t want any part of your world. You are right Nalshis, about everything, but the blood of the innocent is too high a price for me.”

“That was biding your time?” Adrian asked and Lief smacked him upside the head hard. Nalshis folded his arms and looked down at the hazel eyed, pale skinned maiden who was so bold to speak to him boldly without fear. “What justice is there to serve in this world? Do you think some valiant prince like Zale is going to come and rescue the folks from your Baron?” Mora swallowed emotion as a few memories of the atrocities flashed through her mind. She closed her eyes, thinking of Zale, and shook her head, “No, its not right. Not matter what happened to them, no matter what happened to Richard, it is not right. You have walked down a path that you can never return from Nalshis, and I will not be part of it”.

Nalshis growled and unlocked the door. He roughly yanked her out of the cell, removing the still lit torch on the floor of the cell. He threw the torch in the corner of the room and slammed the cell door shut. “I think it is time you should see you have no choice”. He grabbed her by the arm roughly and she winced in pain as he dragged her into the darkness.

His footsteps echoed off the halls. They were the only sound other then her uneven shuffling and her soft grunts of pain. It felt as if he would break her arm. They traveled some time in the dark before finally emerging into the biggest cavern she had ever seen. As soon as she saw the chamber she knew why it looked familiar. Once she had been in an undercity, a necropolis, like this one. This one was far bigger then the one they had been, perhaps ten times as large.

“Yes now you are beginning to remember. It was the Blades who woke me from my sleep. It was snowing, the first snowfalls of the season and you had lagged behind. You were still young but your innocence was gone. Zale took that away from you when he allowed Richard to hang and he put a blade in your hand. You were filled with so much sorrow that even though I was no longer living and my empathy was dulled I could feel it. There are few in this world who can make sorrow seem so beautiful”. He softened his grip on his arm and then after a moment let go. He stopped and turned and looked at her with sympathy before turning his back to her again and walking further down the tunnel to an opening.

He walked into a domed gazebo that was also a balcony. “I did not start this Mora. He was awake before me, I do not know who freed him or awoke him. I have struck a bargain with him. In exchange for my help he will allow me to remake the world”. Mora walked into the gazebo with him, “Who is he?” she asked. The dark elf turned and looked at her, “An old and forgotten god. If I said his name you wouldn’t know who he was. Long ago he was locked within a prison and someone or something freed him. He was able to find me because of my lingering empathic powers and my rage”.

Mora felt sympathy for the man. To wake up from death to an ugly world you didn’t know. “Do you think this god cares about a pact with you? If it wants to destroy the world, why would it let it be made again? This is madness!” Nalshis reached out and touched her gently again and she flinched. “You don’t know your philosophy Mora. In order for life to exist there must also be destruction. The universe is not endless.”. Mora shook her head, “This is madness.”

“You have no choice Mora. You will either accept my offer or I will kill you. Do not force me to make that decision”. Mora took a step back from him and shook her head, she would not budge.

He frowned at her and grabbed her again. He took her away from the gazebo down to another balcony and threw her on the ground. She grunted as she hit the ground hard. Below her she could hear a curious noise. She wasn’t quite sure what the sound was but it unnerved something in her and made her feel panic. After she recovered from the fall she got on all fours and sat on her knees and looked below her. She gasped and put her hand to her mouth. Below her were thousands of wights. The sound she heard was them gasping and hissing as they smelled her living flesh. Mora turned very pale and immediately sprang back onto her butt and backed away from the pit of undeath below.

“It is too late now to turn back Mora. I have made the decision”. In the distance she could hear someone crying for help and Mora looked over, tears forming in her eyes. She watched in horror as Albert was being dragged like a rag doll towards the edge of the cliff. She stood up and went over to Nalshis, “Stop this! Please, I consent, just stop this” she begged. Nalshis looked down at her. Despite all that she had been through, she had not broken like he had.

“They need to be fed or they begin to cannibalize each other”. Mora shook her head and moved back, “No”. She watched in terror as Albert was dragged even closer. She ran back up the incline to the gazebo and covered her ears as she entered the hallway. Still a scream broke through. Even though she wasn’t witnessing it, she could imagine it in her mind. A tear broke rolled down her cheek and her knees became weak and she felt as if she would swoon.

