#lightning mist au

[no-nic]

kiri!sakura & kiri!kakashi

🌸🌊🐺

Sakura, like any average shinobi of Kirigakure, loves swords. It is practically a tradition to fall in love with one of the Seven Swordsmen and imagine yourself becoming their apprentice. Little Sakura used to roll her turtleneck up and pretend to be the Silver Fang, complete with wielding two sticks. There’s also the part where you kill them and take up their weapon. For some this is half the appeal. Little Sakura thought the bloodless solution was obvious: The Kiba is actually two swords, you can just each use one and become the bestest of friends. The latest trend among the Swordsmen seems to be getting the hell out of Kiri. Momochi, Hoshigaki, and Hatake all left, the rest is being closely watched. The upper shinobi ranks are in disarray. There are whispers of a rebellion. Yagura is destroying their country drop by drop. Little Sakura never thought she would become a missing-nin. Tokubetsu jonin Sakura is ready to throw away her headband, track down the Silver Fang, and claim one half of his sword duo. (And maybe climb him like a tree.)

#pink tsunami au; an excuse to have sakura with sharp teeth

[jaewritesfic]

Melon!AU

Actual writing now, based on this post:

“What,” Tim breathes out faintly, “the fuck is that?”

Language, Bruce thinks faintly, though he doesn't manage to get it past his lips.

He is a man who prides himself on being ready for anything, but he most certainly didn't expect something like this when responding to the Batsignal tonight.

“That is a Pit Demon,” Damian's voice asserts through comms, grave in a way that betrays his collected mask. He's unnerved. “There is nothing else that could be.”

Bruce is unnerved too, though he refuses to show it.

Gordon had half the block cordoned off so no civilians would come through by the time Bruce and Tim - the closest at the time - had arrived on scene. The alley itself is blocked in by police cruisers, though the officers are staying very firmly behind the line and not approaching.

It's no wonder why.

The…thing backed into a dead end alley looks like it's made of smoke and shadow, all long sinuous lines and dangerous angles.

It's vaguely Humanoid in the sense that it has a long torso, arms and a head. The arms are too long, the fingers curved and wickedly sharp. The face is a well of deep shadow, a smooth slate broken only when it opens its jagged mouth to show off a full arsenal of fangs.

The only other facial features are the solid, glowing Lazarus green eyes. Wide and lamp-like, they give the distinct feeling that the creature's sights will not miss anything.

There are no legs. Just the sinuous curves and overlaps of a long smokey tail. It whips about with agitation.

Floating like mist on the water is a head of white hair, edges fuzzy and undefined like it can't decide whether it's a solid or a gas.

The creature lays with its chest nearly flat to the ground, propped up only by those horrifically sharp hands and poised like a predator ready to push off into a sprint.

Glowing Lazarus water seems to pool slowly beneath it, streaked here and there as evidence of past movement.

Bruce finally finds his tongue to question Damian. He can see his youngest standing on the opposite roof of he and Tim, the two buildings that form the alley their perch.

“You've seen something like this before?”

Damian hesitates. “...no. But there are stories of things coming out of the Pits. I doubt I need to explain why this seems to be one of them.”

With that color green shining out of its face and streaked across the alley? No. No, he doesn't.

“Do your stories have any clues on what to do when one shows up?” Tim asks, unable to tear his eyes away from the creature.

Damian scoffs. “Close your eyes and hope your end is quick.”

“Lovely,” Tim bites out, voice a little higher pitched than normal.

“We won't be doing that,” Bruce responds dryly, two taps coming through the comms notifying them of Black Bat's arrival.

Bruce looks up and has to search for her for a few seconds before he can make her out in the shadows of Damian's rooftop.

“I'm still five minutes out,” Dick comms in. “What exactly are we looking at here? Can Oracle give a visual with any cams?”

“I wish,” Oracle chimes in. “Even through the mask footage I have no idea what they're seeing. The feed is corrupted to hell and back whenever it's in frame.”

“Really? In person it looks like-”

Tim is cut off when the officers below make some kind of movement the monster clearly takes issue with, the snarl that almost physically ricochets off the brick walls making everyone wince.

It's like TV static and the crackle of lightning striking a tree, like glaciers cracking and shifting underwater all rolled into one.

The hair on the back of Bruce's neck stands on end.

“Fuck. It's like a living shadow, but all sharp and wrong and angry-”

“No,” Cass cuts in quietly, silencing everyone.

“...Black Bat?” Bruce questions lowly.

“Not angry,” she responds, as sure as ever when assessing a target - no matter what kind of target.

“Scared, hurt. Guarding chest, trying to hide it. Wants to scare us away, but making no move to attack. Posturing.”

The thing about Cass is that they trust her reads implicitly - her reads of people.

She wouldn't speak up if she wasn't certain, and she wouldn't be certain if she didn't see something painfully human in the creature below.

“...what do you suggest?” Bruce asks after a moment of tense silence, trying to reassess the creature and see what she sees.

He at the very least wants her opinion, so they can weigh it in formulating a plan here.

Cass keeps looking for a long moment, before she looks across the gap at him. “Needs help. Reach out - at least try.”

Masterpost

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Run Away To Me (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.5k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, medieval period-esc standards for women, arranged marriage, toxic family dynamic/relationship, intentional harm (in the recent past), blood, angst, protective Johnny, hurt/comfort, pining, speedy relationship, etc.

A/N: Johnny sweaty and working the forge...that is all.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You groggily awoke to the steady sound of a hammer meeting metal and the scent of eggs. Warm bread makes your mouth water. Eyelids peeling back, your lashes flutter in even intervals as you groan in the back of your throat, content and unbothered in this soft bed of fur and cotton. For a moment you had forgotten everything that had transpired—the run and the rain slamming into your scalp.

Had it all been some dark dream? A trick? 

“Ow!” You hiss, hand darting out from the plush covers as a sharp pain darts through it. Your eyes blink on the bloody bandages, white now completely bled through with fresh crimson. 

Everything comes rushing back in a lightning-strike moment of realization. 

Quickly sitting up, your face moves all over the sun-lit room, rays of light leaking in through the opened shutters; past the glass of the windows, the nearly violent green of the near forest line meets your wide gaze. A small sound exits your throat, fingers sliding through the bear fur that had been once pulled up to your ears as you gather your senses. 

Johnny. The blacksmith.

Your eyes lock onto the small table across the room. 

As the hammering outside continues to ring in your eardrums, you tilt your head at the items sitting atop—slipping off the bed you go to tidy the fur but pause in your curiosity. A patch of blood from your wound stains the sheets and you slow at the sight, the air leaving your lungs.

“Oh,” you swallow down your slight nervousness, heart jumping for a moment as you bite your lip. 

You would have to tell Mr. MacTavsish—your brows furrow. 

Not Mr. MacTavish, he asked me to call him Johnny. A strange thing, now that you thought about it as you slowly back away and go to the table, gut rumbling at the sight of fresh eggs on bread. There was also a parcel covered in cloth sitting on the chair. 

Carefully tiptoeing, you grab the plate with a delicate hand, picking it up as you lick your lips. Had the man…made you breakfast? 

“What reality have I slipped into?” Your lips whisper, Johnny’s clothes hanging off of you heavily. Not only food but milk had been poured into a carved cup as well, and utensils placed on the table with care. Fork and knife on the right, spoon on the left; all forged and tempered. 

It was sweet, perhaps. Kind. 

You eat standing, bare feet taking you around the homestead as you listen to the blacksmith work outside. Your hands take up carved knick-knacks of animals, twirling them in a hand as you lick your lips before placing them back with all the care of a priceless possession. Chuckling at the poorly wooden face of a deer, you bring the last bits of food to your lips as you pass the window. 

Sucking in a swift breath, your body freezes. 

Perhaps it was the sudden freedom of your situation or even the want of true, honest, companionship, but you had suddenly never seen someone look as good as kind Johnny MacTavish as he worked his forge. 

The earth was still layered in dew and mist, the distance between the main home and the small hut that was holding anvil, tongs, the flame of the furnace itself, and a great number of hammers. One of which was being wielded with firm efficiency by the sweat-stained hands of Johnny—being brought down again and again to the molten form of what would be a fine sword. 

Clothed in a rolled-back white tunic, like the one from yesterday, and brown breaches, there was a leather apron tied ‘round his waist cinched tight. Lips parting, you watch with a guilty conscious for the frailness of your resolve; gaping at the sight. 

Johnny works like the dead might rise, not faltering or slowing in the abuse of the metal—twisting the rough shape of the blade and flipping it with one hand while the other hammers. How he doesn’t overheat you’d never know; letting out a slow breath as the sweat slips down his strong jaw and drips from his chin, mouth open with a far-off pant of air. 

Electricity of the same breed as last night sizzles down your spine like a finger caressing the knobs of bone, hairs standing on end as you quickly clear your throat against the burn of your face. You shift your body away, fearfully aware of the scent of Johnny’s clothes and the very bed you had slept in last night. 

“My parents will never allow me back into their home,” you utter, picking at your bandages. “I shall never even be seen in the very air near them.” 

But the true question was whether or not that was a good thing. While this freedom of yours was what you wanted, you were a woman of relative standing—having no family, no husband, and no money to your name was not ideal. In fact, it could very well be the death of you. 

You stand and lightly lick your fingers of crumbs. “At the very least,” the wood under your feet is warm from an only recently dead hearth, “this Blacksmith is quite good with meals. Such a peculiar man, hm?”

Smiling to yourself, you chuckle and push back the heat in your blood; this odd attraction to a working man. So different from Lord Wilkin. 

Not wanting to sink back into that hole quite yet, you remember Johnny’s hands slipping over yours as you take a final glance back out the window before heading back over to the table. Cobalt eyes meet yours in an instant of wide shyness through the glass. 

Staring at each other, the Blacksmith's legs shift from where they dig into the packed ground, large biceps tight as they hold the hammer and the dulling metal. 

Blinking quickly, you feel your heart skip beats at the soft contact. 

Smiling awkwardly, you raise the empty plate in display, chuckling as a wide, pleased, grin builds on Johnny’s face. He mocks a small bow, hammer going across his abdomen as his dirty cheeks peel back at his glee—you see his chest move with a deep laugh. Like the scent of lavender in your nose, you can call the sound of it to your ears as if he was in the house all this time. 

Quickly skittering away, you feel giddy, placing down your plate and taking a sip of milk before looking at the parcel. While your mind may be mingling with the blacksmith and the sweat of his body, curiosity was getting to you. And, mayhaps, a shyness at being caught.

It was covered in dark cloth, and when you touch it, the fabric immediately reminds you of a cloak—an expensive and finely spun wool dyed green. Lips parting, your hands pick it up and place it on the table; turning it over as you pull at the twine tie. 

Your heart seems to grow like a flower, the pedals opening and the stem becoming strong with a rush of admiration. 

“When did you do this, Blacksmith?” Your voice hits off the walls in a breathy gasp as the hammering picks back up outside. 

Smiling delicately, you pick up the fine linen of a chemise and the paired kirtle dyed deep blue. It wasn’t the most extravagant thing you’d worn by a long shot but as you step back and size it to your body, you decide that it was the most meaningful. 

When had he gotten up to ride into town and buy this for you? How much did it cost? 

How could this blacksmith be as chivalrous as a Knight? Not wanting you to be forced to wear his own clothes in a way unflattering to your status even if you didn’t truly care about all of that.

You had no answer, body vibrating with warmth as you slipped out of Johnny’s sleep clothes and slid the gifted items over your skin. They were slightly oversized for ease of the man’s mind, not knowing your measurements. With a small bronze clip, you situate the cloak before the boots at the door add to the already bursting emotions in your veins. 

Tears burned the back of your eyes, putting your fingers to your lips to hide the shaky inhale. All of this care after such horror was nearly unthinkable; by a complete stranger no less. 

Your own family had never been so generous. 

Taking up your now empty cup, you look to the water basin and let your ears twitch to the sound of physical labor; thinking, wanting to give even just a sliver of thanks back for this debt. As you lace your new boots, leather, you keep the memory of his calloused hands in the front of your skull with honied sanctity. 

You fill the cup and that’s that.

Cheeks heating, you bring the water with you as you exit the home, breathing down the scent of rain and pulling your cloak tighter to your neck at the slight chill. Closing the door, you make your way to Johnny who continues to work away, now a small distance from the anvil and setting the iron back into the fire to heat. 

His large back flexes and rolls with the movement.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” the cup stays steady in your two hands as you see Johnny’s muscles momentarily tense, blue eyes turning to look over his shoulders. There’s a moment where something swirls in his eyes as he stares down at your new clothes, standing up to his full height quickly. You blink. “...I’m sorry, but besides an offer of fresh water I’m unable to repay you for the gifts.”

“Ah,” Johnny clears his throat, looking back to his forge before turning back to you with a bashful look. “Please, none of that. I needed to go off and grab more grain for my horse, see.” He chuckles. “But I’m glad they fit, Dearie, was a bit worried I’d asked the wrong size.” 

“They’re perfect,” you shake your head. “It was…far more than I deserve.” 

Brows furrow. For such a presence, he slips the cup out of your hands with more care than your husband-to-be had ever thought to handle you, nodding a deep thank you.

“Now why would you say something like that?” Your head tilts, lips thinning. You suppose it was right to make good on the deal you’d struck last night. 

Johnny takes a sip from the cup, waiting for your answer as one hand hangs from the neck of his apron, fast lungs steadily slowing. As you frown and gather your thoughts, you don’t notice his eyes narrowing, concerned. 

“Well, anyways,” he clears his throat, itching at his stubble to change the subject as you startle back to reality before you can form a sentence. “I suppose I’d better take a look at that cut of yours, then, eh? Wouldn’t want it to get infected, do we?” 

“That’s not…” He has already darted to a small chest in the corner of the open hut, cup placed on the anvil top before he opens the thing with a scratch of rusty hinges. “...necessary.” 

The blacksmith laughs, taking out fresh badges. 

“I don’t think gettin’ bedridden is in your plans, now is it? C’mon…I’ll be gentle.” Johnny winks with a smirk and your pulse flares; stuttering as he grasps your elbow—leading you out of the forge and to a small break in the trees. 

A stump and a dead firepit take form, and you’re plopped down to the wood with a small huff, a stiff look sent to the man who only smiles and raises an eyebrow. 

“Is my kindness wearin’ ya down, Little Lady?” 

“You’ll make me lose my head and I’ve only known you for, at most,” you emphasize as he kneels down and takes your bloody hand, “half a day.”

