#like her cloak is stupid easy i might even have fabric for it

[zarvasace]

I might be able to go to a con in like two weeks, but now I have a conundrum...

I also have BotW Zelda and LBW Zelda finished, but I don't particularly want to wear those.

[winesink]

How Easy You Are to Need

Sansan one shot (for now). Porn with some plot, mutual masturbation, sex ed teacher Sandor, blink and you miss it pet play, open/ambiguous ending. CW for non-con kissing (not from Sandor), and Sansa slapping the Hound (dw he's into it)

summary: There was a proper response to this, she knew. Some well-established line Septa Mordane had probably told her a half a hundred times. 'What to do if some non-knight touches you indecently; how to demure when you knew he was speaking in innuendos.' It was hard to remember such silly courtesies when her thoughts were otherwise occupied, comparing the Hound's sturdy, thick fingers to Dontos' fleshy, clammy grip. Dontos had smelled vaguely of bed sores and day-old sick. He'd been stale all over but for the fog of dry white wine which now polluted Sansa's every breath. Clegane smelled like leather and iron and the sour red he preferred. Sansa hated red wines.

Still, she wanted Dontos' taste gone more thoroughly than her mouth rinse would do.

Banner by @/Cafekitsune

'Come to the godswood tonight, if you want to go home.'

Sansa had burned the note the second she'd read it but the words felt like they'd been etched into the backs of her eyelids all the same. She didn't trust her handmaids, but it had to be one of them who'd placed the note under her pillow, surely. They'd been in and out all day, a dressmaker having spent the better part of the day in Sansa's chambers, measuring and sampling fabrics for a new wardrobe. The queen had even come at some point to tut elegantly at Sansa's first choices.

Whoever it was must have been very brave. Was it a ploy? Some plot of the queen's to prove her disloyalty? Sansa doubted very much that the queen cared enough to waste her time with such, and Joffrey was too stupid to invent such a game. Varys? Littlefinger had left for the Eyrie, but everyone said that Lord Tyrion was just as cunning. Would she sneak away in the dead of night only to be met with the King's Justice?

Despite her cloudy thoughts, a small tendril of hope squirmed to life deep in her belly. The knights at court were all untrustworthy, she'd learned, but not all songs sang of knights. Florian was no knight, yet he was more gallant than any man of the Kingsuard. Well all except one, perhaps, and no knight himself. Huffing, Sansa scolded herself to not be so foolish. The Hound was loyal to Joffrey and she would do well to remember that. Just because he took no pride in beating young ladies, it did not mean he carried any notion of saving her. Nor did it make him gallant.

Still, if anyone were capable of saving her, surely none were more suited for the task than the Hound?

***

She'd been lucky. Troubles in the city had drawn the guards away from the drawbridge. Sansa pulled her cloak closer about herself and darted over the dry moat. The king would be leading a raiding party beyond the gate, it seemed, his guards helping him into his armor. Sansa was frightened of being noticed, but she could not resist the urge to seek out the Hound's large figure among all the commotion. She did not see him, and despite herself, her heart soared to know it might be because he was waiting for her in the Godswood.

"With me!" The king cried, a clangor of shield banging following him out the gate. 

'I hope they kill him,' she thought, fingering the hilt of the breadknife she'd hidden in her cloak. Maybe she could slip into the fray herself, pretend to be a starving peasant and slit his throat. Instead she slipped left toward the serpentine and continued on her way.

The commotion of the commons fell away as she entered the Godswood, the thick carpet of leaves and moss swallowing the sounds as she walked further and further within. This wood was not overlarge, but it was deep enough that she worried she wouldn't be able to find her accomplice's meeting place before he got tired of waiting and left.

"I feared you would not come, child."

Sansa drew up short, her back to the newcomer. The voice was low but slurred, not the harsh growl she'd expected. She turned slowly until she could make out a man's figure hiding amongst the trees. Heavyset, stumbling as he came closer, Sansa watched in horror as his blotchy and bloated face came into view. "Ser Dontos?" She cried, heartbroken. "Was it you?"

"Yes, my lady," he sighed. His breath smelled of wine and onions and his lips smacked messily. "Me," he reached out his hand.

"Don't!" She hissed. "You must never touch me."

"I am sorry my lady, I only wanted to show my gratitude to you."

"I don't care," Sansa snapped. "What do you want with me?"

"Only to help you. As you helped me."

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

“Only one cup of wine, to help my courage. If they catch me now, they’ll strip the skin off my back.”

She'd been such a fool. They would both be dead soon if this was her savior. "Who sent you?" She demanded.

“No one, sweet lady. I swear it on my honor as a knight.”

"What good is that honor?"

“I deserve that, though… I know it’s queer, but… all those years I was a knight, I was truly a fool, and now that I am a fool I think… I think I may find it in me to be a knight again, sweet lady. And all because of you… your grace, your courage. You saved me, not only from Joffrey, but from myself.” His voice dropped. “The singers say there was another fool once who was the greatest knight of all…”

Florian, he meant, but where the song had given her comfort earlier, it nearly made her gag now. She changed the subject, “How… how would you do it? Get me away?” 

“Taking you from the castle, that will be the hardest. Once you’re out, there are ships that would take you home. I’d need to find the coin and make the arrangements, that’s all.”

Sansa frowned, remembering how her father had wanted to ship her and Arya off once. "When?"

"First I must find a sure way to get you from the castle when the hour is ripe. It will not be easy, nor quick. They watch me as well.”

Sansa didn't doubt that. "I will… think about your offer."

Dontos looked miffed. "You'll… think on it?"

"Yes," she answered firmly. "How can I tell you my answer?"

Ser Dontos glanced about anxiously. “The risk is too great. You must come here, to the Godswood. As often as you can. This is the safest place. The only safe place. Nowhere else. Not in your chambers nor mine nor on the steps nor in the yard, even if it seems we are alone. The stones have ears in the Red Keep, and only here may we talk freely.”

“Only here,” Sansa said. “I’ll remember.”

“And if I should seem cruel or mocking or indifferent when men are watching, forgive me, child. I have a role to play, and you must do the same. One misstep and our heads will adorn the walls as did your father’s.”   

She nodded, thinking of the Hound's apathetic glare as Ser Meryn punched her in the belly. Perhaps… perhaps he wasn't quite so cruel as she had originally judged him. “I understand.”

“You will need to be brave and strong … and patient, patient above all.” Sansa frowned. She hadn't told him she'd accept. "And now you must go, before you are missed." She turned to leave but then he was grabbing her wrist. "But before you go, give your Florian a kiss." And then he was pulling her close, pressing his sloppy lips to hers and Sansa couldn't reach her knife with his grip on her wrist.

"No," she hissed, "unhand me or I'll - I'll…" But what could she do? She was alone here, her closest confidants the trees that surrounded them. Still, he seemed chastised enough for he relented, a thin rope of slimy saliva snapping between them and Sansa simply ran.

She was half way down the serpentine when a man lurched out of a hidden doorway. Sansa caromed into him and lost her balance. Iron fingers caught her by the wrist before she could fall, and a deep voice rasped at her. “It’s a long roll down the serpentine, little bird. Want to kill us both?” His laughter was rough as a saw on stone. The Hound. “Maybe you do.”

Sansa tried to protest but he wasn't in the mood to listen, evidently. "What's Joff's little bird doing flying down the serpentine in the black of night? Answer me," he demanded, shaking her.

Her head tossed limply once, twice, before he stopped shaking and simply held her upright. She settled her hair and stared boldly up at him, taking in the way the torches striped his twisted flesh - the red and cratered bits that had healed bad, and the gnarled black flesh that had healed worse. A spot of bone was visible at his jaw, flashing between deep folds of skin that seeped red when he spoke. But his eye was still good and Sansa thought maybe that was the worst of it. Even swimming in wine, his hard gray eyes all but glinted with implacable fury. 