The dark elf came up behind her and his bulk blocked the threshold. She regained her composure and stood up. “How do you justify that!” she screamed at him. Her scream echoed off the walls. He took a breath, a strange thing for an undead creature, and rested his hands on each side of the stone wall. “There is no resisting him Mora. He is a gold older then most. Most of your mages have passed into oblivion and magic is dieing. How do you expect to stop something that cannot even be hurt by normal blades? Do you know anyone who can forge magical weapons?” Her mind went to Travinter but she told herself he could not. He was a spellbane, he broke magic.

“I made a deal with the devil. He will have his bloody revenge on this earth and then he will turn his attention to the gods. Then we can rebuild and remake the world. We will be under his evil power but perhaps one day, by rediscovering what is lost, we can win out.” Mora shook her head, this was all madness! “I will not join you, no matter what that means” she whispered. Fear gripped her in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. She thought of herself being dragged to the pit. She had to lean against the wall as the fear and emotion made her feel so frail.

The elf noticed her waver and came over and held her still. “You will die for your stubbornness. Tell me Mora, what use are you to anyone dead?” Mora refused to look at him and said nothing. He stood there for a long time looking at her, then finally pushed her down the hall and back to the cell.

When the others saw them they said nothing. They knew by the look on her face what had happened. The dark elf opened the door and let her go in. He closed the door and locked it and then left without another word. Mora immediately sank down onto her knees and began to cry. The young man moved to go to her and Leif grabbed his arm and shook his head no.

It took a while for Mora to calm down. She could hear Albert’s screams in her head. The poor man had been thrown down into the pit alive. She was frightened and trying to keep the fear from showing and taking control. She had spent her whole life proving she wasn’t a pettycoat, so like all the men she shoved her emotions deep where they slowly ate at her iron-wrapped heart.

Her back was against the cold iron of the bars, reminding her of her captivity. She was trapped and in a cage. Like a bird trapped in the castle, she felt that no matter where she flew to she would not be able to find her way to freedom. “I need you guys to show up now” she whispered. If all the Blades were here she felt that they would find a way. But they were not there. She had to do this on her own. Except, she was not alone.

She looked at the dwarf Kilmar. He sat with his back against the cold, stone wall and seemed to be in contemplation, staring off into nothingness. She knew little of dwarves, but weren’t they known for building underground structures?

“Kilmar, you’re a dwarf. I don’t know much, well, I don’t know anything of your kind, but don’t you guys build underground structures?” Kilmar focused his gaze on her and nodded. “If we were to get out, do you think you could find your way through here?” she asked. Kilmar looked away from her and thought for a moment. “I could see little on my way here, all was dark, but we do have an inner compass, so to speak. We can find our way through underground structures. I will be able to tell if it is sloping up or down and my sense of direction is still there though I can’t trust it much. Some rocks are made of special metal and can spin me around in circles”.

It wasn’t perfect, but there was hope. Maybe they could find a door. They had to take the chance. She wasn’t about to end up as an undead creature and she couldn’t watch them become food for the wights. She looked up at the ceiling and wished she could see the moon and stars. “I don’t have a plan other than running, but let’s at least try” she said. The dwarf nodded in agreement and than so did Leif and Adrian.

The waiting seemed like an eternity. The torch was burning low and shadows danced on the walls and ceilings. Mora stood by the door and the others sat down waiting more patiently. They were on the edge of the abyss, waiting to fall over or escape. Mora had been close to death before, but now it disturbed her.

Finally the suffocating silence was shattered by the slow shuffle of feet on the dusty stone. They all knew what was coming. They waited in long silence as the creature shambled to the door. As the creature approached it struggled to hold onto the large bowl and use the key to the door. Mora watched in fascination as the undead thing still had enough dexterity to use the key and unlock the door. It growled at her and she stepped back. She knew undead well enough to know how strong it was and that it had no limit. She had to to do it right or it would snap her bones like twigs.

It set the bowl down and she pounced on it like a cougar. She grabbed it by its torn clothing and pulled with all her strength. The creature was stronger than her but she caught it off balance and the others jumped up and grabbed at it. It fell to the floor and the dwarf did not hesitate to stomp his boot on its skull till there was a ‘pop’. Mora turned away before the last stomp and took a breath, her stomach twisting.

She stepped out of the cage and looked at the almost dead torch. They would be in the dark soon, they had to hurry. She turned around, “Hurry, while there is still light!” she whispered to them. They stepped out, Leif grabbing the key just in case and Adrian taking the torch. The dwarf led the way with Mora right behind him.