“Being generous,” Johnny hums, unwrapping your hand and once again looking you over. Bloody, but still alright. His fingers move to pick up dew from the grass and wipe away some of the crimson pigment as if an artist. “When one goes and nearly makes a man’s house crumble from the force of ‘er fists, it’s only customary for him to respect her.” Blue eyes gaze up to you and twinkle. “I’m just savin’ my own hide.” 

“How honorable,” you shake your head and turn to hide the full-face grin, moments later laughs slip your tongue. “They weren’t that loud,” your vise insists, “...were they?”

“Thought the world was ending,” Johnny says it was a fake expression of seriousness, re-wrapping your hand in clean cloth. “Damn near got to my knees and prayed.” 

You find great amusement in that, placing a hand over your mouth as your spine shakes with loud laughs. The scene is similar to the one from last night—the blacksmith offering jokes and merriment to get you to laugh. It's as if every time he succeeds he smiles just a smidge wider. Realizing this, you feel your lips twitch and you look away, embarrassed.

“...I promised you answers, did I not?” You decide to ask, deciding that getting this over soon was the best course of action; also the more courteous one. After so much giving, you had to share at least the reason for all of this. “I’m sorry.” Johnny frowns at you, tying another loose knot atop your palm before sitting back on the ground. 

On his bent knee, he rests his arm, hanging off loosely, while the other hand rests behind his back as a way to keep him upward. With all of this, with him, you'd entirely forgotten to mention the stained sheets. 

“There’s no need to apologize to me, Dearie, I won’t do anythin’. I promised you,” he smiles, “remember?” You blink softly at his strong face, those eyes studying you as your hands rest in your lap; curled over each other. 

“There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.” 

Johnny huffs a chuckle, shaking his head. “Take your time, eh? I won’t be needin’ to travel back into town again until late evening.” Your hands curl slightly tighter, touched. 

The blacksmith watches you as you gather your thoughts, your face going stiff and new boots shuffling over the grass. Blue slides to your hand and his lips turn down. 

He’d be lying if he didn’t say he’d been up most of the night and working before the sun had risen—mind occupied by the woman that had been in his bed and the little information he had. Obviously, Lord Wilkin was looking for you; adamantly. 

Relentlessly. 

When he’d been in town there had been guards everywhere, checking every shop and house like beasts of metal and sharp words. You were the Lord’s bride, of course. As the tailor had asked him, a bit dejected, if he’d taken a wife as he’d bought you your chemise and kirtle, the woman had mentioned the wedding. 

“Little thing darted off during the Handfasting ceremony, I ‘erd. The Lord had only just put the knife to her palm before she yelled and fled. Oh, ya should have seen it, Mr. MacTavish. Like a bat from Hell, Lord help me. He’ll not stop till he’s found ‘er.”

Johnny’s stomach rolls, abdomen tightening as he shifts to release tension. Along the ground, his hand momentarily clenches. You hum under your breath, whispering out an easy, “Are we sure we should be outside for this?”

The man blinks in confusion. 

“Well, would…you prefer being inside?” You look nervous, fingers flinching over themselves and Johnny sits up straighter, letting his large hand carefully grasp your knee. Your innocently wide eyes lock with his own. He offers a comforting look. “It’s no difference to me—you decide. Whichever’s easier, eh?”

“It’s just,” you begin, the skin below your kirtle burning you in the best possible way. What was happening to you? “Well…My family rarely let me out.” Johnny’s body stills to a near stone carving. “Said I was to stay inside. I suppose I’m not overly used to it, you see.” 

It’s not impossible to understand the role that was placed on you. Arranged marriage, sold off to be a housewife for a large dowry paid up by the Lord. You’d been brought up to be tossed away at a moment's notice. The blacksmith’s jaw tightens, bone sharp through the flesh. 

“...Well,” his voice is a bit ragged—scratchy. You listen with nervousness in your chest, a slow infection of unease. “I’m not your family, am I? It’ll be good to get some sun, I think—let’s stay here for a little longer and then we can go back in when you’re ready. There’s no rush to things.” 

Letting you calm down, his thumb rubs a small circle before he pulls it away, perhaps realizing what he was doing before clearing his throat, cheeks alight. 

A small breeze pushes through the pines, a wind filled with the scent of fire and earth—dirt and dew. It was peaceful here, among the old spirits and the hidden trails. So different in the light than it was in the pouring rain. 

“I imagine you knew about the wedding?” You sigh, staring at your lap. “Lord Wilkin?” 

“Aye,” Johnny nods, speaking quietly. He doesn’t want to force you. “I did.”

“I was placed into the marriage two months ago by my parents, an agreement of land and money was traded for my hand.” Watching, the man’s eyes go sad, lids tilting. He stops the grunt in the back of his throat as you continue. “I had resigned myself to it, truly. Being of enough standing all I was needed for was marriage—”

“That’s utter shite.” Johnny growls, angry at the sentence. “They would just toss you away like that? To a bastard ten times your age?” 

You stare, brows tight. “I…I’m a daughter, am I not?” 

Johnny’s jaw goes slack, eyes sharp with horror as his gaze looks deeply into your vision, biceps tense with cooling sweat and dirt. Such a sight it was, two beings as different as a mountain and a valley; so near but starkly contrasted in the harsh strength of rock and the gentle sway of grassy low-land. Bears and deer, barn swallows that sit on rafters and golden eagles that soar tempests. 

The dark-haired man could never imagine raising a girl for nothing else than to be a man’s property—to sell as if a good and nothing more. Johnny turns his head away before he snaps at nothing, a low sound trapped in his chest. You never had a single choice.

Confused by his approach to this, you watch the side of his face as the man’s expression of anger slowly shifts back to a hidden seriousness. Eyes dark and his hand tightened into a fist. 

“I’m sorry, Dearie. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Johnny blinks, shaking his head. “Hope I didn’t scare ya.”

“No,” you motion a hand. “No, not at all.” 

“Good.” He sighs, rubbing at the back of his head. “Ah, please, keep going. I’ll be quiet as a mouse, promise.” You smile tinily. 

“At the wedding, when it was near the end, they brought out the cloth and the knife for the Handfasting ceremony,” Johnny leans forward, and you look down at him on the ground. He lent a sort of silent vigor, you think to yourself. A comfort. “He dragged it along my skin and then he gripped my hand and forced the base of my palm harder into it.” 

Your words get smaller and hushed, flexing your damaged hand. “...I think…that he wanted it to leave a scar. I bolted off before they could tie the cloth.” 

Johnny stands and brings you into a hug, a hand coming to the back of your head and pressing your skull gently to his chest. 

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus.” He breathes, and you slowly wind your own hands around his waist; melting into him without even knowing it. Johnny’s scent encompasses you like a blanket, and your very bones seem to sprout flowers from the marrow as your eyes get watery, held in such a way that most people only dream about. 

When the first silent tears fall he doesn’t make a big deal out of it—only holds you more firm and sighs into your scalp. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, honest and truthful. Could you run? Go to another fiefdom? How far would you even be able to make it? No food, no horse, no supplies. 

You’d be found out in no time. 

Johnny moves back, tilting his head down to you and grasping your face with a single hand. “We’ll figure it out, Little Lady. By my word, I’ll do what I can to make sure you’ll never go back to that bastard of a Lord again.” A hard thumb pushes back your tears and blue eyes soften on you. “Can you trust me?” 

Can and not do. 

Even the simple alleviation of pressure from a word makes you care for this man even more than you should. The simmering attraction to not only his appearance but his steadfast heart; indomitable morals. 

“You, Johnny?” You sniffle, a grin twitching your lips up as the blacksmith’s face goes hot. “Yes, I can trust you.” Actions enough from last night had proven that. 

Johnny huffs and lets the blush on his face spread along his neck, suddenly unable to look you in the eyes for too long before he has to clear his throat and gaze to the side. Not knowing what overtakes you, you lightly press your lips to his cheek—feeling the heat and the slight gasp that escapes his lips. 

You giggle as he grunts a thanks, awkwardly shuffling on his feet as you both continue to hold one another. His grip travels down to your back as he raises a brow, trying to push past his beginning stutter as he speaks. “I’d tell ya that if you do that again, I might just have a fainting spell, Miss.”

“A fainting spell,” you tease, “from a kiss, Blacksmith?” 

“Aye—especially if it’s from such a Bonnie woman like you, see.” You both laugh, faces burning up, as serious topics and tears fade into the past. 

As you had said, where any other man would have been different, Johnny Mactavish had proven himself to be right and true. Even if you’d been impossibly tired last night, the small sliver of fear had still remained that something might happen to you here; in the presence of one man in the middle of the woods. No such fear remains. 

Like a great Lord of old, Johnny had offered sanctuary from a man of cruel and horrible intentions. But perhaps he’d offered far more than that, with how he’s staring at you. 

Your laughs steadily die down to a pulsing silence, hands around one another and faces only a few inches away. It’s bizarre how fast this had happened—these feelings brimming in the cup of your heart. A bowl overflowing with care and affection; of something else that cannot be named for fear it’s only a simple infatuation. A twin flame of red-hot fire that could rival Johnny’s forge. 

“I…don’t want to overstep,” the man says, and your eyes are drawn to his lips as they move—a small scar you’d yet to notice living on his chin, a stain of lighter flesh. You swallow stiffly and dart your gaze back to his as you feel his heart pounding in his ribcage. It wasn’t a mystery to wonder if your own is doing the same. “Y’should tell me to stop, Dearie.”

“To stop what,” you pull the words from the depths of your throat. “What are you planning on doing, Johnny?” He shivers as you say his name as if put under a spell. 

“Are you sure you’re not a witch, now?” You stifle a confused laugh, furrowing your brows with amusement.

“What?” 

“One half-day is all it took for you to chain me to your will,” he grasps the bottom of your chin and angles your head up; you go willingly. His eyes search yours for any hesitation or flighty emotions. All he finds is wide awe. “Most would call that witchery, Little Lady.”

“Then it seems your will is easily broken, Blacksmith.”

“Perhaps it is,” Johnny smirks, his breath puffing out along your parted lips. Your body vibrates with anticipation of what was to come, hearing his voice lower to a deep rasp. “Haven’t ya heard…? Blacksmiths have a weakness for runaway brides.” 

“Is that so? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” 

“Suppose I’ll just have to show you.” His lips are firm and his body runs hot. 

Eyes fluttering shut, you sigh into him as his hands dig into your gifted cloak, meeting him with every pass. Low purrs of satisfaction echo from his chest and make you shiver, nose pressing into his lower cheek. Playfully, his teeth nip at your flesh and you gasp; eyes pulling back to stare half-lidded as blue sparks with mischief. 

You should stop this—but you were starved for honest affection. Companionship, even. Johnny by far wasn’t the worst to throw your lott in with and he might just be the best possible to fill that role. Life in this era is fast and harsh; it’s unfair. You had to make quick decisions without thinking of the possible consequences. 

So as you blink up at the man who watches you closely, you place your fingers on the side of his face and tilt his lips back to yours with a small smile. His hand at the curve of your spine twitches, sliding along the cloak in minute increments as Johnny’s heart hammers like his tools. 

It’s as if the forge was still around the two of you—air hot and the feeling sticking to your skin like a brand of sin and forbidden magnetism. He shouldn’t have kissed you, but the hypnosis of the hammer was in his head; its rhythm and striking slam. You drew him in as the anvil does the iron. 

In this moment of contentment, there is a fast sound of something in the air, something that rattles the two of you out of your tender embrace to gaze with contorted faces through the thin line of trees. Panting and open.

Through the foliage back to the homestead is the rapid movement of hooves and the baying of hounds. 

It strikes you like a knife, eyelids moving far back as Johnny’s head snaps to the noise with something growing in the back of his expression. Calls; shouts. You know who it is, who’s found you out. You’d never heard it until it was too late.

“Johnny,” your voice says, fearful with wild eyes. 

“Stay behind me,” he says, monotone with red lips. Shadows of horses and guards are near the house. You stare up at him in shock. A kiss is pressed to your forehead. “Nothin’ll happen to you.” His eyes dig past layers. 

There was no running from this. 

“Okay,” you whisper.

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[withahappyrefrain]

oop for the drabble weekend… “When I tell you to sit on my face, I want you to sit, is that clear?” + soft!dom tasm peter if you’re down 🩷 or any of your boys 🥺

Is this how we bring back soft dom mob AU Peter? Maybeeeeeeeeee.....yeah. It is.

"Mister.....Mister Parker-"

A low groan vibrated against your chest, his mouth still attached to your breast, your unbuttoned blouse framing his head.

"What did I say to call me, Shefele?"

Lamb. That's what you were and he was the wolf, ready to devour you whole.

He was also your boss. The ultimate forbidden fruit. He paid your bills and could lead you to financial ruin at the drop of a hat.

You did kiss him first.

"Peter," his beard brushed against your sensitive skin, sending a body shuddering shiver up your spine.

His hand slipped past your skirt's hemline, long fingers finding your clothed core, rubbing against the flimsy fabric of your panties.

"Already so wet for me," his lips trailed up your body, leaving a litter of kisses and love bites across your flesh.

Peter's lips found yours with ease, realization that all those times in meetings he was truly staring at your lips, like a train.

Your hands explored his deceivingly muscular body, able to feel through his cotton button up. Trailing down, down, down to his designer belt.

"N-need you," your confession came in the form of a barely audible whine.

"I know, but," his hands pushed yours away, his body moving down and off the couch, "Let me take care of ya first. Sit on my face."

"What?"

Peter moved his body so that his back was against the plush cushions of the sofa, head tilted back, the mess of curls and waves tickling your knees, "You heard me, Shefele."

"Mist- Peter, if I sit on your I'll cr-"

"Don't finish that sentence," he moved faster than lightning, body draping over yours once more, "Because that won't happen. I'll be fine."

His lips found your jawline, playfully nipping at it, "When I tell you to sit on my face, I want you to sit. Is that clear, Shefele?"

You nodded, panting as if you had just ran a marathon, "Y-yes sir."

The title elicited a low, nearly animalist groan, "Gonna make you feel s'good, Shefele."

[suguwu]

WRAP YOUR TEETH AROUND THE WORLD I PART ONE

A child of the harvest, your life is forfeit when you're chosen for the Hunt's Rite.

You don't expect the god to take an interest in you instead.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

pairing: gn!reader x millions knives

notes: if you've followed me for a bit, you know that i've been thinking about this concept for a long while. it's such a delight to be able to finally share it. with massive apologies to my beta, who has not read this because i am too impatient.

the title is, of course, from hozier.

content: god of the hunt nai au, reader is specifically a vegetarian, slow burn, human sacrifice, implied murder, predator/prey aspects.

wc: 5.2k

The sun is setting when they come for you.