Sometimes, in the throne room, when Joff was having her beaten, she would look up at the Hound's horrible, ugly face and his strong stature, and imagined carving another pound of flesh from him: a solid chunk of muscle, perhaps his bicep, which she could stretch and mold into a good stiff leather with which to armor herself. He had plenty to spare. It was a stupid, childish thought, but one she often found herself leaning on. Perhaps it was this ill-thought notion of stealing his strength that had her answering honestly:

"In the Godswood. Ser Dontos, he… he-."

"He what?" The Hound rasped, drawing her closer as he continued to leer down at her. 

But he was drunk, and murderous, and it would be a shame to save the fool's life just to send the Hound after him. "It's only… I was there, praying for the king's safe return. And I found him winesick. I tried -."

The Hound had spit at her well wishes, however, and he dropped her altogether when he deemed Dontos no threat. "Think I'm so drunk I'd believe that?" When he stepped away from her, he swayed slightly, and Sansa briefly worried he would tumble down the serpentine. There'd be no catching him.

He was unconcerned. "Bloody hells, look at you. You're a woman, now. Face, teats… you're tall for a woman, you know?" Sansa eyed his shoulder, suddenly realizing most women were probably unable to do such a thing. "These knights almost can't be blamed, can they? All so desperate to lay a hand on you in anyway they can." His voice had dropped to a deep growl, so low she could feel it in her own chest. "But you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you… 'No, please, don't hurt him,'" he mocked and it took her a moment to realize that was supposed to be her, begging mercy for Dontos. "Sing me a song, why don’t you? Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids. You like knights still, don’t you?”

'Give your Florian a kiss.' 

'I know a song,' she thought bitterly, 'one you'll rage to hear.' But the Hound would kill Ser Dontos if she told him tonight, and she may never get another offer to leave, so she kept her mouth shut.

At some point he'd leaned closer again, his sour breath displacing the wispy curls around her face that never laid flat in the southron humidity. "You're no knight, my lord."

"Nor am I a lord, little bird. Do I need to beat that into you?" The grip was back at her arm, tightening almost painfully, but it was still much lighter than Ser Boros's bruising grasp. It's his armor, she realized. He only wanted to scare her again.

"You won't hurt me," she breathed and she watched his scowl - the Hound's scowl - melt away as his grasp did.

"No, little bird, I won't hurt you." He gave his head a shake, scrubbed his hand over the unmarred side of his face. "Drunk as a dog, damn me. You come now. Back to your cage, little bird. I’ll take you there. Keep you safe." And then he gave her a gentle push back out the alcove and followed behind her like a proper escort would as she continued on down the serpentine.

They ran into some trouble at Maegor's gate when Ser Boros questioned their whereabouts and how Sansa had been outside the walls at such an hour. But all obstacles were easy when you were as strong and frightening as the Hound, it seemed, for he only had to growl some threats about telling the queen how Sansa had slipped all their minds, and the gates were opened for them promptly.

"Why do you let people call you a dog?" Sansa asked, once the Hound had summarily dismissed Ser Boros.

He'd sobered some throughout their walk, and his voice was steady when he told her about how his grandfather had earned his title. "A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face." He cupped her under the jaw, raising her chin, his fingers pinching her painfully. "And that's more than little birds can do, isn't it? I never got my song."

There was a proper response to this, she knew. Some well-established line Septa Mordane had probably told her a half a hundred times. 'What to do if some non-knight touches you indecently; how to demure when you knew he was speaking in innuendos.' It was hard to remember such silly courtesies when her thoughts were otherwise occupied, comparing the Hound's sturdy, thick fingers to Dontos' fleshy, clammy grip. Dontos had smelled vaguely of bed sores and day-old sick. He'd been stale all over but for the fog of dry white wine which now polluted Sansa's every breath. Clegane smelled like leather and iron and the sour red he preferred. Sansa hated red wines. 

Still, she wanted Dontos' taste gone more thoroughly than her mouth rinse would do. 

Some wild daring took over her. Sansa grabbed the Hound's arm and tugged, elated when he either allowed himself to be tipped, or stumbled in his drunkeness. She placed her hands on his shoulders, the better to stand on her toes. 'You're tall,' he'd said, but not quite tall enough. So she slipped one hand into the hair at the back of his head and pulled him down until she could press her lips to his. It was strange, unpracticed. The scarring at the side of his mouth was hard and unyielding, but she found she liked it better than Dontos's slobbery lips. 

The Hound was like stone under her affections for a moment, too shocked to do anything besides grip her chin even tighter, and then he growled low in his chest, the vibrations stiffening her nipples where they pressed into his armor. His arm snaked around her waist, the other cupping her neck delicately, as if he was afraid to hurt her. And then he was opening his mouth and her lips were following his and he slid his tongue along the ridge of her teeth and Sansa nearly gagged on the taste of his sour red wine.

She pulled away from him in a flash, remembering herself. The Hound didn't look surprised by her reticence, grinning like a fool at her shocked face and that was worse than anything had been tonight, she thought, so she slapped him across the unmarred side of his face and slammed the door on him, his laughter echoing off the stone walls of the hall until her room seemed to be shaking with it.

***

Everyone said that the Imp could not be trusted, and as Sansa watched Tyrion soundly reject Robb's peace terms from the Iron Throne, Sansa could see why. The Hand was deft, negotiating his own terms in such a way that showed exactly what the crown thought of Robb's peace; and when the envoy declared as such, Tyrion reminded Ser Cleos that Robb stood alone with no possible hope for allies while Kings Stannis and Renly battered each other to bits in Storm's End. 

He did offer two northern hostages for every Lannister, which would appease Robb - though he posed it in such a way that had the court laughing about their value - and he graciously promised to return her father's bones as a token of Joffrey's good faith. The king himself wasn't available to comment on that, of course, and Sansa couldn't help noticing that the only thing of value Tyrion had relented, was something that wasn't doing a single southerner any good.

"Lord Stark asked for his sisters and his father's sword as well," Ser Cleos reminded the little lord.

"Ice," Tyrion corrected absently, eying Ser Ilyn, where the sword in question could be seen over the man's shoulder. Sansa wanted to rip the name from his mouth, the sword from the false knight's back. But of course, she could do neither, so she stood silently and waited for Lord Tyrion's verdict. "He'll have that when he makes his peace with us, not before."

"As you say. And his sisters?" 

The Imp's eyes found Sansa's briefly from across the throne room. He looked troubled, but not enough to change his mind. “Until such time as he frees my brother Jaime, unharmed, they shall remain here as hostages. How well they are treated depends on him.” 

Sansa's heart ached to hear it, though it could very well have been the broad bruise that covered her chest hurting instead. Ser Mandon had thrown her roughly to the floor the night previous and she hadn't been able to catch herself before taking the ledge of a step on her breast. She viciously hoped Ser Jaimie was being tortured even worse than herself. Fair was only fair, especially seeing as Arya may very well be dead.

A Black Brother begged audience then and Sansa made her excuses as she exited the hall, Ser Preston in tow. Her bastard brother Jon was at Castle Black now, and Sansa couldn't bear to hear what troubles he was facing as well as the rest of her family. She was glad, however, that Tyrion would be hearing the man's petition instead of Joffrey or the queen. Tyrion had visited the Wall after accompanying King Robert to Winterfell and by all accounts the experience had been eye opening for him. The other Lannisters would have laughed him off outright, but Tyrion may actually help.

She was also glad for Tyrion's presence because it meant she hadn't had to see Joffrey. Or the Hound.

The Gods had been kind enough to keep them apart ever since she'd thrown herself at him a few nights prior and Sansa was ever so grateful because she could imagine what he thought of her. If she'd been a stupid little bird before, he must think her still a child now - to steal a kiss from a grown man and then get so overwhelmed as to slap him for it. Gods, but Sansa had never slapped anyone in her life; Septa Mordane and her lady mother both would have dropped dead on the spot if she had.