The torch pieced the darkness and its light radiated around them like a magical spell of protection. Mora’s heart beat fast and her hands sweat as anxiety built up within her. If only, if only, if only, ran through her mind. The dwarf tried to get his bearings but it took some time. He had felt strange the whole time he had been in this underground prison, but said nothing to the others. Now was not the time to talk about funny feelings.

The long hallway ended and they were in a crossroads. “Nalshis took me that way” Mora said pointing to the left. The dwarf nodded, “Right it is than” he said and they turned down the hallway. None of them liked having theirs backs to the hallway that led to untimely death, but they couldn’t let their fear paralyze them now.

The dwarf led them on the best he could. His sense of direction was gone from whatever was affecting this place but he did not want to cause panic among the others. This was their only chance. The torch was beginning to burn Adrian’s hand and his whispered “ows” were reminding them of the direness of the situation. The four of them waited in terrible suspense for life or death.

By some miracle the dwarf managed to find his way to a circle of hallways. In the middle was a large open pit and above them the cavern ceiling disappeared into darkness. As they came through the door they spread out. “How did the people who built this place get around? This is madness” Adrian muttered. “When you live your life underground, you just know where you are going. It is innate” answered the dwarf. “Well do you know where we are?” he asked the dwarf. The dwarf didn’t answer and he didn’t have to.

Mora looked at all the dark hallways, they all looked the same. She felt hopeless and lost. What were they to do? She refused to accept defeat and felt that the answer had to be somewhere. The worn runes decorated the walls and continued into the darkness with the ceiling. “Kilmar, do you know what these runes are?” she asked. He shook his head no. She stayed close to the walls and walked along the walls and corridors, studying the runes.

They were nothing like she had ever seen before. If Tork were here she knew he would be able to read them or at least know who had carved them. About a quarter away from the group she stopped and looked at a set of runes that had a strange familiarity to her. She studied them and tried to think of why they felt familiar but nothing came to her. She reached out and touched the set of runes, feeling the indentation under her fingertips. The stone was ice cold and sent a chill up her spine.

She began to feel as if someone was watching her and she looked over her shoulder at one of the dark hallways. There, in the darkness, was something. It had no physical shape and for a brief moment her heart lept out of her chest thinking it was a wraith, but there was no red eyes. She turned slowly, her hand lingering on the runs for a moment before dropping.

Though she was frightened, whatever it was did not appear to be threatening. In her mind’s eye she knew there was something there, but it was invisible and somehow she could make out a shape. Her and the thing stood there for a long moment before she came to realize it was gone. The others had begun to notice her staring and Leif walked over, “Are you ok? Do you see something?” he asked.

“There” she said pointing, “I think we should go through that hallway”. She looked at the dwarf who watched her for a moment, than nodded. She looked at Lief who studied her hard. She shook off the strange sensation she had been feeling, “I’m fine” she said to him before following the dwarf.

They reentered the darkness with their torch barely hanging onto life. The labyrinth was quiet and they had encountered no one living or dead. They wondered at how big it was and how they had gone undetected so long, or so they hoped. All of them thought of what they would do if they saw the sunlight again.

They walked on in silence again for a bit before coming to a crossroads. The dwarf stopped and looked in the three directions. Mora looked as well and felt an itching to go left. She tapped on the dwarf’s shoulder and pointed left. He looked over at her, eying her, and than headed down the left hallway. He knew something unusual was going on, but they were trapped in an underground labyrinth with an army of undead. Strange was normal here.

They all stopped and the hairs went up on the back of their necks as a light at the end of the hallway flashed them. They prepared to fight to the death but after watching closely, they realized their torchlight was reflecting on something. Cautiously, they headed towards it and were rewarded with a room of treasure.

Within the room was discarded bits of everything and coin. They quickly realized that it was objects taken from the victims. As Mora looked around at the quantity of weapons, armor, coins, and other treasures and discarded objects she realized the amount of people who had been lost. She put her hand to her mouth as she felt the bite within her and in her eyes.

Something within Mora changed as she looked at some of the very personal objects that lay on the floor discarded like debris. These people had died or became undead and their loved ones would never know. There was no justice for them. The eyes of the undead creatures came to her mind. Such human eyes. They were forgotten victims, like the people on flea bottoms.

She walked over to a bronze torc that lay discarded on a pile of coins. She picked it up with both hands and ran her fingers along the curved spiral crescent. The tips were that of wolf. She knew torcs were extremely personal and made for an individual personally. A person would not part with this no matter how drunk or poor he was. This had been taken. The weight of the situation weighed heavily on her.