Light is still pouring golden over the horizon, dripping along the edge of the sky like honey, sweet and thick despite the teeth of the encroaching night. It casts the High Priest’s face into shadow, blurs the edges of her until she is something else, something more. God-touched.

You watch her disappear into the temple, absentmindedly holding the lantern-lighter to the wick. The flame catches quickly, a kiss of light, flaring like a shooting star. The bright flash makes you blink. It makes you refocus on your task. The next lantern is lit just as quickly, and you make your way around the courtyard, until a constellation bathes the courtyard in soft, flickering orange. 

You’re lighting the final wick when you hear your name. It rings out like the toll of a dour bell, deep and sad. Frost spirals down your spine, winter come early. You take a moment to blow out the lantern-lighter before you turn around. 

The High Priest of the Hunt flashes her teeth. The forest lives in the sharpened edges of them, each carefully filed to a knife’s deadly point, smooth and sharp. You shudder.

“Child,” your High Priest says. “You have been chosen for the Hunt’s Rite.”

Your next breath hurts. It shears through you, drags up between your ribs to split you apart, carves its way out of your throat. You choke on it.

“But—” you gasp out. “I’m a child of the harvest.” 

“You are not claimed,” the High Priest of the Hunt says, her voice billowing out like smoke. It fills the cracks in you with char, with something you cannot name. “And you have been chosen.” 

You have no words; they slip away from you like mist rising from the lake’s surface, wispy and intangible. The harvest god does not claim. It is not his way, but you had thought it would be different for you. 

(The man smiles at you, soft and sweet and edged with something like sorrow. “Eat,” he says, holding his hands out, his palms suddenly overflowing with plump fruit. The berries gleam in the dappled sunlight, little multi-colored gems. 

Your stomach aches at the sight. 

“You’re—” you breathe. 

“Eat,” the man—the god—repeats. “It will do you well.”

The berries burst beneath your teeth. They’re salt-kissed, a remnant of his touch. You devour them, ravenous with months of famine settled into your weakened bones, and only taste devotion.)

You had thought it would be different for you, you who had supped from his palms. 

“Please,” you say softly. “Please.”

Your High Priest looks away. His mouth twists, going sour at the edges, and his eyes are glassy in the low light, shining brightly with unshed tears.

The High Priest of the Hunt’s eyes glimmer too and you think of a predator peering out from the depths of the woods, eyes flickering beneath moonlight. 

“It is an honor to be chosen,” she tells you. “The hunt has always provided.” 

You stay quiet. 

She hums low in her throat, the sound like the distant baying of the dogs, and reaches out. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. The pain shatters beneath your skin, a lightning strike sting, and you concentrate on that as she traces her thumb over the apple of your cheek.  Her touch is reverent, skimming over your skin like silk.

“Come,” she breathes. “We must ready you.”

Your High Priest protests, but the sound of his reedy voice is lost under the pulsing thrum of your blood as it echoes through you. It’s loud, like the purr of the pebbles that tumble over themselves each time a wave draws back from the shore. You stumble back a step.

There’s a ribbon woven around your chest, you think, and it’s growing tighter, compressing the bones until they start to creak. You suck in a sharp breath; it burns.

The High Priest of the Hunt studies you. In the lantern light, her features are stark, flickering shadows dancing over her face. She tilts her head and her blonde hair spills over her shoulder like starlight. It illuminates her, a galaxy spread sparkling in the sky, and again, she seems like something more. Something bigger. She flashes her sharpened teeth in a mockery of a smile.

“Come,” she says again. “There is nothing for you here.”

“Elendira,” your High Priest says. “Please.”

Her eyes harden. “The child is ours. The rite must be prepared.”

“They are to be given one night—”

“That is for those with family.”

You cast your eyes to the ground. The guttering flames of the lanterns send undulating patterns over the packed-down dirt of the courtyard; they writhe like snakes. The two High Priests continue to go back and forth, but they sound distant, as if they’re just echoes of themselves.

“Child.”

You look up. Your High Priest gives you a ghost of a smile; there’s a deep sorrow tucked up in the corner of his lips. He takes your hand in his. His fingers are bird-boned, delicate things. They’re trembling.

“You must go,” he says.

“Must I?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yes.” 

You blink back the tears. Just behind him, Elendira watches the two of you, her eyes gleaming in the lantern-light. There’s a triumphant curl to the crimson slant of her mouth, a brutal slash of victory. You squeeze your High Priest’s hand and draw in a ragged breath. 

“I would bring some of my things with me,” you tell them. It will help, you think, to have them with you. 

Elendira scoffs. “There is no need,” she says. “You are in the care of the hunt now. We will provide all that you want.”

“Then the hunt can provide me with my things.”

She eyes you, her lip curling up into a fierce little smile. “You have bite after all,” she says. “The hunt lives in you yet.”

You resist the urge to bare your teeth. “The harvest lives in me.”

She arches a perfect brow. “We shall see.”

Still, she relents. Two of her acolytes silently accompany you to your room at the temple; you pack in a daze, plucking up a few keepsakes, though you’re not sure why. You know the fate you are heading towards. You let your fingers play over the spirals of seaglass that line your dresser, the deep blues and the soft greens misted over by the ocean’s touch, years of gifts from the woodcarver.

You pick up one of the pieces, rubbing your thumb over the rounded edge of it. It’s the gentle blue of a mid-morning sky, of a speckled robin’s egg tucked carefully into the mess of a nest. You bring it to your lips and think that you can still taste salt. 

The acolytes urge you from your room, their hands reverent against you. One of them has callused fingers, a bow’s lingering kiss, and you shrink back from the abrasive feel of them.

Elendira is waiting for you in the temple’s courtyard. She hums, low and resonant, as you approach, eyeing the few things you’ve gathered, but she says nothing. You bite at your lip as you take in your own High Priest beside her; he’s stooped over, heavily slumped, an eroded rock. He can’t meet your eyes.

You look away and into Elendira’s keen gaze. She smiles, a crimson slash that shows off her sharpened teeth, and beckons you close.

“Come here, little one,” she says. 

You follow her command, coming to a halt in front of her. She slips a finger under your chin to make you look her in the eye. Her sharp nail digs into the softness there, just shy of breaking the skin. She examines you again. Her eyes—blue as the nearby lake, glittering like the water beneath the sun—are keen. You set your jaw and meet her gaze.

She laughs. She pushes your chin up higher for a brief breath before she withdraws, her nail dragging against your delicate skin like the tip of a knife. You draw in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t hurt. 

“We leave now,” she says.

“Let me say goodbye.”

She considers you again. “Is that a demand, child?”

“You said the hunt would provide.”

“You’ve already used that once,” she says, but she sounds amused. “This is the last time I’ll allow it.” 

She turns around and strides away before you can reply, her hair rippling behind her, a comet’s blazing trail. One of the acolytes trails behind her; the other remains in the courtyard, stepping back into the shadows cast by the lantern light. 

“Child,” your High Priest says softly. He still can’t look you in the eye. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I know,” you say, and the tears beading crystalline on your lashes finally spill over, running hot down your cheeks. He reaches out and cups your cheek. He hushes you quietly, his thumb running softly beneath your eye, brushing away the falling tears. His own eyes are shimmering. 

“The woodcarver,” you say. “Will you—”

“I will go to her as soon as you’re gone.”

“Thank you.” 

“Is there anything you wish for me to say?”

You shake your head. “She’ll know.”

“As you wish,” he says. 

The acolyte shifts. “It is time,” they say, stepping forward into the light. “Come.” 

Your High Priest’s hand tightens against your cheek before he lets it fall. You miss his warmth; the cool night air erases the ghost of his touch in an instant. “Goodbye, child,” he says softly. 

“Goodbye,” you whisper.

The acolyte steps up beside you and gestures you forward. They lead you to where Elendira lingers in the shadows at the temple’s entrance. She steps forward and raises the hood of your well-worn cloak, her long fingers careful. The smile on her lips is sharp. It sinks down into your marrow, a well-placed knife. You shiver, frost spiraling down your spine. 

The acolyte chivvies you into a carriage. Elendira slips gracefully in across from you, her cloak flowing around her like a gentle river. You turn your gaze outwards, unwilling to face her.

She laughs, the sound billowing out from her like smoke. But she doesn’t try to engage you; you watch the darkened countryside roll by, blurring like a mirage. You mark things familiar to you to try and ground yourself: the half-bent oak, the overgrown path to the long-dried lake, the curl of smoke rising from the temple.

It doesn’t work. You feel wool-headed, as if it’s stuffed between your ears. The world is a watercolor, smearing across your vision in flickers of color. You close your eyes against it, stomach roiling, and concentrate on breathing from your mouth, low and slow. 

You only open them when the carriage creaks to a halt. 

Elendira gives you no commands; she merely flashes her sharpened teeth at you in a mockery of a smile before sliding from the carriage. You have no choice but to follow. 

There are two acolytes waiting for you, their curious eyes tracing over every inch of you. Elendira beckons one of them close.

“Ready them,” she orders. “They need to be prepared for the coming days before the rite.” 

The acolyte bows and ushers you forward. You don’t bother to fight it. You barely look at your surroundings, too focused on each heavy step towards your fate. They guide you through the temple carefully. People bow as you go by; you catch the shadows of them out of the corner of your eyes, each one wispy as they yield to you and the acolytes. A shiver trickles down your spine like icemelt. 

The air changes as you step into another hallway. There’s a dampness to it now, like the humid touch of a midsummer’s afternoon, when there is a promise of a storm in the air. The baths, then, you think. You’ll be scrubbed clean of the remnants of your temple, stripped of the very last of it, the scent of your soap. 

For a moment, you consider running, but there’s no point. Instead, you let them herd you through a door and into the baths.

Once you’re in the steamy room, they strip you of your clothing with reverent fingers. You sink into the bath without a word, barely taking in the magnificent stretch of it, the bath so large it could almost be a pool, lined with tiles as blue as the sky. 

You don’t fight it when they begin to wash you. Their touch is gentle, as sweet as a spring lamb. The soap smells of clover, of the meadows that edge the village, and it’s almost enough to mask the rusty tinge of blood that lingers in the air. The acolytes murmur to you as they bathe you, but their voices are distant, burbling like the river current. 

They rinse you by pouring ladles of cool water over your head. It’s a balm against your heated body; you turn your face into it despite the gasps it brings. The water cradles you like a lover. Their murmurs meld into something songlike, rising and falling like the wind, fluting high and rasping low. Prayer, you think. You don’t bother to listen.

They dry you with towels scented like the forest, like the deep woods, all moss and loam. You do not receive your clothing back; instead, they dress you in fine silks that stick to your skin, that cling to your body like a gossamer spider’s web. You shiver as they sweep against your skin, as cool as a river. 

The bath starts to darken as they blow the candles out. They chivvy you forward, back into the halls. Your cheeks heat as you go, aware that the silk sticks to each inch of you, a second skin, and that all eyes are upon you. The murmurs echo off the walls, rolling across you like waves against the shore. 

The room they bring you to is a lavish one. There are luxurious pelts spread on the large bed, ready to keep the chill air of the encroaching fall at bay. They nudge you through the door. You stumble through it, your foot catching on the draping silk, and catch yourself against an ornate chair.

By the time you turn around, the acolytes are gone, the door scraping closed behind them. The click of the lock rings through the air. You cannot help yourself; you try the door. It does not budge.

The tears start to sting your eyes. You sniffle, willing them back, and make your way to the bed. It’s soft as you sink down upon it. You stare up at the ceiling until it starts to blur, and then you finally close your eyes.

You do not fall asleep for a very long time.

—

Dawn comes too early. 

You’ve barely stirred in the bed when the door opens; an acolyte sweeps in. She’s keen-eyed, almost vulpine, with the sharpened teeth to match. You sit up as she draws near, huddling under one of the pelts. 

“Come,” she says, her voice rolling like summer thunder. “You must eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll find your appetite once there is food in front of you.”

You shake your head.

Her expression doesn’t change, but suddenly, there’s something cold to her, the slow creep of the first frost. “It wasn’t a request,” she says. “Now come.” 

You grit your teeth, your fingers tightening in the thick fur of the pelt you’re under. Then you let go and slide out from under it. 

“Good,” the acolyte says.

She dresses you in silence, brushing your hands away when you try to smooth out the silken clothing they’ve brought you. It’s finely made, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever owned, and it makes your stomach twist.

She takes you through the winding temple halls, your bare feet quiet against the cool stone floors. The other acolytes stare as you go by, just as they did last night, and you shrink into yourself, make yourself small. It does little to alleviate the weight of their gazes. 

The room she takes you into is a small one, but it seems cavernous, with its high ceilings and sparse decor. Elendira is there, her long blonde hair gleaming in the light, a falling star. She turns as you enter. She beckons you forward; you slink towards her, a cowed dog. 

“Sit,” she tells you, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You must eat.”

You hesitate for a breath before you sink into the chair. She smiles, clearly pleased, and when she nods, another acolyte places a plate in front of you. 

You pause. The plate is laden with seasonal vegetables, cooked and raw. For a moment, you almost feel like you’re home. “There’s no meat,” you say. Your own voice startles you, small as it is. 

Elendira hums. “No,” she says. “It would make you sick.”

It would, considering how long you’ve gone without it, but you hadn’t expected to be accommodated. Perhaps you should have; it’s easy to forget that you’re important to them now. That you are something bigger than yourself. You gaze down at the plate and your stomach churns.

You think you might be sick anyway. 

Under Elendira’s gaze, you pick away at the food, mostly pushing it around on the plate. When you finally lean back, unable to take even a second more, she purses her lips but says nothing. Instead, she beckons to you, a silent command.

You follow her out into the courtyard in the middle of the temple. You’re surprised to see the garden that fills it, the scent of wet loam rising to your nose as an acolyte waters a patch of summer roses, their petals the color of the dawn, a sweet, pearly pink. There’s a basket of them on the ground, their cut stems still oozing sap. You pause.

“Go on,” Elendira says, sounding amused. 

You pick one up, twirling it between your fingers before hissing out a breath as a thorn catches the pad of your thumb. The blood wells up, a crimson seed, and you press your thumb between your lips to suck it away. Iron spreads on your tongue. 

There’s a drop of blood clinging to the thorn; it trickles down the stem a bit. You wipe it away as Elendira watches, something like a smile blooming on her lips, but she says nothing. 

Instead, she takes you through the garden to a set of rooms on the other side. There are acolytes waiting inside.