She would have to apologize eventually, she knew, but the prospect had kept her up the past few nights. The thought of tracking the Hound to some quiet, abandoned corner of the castle was upsetting enough. To then subject herself to the humiliation of acknowledging what she'd done was unbearable. More than once, she'd managed to convince herself the man had been too far in his cups to remember, but for some reason, that thought upset her nearly as much as the other.

Tired, Sansa returned to her chambers. It was too early to retire, but there was some mending she wanted to get done and no one had requested her presence that night so she shut the door in quiet Ser Preston's face and sat at her window until her bedmaid came to prepare her for sleep.

It was dark as pitch in her room when a thud at her door woke her. Sansa gasped as she woke, sitting bolt upright as she tried to orient herself. She'd been dreaming of Lady, of hunting in Winterfell's Godswood, of sitting under the Heart Tree and licking the blood from her paws daintily. But her room in King's Landing was too hot, despite her banked coals having burned themselves out, and she'd no blood on her hands.

The knock came again - no, no knock. A heavy gauntlet at her door that she'd come to know well. Sansa shivered despite the oppressive heat she felt. This was worse than any daydream of hunting Clegane down, surely. If sequestering him in an empty storeroom had been a daunting possibility, having him in her rooms demanding an apology was downright unnerving.

Slipping out of her bed, she found a robe - the lighter one that clung like fine silk but wouldn't make her sweat as much - and pulled her door open for her guest.

He stood closer than she'd been expecting, as if trying to shelter his massive frame under her door jamb. "Ser?" she peeped, but he brushed her aside and strode into her room. By the sound of his scraping boots, he only made it a few steps before drawing to a halt.

"The coals must have died," Sansa supplied lamely, bolting the door on instinct. The only thing worse than the Hound being in her room, was the whole court knowing the Hound was in her room. The last thing she needed was an overeager bedmaid coming to check on her now. He grunted and moved toward the fireplace, sifting through the hot ash until he found a kernel of heat strong enough to stoke to life. Sansa stood awkwardly to the side and waited until the low light unfolded enough that she could see his frame. He wore no armor tonight, she was surprised to find. Which meant his bare fist had pounded against her door so ominously. Sansa's skin prickled. "You don't have to do that, Ser, it's rather warm in here."

"Want to see you." The Hound turned to her finally. Backlit by the coals and kneeling, he looked more beast than man - a hellhound crawling from the deepest pit to warm himself at her hearth.

"Oh," was all she could muster, remembering the last time he'd seen her. He'd be angry tonight, she knew. The fearsome Hound she'd hated so much back at that stupid inn on the Kingsroad. "I'm sorry, Ser, for the way I -."

"Shove it," he growled, standing and walking to the small seat at her table. It creaked ominously under his weight as he sat. "Rather not hear how very sorry you are for the best thing that's ever happened in my miserable life."

"Ser?"

"Not a 'Ser,' girl," he snapped. "You went around shoving your tongue down knights' throats, you know what they'd do to you?" Sansa was too shamed to answer. That had not been what she'd done, he'd done that; but it wouldn't do any good to go reminding him what she had done. "Save your 'Sers.' I'm no knight, just a dog begging for any scraps you're willing to throw my way."

He wouldn't stop staring at her. It was hard to meet his eye, but she knew how much it displeased him when she looked away so she tried her best. Could it be that he'd liked how she'd kissed him? The Hound hated liars most of all, he wouldn't say as much just to spare her feelings. "But I slapped you," she reminded him, her blush creeping down to her collar now.

"Aye, you did," he allowed, but his tone didn't match the situation at all. If anything he seemed… amused, perhaps? His mouth twisted in a feral grin, his eyes absolutely gleaming with something she was slowly becoming familiar as they raked over Sansa's form.

This was… not something she'd expected. Sansa was a woman grown and not naïve to the ways of men and women. And no one lived in the Capital for long without learning about whores with… specialties… so she understood that some men had specific tastes. But Sansa had been slapped many times by now and she could not understand the appeal. "And this… pleased you?"

Sandor snorted, the moment cracking around the edges but not quite breaking. He leaned forward in his seat until she thought he might fall out. "Pleased me more than once, I admit."

"Oh," Sansa peeped. He meant to scare her, she knew, but the image of the Hound finding his own release as he thought of her hands on him washed a wave of goosepimples up her arms that had nothing to do with fear.

"So bloody proper," he rasped, though he sounded more revenant than accusatory. "You've never even pleased yourself, have you little bird?"

Sansa turned away from him then, under the pretense of finding a seat. She flit about for a moment, only remembering her room was not intended for two when she found no chair for herself. She eyed her bed suspiciously for a moment, as if it would tattle to her septa that she'd allowed a man into her room and then entered her bed if she did so; but she sat on the very edge of it all the same. Her fluttering, of course, didn't do her much good. Sandor's hulking form and wolfish gaze had etched themselves into her mind; the way the low light was swallowed by his dark hair and his dark eyes and his dark clothes until he seemed a phantom come to torment her would haunt her even in the daylight, she knew. "No," she finally whispered, and the Hound laughed.

"Of course not. Bet you didn't even know you could."

Sansa knew that some women could find happiness in their marriage bed, though she knew it was uncommon and everyone seemed to agree it was mostly up to the husband's disposition. "I thought… I thought any pleasure to be found in… that… was to come from the hu- the man."

"That's what your septa taught you no doubt," the Hound agreed, though his tone was softer now and Sansa could manage to peek at him. "They lied to you, girl. You can please yourself better than most men."

Sansa frowned, her thoughts turning to Joffrey and the long life of misery she most likely faced. "How?" She breathed.

It was the right thing to say, it seemed. The Hound growled and kicked the table away from himself, leaning forward eagerly into the space he'd created, his eyes alight like the coals he had stoked earlier. He was so… big. Sansa sometimes forgot, used as she'd become to his presence. But even unarmored and folded into a too-small chair, he seemed to loom across her room in a way she could not get away from. The table had been pushed far enough away from him that she could see him fully now: his legs spread and stretched out before him, his elbows perched carelessly on the arms of the chair. "Will you lean back for me?" He requested and Sansa found she did not want to deny him anything right then. So she did as bid, planting her palms behind her and shifting her weight more solidly onto them. Her thin silk robe pulled open at her chest but not quite enough to reveal her breasts through the thin fabric of her shift.

Sansa wasn't sure she would even care if it did.

"Good girl," the Hound praised and Sansa suppressed a mewl. She'd always been such a good girl; she could be a good girl now. "Spread your legs." Sansa did, her robe only holding on by the stay at her waist now. The Hound took a moment to look her over, his gaze just as consuming as it was when he practiced in the training yard. Sansa remembered watching him from afar, how he would laugh as he kicked blooded knights into the dirt.

"I'm going to touch you now. Over your shift. You'll tell me if you want me to stop." Sansa was nodding before she knew what she was about, but the Hound moved slowly enough she could have clamped her legs shut if she'd changed her mind. He slid from his seat until he knelt and then he was crawling the short distance to her bed, his gaze never leaving the apex of her thighs. She didn't like to see him on the floor, she decided, though it made her feel powerful and he looked perfectly content himself, managing not to make the motion look pathetic. 

When he reached her he returned to kneeling, grabbing her ankles delicately and placing them on his knees. His eyes met hers then, holding them as he ran his palms up her calves to wrap around the backs of her knees and pull, Sansa's body sliding across her sheets until her knees were almost at his ears. Her breath stuttered in shock but the Hound never faltered, one hand sliding up under her robe to wrap around her rear as the other skimmed up to her waist. He paused there, rubbing his thumb across the crest of her hip for a moment, the fabric catching on his calluses. He seemed like he was waiting on something but Sansa was beyond words so she pulled one hand out from under her and brought her knuckles to his face, stroking his brow in kind. Sandor sighed at that, the gust of hot air seeping through Sansa's shift to warm her thighs. And then the hand at her hip was sliding inward, her shift bunching until he could press two thick fingers to her sex and she was mortified to find she was wet - the embarrassing kind of slick that only happened when she watched the knights in the training yard - and worse, enough that the Hound could feel it through her shift and her small clothes! But the Hound only cursed under his breath and took a shaky, calming breath, stroking her there minutely all the while.