She looked over at Leif with tears in her eyes. This room was every adventurer’s and thief’s dream. To Mora, the room was a representation of the injustice and suffering she had grown up with. She thought of how many undead were in the pit and how much treasure was in the room. Again, the human eyes of the undead crossed her mind. For Mora, it wasn’t only about escaping anymore. It didn’t matter if she ever saw the Blades again. She had to do something for the victims. She had to free them if she could. She reached up and wiped away the few tears that had escaped. She set down the torc and looked around. There was plenty of weapons and armor to choose from, but she looked for hers.

Leif and Kilmar watched in silence as they still sat stunned at the room. Adrian, a young man, missed the gravity of the room and observed the treasure. Mora could pick up any sword, but she wanted what was hers. Like the torc, they were deeply personal to her.

She felt that strange sensation again and stopped walking around. She let the sensation come over her and she didn’t resist it. She looked over to her right and saw a shadow move and for a moment her warrior instincts took over. She looked over in the direction of that shadow and saw an old, eroded lava mirror. It had not been looked after for some time and she could just make out her shape and her long dark hair. She looked like a ghost in the mirror. It unnerved her. After some time of staring at her image she noticed a reflection of weapons behind her. She turned and looked.

There, lying on a rusted shield, was her dagger. She walked over and picked up the sheathed, curved blade. She unsheathed it and saw it had not been damaged. She ran her thumb over the hilt over Travinter’s mark. She didn’t stop to reflect long and sheathed it again. Her longsword was there but not her armor. She couldn’t worry about it now.

“Quickly, find your weapons or suitable ones” she said as she turned towards them. She started to move away and than touched her chest. She remembered her pendant was gone and she turned to find it as the others mulled about looking for arms. It wasn’t with her things and as she looked around her she sighed. It would have to stay here to be a companion to the torc. It would be a symbol of the injustice done to her in her life. She had to help these people, even if it meant destroying their unnatural bodies.

She turned away and headed back to the others. The dwarf was smiling and talking softly to a warhammer while Leif and Adrian were testing out the weapons they had picked. Leif looked at her, “No armor?” he asked. Mora shook her head, “Most armor is not made for women and will weigh me down.” He nodded and she looked at the dwarf, “Do you know where to head now?” she asked. He shrugged, “Not sure, but I do know we’re at a higher elevation. Start listening for sounds and the smell of fresh air.” She nodded and the others gripped their weapons. A new determination flowed through them.

The dwarf headed out with Mora behind him. They headed away from the way they came with a new torch that Adrian had found and lit with the dieing one. Mora still felt hopeless but she couldn’t fail. A lot more innocent people would die before anyone would know what was going on, and by than, it would be too late.

The strangeness of the place began to wear off and the dwarf sighed with relief. His sense of direction was getting back to normal. He still wasn’t quite sure where he was going but he was less likely to lead them in a circle than before. He believed that they had only made it that far because of the will of the gods.

The dwarf became excited as they stopped at a crossroad and he could see that one of the paths was going uphill. They followed the path with real hope in their hearts. It was strange that their presence had gone unknown. They tried not to think about it, fearing their very thoughts would jinx them.

And than they felt the wind. They all stopped in their tracks, stunned. Mora breathed in deep and pushed the dwarf onward. The tunnel became slippery stairs and they had to carefully go up. Mora slipped once and Leif caught her and pushed her up a few of the stairs. Mora felt the strange sensation again. She stopped and looked behind her and saw something in her mind’s eyes. But this time she felt intention. Whatever it was, it was helping them. She sensed deep anger and an urgency. She looked back towards the stairs and headed up.

Mora felt the brush of wind against her skin and saw the glimpse of a night sky. It took forever to climb up the slippery steps that had been worn down by water running from the mouth of the tunnel. Finally she stepped through the mouth out into the world again and the full moon shined down on her. Mora stopped and became overwhelmed with emotion. Relief, fear, and heartache all released from their prison and she dropped to her knees. The stars in the sky shined down in their full strength and the moon provided the light they needed to find their path down.

It took her a few minutes for the group to regain their composure as relief had shaken all of them. When Mora steeled herself again the gravity of the situation hit her like a warhammer to the face. She was on the side of a mountain. She had been on the endless plain when she had been captured. The nearest mountain would have been at least a month away. She looked at the others who weren’t paying attention to her reaction.