“Take care of them,” Elendira says. Before you can protest, she turns on her heel and glides from the room, her blonde hair flowing behind her like a comet’s tail. 

“Come,” one of the acolytes says, holding out a hand. 

You almost shrink away, but you take a deep breath and straighten your spine instead. You do not take their hand, but you follow them anyway. They bring you deeper into the chambers, into a room that smells of incense. It’s heavier than what your temple uses, but there is comfort in it nonetheless. 

You spend the day in that little room, retreating deep into your mind as they prepare you, engaging in little rituals that are beyond your knowledge. Normally, you would ask, always curious, but you cannot bring yourself to do so. 

By the time they lead you from the room, night has fallen. The scent of incense lingers on your skin as you walk through the courtyard, your face lifted towards the sky to better see the rising moon. It shines silver on the garden, painting petals with its soft touch. 

A different acolyte chivvies you along. He’d joined the group later, taking over from faces that had just started to grow familiar. Part of you thinks that is exactly the intent—that you gain no true companionship with anyone. It is utterly lonely, like living amongst shadows. 

He leads you to your room; once inside, you again hear the click of the lock. This time, you don’t bother to try the door. Instead, you shimmy out of the silken clothing and into the bed, closing your eyes.

When you open them again, you know that you are dreaming. 

You are small again; you barely come up to the woodcarver’s hip. She presses your face against her skirts, her hand gentle but firm. The words are lost to the dream, but you remember them well enough—the elders discussing your fate after your father was lost to winter’s teeth, claimed by  a cliff disguised by drifting snow. 

The gods are not kind. That much is clear.

The elders say your father’s name like a funeral knell. You think it will haunt you forever. 

When you look up from the woodcarver’s skirts, she is older, time smearing together as it only can in a dream. The edges of her eyes crinkle like parchment, laugh lines etched into her skin. They do not show now her face is solemn, her lips pinched together. She is thinner, her cheekbones sharp, and you realize it is the famine years.

The world swirls and suddenly, you are in the town square, desperate cries echoing around you. The woodcarver is next to you, her face grim, and she pulls you close as the crowd—the mob—pushes forward. 

You know what happens next. It’s already written, a history you can’t change. But you turn away anyway, hiding your face back in the woodcarver’s skirts, as if it can block out the cries of the harvest god’s acolytes as they fall. 

You wake with a cry, char and blood lingering in your nose, a phantom of the past. You sob once, twice, and bury your face in the furs of your fine bed. 

The gods are not kind, but neither are men.

—

The morning dawns red.

It streaks through the sky, crimson fingers of light smearing against the horizon, the sun bleeding it like a cracked egg. It spills into your room through the high window, pooling on the stone floor. 

The ruby sky fades into something softer as the sun continues its rise, but the damage is done. The burning spectacle haunts you as you dress for the day, unaccompanied by any acolyte. You can hear them in the hallway, the temple stirring to life, but no one comes through your door. Something in you burns cold.

When the door finally opens, you know. 

The acolytes take you to the bath through deserted halls. The water is warm and sweetly scented with a perfume that you don’t know. It winds around you, soft and soothing. You drift as they bathe you. 

Your skin prickles with gooseflesh when they rinse you, the air dragging its cool fingertips over the length of your body. The acolytes dry you with soft towels before they wrap you in clinging silks yet again. You trail your hand over the material, take in the icy slip of it. 

You look up as one of the acolytes approaches with a piece of fabric in his hands. You dip your head at his gesture; he ties it over your eyes, leaving you in darkness, with just the tiniest hint of light seeping in at the edges, like the sun peeking over the horizon. 

Blinded, you’re entirely reliant on the acolytes to lead you. You take deep breaths, trying to loosen the knot that’s wound itself around your ribs. You drift in the darkness, your mind fleeing.

The light hurts when the blindfold comes off. You wince, blinking away the sting, and find yourself in a grove at the forest’s edge, surrounded by the temple’s acolytes. They cry out at the sight of you, and you shrink into yourself, feeling your heart fluttering between your ribs, a trapped bird. Your hands are shaking.

Smoke billows around you, the scent of char settling over your skin as the acolytes disrobe you. Elendira watches from her place by the altar. Her blonde hair glints in the light, haloed by the sun, and her gaze is heavy upon your form. 

The silk you were wearing puddles at your feet, iridescent, an icy lake reflecting the moon’s glow. They dab oil behind your ears and in the hollow of your throat. You choke on a sob.

It was not meant to be like this. 

(Eat, the god of the harvest says, his smile sad. So that you may live as you are meant to.)

You let the acolytes wind pelts around you, the heat of them settling into your bones, a stoked fire caught up in fur. They’re for the deepest parts of the forest, you think, where the trees still murmur to each other. Where it stays chilled even in the height of summer.

It’s kind of them to think you’ll get that far. 

“Please,” you say quietly, as one of them dips near to smear crimson juice on your lips. 

She ignores you. 

Elendira raises her arms at the altar. The others turn their attention her way; you glance to it and see a pearly pink rose laid out against the stone. You turn away and stare at the ground, at the forest loam full of moss. There is a spider skittering across a leaf. You watch it run. 

Elendira is speaking, her cool voice filling the meadow. You cannot hear her. The acolytes move with her, at her command. You glance up and cannot make sense of what they’re doing. They whirl around you, snapping their sharpened teeth into the air with sharp clicks of their jaws, the muscles working beneath their skin. It’s too different from your own temple, all vicious, violent movement. 

You only know the rite is complete when you feel him.

He blazes into being behind you, his presence oppressive, the weight of his gaze dragging at you like an anchor and its heavy chain. It sinks into you. Crawls beneath your skin. Flays you open and touches the deepest parts of you. 

It’s almost familiar, like a dream within a dream. 

Elendira cries out, her voice fluting like a bird’s before it grows rougher, crueler, until you hear the hunting dogs in her voice, nipping at your heels. Behind you, his presence grows, a stoked fire. 

You don’t flinch when he touches you. His touch blazes like cold fire, a frostbitten thing. His thumb—thick and callused—dips into the oil that’s gathered on your neck.

He smears it up the soft underside of your throat to the tender skin just beneath your jaw. He presses there, just against your fluttering pulse. 

Please, you almost say, but you know better.

The god of the hunt is not known for his mercy. 

(Knives is just one of his many names, but it’s the one that rings truest. A blade is a blade is a blade. It cares little who it nicks.)

“Acceptable,” he says, and there is the forest in his voice, something ancient. It echoes around you. Thunders through your bones. 

He leans in close, his breath warming the nape of your neck. Your chest goes tight.

He murmurs, almost fond, into your ear:

“Run, little rabbit.”

You do. 

You know better than to look behind you; you bound off towards the forest, where the saplings rise like ribs, their shadows long against the ground. You feel the grass beneath your feet give way to the loam of the woods, dirt cushioned with moss. 

The forest blurs by as you dash through it, nimble-footed as you dodge around the massive oaks that soar to the sky, their canopies darkening the woods around you. You gasp in a breath, your chest tightening more, anxiety spooling around your ribs like thread. 

The woods have gone quiet. There are no birds calling; even the rustle of the trees is gone, as if fall has already consumed them, given them over to winter’s slumber. You only hear the pounding of your heart as it flutters against your ribs, a hummingbird's frantic beating of wings. You duck beneath a branch but not far enough. It scores your cheek, a whip crack of pain that fades quickly.

You have no time for it; you hurtle over an old, old root system, the tangle of them gone mossy with age. You barely clear it, your toes brushing against the mushrooms blooming from the bark. 

You land hard.

It knocks the breath from you, rattles up through your bones, the earth's admonishment. Air rushes from you in a great, gasping breath and you cannot pull it back in. Your chest aches with it, a bruise freshly pressed. 

Still, you don't dare stop.

You can feel Knives behind you, pacing like a wolf behind its prey. He keeps his distance, but never too far, nipping at your heels each time you slow with his massive presence, something too big to name. You hadn't known how divinity devours.

There is a maw at your heels and you can only go forward.

You dance between the saplings, breath caught in your throat. The woods are hungry around you; everywhere you look there are only trees.

Your feet pound against the dirt. They ache, a bone-deep bruise. You're slowing, you know, but you cannot help it. Your legs feel encased in resin, the slow drip of exhaustion trickling down them.

"Please," you pant. "Please."

(“Slowly,” the god says, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone. “I will be here to give you more.”) 

The blackberry bush to your left blooms into being, berries pouring from it, ripened to a plumpness that's beyond anything you've ever seen.

You change directions instantly, veering towards it. 

Another one blooms, and then a raspberry bush, the berries little blood-red rubies, thick and juicy. You follow the verdant path coming to life, something bright starting to burn in your chest, something that you barely dare think of as hope. 

You choke on your next breath.

Knives' presence has roared to life behind you, a freshly stoked fire. It drapes over you like the nighttime, deep and oppressive. Ozone crackles in the air. It's stark on your tongue. Suffocating. 

Then there's an arm around your waist.

It stops you in your tracks, so sudden that it hurts. It shakes the sense from you. You gasp, the air forced from your lungs in a long, low hiss, a rattlesnake’s vibrating tail. Only the arm—thickly muscled, unyielding as iron—keeps you upright.

When your breath returns, it only catches in your throat once more.

There's heat against you; air stirs the fine hairs at your nape. You can feel the slow, steady rise of Knives’ chest against your back. His arm tightens around you. His fingers dig divots into the flesh of your hip. 

His voice—full of the forest, of the hunt, of fur and fang and blood—rumbles through you.

“Not this one, little brother.”

The berry bush that had just burst into life withers, its verdant leaves curling up into brittle skeletons. You draw in a sharp, ragged breath. Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, bone deep. You shift and those fingers flex, sinking even deeper into the curve of your hip.

You go still. There’s little point in struggling; this close, you can feel the divinity radiating off of him, a falling star, cold and bright. It’s overwhelming, burning through your very bones. It devours you. His arm tightens around you as your knees start to give, your chest heaving. Your vision spots, going black at the edges, and you feel more than hear him speak. It cracks like thunder and your body gives up. 

The last thing you see before the world fades is a flash of blue hair.

[lipglossanon]

♔ 𝔉𝔦𝔳𝔢 ♔

• A Dozen Roses • Fairy Tale AU •

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dead dove, incest, father/daughter incest, possessiveness, kissing, groping, thigh riding

Dawn does not break. A summer storm overtakes the early morning sky and overshadows the sun with pounding rain that comes down in sheets as lightning forks in the distance. Your chamber maids dress you warmly for even inside a chill is persisting along the stone corridors. 

Your father is nowhere to be found. Off with his fellow knights on a hunt, waylaid by the weather. That’s what the stable hand tells you as he points out the empty stall where your father’s steed usually rests. You frown out across the wide terrace as the maids usher you back inside. 

The day passes slowly, your ladies trying to distract you with music and sewing. One even whispers to you about the most recent gossip floating amongst the gentry. That your father has already chosen you a suitor— someone he was to announce after his hunt. 

“Is this so?” You murmur quietly, eyes seeking the window and yet only seeing the storm. 

She nods, threading her needle, “Yes, Princess. But tis only a rumor, just another tale to spread for those with too little responsibility.”

You smile at her, “I suppose that’s true enough.”

The talk turns to other things, letting you fall back into your thoughts. The book containing your mother’s story lies tucked against your side. Your grand plan of speaking to the King this morn dissipates like mist in the light. The day drags along and after supper, you visit her portrait hoping to glean more insight into this ghost. 

Refreshing her wilted lilies, as you have countless times before, makes your heart race with longing. Magic is all well and good but it seems to only have a place for you in the shadows of your heritage. Gifting her a single red rose, you place the thorny stem in the middle of the lilies and take your leave. Your ladies-in-waiting walk with you back to your chambers, bowing and bidding you a goodnight as you part from them at the door.

Once you’re completely alone, you light a candle and read over the words and secrets left behind in the diary until they swim across the page. You hear loud movement coming from beyond the door, leading you to creep across the cold floor to press an ear to the wood. The deep voice of your father can be heard but you are unable to parse what is being spoken. 

When you’re sure the hall is empty once more, you climb back into bed, hand reaching for the book you set aside. Eyes gaze unseeing upon the leather cover. The King has known everything all of this time and yet kept his distance. It hurts you. Makes you seek him out now regardless of the late hour, book in hand as you enter his rooms uninvited. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He’s seated in front of the fire, dressed down for the night in a simple tunic and breeches. His hair and clothing are soaked from the storm still raging outside. You suddenly realize you’re in your nightgown and how improper it was to walk through the castle in such undress as well as to be standing in the King’s antechamber. 

“Tell you what?” He tilts his head, eyes dark and heavy as they drag down your immodest shift—fists clenching where they lay against his thigh, “tell my precious little princess she holds magic in her blood?”

“Yes,” your voice turns pleading, “why hide from me what is my right?”

He shakes his head, “Twould do no good,” standing, he walks over to you, water dripping from his hair to the straight line of his nose, “would you have had me toss you off to that forest witch to be raised?”

Chills race down your back as he brushes stray hairs away from your face, “You are my daughter, my property... my responsibility.”

“You never cared before,” words burst from your lips like overripe fruit. “You paid me no mind until this summer, Father.”

“Because you look like her,” he growls, eyes flashing in the low light, “you could be her.”

He grasps your upper arm and walks you over in front of the looking glass; his free hand reaches up to cup your chin roughly, forcing you to gaze at the mirror image. You clench your eyes shut and he chuckles, a low mean sound, against your back. 

“Look, my naive daughter,” his calloused hands pinch into the skin of your jaw and you meet his eyes in the reflection, “you have given me a most precious gift— a second chance with my dear beloved.”

A gasp spills from your lips as the King lets go of your arm to cup your mound through your thin nightgown. 

“Have you been good while I’ve been away, Princess?” He murmurs against your ear, fingers rubbing slowly against the heat gathering at the apex of your thighs. 

“Yes, Father,” your brows pinch together, body leaning into his touch. 

“Good girl,” his thumb rubs across your bottom lip. 

That hot shivery feeling you sometimes get overtakes you, eyes darting to the King’s mouth. A yearning cavern opens in your chest, a hollow echo of loneliness making your lips part. It’s the same feeling that you had when he took it upon himself to confirm your purity, his mouth hot and wet upon your cunt. 

“You should check, Father,” the damning words whispered as if that would soften the indecent request. 

He presses his thumb past your lips, pushing against your tongue as you suckle the digit. 

“I should,” he rumbles, gaze hot on your mouth as he turns your head to the side, “just to be sure your chastity is in place.”