"This is your cunt," he told her. His voice sounded broken, the whetstone scrape having finally honed the blade brittle. "You can press your little fingers in there if you want but not too deep. You'll feel your maidenhead in there. About a knuckle deep. Don't break it, that's for His Fucking Grace, remember?" Sansa nodded, but the Hound wasn't looking at her. His eyes were locked where he touched her and Sansa wondered if he was talking to himself then. "You're wet." Again his voice cracked. "That's good. So fucking good. Your slick comes from here, little bird. Coat your fingers, as much as you want." 

And then his fingers were moving up, dragging the fabric against her sensitive skin until he met the little fold at the front of her sex and Sansa gasped, her own hand sliding up until her fingers sank into Sandor's hair and if possible he leaned in closer, his shoulders pushing her knees impossibly wide and his breath creating a hot pocket of warmth at her tummy. He adjusted his hand until his fingers framed some tiny piece of flesh, pulling the fabric of her smallclothes across the sensitive pebble as he moved his fingers in a miniscule circle. 

"This is your pearl, little bird," he growled. "This is where you'll find your pleasure when you're all alone in your little cage. Or if a man isn't doing his job properly." His fingers pressed harder and Sansa moaned quietly, her own digits clutching at his scalp and in her bedding. The grip he had around her bottom tightened and he drew her even closer, pressing his nose to the fabric folded into the crease of her hip and scenting her fully, groaning. 

Sansa felt like her bed would swallow her up at any second. Or maybe the Hound would. Or maybe the coals in her fireplace would catch and consume them both. She was hot all over but she shook as if the coldest winds of winter were raking across her skin. Her robe had bunched up enough that it had fallen completely away from her breasts and they heaved with her panting, feeling heavier by far than she knew they were. Her nipples had pebbled until they were visible through her shift and she had a sudden urge to touch herself there so she dropped her weight more fully onto her elbow and removed her hand from the Hound's hair to cup her breast, testing its weight. Then her fingers were moving to the peak, rubbing and pinching until she hissed in pleasure. 

She hadn't noticed the Hound's eyes following her movements until he spoke against her thigh, "Lick your fingers first." Sansa met his eyes and complied, coating her fingers much as he had, sucking herself down to her knuckles. The Hound grunted like a beast, his pace increasing until Sansa mewled and then her fingers were back at her breast but her saliva wasn't quite as thick and it didn't soak through her shift the way her slick had. Frustrated and beyond caring, wanting to feel everything the Hound directed her to feel, she tugged at her stays harshly until her front panels fell away and her breasts were exposed to the humid air of the room and she was pinching at her nipples again.

Sansa sighed just as the Hound cursed, his fingers dipping down to soak her slip in more slick, as if he could tell her own were no longer wet. "Your lord husband will lick you there, if you're lucky." He growled.

"Joffrey won't lick me anywhere." Her voice was ragged. When had that happened?

Sandor didn't respond but his finger returned to her pearl and it felt better now with less friction; so Sansa took his queue, only - he'd said her husband would lick her there and suddenly she wanted the Hound's mouth on her and she was sitting up enough to push her fingers into his mouth and the Hound moaned obscenely, sucking on her digits and coating them with his tongue until she deemed them wet enough and returned them to her nipple.

He was right, that was much better.

The Hound was panting just as much as she was now, staring up at her reverently. When she met his eyes his grip changed: a press of the pad of one finger directly to the nerve bundle and Sansa nearly screamed.

"There, please," she moaned and the Hound groaned, pressing harder against her bud and speeding up until she was shaking, her legs trying to clamp shut on his hand but his massive body was in the way so she was left open, vulnerable to his ruthless assault until her body bowed and she was gasping, his name a litany she couldn't stop reciting.

His fingers slowed and gentled, each slide of fabric so overwhelming it nearly hurt until he stopped altogether, their breathing so loud it almost echoed in her silent room. She sat up until she could see him again, his eyes boring holes into her. He was still panting, she noticed, and she wondered if he breathed like that when he found his release as well.

"Good girl," he praised again and Sansa shivered. His hands pulled away from her and she felt so bereft she was following them, sliding from the bed until she sat in his lap and she was kissing him again. He groaned low in his throat and pulled her closer, an arm around her hips and the other hand at the nape of her neck and this time when he pushed his tongue to her teeth she was opening gratefully, trying to suck on his tongue as he had done with her fingers. His breath did not taste like wine tonight.

The arm around her hips pulled her impossibly closer, her shift riding up until her small clothes pressed to his breeches and - oh gods, that was his manhood. Hot and hard and pressed against her soaked sex. "Sandor," she whined, unsure what she wanted.

"I know," he breathed against her lips, and then he was using his grip to push her more firmly against himself and they were so close now she could feel him twitch. It should hurt, she thought, with how sensitive she had been only moments earlier, but he'd never hurt her before and he certainly wasn't now so she moved with him until he was growling in frustration and lifting her back onto her bed - as if she weighed a feather, she noted with a shutter.

"Show me what you've learned little bird," he prompted, his hands sliding up the skirt of her shift again but Sansa felt like she was boiling out of her skin and even the paltry weight of it was too much to bear so she yanked her skirts up over her hips, shifting the bulk behind her until she could see her smallclothes and she was mortified to be seen like this but the Hound was groaning again and palming his thickness through his breeches so it was all okay, wasn't it? Emboldened, Sansa pulled the stays of her small clothes and the Hound leapt into action with a curse, sliding them down her legs and throwing them to the side. He slid his hands back up her ankles, prying her legs apart when she inevitably tried to hide herself away again.

"Show me," he rasped, "let me see your pretty red cunt." Sansa blushed but complied, leaning back as she had before so he could look his fill. "Gods, Sansa. So damn good for me. Look at you. So wet."

As if disbelieving, Sansa pushed her fingers to her core, though her petals were in the way so she spread them, noting how his breath hitched. "What are these?" She asked sweetly, petting the folds of silky skin just to watch how his eyes followed the motion.

"Those are your lips, girl. Keep teasing me with them and I'll show you how they like to be kissed, too." Sansa gasped, her legs trying to snap closed again. He wouldn't. That was so vulgar! But the Hound only held her legs wide and laughed, his breath fanning across her exposed flesh. "No? That's okay. Someday, when the king has put a dozen babes in you and never once made you cum you'll come crawling back to your old dog, begging me to lick you clean."

The thought of it all revolted her - Joffrey and his babes, the Hound's mouth on her there; but his eagerness sparked something in her. 'Your old dog.' "And you would? Even then?"

The Hound scoffed, his hands engulfing her calves and rubbing at her muscles. "If there's ever a day I refuse an invitation to eat your sweet cunny just slit my throat and be done with it."

Sansa smiled despite his crude words, her fingers dipping down to her center to push her slick around as he had done. She'd pressed a fingertip inside herself once out of curiosity, but she hadn't been wet the way she was now and she'd thought the whole affair very overrated. Now, however, coated in her juices and with the Hound's eyes devouring her every move, she felt strangely empty and she remembered what he'd said about pressing her little fingers in. She wanted to try again.

Sandor's grip was like iron on her legs as he watched, his breath puffing across her heated skin. Sansa pressed the tip of her middle finger against her entrance and pushed until the silky sheath gave and she dipped into herself. It was still strange, she decided, but not unpleasant as it had been before, so she pushed a little deeper into herself until her bravery ran out, about knuckle deep. 

"Curl your finger," the Hound suggested, so she did and it was pleasant - made her feel more full - but still not what she'd been led to believe it would be. "Does the wall there feel different from the others?" Sansa spun her finger to test but shook her head. The Hound nodded knowingly. "I don't think you'll be able to find release in there until after you lose your maidenhead, but you can tease yourself as much as you like. Try another finger."