She shook it off and looked for the path down. Far below them a river rushed away from its source to what looked to be a forested valley beyond. She looked at the moon and cursed agitated before making sure her weapon belts were secure. She wasn’t sure how malnourished she was but she hoped she had enough strength to hold her own at least. At least she still had her boots on with the hard wooden soles.

She looked around her and she could make out a somewhat sketchy path. “I think there is an old path here leading doqn” the dwarf said confirming her suspicions. “Let’s go. They will eventually figure out we’re gone. I don’t want to be on the side of a mountain when those things crawl out of their pit”.

Without hesitation and fear, Mora began to carefully pick her path down the mountain. The dwarf was behind her this time and the others cautiously followed. Adrian dropped the torch inside the entrance of the tunnel.

The bright light of the moon lighted the way for them. Mora didn’t have the luxury to try to find her position. Right now, getting off the mountain was her first priority. A few times her heart lept out of her chest as she skidded down or her foot slipped off the path. Her muscles ached as they tensed to keep her from falling. Below them the rushing sound of the river got louder with each step they took down.

Time passed without meaning as they stayed close together. With what seemed divine luck, they made it halfway down the mountain before they had to stop. The path suddenly ended where there had been a landslide. The only other way was up back into the cave. The side of the mountain was shale and bedrock. Without climbing gear, they were more likely to lose their grip and fall.

Mora looked down at the water. It was dangerous, but it was an escape. She looked at the others who saw the crazy look in her eyes and Adrian shook his head no. “No way. That water is freezing and if we don’t smash up on the rocks, we are going to die from a waterfall somewhere”. Mora sighed and looked up at the moon. Give me a sign, I need help.

As if answering her call, she noticed a darkness over the pin of light of the torch. It was a shape. It was watching them. Mora remember the room and her heart wrenched. She looked at the others, “There is no other way. I’ve hated the gods all my life for the suffering I’ve endured, but now I have no choice but to trust in them. We are going to die either way. I at least am going to die with my boots on fighting for a chance. Stay here if you want, but the only safe way back is through the tunnels again”.

Mora walked to the edge. The jump itself wasn’t terrible, if it was a lake of calm water. Men often dared each other with higher jumps than this. She also didn’t know how malnourished she was. Her body might not have the strength to keep her warm in the frigid waters. It was dangerous and foolhardy, but the only option. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and thought of those she cared for and then lept.

She cleared the rock wall and missed any rocks below. As soon as she hit the water the freezing temperature stunned her. She was whisked away without a moments hesitation and she was quickly disorientated. She didn’t even see the others as she was immediately taken over by the rushing water. Her body began to ache and shiver as she twisted and turned. The sound of the rushing water filled her ears and roared at her like a dragon.

She was unable to protect herself as she hit the canyon wall once, twice, too many times. She tried to hold panic back but as she bopped up and down, swallowing cold and salty water, it took her over and she struggled to breath. She believed that the torrent would whisk her into the land of death. In her panic she looked for an embankment of any kind, but there was none, just sheer bedrock cliffs with all the debris in the river with her.

She was shoved down again and again into the water and had to fight to stay above. She was helpless. The river had her in its claw and would not relinquish her.

By the time she met her first waterfall she was frozen and could barely feel her fingertips. It wasn’t very high and it ejected her out more gently than the jump. The water was calmer here but still fast and freezing. There were embankments here and she managed with difficulty to grab hold onto a slick rock. Her bad shoulder screamed with rage as she struggled to hold onto its smooth surface. “Damn it” she cursed out as her fingers slipped and she was thrown violently back into the surge.

She felt herself hit something hard and her body ached. The torrent dragged her for some time longer. She met another waterfall, this one high enough to cause serious injury. She was exhausted and could do little else than surrender to the will of the water. She hit the water hard and felt like she had slammed into a wall. The water calmed even more and with pain and difficulty she was able to swim the current a little. She traveled further and further down as she made her way across and finally grabbed hold onto a tree root that was half in the water. She breathed heavily and groaned as she pulled herself out with the last strength within her.

Finally, she broke the current of the water. She crawled up the bank a good distance and then collapsed. She forced herself to cough up the water in her lungs and with each cough it felt like a hot poker stabbing her in her chest again and again. She cried in pain, frustration, and relief. She cried till her tears were used up. She was completely exhausted and pulled herself with her hands and knees to the trunk and sat against it, wheezing with pain. She felt exhaustion claiming her limbs quickly and she had little control as the world went black.

#mora #theravenandthepawn #ithia #blades of mealis

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