A chaste kiss is dropped to your mouth, fleeting like the brush of a butterfly's wings. Whining, you tilt your head further, bodily asking for more. He presses another kiss against your lips, so different from Lord Winters. Your father claims your mouth for his own. He makes you sigh and gasp against his lips as he tastes you deeply, tongue stroking alongside your own. 

Your legs nearly give out and he wraps his broad arms around you, holding you to his firm chest as he kisses you heatedly. Head fuzzy, you sink against him, letting the King kiss you senseless. Pulling away, he shushes your whining before tugging you to the armchair in front of the fireplace. 

Once he is seated, he pulls you into his lap, indecently straddling one of his legs as your gown shifts leaving your bare cunt to rest on his trouser clad thigh. He pets your sides, a strange little smile hovering over his lips.  

“I never thought I would have this again,” he murmurs, “come, kiss me again, my sweet daughter.”

You’re much too eager and uncouth, but he takes it in stride; slowing you down, guiding your lips and tongue until you’re moving in sync with him. It’s addicting, like eating sun warm strawberries from the garden. Forbidden but so so sweet. The juice sticky and syrup thick, filling your mouth with decadence. 

His sword calloused hands grip your hips, guiding you into a rocking motion that makes you bleat and moan against his lips. A rare warm chuckle from him makes your mind buzz. You follow his motions until he’s able to squeeze and pet your hips as you rock against his thigh. The sharp bolts of pleasure make you leak until his trousers are soaked, sticking to the soft lips of your cunt. 

“Want me to teach you?” He whispers hotly in your ear, “teach you all the ways to feel good, my precious princess.”

“Please, Father,” you mewl quietly, kissing him needily.  

“I’ll show you,” he promises, voice dark as his eyes, hands grasping your gown to delve underneath, fingers skimming across your bare hips, “teach you like I did her—such gorgeous witches I’ve owned.”

Thoughts too hazy to pay attention, you sigh and gasp when his hands drift under your nightgown to grasp your breasts, squeezing the soft fat with a groan. The King’s mouth drifts along your neck, lips soft as he kisses the sensitive skin. Chills race down your body, your mind a haze of wanton need. He kisses your breasts through the nightgown as he pinches your nipples. 

Whimpering at him, you tangle your fingers in his still damp hair. Your body is hurtling to that peak that whites out your thoughts, pleasure curling up like a sated cat in your stomach. The rough fabric of his trousers rub against your soft, wet heat as you rut back and forth on his thigh, making you moan softly. 

“My sweet witch,” he pulls away to gaze up at you in satisfaction, “my beloved made whole again.”

Bringing your face closer, he kisses you far sweeter than before. This surprising show of tender affection brings you to your climax. Your voice stutters out, a broken cry lost in his wet kisses. The fire in the hearth roars to life like dragon’s breath as glasses on the mantle shatter only to land as glittering diamonds on the floor. 

Your father chuckles warmly and it sends a frisson of heat pulsing at the apex of your thighs. 

“Such a gift, my precious princess,” he brushes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip.  

The expulsion of magic makes you tired. The King keeps you on his thigh, the rough material of his breeches bringing you to climax again and again as he kisses the moans from your mouth. Never pushing it further, he makes a promise to show you everything with each time you clench on nothing and cum on his lap. 

It’s cock crow when you finally pull away from your father’s embrace. Lips and cunt swollen from his rough touch and yet your body and heart ache for more. 

“I shall escort you to your room,” he helps you stand on trembling legs, wrapping one of his heavy riding cloaks around your body—his smoky scent surrounding you. “I’ll make sure you have the morning to yourself for resting.”

You hum, exhausted in more ways than one, and easily follow the King back to your room. As he tucks you into bed, you pout and grasp his shirt, seeking another kiss before you fall into slumber. 

“Sleep well, beloved,” he murmurs, kissing your temple before pulling away. 

Although you wouldn’t realize until too late, it’s the end of your old life. 

[aayakashii]

Coffee shop AU... Coffee shop AU save me... (towa talks during the day in this I guess)

Towa's face lights up like a thousand stars as he sees you timidly get in line yet another day while he made the order for the customers right in front of you.

His instinct was telling him to trash the cups of coffee and push them out of the way so he could talk to you once and for all, but he knew humans wouldn't be very keen on being treated like that.

And unfortunately, for him, if he wanted to stay at the dorm with Haru and that bastard Ren, he had to behave.

Boooooooring.

However, all things come with a positive side to it, and this one is very obvious: it gives him more time to plan his strategy for this day.

Because Towa is going to get you to say your real name to him today. He is going to have your real name. He IS. He swears on Thor's name, and also Zeus' and Taranis' and Indra's and Raijin's and Perun's and— and—

... Well. He doesn't know the name of any other lightning god. But that's not the point!

The thing is, you know of his tricks. The mist that surrounds him as a disguise – the one thing that makes normal humans look at him and not notice his goat-like eyes – simply doesn't work on you. Like you are made of breeze, and his fog dissipates before your eyes, baring his true nature only to you.

You know he isn't human, and worst of all; you know he is a fae.

No, wait. Maybe the worst thing is that you actually know all the rules when it comes to dealing with fae people, and it made you immune to his insistence and his charms.

Yes, that's the real tragedy.

The customers in front of you leave with their orders, and you approach the counter with a friendly smile on your face.

As if he hasn't tried to get your name so so so many times before.

At least you've been consistent with your pseudonyms. So far, he's gotten Rosemary, Lily, Basil, Daffodil, Tulip, Daisy, Iris, Dahlia, Aster, Clover, Marigold, Amaryllis...

Towa actually kept a list of all these names because some of them would repeat some times and he needed to check if you were finally being honest or if it was a ruse once again.

A ruse! Can you believe it? A mere human trying to trick a fae!

If it wasn't so interesting and amusing, Towa would probably have burned you into a crisp with a lightning.

"Hello, Mr. Bartender." you say, with a small bow.

"Hello! What can I do for you today?" Towa beams at you with a smile, half hoping this would catch you off guard, half actually happy that you were around.

"Well, you know. The usual."

"The usual being...?" he hovers his pen over the cup, making circles, waiting for you to tell him your order.

Do you really think he remembers every little order his customers ask? He's a fae, not a fucking elephant. Humans are insane.

"Arabic coffee with milk and vanilla."

"Arabic coffee with milk and va–" he murmurs, writing down, before stopping and glaring at you with a deadly stare. "A vanilla latte?"

You grin mischievously at him and nod frantically, stuffing your hands in your pocket, clearly satisfied to have played a little prank on him once again.

Towa breathes deeply.

"Think of Haru. I can't kill customers. I can't kill customers. Think of Haru and the dorm and the rent. I can't kill customers" he chants to himself in his mind as he pouts angrily and scribbles down your order.

Well, he wouldn't kill you anyway. You're too cute for that.

Towa quickly finishes preparing your order, the motions of making drinks already second nature to him after all those months pretending to be just a weirder human with a normal job.

He watches through the corner of his eyes as you patiently wait against the counter, fidgeting with your fingers, apparently eager to take the drink with you. Towa walks towards your spot with your vanilla latte in hand and lazily places it right in front of you.

He waits with bated breath for the moment you finally grab the cup, only to pounce on you like a hungry predator finally catching its stupid little prey.

"What's your name?" he frantically asks, quickly putting his long, slender fingers on top of your weak hands, barely paying attention at the way you wince at the burn of the hot cup on your skin.

Your frown melts away as you observe his pink eyes, those rectangular pupils that, for whatever reason, never seemed to baffle or intrigue any other customer.

He is so cute. That light lavender hair, all tousled, makes you think of flower fields, petrichor, and morning dew.

But you know he is also quite the dangerous creature. Just like a poisonous plant. Pretty, inviting, and deadly. His insistence on knowing your actual name and shackling you to his whims and desires made you shudder as much as it made you just a little bit prideful.

What? How many people can confidently say they've attracted the attention of a fae, after all?

You sigh loudly, closing your eyes for a second, steadying your resolve. You were not going to give in to him. At least not yet. Maybe once you get an actual death wish, you'd give up your independence to the cute fae barista next door to your job.

You open your eyes and feel a lopsided smile grow on your face, and you pull your hand away from his grasp.

"Dandelion." you say with a wink and walk away.

[plounce]

i need to make up my own headcanons about folk dravanian beliefs. i don't think there are a lot of organized beliefs, i think it's a lot of people reacting to ishgardian oppression and struggle by trying to go the complete opposite direction while also unintentionally continuing over their established cultural ideas of what religion entails + trying to imitate the scary stories they were told (which weren't aiming to be accurate, but instead to portray the "other side" in as monstrous a light as possible) (most of the horror we get in game regarding heresy is about the ishgardian punishment + creation of heresy - levequests! witchdrop!). i think ysayle was a great organizer of different factions of heretics and actually got them coordinated with dragons (ty echo!), although she has her own cult of shiva that she led. i don't think every strain of dravo-coerthan folk belief centers around shiva. blood drinking -> transformation. how much information was shared of the true origins of the war pre-ysayle's echo vision by the dragons to the people? were any specific dragons especially keen on using elezen soldiers? how much interaction between dragons and heretics was there anyway? mind-controlled scalekin vs turned elezen. hyurs???? what role did ex-ishgardian hyurs have in the various movements? where do heretics live? what do they eat? how much did the sharlayan colony know of and interact with them? how much do heretics (get to) go up to the churning mists? there are several spots in the CCH where the boundary to the void seems thin - how much do heretics interact with voidsent? allagan voidsent v dragon war. do the eorzean dragons hate voidsent/allagans as much as their eastern/southern siblings/cousins? did they know bahamut was stuck up there? did they know tiamat kept herself stuck in azys lla? gnath onemind & their noxious anti-dragon vapes vs dragon scalekin mind control. are transformed heretics able to be mindcontrolled? what other folk heroes do heretics have? what do they think of the rest of the twelve? ysayle's cult was into hraesvelgr - are any really into nidhogg? eye symbolism? any weird beliefs about au ra coming from the heretic side? lightning as the opposite of ice? nidhogg is lightning-aspected in opposition to shiva's ice. the boy and the dragon gay? the boy and the dragon gay: a literary analysis??????

[joffyworld]

Dead Lamb's Hand

Two aces and eights.

Two twine covered fates.

'Neath the lights and the gates, the rhinestones do gaze;

They follow the haze, the mist and the daze,

As they waltz on in, with a crafted fake face,

Two eights and two aces,

In here of all places,

The starlet's sweet naissence, into rich patrons graces.

They stride with such patience, their face never changes,

No matter the cards dealt, it's off to the races

The red queen of our hearts,

They rise, so they part,

The times come at last; One final dance.

With a move of the wrist, the dealer does flick,

The cards on the table, they wager the risk.

Declared with a grin, "I'm going all in"

The cat's astonished but sings,

"So am I my sweet thing,

The casino is yours if you win,

I'm all in."

Two pairs of two pairs,

The crowd is silent and stares,

The winner undecided, the kicker declares,

The cat has a six,

The lamb has a queen,

Stunned silences fill the casino to the seam,

The ewe's debonair but it drops fast as a hare:

She cheated her way, manipulated with care,

In order to be the winner of this sordid affair.

Now crowned the leader, the winner,

The cat's cause of despair.

The cat straightens her back almost sharp as a diamond,

Begins with a laugh, her eyes struck with lightning:

"Very well my dear Ines, I see no point in fighting.

You've won the game as I feared, it is luck you were striking.

But I will return, one day when you yearn,

For what's rightfully yours, my heart I'll confer."

The cat turned with a pace, and so struck up the band,

To sing the tale and the story,

Of the Dead Lamb's Hand

(Based on @lagomorphics's Lucky Card au)

[garlicbreadbatstarion]

BG3 Companion Headcanons

🌈☔🌤️ Enjoying Their Favorite Weather 🌤️☔🌈

Lae'zel:

This gith loves a super windy day

It is invigorating and helps her feel physically present

Also she knows she looks deadlyyy with her hair blowing around her head, her eyes narrowed, and her head down as she walks against the wind

Halsin:

I feel like Halsin loves a rainy evening+dewey morning combo in the spring

Like the soft sound the falling droplets make as they splatter against his tent help him drift off to sleep and dream of ducklings

And the next morning he loves to walk through the forest when the sun is coming up so he can watch the mist slowly rise as the light reflects off the wildflowers and the spiderwebs sparkle in the trees

Karlach:

I'm convinced she's a tropical beach kinda gal so hot, sticky, and sunny all the way

Any other companion in my head is usually wearing their starting outfits when I think of them, but Karlach? Shutter shades and a pina colada served in a pineapple

She's also on fire all the time, so the heat doesn't bug her at all!

I feel like the beach was made for her; rainbow sunsets, the crashing waves, the vastness of the ocean, hot sand between your toes, sandcastles, bonfires...like she would love everythinggg about it

Astarion:

Idk if it's bc there's so many cute fics with Star in snow, but ughhh it melts my cold, dead heart

Like the absolute stillness of flakey snow falling heavily in the night would make him feel at ease

And the way the snow sparkles in the moonlight inspires him to be creative (I am personally a big fan of thinking one of his hobbies post-epilogue is jewelry making. The little details keep his hands busy while his good taste and imagination help him design some of the coolest jewelry in all of Faerûn)

Also, like Karlach, the cold doesn't bother him nearly as much as it does most others

Gale:

We love an unstable king which is why I think Gale loves big storms with lots of wind, thunder, and lightning

AU storm chaser Gale?? I think I'm onto something here truly

And also it gives him great opportunities to conduct experiments and run tests! It's aliveeee!!!

Shadowheart:

Our broody queen loves mist and fog

It makes her want to snuggle up with a book and some tea by the window to just enjoy the peace and quiet

Also likes to be a mischievous, little gremlin and scare her partners/friends/roommates by waiting around the side of the house, knowing it's obscured, and then jumping out and grabbing them

And you want to be mad for how bad she scares you every time, but it's so hard bc she wrinkles her cute lil nose when she laughs and ughhh

Wyll:

Wyll loves space change my mind

He adores a clear, warm night so he can be out all night stargazing

And ooooo a meteor shower? This man is giddily kicking his feet, he is so enraptured by the magic of the night sky

He also loves to point out the constellations, and he's so good, even Gale is astounded by how many astral entities he knows

[khrrarepairweek]

KHR Rare Pair Week 2024

Hello everyone!

The prompts for this year's KHR Rare Pair week are now officially out!