The thought frightened her. Surely that would tear her open? But the Hound had said it would be fine and he hadn't steered her wrong yet, so she lined her ring finger up with her middle and pushed both digits in - slowly at first when the stretch startled her, and then more eagerly when she found it quite pleasant.

"Good girl," the Hound breathed. One of his hands slid from her calf down to her ankle again, his grip twitching as if he had something in mind he'd rather be doing with his hand. 

"Are you going to touch yourself too, Ser?"

For once, Sandor Clegane did not balk at the title. He made a noise like she'd kicked him in the belly and his grip tightened on her ankle for a moment but then he cleared his throat and told her, "Not yet, little bird. Want to watch you cum when I do."

"Then will you touch me?"

The Hound groaned and used his grip to pull her closer. His mouth fell to her thigh and at first she thought he would bite her, but his teeth only clenched minutely on the taut muscle and his lips kissed the mark as if to soothe her. "Not tonight. I'll fuck you bloody if I do."

Sansa didn't think she would mind that, but that didn't make it a good idea. She curled her fingers inside herself a few times just to test the way it felt but then she removed them and pulled upward, searching for her pearl. They both moaned when she found it. Sansa first tried touching it directly the way he'd been doing when she'd peaked. It felt great but it made her shake too much almost immediately and she found she could not maintain the contact on her own. So she framed the nub between two fingers and tried that way, sighing as she found a slow but promising rhythm.

"How do you feel?"

Sansa felt a lot of things, altogether, but there was only one thing at the front of her mind: "Empty."

The Hound huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. "Have you ever seen a man's cock?"

"Yes." She had, once, when she and Jeyne went peaking around in the Godswood and saw a man bathing in the hot springs.

"Do you think it could fill you?"

"No." She wasn't certain, really. But he'd seemed small from her vantage point, and the ache in her womb felt far deeper than he'd be able to reach.

He did laugh then, and his hands left her legs. There was a rustling of fabric, the sound of skin on skin. "I'm a big man, little bird. Do you think I could fill you?"

Sansa sat up and spread the leg the Hound wasn't leaning on. He was slumped forward and hiding himself but leaned his shoulder away when he realized she was looking until she could see down his front, all the way down to where he'd removed his cock from his breeches, one fist wrapped around the base. 

"Yes," she breathed.

The Hound said nothing but his gaze became consuming again, his fist beginning to stroke his cock until the bulbous head disappeared into his strong fist, fucking back through his grip in a way that had him twitching. The Hound was big. And thick. And veiny. His cock was ugly, really, but it was ugly in the same way his nose was - which was to say not at all - and Sansa's womb gave a longing twinge; she just knew he'd be able to soothe her ache.

"There's a place deep in your cunt, you know," he told her, as if able to read her thoughts. "Behind your maidenhead. Some men won't be able to reach it, but it will bring you the most pleasure."

"You could reach it." He could probably reach her heart with that thing.

"Aye, I could reach it. Fuck you good and deep until you begged me to put a pup in you," he promised; and that was - oh.

Sansa moaned, her movements speeding up. She wanted that violently all the sudden; imagining the Hound's bastards running around right under Joffrey's nose. The Hound had a northern look, she could pretend they'd taken after her father. Joffrey would have a conniption.

"The little bird wants her dog's pups, is that it?" He growled, his movements accelerating to match hers.

"Yes," she hissed.

"You're so bloody perfect," the Hound praised and Sansa keened. She felt like she would shake apart, but the Hound would keep her together. "No one else has ever seen you like this. No one else ever will."

"Only you."

"You'll never do this for the king."

"Never."

"Only for your old dog."

"Sandor -!"

"Come for me, little bird, sing me my favorite song." And Sansa was a good girl so she did as she was told. She made noises, she knew, but she barely heard them over the Hound's own grunts and groans, his praises of 'good girl,' and 'just like that,' and 'fucking perfect, princess.'

She'd leaned back at some point to paw at her breast but she could at least hear his movements slow and still, the ragged breaths evening out until he sighed deeply and pressed another kiss to her thigh. He leaned back enough he could bring her legs back together, soothing his palms along her flesh like he would a spooked horse. 

Sansa was lost for words but he didn't seem to need to hear them. Eventually he stood with a loud pop of his knees that had her wincing in sympathy and moved to her vanity where Sansa heard her flagon of water being poured. Figuring he was pouring himself a glass, Sansa sat up and began to adjust her shift back but then the Hound was between her legs again, far too silent for someone so big. He hushed her gently and ran a wet cloth up her thigh to let her know what he was about and then he was wiping her there and somehow that was far more embarrassing than anything they'd done up 'til then.

"Sandor you don't -."

"I do."

"But it's… dirty."

"That's the problem," he agreed, but his voice was light and teasing and he was done by then anyway. Sandor pulled another scrap of cloth up her legs and Sansa realized it was her smallclothes. She pulled them on properly and righted herself as he cleaned himself off and adjusted his own clothes. 

"Can we do that again?"

"No." Sansa had enough time to feel disappointed before he continued, "Next time I'll have my own hands on you. And maybe my mouth if you'll stop squawking about it."

She pouted at him but he didn't see it, rolling her further into her bed bodily so he could lay down next to her. Sansa snuggled close happily, resting her head on his suddenly bare chest as he wrapped an arm around her. His scent was stronger now, muskier.

"Will you stay?" she found herself asking, too tired to care how desperate it made her sound.

"No." Sansa pouted. "Believe me, girl, I'd like nothing better than to watch you sleep tonight but someone will have to bar the door behind me when I leave and -."

"I could do it! Just wake me. Really, it's no trouble, I'm never still asleep by the time my handmaids come anyway."

Sandor's mouth twitched, a sure sign she'd angered him, but then he was tucking her closer to his side and sighing heavily. "A few hours, then," he conceded, and Sansa grinned against his furry pec. 

"You never told me why you were out of your cage the other night," he said almost conversationally, playing with her hair. Sansa freezes. Somehow in all the scenarios she'd envisioned about confronting the Hound, she'd never considered this avenue of discussion. At her continued silence, the Hound turned stiff under her. "Little bird?"

"I told you I was in the Godswood," Sansa hedged.

"Praying for the king, aye. But what were you really doing?"

If she told the Hound the truth, he would kill Ser Dontos within the hour; and with him, the one real offer Sansa had yet been given to return home. Lord Tyrion had made it clear she would not be set aside, though Sansa desperately wanted to be free of her betrothed.

But was she desperate enough to trust a fool?

Stalling, Sansa appeased the man under her by smoothing her palm across the hard planes of his chest. She didn't truly believe Dontos was capable of getting her out of the city, let alone to safety. Sansa remembers how she'd hoped the letter had come from the very man who now occupied her bed and Gods be good, but she recalls the talk of the scullerymaids in the bowels of the keep; how a man would do anything you asked so long as he knew where his cock was always welcome.

"I found a letter under my pillow…"

Next>>

[bluebellhairpin]

Thorin Oakenshield X Fem!Reader

Summary; Thorin's Company makes it into Laketown. Now the only obstacles are it's people - both friends and foes.

Warnings; Dreams/visions of the future. Reader gets a wee bit angry because Alfred has very gross undertones. Reader is female-body-coded, uses she/her pronouns, and is Human.

Listening to; 'The Moon Will Sing' by The Crane Wives - "We walked in the dark... I never gave a single thought to where it might lead."

Part 9 || Part 11

Series Masterlist || Masterlist || Ko-Fi

Past the edge of the wooden barge, and beyond the fog of the lake was Erebor. 

You’d never seen a sight like it before - something about this mountain struck a chord within you. It wasn’t your home, not really, but it felt like you were returning to it just as much as the Dwarves with you were. 

They had just forked over all their coin - something you were unable to do after being stripped thoroughly in Mirkwood - and they had all climbed back in the barrels to hide. 