Prompts:

Day 1 Storm Day: Space AU | Found Family Day 2 Sky Day: Bakery AU | Hurt/Comfort Day 3 Sun Day: Real Mafia AU | Professional Fake Boyfriend Day 4 Lightning Day: Rival Families AU | Murder Spree Day 5 Rain Day: Retired Assassins AU | Opposites Attract Day 6 Cloud Day: Different Age AU | Identity Porn Day 7 Mist Day: Coffeeshop AU | Shameless Flirting Day 8 Earth/Flameless Day: Vampire/Werewolf AU | Body Switching

This event will run from Monday June 24th to Monday July 1st.

All forms of fanwork (fanart, fanfic, moodboards etc.) are accepted, as long as they are original. The prompts are subject to your own interpretation. Please include #khrrarepairweek2024 in the first 5 tags of your post so we can find it. 

For more information please follow the links below!

About | Rules | FAQ | AO3 collection | Ask box | Discord

As always the mods are available for any questions you may have.

We hope you all enjoy this year's event, and can't wait to see what wonderful works are submitted!

~khrrarepairweek mods

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Brave [7 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: The pack regroups after the deadly assault in the pass.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore

A/N: thank you all forever and ever for bearing with me as i struggle through writer’s block! i’m afraid you all won’t be happy with the results of this chapter, but i hope you have enough faith in me to stick it out and see what happens. as always, reblogs and feedback of all kinds are appreciated and always welcome!

When Steve attempts to pull the reins from your trembling hands you hold on tightly, fighting him. 

“Easy, Sweetmeat. Easy.”

The torchlight is warm and welcome in the gray mist, and by its light you can see the extent of the damage. Your hands are caked with blood and dirt, your nails raw and split. You raise a trembling hand to your chest and wince. There are wounds here too, matching claw marks like the ones you know now mark the space between your shoulder blades. 

They stretch from the base of your throat down between your breasts, cut cleanly through the ragged fabric of your dress. softness. Steve repeats it as he looses them from your grip, peeling each of your fingers back gently, until you are forced to release the bloody leather from your trembling hands. The pass is far behind, now, lost somewhere in the mist, but you fear it still, your wide, terrified eyes searching the gloom. For the sun, for more nameless horrors—

In the dark angry sky, you find neither. 

Perhaps it is morning, perhaps not—there is no sun by which to tell, no light peeking from behind the furious, roiling clouds.

Steve dismounts, landing beside the horse with a wet thud. You join him and grimace as you sink into the muck up to your calves. The ground is slick, thick with mud that sucks at your boots. The grass sea is pock marked with patches of lightning-scorched earth, patterning what little you can see in the gloomy twilight—some are bigger around than your father’s house. Above, thunder rumbles, and you watch massive bolts of lightning twist across the sky in a burning arc, lighting ablaze the distant hills where it strikes. 

Would this path have been any better? You eye the storm’s path of destruction across the sea. No, you decide, watching again as lightning cuts through the dark sky. Where there is death, there will always be death.

Steve produces a torch from his gore-stained saddlebags. He lights it, holding it aloft. The firelight is warm and welcome in the gray mist, and by its light you can see the extent of the damage. Your hands are caked with blood and dirt, your nails raw and split. You raise a trembling hand to your chest and wince. There are wounds here too, matching claw marks like the ones you know now mark the space between your shoulder blades. They stretch from the base of your throat down between your breasts, cut cleanly through the ragged fabric of your dress. 

“To me!” Steve bellows, the depth of his voice trembling in your chest. “To me!” Slowly, the pack begins to reform. Out of the darkness they come, circling the flame like lost moths. You are overcome with relief to see Carol among them. Beneath her, her steed trembles, the gash along its flank bleeding sluggishly.

So few. You cannot help but take stock of those who gather, dismounting their horses to stand before Steve. So few. The pack had been intimidatingly large before. Perhaps fifty, sixty riders strong—the ones who remain number less than forty. Steve knows it too, you can see it in the grim set of his jaw.

“Where is Bucky?” A murmur passes through the pack, but no one answers. For the first time, in Steve’s bright blue eyes, you see fear. You search for Bucky’s face amongst the survivors, your chest tightening as the realization dawns cold and clear—

You do not see him. After a long while, someone finally speaks. 

“He fell.” Carol steps forward, her head low. You watch Steve’s entire body go taut. He shakes his head, his brows knitting together in angry disbelief. 

“No.” 

 “I saw him.” She looks up, and her eyes are bright and wet. “He fell.” The wind whistles through the grass in the silence. “He fell.”

For a moment, Steve’s free hand rests upon the hilt of his sword, squeezing the pommel as if beset by foes a second time, but he releases it, clenching his fist. When he does speak, his voice is cold, devoid of anything but authority. 

“Then we will light his way to our ancestors.” The light of the torch does not seem to reach his eyes, which are shrouded, and dark. “We will light the way for all of them.” 

The fire is weak, at first, sputtering dangerously as you all feed it bundles of wet kindling. It catches, eventually, the light rain fizzling out as it meets the flames. Steve’s face is stone, dark and unchanging as he watches the flames grow tall. 

You are no stranger to mourning, to grief. Those who remain surround the fire, and their sorrow is yours too. The pass had claimed many who were kind to you, who had accepted you—

Gone. 

A young female Orc approaches the fire. Her face is bandaged roughly, and the edges of the long wound peek out on either side of the dressing. In one hand she holds a shield. Her hands are steady, but her voice trembles as she speaks. 

“Arun.” She tosses the shield into the fire. “May—” Tears choke her for a moment, and she swallows roughly. “May you find your way.” Others approach the flames, some weeping, others stoic and distant, speaking the names of those they have lost into the fire. 

“Jonai.”

“Huth.” 

“Karali.”

So many, many names. 

“May you find your way.” 

You do not know the Orc traditions for mourning, but you know your own. You have lifted your voice in song for your mother’s memory more times than you can count, praying that the crows will carry the notes high into the heavens, to her ear so that she might know that you have not forgotten her. You have no name to add to the fire, but this—this you can do. So too will you mourn for the pack, for the ones who have fallen. 

The words are slow to come at first, reluctant to leave your lips. It is not long, however, before they remember the familiar shape of these melodies; before they remember how to name your grief. So you do—you name it there, before the fire. You feed it your grief, like—and unlike—the rest of the pack. They gather behind you as you sing, bowing their heads. The song catches in your throat, the words faltering on your tongue at the sight of them.

“Finish it.” You turn back, and there is Steve, stood before the fire. He is close enough to touch it, a torn quiver held tightly in one hand. “Finish it and guide them home.” He tosses in the scrap of leather as you finish, his voice consumed almost entirely by the sound of crackling flames, and the last echoing notes of your own parting gift—

“Bucky.”

to be continued…

next

[ideas-scattered-dreams]

/ / Past that blinds

Fandom: twisted wonderland

AU: GN! General reader + Small malleus x reader.

Warning: alot of occ? its been a long time so yeah. long.

Imagine that....

This wasnt suppose to happen, it was suppose to be another mishap that grim and the Aduce duo made, and fixed easily. Yet why did the past resurrect and the present to future disappear.

"i got this prefect, you are such a worry wart. i have learnt my lesson and this potion will be perfect!" Ace boasted as he began to put random ingredients in the caldron as he mixed it all.

you stared at him with an unsure expression as you frowned. "ace.. i think u should stop. the color looks... weird." ace looked at you as he shrugged. beside you both, was grim and deuce. they were aswell making random ingredients that looked similar to the ingredients on the book they had and hurriedly mixed it all.

"nyehahaha we're petty good at this." grim smirked as he dumped another ingredient in. deuce was mixing it in a minimum pace as he nodded. suddenly the fire lit harsh as deuce was was burnt, making him let go of the handle that hit grim.

grim jumped hastily making the caldron tilt.

noticing the incident. You pulled ace back, grabbing him by the waist and turning around, shielding him from the two caldrons clashing as all hell broke lose.

Professor Crewel yelled amidst in the rising fog that was made by the caldrons. the surrounding students fled, as, duce and grim searched for the both of you in the fog.

"prefect! Ace! where are you!" as the fog began to disappear, both ace and your figure finally seen. Deuce was about to yell out, both but was stopped, when a Gun was pressed onto his forehead, he froze, not daring to utter a word.

You were coldly pressing the gun harshly on deuce's forehead as you held the unconscious ace in your arms. your eyes not holding any warmth nor sympathy, to the one you're holding at gun point.

Professor crewel stood tall as he looked at you, voice holding utmost authority. "pup. i demand you to stop and let those two go." he still hasn't figured out why you had a gun but he knew, something wrong had happened behind the mist.

You furrowed your brows as you looked at the professor, "and who might you be? are you one of those (enemy name)? ha. you'd think i'd follow one foes words." as the professor was about to reject. you dashed forward making him lose his balanced stepping back.

you hit his pressure points making him unconscious. standing in front, you looked at the blue haired boy that was kneeling down, looking at the unconscious professor , he stared at you as you began to walk toward him.

"boy. i do not know why i am here. but i'll make you sure you spit every last information that you know." without another word, you grabbed the shocked boy and lifted him up, putting him ontop of your shoulder.

You walked out of the room as you roamed in the empty hallway, with the directions and half tour from the boy on your shoulder, until you encountered a tall, horned male and his attendants.

A tall man, with horns filled your vision as you stared at the male across the hallway. A shorter male with purple and black hair peeked behind the male that stopped as he chuckled.

"fufufu hey there prefect! and... deuce?" the short male looked perplexed as he stared at the boy on top of your shoulder and your bowed and unmoving form. The clothes you wore... it... reminded him about the battlefield.

"child of man..." the horned male looked at you with a hint of worry in his eyes. You lifted your head up as you stared into the eyes of the horned male, gaze filled with hostile intent.

the short male extended an arm Infront of the taller male as he looked at you with wariness, the green haired and silver haired males following shortly.

"You.. you have such an intense aura. a terrifying lightning... and you.. the shorter one. i feel a sense of the bloody battle between the world... and two flames beside. " you took a stance. Your free hand reached behind you, holding a gun.

aiming the gun towards the group... and shot.

though before the shot reached its target, the gun was kicked away by the boy on your shoulder using his legs.

"Lilia senpai! Draconia senpai! watch out! the prefect isn't in their right mind right now!" the boy yelled out a warning while trying to wriggle himself fee. but your firm grip was like iron.

Your face turned into a scowl, teeth gritting. "you fool! you all are those damn (enemy name)! impudent bastards!" you suddenly threw deuce at the group, making him fly with great speed.

yelling in surprise, deuce was caught by the green haired boy with a groan, they both collapsed.

"this place is big. i get it. hundreds of glass that could shatter and extraordinary walls, if i cant leave. i'd rather fight until my last breath." You grabbed your gun as you began shooting towards the group.

with fast reflexes, the purple haired male created a barrier using his pen? deflecting all the bullets, continuing until the group shielded themselves behind a wall.

"hiding? how cliche!" before you began your rounds again. you felt a sudden pain behind your neck , knocking the air out of your lungs, the sudden weakness made you kneel as you coughed.

"who-" the one who made you go to your knees was a male with a crow mask. with a companion of a cat on his shoulder and a red head behind.

"prefect. we will have a long talk after this." after his words was spatted out of his mouth, you finally lose consciousness.

After a few hours, you finally regained your conscious back, looking around the room with wariness, you were laid in a... clinic? you noticed you were handcuffed, yet the handcuffs didn't feel like normal ones... well to your observation and intense glaring at the unbreakable thing.

a faint cough was heard beside you, glancing and still glaring... it was the colorful duo and... raccoon, cat, lion, fire whatever animal besides them.

you were about to open your mouth the red hair spoke with irritation and a hint of worry. "the heck is up with you prefect! are you still mad because of the incident? it was... honestly an accident!" the red haired shouted. "and you almost shot us all with that gun of yours! Where did you even get that? especially trying to hurt the others AND draconia senpai?! the horrid!!"

as the red hair kept scolding you, the blue haired one looked at you with a frown, holding the red haired shoulder to stop himself from continuing. "ace... that's enough." the blue hair known now as deuce reasoned as the red hair, ace, finally shut up.

"i don't think that is the prefect anymore." suddenly the very same man that knocked you out, walked in the room, smiling. "that's right spade! that isn't the prefect you know!"

the sudden entrance startled the trio as the masked man walked infront of you. "this one is actually the past! prefect. it seems the potion you four made mixed, made a potion that makes one go back to the past."

he looked at you amused. "and our dear prefect was hit by that simple potion and this happened" you glared at the masked man as you tsked.

"is the potion gonna last long or?"

"it will last for a few hours, luckily the potion wasn't that strong. so worry not!" the trio exhaled with relief.

after the headmaster walked out the room, you remained silent, silently absorbing all the information that came out of his mouth. so it seems this is the... future? and what you are now is... the past. huh... how... infuriating.

did the war ended? did everything finally get resolved? has peace finally been achieved? comrades and those who sacrificed themselves... has...

"prefect?" you lifted your head up, seeing the trio infront of you. "hey. you aren't... you know, the prefect we know now, but it's fine, we'll definitely make you remember! because you're still the prefect we know, just different outfits and personality, but that's all!" ace smirked as the raccoon and deuce nodded behind him.

you felt. touched. touched of idiotic mess. though, it reminded you of your comrades. even though you were from the "past", there was hint of familiarity that you couldn't ignore. so. you let your gut feeling control you.

you simply nodded as the trio smiled.

the trio led you all around campus, the cat not raccoon anymore after alot of arguments was on your shoulder as they ate their tuna can that you bought with a golden coin, that was in your pocket for no reason (i think you have hundreds of tuna cans after but we dont talk about that)

you were silent the whole tour while the trio bickered and gave some small information about the destination, until the four of you encountered the same male that you met and almost shot.

he was towering all four of you as the others silently hid behind your back. "hey hornton" grim casually greeting the male, though it seems that it was unheard of as the male was only focusing on you.

"hey! prefect! you should apologize to him! you did almost shot him a few hours ago." you remained silent as the horned male looked at you like a... kicked puppy? it was a bit... laughable, though, cute.

you approach the male as you awkwardly stood in front of him. was he this tall??? "i'm... im sorry about what happened awhile ago. well i don't think an apology would suffice... how about i invite you for dinner?"

the horned male was silent, but then a small smile appeared and a deep chuckle. "Your invitation is alluring. i shall accept" A sudden nervous beat of your heart and a slight blush at the tip for your ear emerged.

why were you suddenly feeling like this? agh, everything has been weird since you appeared here. you faked a cough and nodded. the trio looked at the both of you with a snicker on their face.