You, however, would not fit in such a barrel. With your human proportions, your head would stick over the top of the barrel, and that would be a sure giveaway. 

Instead you sat by Bard’s feet, the remains of a hessian cloak draped over your head and shoulders - more to keep you warm than hidden - and you waited. Waited until you were either let past or taken away. Even if the people in this town did find you, you thought quietly, they would be less likely to look for a Company of Dwarves. 

“You never did tell me where you came from.” Bard said, quietly speaking as he guided the boat between pieces of ice and hidden rocks. “A Human and a Halfling do not usually fit in with a collection of Dwarves.” 

“We have family in the Iron Hills, Bard.” You said, turning on your bum to look up at the man. “Is that so unusual?” He looked at you carefully. 

“You all have very rehearsed answers.” 

“Maybe we have all just been asked the same questions before.” You said, staring ahead at the barrels. Bard was quiet for a few long moments before speaking again. 

“And how did you know my name?” 

“What?” you asked, feeling your neck go hot - this was not going to be easy to explain. 

“I’ve never said my name and yet you know it.” He said. You felt him shift from one side to another, turning into a small dock - but you felt this was not the town itself. “Have we met before?” 

Your hand tightened around the rough fabric around your neck. This subject was getting too tricky to keep talking about. 

“Where are you taking us?” 

“I believe I asked my question first.” he said, bumping the boat into the dock before stepping past you. “I expect a good story about your answer when I return.” 

Then he was gone, stepping off the boat and walking over to talk to a man before you could blink. 

Dwain said your name. “What’s he doing?” 

“What is he saying to you?” you heard Thorin rumble. 

You kicked the barrel closest to you. “Shut up, all of you.” you hissed. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.” 

Unlike those in the barrels, you had a free view of what was going on. However, like those in the barrels you weren’t quite happy about your friends all being doused in fresh fish. You had to admit though, it was a good idea. Bard was no stupid man. 

He would see right through any story you told about knowing his name. One thing that might fool him though, is the truth. 

“I have dreams.” you said once Bard returned and pushed the boat off the dock. “They tell the future. I’ve had them for as long as I can remember.”

“You’re a witch?” he said. You saw how his shoulders squared and heard his voice turn stern. 

“No!” you said, “Of course not. These dreams are not something I put upon myself. If I could get rid of them I would - they haunt me more than help me.” You saw how his brows furrowed, yet he made no further comment. The rest of your ride to the town was spent in silence.

The checkpoint just behind the gate to Laketown was worrying you. Bard instructed you to stay put, stay sat as still as possible. Not to talk. Don’t even look at anyone. 

You felt like this town was not doing so well. 

“You’re packing a bit more than normal today Bard.” The man at the gate said, flicking over Bard’s permit then looking at you. Oh no. 

“The fish were a -”

“- I ain’t talking about the fish. Was talking about her.” he pointed at you. “What’s she doing here, hmm?”

“I -” You started, turning where you sat. 

“- she is just passing through.” Bard said, stepping to block you from view. “Will be gone before morning, just needed to pass across the lake and I happened to be around.” 

“You have a kindness that’ll get you in trouble one day.” The man said. 

“But not today.” Bard said, pushing just enough but not quite. The man shook his head with a half-smile. 

“No, not today.” 

“I think so today.” A new man pushed past the gatekeeper to stand toe-to-toe with Bard, as men who looked like city guards followed. “Illegal goods, and an illegal passenger. Indeed today is not a good day for you, Bard.” 

The man looked at you, the way his eyes narrowed had you recoiling in on yourself. 

You instantly got a very disgusting feeling in the pit of your stomach, one you hadn’t felt while on this journey. You had gross feelings before - seeing the Trolls, Goblins, Orcs, all those encounters left you reeling - but not like this. This had your very skin feeling like it was crawling off your body. This man was not safe.  

“Those fish will be disposed of -” he said and the guards behind him moved to start pouring the barrels into the lake, “- and she will be coming with me. The Master will decide if she can pass through.” 

You did not like the situation you found yourself in. From where you stood Bard couldn’t do much to help your friends, you would have to go with this man who made your teeth feel like they’d grown little legs, and all you wanted was for Thorin to come out of his barrel and help you. 

But you knew that wouldn’t happen. 

For a heavy moment you sat thinking of a way you could stay - maybe you could jump off the side of the boat and hold your breath long enough for everyone to go away? That wouldn’t work, you couldn’t hold your breath that long. 

The Bard started talking - explaining about wasted food, the people and the Master - he was like a celestial sent from above, for now your friends were saved. But what about saving you? 

The creep - slug, slime, bastard, and a million other names for him ran through your mind, none his real name but all just as fitting - stepped forward, reaching to grab you from where you sat. You stood and took a step back like you had been burnt. 

“Come on girl, with me.” You decided, quite suddenly, that he was not going to call you a ‘girl’. 

“No.” 

“No?” His head tilted, and you saw his lips pull back to reveal blackened teeth. “You don’t understand - you don’t have a choice.” 

You felt an angry bubble rise in your chest. Hot and red - and it burnt your throat like ash and smoke. 

“I am not going with you, not anywhere.” Your words came out with a rumbling growl, followed by a visible puff of air like you’d just stepped outside on a cold day. You were feeling everything but cold. 

Bard - bless him - must have sensed the violent rage climbing up your spine before it reached your shoulders, because he stepped back onto the barge - notably making the man shuffle backwards onto the dock. 

“That’s enough, Alfred.” he said. “She is my passenger and I won’t let you treat her in such a way.”

“She need to see the Master, and pay a toll -” 

“She may come to see the Master in the morning before she leaves.” He said, shielding you from view once more - this time from someone much bigger of a threat. “I know you’ll make sure of that.” Bard then stood in place at the rudder, and pushed off into the canals of the town. 

“I know where you live.” Alfred threatened - but even to you it sounded more like a cowering admission than a promise. 

“It's a small town,” Bard said, “Everyone knows where everyone lives.”

You’d all made it safely into Bard’s home. 

After your friends all made their way inside via the latrine, and decided that the weapons part of the ‘weapons and supplies’ wasn’t worth their coin, you’d all hunkered down to wait until dark. Then you could rob the town armoury undetected. 

(You had, however, profusely thanked Bard for all he had done so far. An action that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Thorin - you imagined, hopefully, that he wasn’t saying anything about it because you were doing the right thing, not because he didn’t care.)

You sat against a window, watching as your friends tried to keep themselves busy or find some sleep, and at Bard’s children and how they were as curious as they were cautious - it clicked then that this was how Bard was acting around you too. He wasn’t exactly against you all being there, he just didn’t want it to come at the cost of his family's safety. 

He was a good father. 

Across the room, you watched Bombur start to snore - his idea was a good one, who knew when the next time you could catch some sleep would be. So you hunkered down, chin pressed down and one foot resting on your knee, and you went to sleep.

Running and running, your feet were burning. The ground was golden, and soft - but it hurt. Your skin itched and you felt your teeth clench in an effort to be quiet. 

Why did you need to be quiet? 

“You cannot run forever, not from me!” The voice echoed around the stone walls - had they always been so small? They closed in on you like you were being wrapped in a blanket. Whoever it was was right - there was nowhere to run. 

You blinked, suddenly you were trapped no more. You were free in the open skies. A brief moment of joy, followed by horror. 

Underneath you were people. Thousands. Every last one of them were fighting. 

Orcs and Elves, Dwarves, war machines and blood. The grass was red from the life force that had been shed already. A battle like none other you’d seen before was playing out right underneath you - but what could you do to help? 

Who were you meant to help? 

Before you could decide you were falling. 

Thorin felt your leg stiffen, and you awoke with a quiet gasp. 

He didn’t have to ask to know you’d just had another dream. His hand rose to take hold of your calf at his side, rubbing his thumb across the skin over the fabric of your pants to try and soothe you - to let you know it was okay, he was here. 

Thorin almost jumped out of his skin when he felt your hand on his head, petting the hair down and picking a few stray fish scales away. He doubted you knew what it meant - but it had been so long since someone touched him with such care - he knew what you meant by it. You were doing the same as he was. Letting him know you were okay. 

Then, slowly, you started moving hair from the front of his face around, pulling the tie out that held half his hair back, before starting to twist the strands together. He stiffened under your touch, barely noticeable - so much so that in your bleary just-awake state you didn’t notice at all. 

You were braiding his hair. Within minutes you had half of his hair neatly braided all the way down its length and tied off. You knew not what it meant to him, but it didn’t matter to Thorin. He would wear his hair like this proudly either way. 

Thorin’s head tilted back, looking up at you as you smiled down at him. Your hair was still damp, by all means you were looking worse  for wear - yet he never thought you more beautiful. 

“Amrâlimê,” he whispered, but he didn’t know what else to say. In that moment Thorin Oakenshield was so full of love he could not express it. He was sure he looked like a fish out of water, but the look on your face said you didn’t care. 

You knuckles brushed his cheek - he stole a moment then, while all the Company were distracted or asleep, to kiss your fingers. Soft, tender, completely different to how he acted and reacted because then he was no longer a king or prince. He wasn’t journeying to fight and take back his home. 

He was just someone deeply, completely, and utterly in love.

Night fell, the Company took to the lake town’s streets - Dwarves hiding in shadows while you hid in plain sight - all in an effort to infiltrate the town’s armoury efficiently. 

But while anxiously waiting outside the building half your friends were in, a loud nice inside gave you away completely to guards that were passing by. You were caught, and the game was up. 

Among the commotion of Dwarves being dragged through the streets to the town square, quite a crowd gathered. You could quite easily imagine horrible deaths for each of you. Being hung, or left to freeze somewhere in the middle of the lake - neither would surprise you from the people you’d met thus far. 

The men at your sides held your arms in vice grips, one move from you in a direction they didn’t want you going in had a burning pain go up into your shoulders. This was not a situation you could wriggle out of - but at least they didn’t smell as bad as the Goblins. Or acted half as prejudiced as the Elves. 

Then the crowds parted, and the street opened - before you was the Town’s Master, beside him was that rat from the gatehouse. He dared open his mouth to insult your friends. 

Dwalin, the one Dwarf you could count on to have a hot temperament at the worst of times, stood forward to voice the disdain you wished you found the for words yourself. 

“You do well to hold your tongue -” he said, “- who you speak to is no common criminal. This is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror.” 

That seemed to do the trick - both the Master and a few in the crowd alike seemed to recognize those names. When you lived so close to Erebor it was no wonder why. 

“We are the Dwarves of Erebor.” Thorin said, commanding the attention of all those around. As the crowds began to murmur, he looked to the Master and the people. You found you couldn’t look away from him. 

“I remember this town in the great days of old. I saw fleets of boats lay at harbor, filled with silks and fine gems. This was not the forsaken town on a lake we see today - this was the center of all Northern trade." The crowds all stirred, soaking Thorin's words in like a wash sponge. "Those days will return. I would relight the great forges of the Dwarves, and see wealth and riches flowing once more - right here from the halls of Erebor!" 

"Death!” Bard shouted. You turned to watch him push through the crowd to Thorin, wondering what he could possibly be talking about. “You will bring upon us death, dragon-fire, and ruin. If you awaken that beast, it will destroy us all." 

You felt a breath come in through your nose - too hot to match the cold night air - and breathed out again. Your dreams said he was right - but they also said that you all made it to the mountain. You knew you had to leave this lake. 

You watched both Bard and Thorin, Thorin glanced over at you - your heed raised and lowered, giving him permission to do what he needed to. To say what he needed to. 

“Listen to this naysayer if you want. I promise you this - we will succeed and all will share in the mountains' wealth.” Thorin said loudly, staring hard at the man before him. “You will have enough gold to build this town ten times over.” 

“No, listen to me!” Bard said and turned to the people - his persistence was starting to get to you (not in an annoyed way, but it was bothering you how it was chipping away at your resolve). “Have you all forgotten Dale? Forgotten all those who died in the firestorm - and for what?” He turned back to Thorin. “The ambition of a mountain king who couldn’t see past his own greed and desire.”  

The crowds were divided - torn between the arguments of Thorin and Bard - and you yourself found they voiced the same back and forth that you were suddenly feeling. Your inner turmoil broke when the Rat started speaking, and a very sudden, and very unexpected anger bubbled inside you. 

“Lord Gidion fought well,” you said, stepping forward as if possessed, “He fought more, better than the hundreds of cowards who fled that day. His aim was true, and his battle well fought. He may not be here now but you would do well not to dishonor his grandson - the same dragon-slayer blood runs through this man's veins.” you pointed back at Bard, a frown deep set on your face, and then took more steps forward to address the Master. 

He was going to get a piece of your mind, not one aided by dreams and visions. You were going to speak to him, and him alone. 

“I know you treat your people like they are scum - but you would do well to listen to this king for the sake of not facing the wrath of your subjects. I know how well-deserved it would be if they turned their backs on you.” 

You watched the Master look at you. You saw how his face changed when it looked at yours - your expression, your eyes - you saw him see something in you more frightening that you thought you possessed. You never were one to intimidate - but you were running out of time. Thorin was running out of time. 

Then the Master looked at Thorin, finally the people and how they all seemed to still be in quiet agreement with you and what you said about defending Bard. You stepped down, and stepped aside - lingering but far enough away to let him know you had finished speaking.

“I speak to the Master of the Lake,” Thorin said, stepping up to where you were moments before, “Will you share in the great wealth of our people? Will you see the prophecy fulfilled? What do you say?” 

“I say,” the Master said, sparing a glance at you, before painting on a smile and spreading his arms wide, “Welcome, King Under the Mountain!” 

The crowd erupted into cheers - you smiled at Thorin as he moved away and back to the Company. You lingered, watching as relief washed over them all. It was nice to see something work out so well. The moment passed, and you went back to your friends - your Company. 

“You have no right to enter the mountain.” you heard Bard say as you approached. 

“I have the only right.” Thorin said. 

The uncomfortable feeling came back. Bard was so persistent. He said a firestorm and you saw it. In the back of your mind, as clear as day - the dragon burning both Dale and this town to nothing but ash. 

That night, after the feasting died down, and the drink wore off, you slept. You dreamt.

Fili and Kili - both in Bard’s home with Kili writhing like he was possessed. “Kingsfoil” someone said. A flash of red hair, and Fili slaying an Orc. 

Then Bard - he stood upon a half-destroyed tower with a black arrow his grandfather would have once used. He aimed and shot, and it was true. Bard’s aim was always true. 

There was Thorin too - but he didn’t seem like himself and it frightened you. 

Last was Bilbo. He sat somewhere you didn’t recognize, and from his jacket he produced a stone. It looked like a glowing opal, and rested smoothly in his hand. It frightened you too - though you had no reason to fear a gem. 

Suddenly you saw nothing of your friends. You were flying. 

Below you were people, tiny as grains of sand on a beach and yet you could see their faces as clear as day. Some were bigger, and uglier, some were lying motionless and as pale as death. Some were fighting, others were screaming in terror. What were they running from? 

A shadow loomed over them all, it was yours, and you relished in the horror you felt come over them as they realized what was above them. Smoke in your lungs and heat in your heart - but what were you?

What had you become? 

And you fell. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 XIII

Warnings: noncon/rape, violence, trauma, allusions to torture, mentions of suicide.

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You struggle with the past, present, and future.

Note: So now that the holiday rush is over and my province is in lockdown, I can write so yay? But also, stress anew hahaha. Anyways, I’m enjoying it so it’s not too bad. :D

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Your stomach curdled as you walked between the guards. For whatever foolish reason, you’d assumed Loki would accompany you. And even more foolish, you were disappointed when he did not. He was king and had much more pressing matters; his usual excuse. As true as it was, you were still irked by your task.