"shouldn't we tell them that... they and draconia senpai are?"

"nahhh let them figure it out. i do wanna see their reaction when the potion wears off."

[thefaithfulnightwriter]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄 | ❝ I want to see you. As you are now. Every single day. That I am living. ❞

Summary - There was a beautiful storm that raged on within her. That grew wilder and more untamed as time went on. It was like that for as long as she could remember. The lightning and thunder raging on within. She kept it deeply hidden from everyone. No matter the hurt. No matter the pain it inflicted on her. She kept it from everyone and let it brew inside. Understanding that it was her who the storm chose. After time she wanted no one to know of the storm within her. She wants to keep the storm safe. She was fine with keeping it buried deep. Keeping it a secret. She came to terms with it, and she understood that she would have to keep the storm within. She understood that no one would understand her ever. She was okay with living with this storm inside her. That is until she meets her mate.

or

In which a female fae becomes the vessel to a spirit and just so happens to be the mate of the most powerful High Lord of Prythian... Rhysand the High lord of Night Court. Leading for the two to start an adventure together. Finding love in each other and learning that they can lean on one other no matter what.

[ i may rewrite this summary later on maybe. not sure yet ]

❝ Just for a minute. The silver forked sky. Lit you up like a star. That I will follow. Now it's found us. Like I have found you. I don't want to run. Just overwhelm me. ❞ - the lightning strike - snow patrol -

Pairing - Rhysand x Female!Oc

Universe - acomaf - acowar [it may go into an au after acowar not sure yet though]

Warnings - Gore, Death, Characters may be a bit OOC, Mature Themes, Semi Smut, Violence, Language, Mention of Past Abuse, War, Things Will Be Changed, Fluff, Angst, Some Sensitive Subjects, Mating Bonds, More Will Be Added If Needed. (Please do not read if these are triggers)

Disclaimer - I do not own the series ACOTAR - ACOWAR. I do own certain characters, and I own my mc. I do own somethings that are made up. And i own my writing and whatnot you get where im going and what i am saying lol.

PART ONE

Pre - A Court of Thorns and Roses

───── chapter one ─────

───── chapter two ─────

PART TWO

A Court of Mist and Fury

───── chapter three ─────

───── chapter four ─────

pending...

[grechsblog]

Hey, @orange-artist, my brain is still rotting over your au. Im writing snippets because of it. This one is about that one first post about skypeia that doesnt want to leave me alone

The thing is, Luffy's speciality isn't lighting. It never was, and it never will be.

Not like he wants it, anyway.

He is the sun, and lightning is of the clouds. Clouds are what obscures the sun, dwarfs it oftentimes, makes days dark and moody and choking around the neck like a sturdy noose. They bring rain and dampness, and force people make funny faces at the weather, oftentimes diminish the festivities, put everything to sleep, in Order.

The clouds are his enemy, some might think, but the thing is, the sun is still above the clouds. The clouds might crowd it, hide it, but they will never dare swallow it.

"What's with that face?" Luffy coos, taunting, at the Little Spark, — not even full Lightning, still growing and learning and living under His rays, — holding the poor thing, the one that thought it could overshadow something that the ones governing it never thought to touch, by the chin. He's dripping blood all over it, gold, like marks along his feet and arms and chest, ichor, towering above its lying form like a predator that caught the delicious prey. His Voice reverberates strangely, otherworldly, echoing with laughter with every word He utters, the Little Spark looking paler than the very sea it was supposed to rule. "Something got your tongue?"

(The thing is, the lightning's of the clouds. It's powerful and destructive, addictive with its might, but it only ever falls down on the ground.)

Luffy stretches His smile farther, making it horrific and weird and unnatural, and shines with delight when the Little Spark whimpers in pure fear under His feet. The spear He put near its head warms from his touch, melts a little under his fingers, as He pushes it deeper into the ground. Mist swarms like an omen around them both, writhing like snakes, and Luffy's too-wide too-feral grin shows gums as He forces the Little Spark to hold His gaze.

He leers in, nose to nose with nothing but a blip of light that no thunder would ever follow, and says, with no lips moving and no muscle twitching and no gaze falling off of that terrified face He so enjoys after it dared to take away what's His,

"This is the closest you'll ever be be to a God."

(It will never dare strike up.)

And Enel screams.

[vir-tanadahl]

The Herald and the Wolf

Summary: AU. After Felassan fails to secure the eluvian password, Solas summons him to Haven to assist in addressing the rising threat of Corypheus. When the situation takes a dire turn, Felassan accompanies Solas in joining the Inquisition. It isn’t long before Felassan recognizes that Marel Lavellan holds the key to saving this world—and possibly to altering Solas’s own plans. Find on Ao3!

The Fade shimmered around them, ethereal wisps of green and gold dancing in the air as Solas's piercing violet eyes bore into Felassan. The elf's jaw clenched, his lean frame rigid with barely contained fury. "You failed me, Felassan," Solas spat, his voice low and dangerous. "The eluvian password was within our reach, and yet you allowed it to slip through your fingers." Felassan lifted an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a sardonic smile. "Ah, yes, the infamous password to unleash your grand design. But tell me, old friend—have you ever paused to consider that this world might not be as disposable as you’ve convinced yourself?"

Solas's nostrils flared, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "This world is but a shadow of what it once was. Our people deserve to reclaim their birthright—their magic, their immortality. How can you not see the significance of this?"

"Oh, I see it," Felassan replied, his tone light but his violet eyes sharp. "I see a man so fixated on the past that he's blind to the present." He gestured around them, at the swirling mists of the Fade. "This world, flawed as it is, holds its own worth, Solas. Can you truly justify casting it all aside?"

Solas took a step forward, his voice dropping to a hiss. "I am prepared to do whatever is required to restore our people to their former glory. Your failure risks unraveling everything we have strived to achieve." Felassan's mind raced, weighing his words carefully. He had long served Solas, but doubts had been gnawing at him, growing stronger with each passing day. The world Solas envisioned seemed increasingly hollow, a fantasy built on the ruins of a vibrant, if flawed, reality.

"And what of the people who inhabit this world?" Felassan challenged, his usual playful demeanor giving way to genuine concern. "Their lives, their stories, their loves and losses—are they all meaningless to you? Tell me, Solas, is your perfect world truly worth erasing theirs?"

Solas's eyes flashed dangerously. "You forget yourself, Felassan. Our duty is to our people—to the true elves. This world is a mistake, a tragedy born of my own folly. It falls to me to set it right."

Felassan felt the weight of millennia pressing down on him, the burden of secrets and half-truths. He sighed, running a hand through his chestnut hair. "Perhaps, old friend. But tell me—on this path to correct the mistakes of the past, have you stopped to wonder if you’re about to commit a far greater one?" The tension between them crackled like lightning, two immovable forces locked in a battle of wills. Solas's grand design hung in the balance, and Felassan found himself teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure if he could follow his friend into the abyss that awaited.

Solas's piercing violet eyes softened, a flicker of uncertainty passing across his angular features. He turned away, gazing into the swirling mists of the Fade. "Your doubts are not without merit, Felassan," Solas conceded, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. "But we cannot waver now. The road ahead is perilous, and I need your strength beside me."

Felassan raised an eyebrow, a ghost of his usual smirk playing on his lips. "Oh? And here I thought you were about to turn me into a rather dashing statue." Solas released a tired chuckle, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Your wit remains as sharp as ever, I see. But no, my friend—I have a far more pressing task in mind for you. The Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes—you must meet me in a village called Haven. Corypheus seeks to unlock my orb, and once he does, we must be ready to reclaim it."

Felassan's violet eyes widened. "Corypheus? The ancient magistrate? Fenedhis, Solas, what have you done?"

"What was necessary," Solas said, his tone grim. "Now go. Time is against us, and the fate of our people rests on what comes next." As Felassan vanished from the Fade, Solas's words echoed in his thoughts, a warning of the impending turmoil.

* * *

Marel's eyes snapped open, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Pain lanced through her left hand, a searing agony that threatened to consume her. She struggled to focus, to make sense of her surroundings. "Where...?" she croaked, her throat raw and parched.

The heavy wooden door slammed open, jarring Marel from her thoughts. Two women strode in, their faces etched with suspicion and barely contained anger. The taller one, clad in Seeker armor, circled Marel like a predator stalking its prey. Her voice rumbled like thunder, thick with a heavy Nevarran accent that dripped with suspicion and accusation. "Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," she demanded, her eyes narrowing in mistrust as she clenched her fists at her sides

Marel's heart raced, but she kept her face impassive. "I don't understand. What's happening?" she asked, trying to hide the fear in her voice. The other woman, hooded and cloaked in shadow, stepped forward. Her voice, low and deliberate, sliced through the tension like a blade. "The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” She paused, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air, "Except for you.”

Leliana. The name came unasked to Marel's mind, though she couldn't recall how she knew it. "That's not possible," Marel said, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest. "I would never—"

"Explain this," Cassandra demanded, her voice sharp as steel. She seized Marel's hand, her grip firm and unrelenting. The moment their skin touched, the strange mark burned to life, flaring with an otherworldly green light. It pulsed and flickered, casting eerie shadows across their faces, as if the light itself responded to her challenge.

Marel winced, pulling her hand back. "I... I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" Cassandra's voice cut through the room, sharp and rising with frustration. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as her fingers curled into fists at her sides. The tension radiating from her was palpable, her dwindling patience crackling in the air like a storm about to break. "I don’t know what that is or how it got there," Marel said firmly, her voice steady despite the turmoil beneath. She knew she was innocent—of that, she was certain. But how could she convince them? How could she make them see the truth?

Leliana’s voice sliced through the charged silence, cool and sharp as a blade. "You're lying," she said, her calm tone laced with an edge of certainty. Her piercing gaze locked onto her target, unflinching, as if daring them to deny it. Marel held her ground, her green eyes steady and unwavering as they locked onto the other woman's. "I'm not," she said, her voice firm despite the tension in the air. "I have no idea what's going on." The raw honesty in her tone matched the defiance in her gaze, unflinching even under scrutiny.

"I can't believe it," she murmured, more to herself than her interrogators. "All those people... dead?" Something in her tone must have reached Leilana, for the her stance softened slightly. "Do you remember what happened? How this began?"

Marel closed her eyes, her brow furrowing as she searched the fragments of her memory. "I remember running," she said slowly, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Her hands tightened in her chains as the images flickered in her mind. "There were... things chasing me. And then..." Her breath hitched. "A woman. I think." Her words trailed off, the memory slipping away like sand through her fingers.

"A woman?" Leliana's interest was piqued. Marel opened her mouth to say more, but Cassandra stepped forward, cutting her off with a commanding tone. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana," she ordered, her gaze flicking briefly to the spymaster before returning to Marel. "I will take her to the rift." There was no room for debate in her words, her presence sharp and unyielding, like a blade poised to strike.

As Cassandra led her out, Marel’s fingers twitched, brushing against the hum of magic thrumming beneath her skin. It was familiar, steady—like a heartbeat grounding her in the chaos. But beneath that comforting pulse, something deeper stirred, ancient and vast, like a whisper from a time long forgotten. The sensation sent a shiver through her, both unnerving and intriguing. Whatever caused the mark on her palm, it was old magic.

* * *

The air crackled with arcane energy as Marel stumbled forward, her marked hand pulsing in rhythm with the writhing rift before her. Suddenly, a crossbow bolt whizzed past her ear, followed by a throaty laugh.

"Ha! Got you, you ugly bastard!"

Marel spun around to face a stocky dwarf who was in the midst of reloading a formidable crossbow. Flanking him were two agile elves, one with a solemn expression and the other with an almost playful twinkle in his striking violet eyes. Felassan grinned and called out, "Solas, on your left!" His movements were fluid and almost playful as he sidestepped the demon’s swipe, twirling his staff with an effortless flourish to knock its claws aside. "Come on now, try to keep up!" he teased, a spark of amusement in his voice despite the chaos.

The bald elf—Solas—responded with a graceful pivot, encasing the demon in ice. "Thank you, Felassan. Though I might value fewer remarks and more spells."

Marel's fingers were restless, eager to jump into the fray; however, uncertainty restrained her. These unfamiliar individuals seamlessly coordinated their movements. Felassan caught her eye, grinning as he dispatched another demon. “Well, aren’t you a sight?” He flirted, “Care to join the fray, or should I keep the party going on my own?" His light-heartedness was jarring against the chaos.

"It seems we have very different ideas of what makes a party," Marel said dryly, stepping forward with deliberate grace. She raised her staff, its faint glow illuminating the chaos around them. Solas moved beside her, his steady presence grounding her in the storm’s midst. "Your mark," Solas said, his voice low and urgent as his gaze flicked to her glowing hand. "It may be the key to closing the rift." Marel’s grip tightened on her staff, her brow furrowing. "How can you be sure?"

"I am not," he admitted, his tone steady even as he raised a shimmering barrier to deflect a demon’s claws. The air crackled with tension as his sharp eyes locked on hers. "But we must try. Allow me."

Before she could respond, Solas stepped forward, his hand encircling hers with surprising firmness. He guided her marked hand toward the pulsing rift, its chaotic light casting jagged shadows across his determined expression. A searing pain shot up Marel’s arm, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips. Yet beneath the agony, a surge of raw, unrelenting power rushed through her veins, wild and untamed. Her knees threatened to buckle, but Solas’s grip remained steady, grounding her as the mark blazed with a brilliance that seemed to defy the rift’s overwhelming force.

‘Is this what it feels like to touch the Fade itself?’ The thought swept through Marel’s mind, a whirlwind of awe and terror. The raw power coursing through her mark was unlike anything she had ever known—wild, infinite, and almost alive. It was as though the very fabric of the Fade pressed against her soul, overwhelming and wonder. The rift surged before them, its jagged edges pulsing erratically, expanding and contracting like a living, breathing entity on the verge of breaking free. Its light spilled across the battlefield in blinding waves, and for a heart-stopping moment, Marel felt the crushing weight of its pull. The air itself seemed to tremble, thick with the promise of chaos.

A flicker of panic gripped her chest. Then came the crack—a sharp, deafening sound that split the air, reverberating in her bones. The rift convulsed violently, its pulsating energy twisting inward before stabilizing into a jagged tear. The relentless stream of demons halted, their forms dissolving into nothingness as silence fell, oppressive and final. Marel stumbled, her chest heaving, the mark dimming on her hand as the otherworldly power slipped away, leaving only the ghost of its presence behind.

Solas released her hand with deliberate care, his shoulders easing as a wave of relief softened his sharp features. For a moment, his usual composure faltered, and a faint smile flickered across his lips. "It seems my theory was correct," he said, his voice quieter now, almost admiring. Marel flexed her fingers, the mark still thrumming with an otherworldly energy that sent shivers up her arm. Her brow furrowed as she turned her hand over, the faint glow still pulsing beneath her skin. "What did you do?" she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion and curiosity.

"I did nothing," Solas replied, his gaze unwavering, the intensity in his eyes making her breath catch. "The credit is yours. The mark—it resonates with you alone. You wielded its power." His tone was calm, yet there was something beneath it—a flicker of admiration, perhaps, or respect for what she had just accomplished. Cassandra stepped forward, her brows furrowed in thought, “Meaning it could also close the breach itself?” She asked.

Solas turned to face Cassandra. “Possibly,” he replied before turning back to Marel. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he remarked. The dwarf with the intricate crossbow adds, “Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever,” His tone is both serious and playful as he introduced himself. “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong,” he said with a wink directed at Cassandra.

Marel stared at the dwarf. “Are you with the chantry or…?” she asks hesitantly. Solas chuckled, “Was that a serious question?” he asked. Varric shrugged casually, tugging at the cuff of his jacket as though discussing the weather instead of his predicament. “Technically, I’m a prisoner, just like you,” he said, his tone light but edged with a wry humor.

Cassandra crossed her arms, her frown deepening. “I brought you here to recount a story for the Divine. Clearly, that plan no longer holds.” Varric’s grin widened, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “And yet, here I am,” he said, gesturing broadly as though to emphasize his presence. “Lucky for you, too, considering… well, current events.” His voice carried an unmistakable hint of smugness, as though even imprisonment hadn’t diminished his knack for being indispensable.

Marel watched their exchange in silence, her gaze thoughtful but guarded. Finally, she offered a small nod and said, “It’s good to meet you, Varric.”

Solas, standing just beside her, folded his arms with a faint smirk. “You may find reason to reconsider that sentiment… in time.”

Varric let out a low chuckle, leaning casually on his crossbow. “Aww, don’t be like that, Chuckles. I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends by the time we’re done with this valley.” His grin widened as he tilted his head toward Marel.

“My name is Solas,” he said, his voice calm and measured as he stepped forward, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. “If there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live,” His tone carried a faint undercurrent of curiosity, as though already appraising the significance of her survival. Varric raised a hand, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

Marel’s eyes shifted from Varric to Solas, her expression calm but searching. She tilted her head slightly, her curiosity evident as she met his steady gaze. “You seem to know a great deal about it all,” she remarked, her voice soft but laced with quiet intrigue. Cassandra’s tone was clipped as she addressed Marel. “Like you, Solas and his companion are apostates.”

Solas responded with a nonchalant shrug, his demeanor calm but unyielding. “Technically, Cassandra, all mages are apostates now,” he said, his words carrying an air of inevitability. His gaze turned toward the breach, its chaotic energy casting harsh shadows across his sharp features. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any circle mage.” He shifted his focus back to the group, his voice steady but grave. “I came to offer what help I can. If the breach is not closed, it will consume us all. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

Felassan leaned on his staff, a playful glint in his violet eyes. “Felassan,” he said with a lazy smile, inclining his head just enough to seem polite. “Witty observer, occasional meddler, and—lucky for you—an expert at surviving all manner of unpleasantness.” He glanced at Marel, one brow lifting. “I have to say, you’re handling this whole ‘catastrophic disaster’ thing remarkably well. First time, or are you a veteran of world-ending chaos?” He paused, his smirk widening as his gaze flicked to Solas. “And before you ask—no, I’m not with the Chantry either. Too many rules.”

“I am Marel.” Marel’s lips curved into a faint, wry smile at Felassan’s remark. "First time, actually. But at this rate, I might end up an expert before too long."

Felassan’s smirk widened, his violet eyes glinting with amusement. “Ah, a quick learner. Good—Thedas could always use another expert in impending doom. Though, fair warning, the job comes with long hours and questionable company.” Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "This is hardly the time for jests," she said, her hand tightening on the hilt of her sword. "We must reach the forward camp quickly."

The group trudged through the snow-covered valley, their footsteps crunching with each step. Solas broke the silence by initiating conversation. "You are Dalish, yet clearly away from the rest of your clan," Solas observed, his violet eyes studying her intently. "Did they send you here?" The question caught Marel off-guard. She hesitated, memories of her clan—of home—flooding her mind. "No," she replied softly. A lie. "I came of my own accord. To observe the Conclave, to understand what was happening in the world beyond our that could impact the People."

‘And now I'm at the center of it all’, she thought, a wave of loneliness threatening to overwhelm her. Marel took a deep breath, steadying herself. The weight of recent events pressed upon her, but curiosity sparked in her eyes as she regarded Solas. "What do you know of the Dalish?" she asked, her voice a mixture of challenge and genuine interest.

Solas's expression shifted, a flicker of something—regret or possibly frustration—passing over his features before settling into a mask of polite neutrality. "I have wandered many roads in my time," he replied, his tone measured, "and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion." As he spoke, Marel found herself studying the apostate elf more closely. His posture, the way he held himself apart—it spoke of years of solitary travel. She wondered what encounters he might have had with her people, what stories lay behind his carefully chosen words. Your people, not our. ‘There's more he isn't saying’, she thought, noting the slight tension in his jaw. “What do you mean by ‘crossed paths,’ then?” Marel pressed, her tone quiet but insistent, her sharp gaze fixed on Solas as they walked.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable but tinged with a faint bitterness. “I mean,” he began evenly, “that I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.” His voice carried a measured calm, but a flicker of disdain crossed his face. His words hung in the air, a subtle edge of frustration underlying his otherwise composed demeanor. Felassan shook his head with a dramatic sigh, glancing at Marel. “What he means to say is, people tend to overreact when faced with someone who uses ‘sharing knowledge’ as a conversational icebreaker. A tragic flaw of his, really.” he remarked, glancing at Solas with a faint smirk.

Marel’s expression remained calm, but her green eyes sharpened with quiet intensity, as if peeling back the layers of his words. “Sharing knowledge is meant to build trust, not provoke conflict,” she said, her tone steady yet probing. “So what was different this time?”

Solas opened his mouth to respond, but Felassan cut in with a chuckle. "Oh, I'm sure our wandering friend here has tales aplenty. But perhaps we should save the cultural exchange for when we're not standing in the shadow of impending doom, hmm?"

Varric cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence that had fallen over the group. His eyes darted between Solas and Marel, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Can't you elves just play nice for once?" he quipped, his tone light but tinged with exasperation. Marel felt a flush creep up her neck, suddenly aware of how the conversation must have sounded to outsiders. "You’re right," she said, her posture straightening with resolve. "We should keep moving." Her green eyes met Solas’s, steady and thoughtful. "But later, if you’re willing, I’d like to hear more about your travels."

"Oh, Varric," Felassan drawled, his violet eyes sparkling with barely contained amusement. "Where is the fun? Centuries of cultural confusion make for the best stories—and even better awkward silences at the table." He cast Marel a conspiratorial wink, the corners of her lips twitching despite the weight of the moment. ‘How does he manage to diffuse tension so effortlessly?’ Marel wondered, studying Felassan's relaxed posture. His relaxed posture stood in stark contrast to the tension thick in the air, as if the looming threat of the Breach above them was little more than a passing inconvenience.

Solas, for his part, looked less than amused. His brow furrowed slightly as he regarded Felassan, a silent exchange passing between them that Marel couldn't quite decipher. She felt a pang of curiosity about their relationship, sensing layers of history and unspoken words beneath the surface. “Perhaps,” Marel interjected, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade, “we could save the cultural debates for when we’re not standing in the middle of a demon-infested ruin?” She lifted her marked hand, the green energy rippling faintly along her fingers, its pulse eerily not synchronized with her heartbeat, but someone else’s. Her gaze shifted between the others, calm but firm, a silent reminder of the more immediate threat surrounding them.

* * *

The air was thick with the hum of magic, the pulsing green rift tearing into the world like a festering wound as they enter the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Marel stood at its edge, her staff gripped tightly in one hand, the mark on her other hand burning faintly as if responding to the nearness of the rift. The energy was familiar, almost intimate, as though it recognized her. A shiver ran down her spine. Solas stepped closer, his voice soft but pointed. “This is where it began. You feel the echoes of it, don’t you?”

Marel nodded, her eyes fixed on the rift. The closer she got, the clearer the world around her seemed to shift. The present blurred with something… else.

“Someone help me,” a voice called out, “You must stop him.”

Cassandra’s breath hitched, her eyes widening as if struck by a sudden revelation. “That voice…” she gasped, her words laced with both awe and disbelief. “It’s Divine Justinia!”

Felassan, lounging a few paces behind, straightened slightly, his lighthearted tone cutting through the tension. “Echoes, memories, ancient magic—always so dramatic, aren’t they?”

Marel glanced over at him, her demeanor calm yet cautious. "I hope you're not taking this lightly," she said with a hint of concern in her voice. Felassan tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Lightly? Never. I simply find that a well-timed joke makes impending doom so much more bearable." His violet eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a flicker of something deeper beneath his playful tone. Without hesitation, she stepped closer to the rift. The others—Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and Felassan—watched, wary but unwilling to interfere. Her own voice echoed in the ruins of the temple: “What’s going on here?” The mark on her hand flared to life as she reached out, the green light pulling her into its depths.

Cassandra gasped, “That was your voice! Most-holy called out to you, but…”

The Fade surged around Marel, not the vibrant realm of dreams she knew, but a fractured, chaotic reflection of the world. A woman, robed in white and gold, bound in shimmering chains of light, knelt before an imposing male figure shrouded in shadow. The woman—Divine Justinia V—lifted her head, her gaze piercing through the haze.

“Run while you can! Warn them!” the Divine called to her. The imposing male figure shrouded in shadow spoke, “We have an intruder. Slay the elf.” The vision fades with a blast of power.

Cassandra turned towards her, voice sharp with urgency. "You were there! Who was the attacker? And what about the Divine? Is she...? Was the vision we saw real? What does it mean?"

“I don’t know—I don’t remember!” Marel said, her voice steady but laced with frustration, as if trying to grasp at something just out of reach. Solas spoke, his tone deliberate and reflective. "What we witnessed may well have been a memory, preserved within the Fade—a fragment of events from when the Breach first tore through this place. The Fade's presence here is unmistakable, seeping into the world around us."

Felassan, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, his usual grin replaced by a rare seriousness. “If it’s a memory, why doesn’t she remember it? The mark on her hand ties her to all this, doesn’t it?”

"Or it was taken from her," Solas replied, his gaze narrowing as it fixed on the rift. "This rift is not sealed, merely closed... for now. With the mark, I believe it can be reopened and then properly sealed—safely. However, doing so will almost certainly draw attention from the other side."

Cassandra nods and signals to the soldiers around them, her voice calm but urgent. "That means demons. Stand ready!"

The rift loomed ahead, its luminous aura flickering and distorting the air around it. Marel Lavellan stood at the front, her marked hand pulsing with a fiery glow as she neared the rift. Its powerful magic seemed to call out to her, in sync with the rhythm of her heartbeat. Determined, she extended her marked hand towards the rift and the light intensified, blinding and intense. The ground beneath them rumbled, and a deafening roar echoed from within the rift. A massive figure began to emerge—a hulking Pride demon wreathed in green fire, its form twisted and grotesque. Its prideful eyes gleamed as it surveyed the group.

As the mark on her arm flared with pain, Marel stumbled backwards and the demon advanced towards her. "Get your weapons ready!" Cassandra commanded, lifting her shield and charging forward without hesitation. The fight commenced. Cassandra blocked a swipe of the demon’s massive claws, the force of the blow driving her to one knee. “Marel, we can’t hold this thing forever!” she called out, swinging her sword to deflect another strike. Varric let out a low whistle as he fired bolts at the demon’s exposed side.

Solas raised his staff, a blast of ice struck the demon’s flaming arm, causing it to recoil with a howl. Felassan darted around the battlefield with surprising grace, flinging bursts of magic at the demon’s head. “Keep its attention off her!” he yelled, pointing toward Marel. “She’s the one who can end this.”

Marel’s heart pounded as she staggered closer to the rift, the mark on her hand blazing painfully bright. The closer she got, the more the rift seemed to pull at her, as though trying to consume her entirely. “Focus, Marel,” Felassan called, his usual teasing tone replaced with rare urgency. “It’s you or the demon—decide quickly.” The mark connected with the rift, sending a blast of green energy rippling outward. The Pride demon roared in pain, momentarily stunned as the rift’s power turned against it.

“Now!” Cassandra shouted, driving her blade into the demon’s leg. Solas and Felassan unleashed coordinated bursts of magic, striking at the demon’s weakened form. Varric’s bolts embedded themselves in its chest, one after another. Marel poured everything she had into the mark, her vision narrowing as the rift began to respond. The demon howled again, its form flickering like a flame in a storm. It lashed out wildly, sending Cassandra sprawling and nearly catching Varric with its claws.

“It’s weakening!” Solas called. “Hold it off a little longer!”

Marel gritted her teeth, stepping closer to the rift despite the searing pain in her arm. She could feel the power pulling at her, but she refused to let go. “Just… a little more!” The Pride demon made one final lunge toward her, its claws outstretched. Felassan intercepted with a blast of energy that sent it reeling. “Now!” he yelled. Marel let out a cry as she channeled the mark's power into the rift. The energy exploded outward, enveloping the Pride demon and pulling it back into the tear. The rift trembled violently, its glow intensifying before imploding with a deafening snap. Marel's sight dimmed as she channeled the last of her energy into the mark, her body quaking under the intense surge of power. The final burst of magic closed the portal, pulling the Pride demon into oblivion, but it drained her completely. And then, everything went dark.

* * *

As they made their way through the gates, a sense of heavy burden enveloped the group. The looming threat of the Breach weighed heavily on their minds, serving as a constant reminder of the chaos that awaited them. Felassan's attention was drawn to Cassandra carrying the unconscious body of Marel, her marked hand clenching tightly without her even realizing it. Felassan came to a realization: she was the key. Not only in sealing the rifts, but in altering the course of everything. Even for Solas.

"We face an uncertain path," Solas said softly, his eyes on the distant horizon. "But with determination and wisdom, we may yet prevail."

Felassan snorted. "Always the optimist, aren't you?" But his tone lacked its usual bite. Instead, he found himself studying Marel, noting the steel in her spine, the quiet resolve in her eyes. ‘Perhaps’, he thought, ‘there's hope for us all yet.’