Your thick winter wool had been replaced by your former satin. The gown was not so sultry as before but it offered little protection against the chill of the palace corridors. You were allowed a cape woven in the king’s green, though the hood was to be kept up until you reached your destination. As before, you were the royal shame.

The further you descended, the more your nerves stormed. You remembered your first journey to the dungeons; the night felt long ago. Like many of your memories, it had faded since your time with the prince and his heartless accomplice. It was fragments but still sent a shiver through you. You could, at least, recall, the fear, the anger, the helplessness of your time in the capital.

Your slippers whispered over the stone floor as the gaoler showed you past the cell doors. The stink of unwashed bodies mingled with that of stale blood. There were coughs, some murmuring, and the occasional maddened shout from down the row. The cell you’d been left to was empty and open as you strode by and you refused to look within. It was at the next, that you were stopped and the thick key was shoved in the slot.

You touched your stomach, a thoughtless habit forming as each day saw you a little rounder. Your middle could still be hidden beneath loose fabric. Birger said not yet halfway through your time; maybe for months and with over a month of deprivation, you weren’t so big as you could be.

The door opened and the shriek of the hinges made you tremor. One prison to the next. You were no different than those locked behind these doors. You were kept and controlled. You had no voice, no will, no wants. You only did what was needed to survive.

One of the guards entered first as the gaoler stood with arms crossed beside the door. You heard a scramble within and you were ushered through by the other armored man. He grabbed a stool from against the far wall before he followed. You pushed your hood down and closed the cloak around your body as the frigid air nipped at your gown.

Gilla was dragged away from the wall where she huddled. She didn’t struggle as the guard brought her to sit at the center of the cell and the other planted the stool behind you. You sat and your hand dropped away from your stomach. Her hair was dirty and her face smeared with tears and grime. She was terrified and sniffled quietly as she blinked away the fog of her imprisonment. Your name on her brittle lips made your heart knot.

You recalled what Loki said and cleared your throat. This girl was not your friend.

“Gilla,” you said flatly.

“Have you come to save me?” She clutched her hands. “They found you! Oh, I’m so happy you’re safe--”

“And do you know who took me away?” You challenged. She shook her head in confusion. “So the man you sold yourself to never mentioned me. You never spoke in those times he came to you? Were you so easy to roll over to him?”

“The prince? Oh, if you send for him, surely he can get me out--” 

“Do you have no idea why you’re here?” You sneered, “Even if the prince could, do you think he would save a peasant?”

“The king… the king took you from the dungeons…” she batted her lashes.

“He did and what did he make of me but a prisoner elsewhere,” you looked away from her.

“I don’t… understand,” she lowered her chin. “I don’t know why they’ve brought me here.”

“Well, you best think on it and figure it out. The prince cannot help you for he is a criminal himself.” You looked down at her. How had that little girl you’d grown up with become this? How had you come to this point? “He plotted against the king, surely you must’ve known.”

“How could I?” She babbled as her tears began to fall. “He never spoke to me of such things. He only wanted… love.”

“Love?” You scoffed and stopped yourself from laughing at her naivety. “Do you truly believe these noble men could feel anything for us but the basest desires? That their favour is little more than fodder for their egos? That they delight in our degradation rather than our pleasure?”

“Thor was always kind--”

“Thor used you.” You insisted. A lump rose in your throat. “As he did me. He… as he gave you jewels you have no use for, he got his use off me. He would have worn me until I was dead.” You inhaled and quelled the flurry of emotion inside. “But you never truly cared for more than your own self, eh?”

“What? I… we’re friends.”

“Are we?” You bit down. “I remember my time down here.” You looked around. “I remember how I was even dumber than you. To have begged the king to spare me. You left me behind that night and I was locked up like some animal. Whipped like some braying donkey.” Your mouth was bitter as you spoke, “Bred like a mutt. And when you saw me, still alive, what could think of but the silks and the gold and the crown?”

“I didn’t--”

“You must’ve been so worried for me to have fallen into the prince’s arm’s so easily,” You snorted.

“We all thought you’d run.” She squeaked.

“Oh? Yes then, I suppose it was easy to forget about me.”

“I never did. I…”

“This is the last favour you will have from me, Gilla.” You declared. “And I pray you are smart enough to accept it.”

She blinked, confused, and quivered as she stared back at you.

“Do not lean on your ignorance. The prince is a traitor and you laid with him. Who would believe that in all your time together, he never mentioned his intent against his brother?”

“He didn’t--”

“Listen to me.” You hissed. “The prince will be brought to trial for his crimes, but a whore like you can be cast away and forgotten by all. If you did abet him in his offenses, you will be dealt a cold steely justice. You will not be afforded the same hearing or the same grace as his highness. You are just another commoner fed to the jaws of the rich and their squabbles.”

“But I don’t know anything.”

“Think. Hard.” You stood as you snarled, “And perhaps by the time the inquisitors come to you, you will recall.”

“But--But I--”

“If it had been you that night, I wouldn’t have left you behind. Even if it was your stupidity which led us to trespass. I would have stuck by you.” Your chest tightened as you spoke, “I wouldn’t have abandoned you but I realise now, Gilla, that you never did care for anybody but you.”

“I love you, I do.” She pleaded.

“No,” you uttered, “I don’t think you do, but I did love you, my friend.”

“Please…” She sobbed.

“I will not see you again, I expect,” you said as the guard retrieved the stool, “So let us part without hatred. Take this last generosity from me and save yourself. Perhaps you might live to learn from it.”

“I didn’t know he… I’m sorry.”

“I don’t believe you,” you backed away. “You’re not sorry for me, only sorry for yourself.” You turned and bent your head. “Goodbye, Gilla.”

You strode through the door and the guards followed, signaling the gaoler to lock up behind them. You raised your hand and bit into your knuckle as you were overcome with despair. Your old life was over. The last remnant of your former existence was extinguished. 

It was your final surrender. You belonged to the king completely. Your body, your mind, your child; every part of you was his.

🐍 

You returned to the chambers exhausted. Those days, you were always tired. You hung your cloak and stood by the fire to warm your numb fingertips. You undressed quietly and retired to the bedchamber. You sat in your shift before the hearth and watched the embers beneath the tent of logs.

You thought of the baker’s daughter and that first day you’d met her. She had been sweet, once. When had she grown so… greedy? How could one raised in simplicity come to want what she had never known? You closed your eyes and refused to cry. She would not break you; if nothing else had, she could not.

You floated in a haze as the orange glow of the fire shone against your eyelids. There was much yet to worry for. Would the king’s men arrest the prince before he could evade them? Would the kingdom overcome the rent caused by the royal siblings? Would your child survive the months before you?

Hours passed and you did not move. You stayed as you were, held by the moment. A taste of solace you hadn’t known in ages. No anxiety of your tormentors’ return, no fear of what was to happen in the next instant. It was just you and the hearth; you and your child in what could be the only peace you had together.

When at last you were disturbed by the gentle open and close of the door in the next chamber, you still remained. You listened to the king as he moved around and sensed his shadow as he appeared in the door frame behind you. He was quiet as he neared.

He said nothing, as if he believed you were asleep. You knew he didn’t but he let you think so. You listened to the rustle of his clothing as he shed each layer. As stubborn as he was, as much as he insisted nothing had changed, something had. You were both afraid of it but would not admit it.

You felt a tug at the bottom of the blanket spread over your legs. You tried to ignore it, thinking perhaps he had passed too closely. A rush of air flew up below the wool Loki’s fingertips tickled your ankle. You opened your eyes and looked down at him as he reached below your shift.

“Your majesty,” you yawned and shifted but he caught your knees and kept them apart. “What--”

He hushed you with a soft his and dipped his head below the blanket. You braced the arms of the chair as your body went rigid. He wore only his undershorts as he bent and plied kisses to your thighs in a torturous trail towards your pelvis. You grasped his head as he rolled your shift higher and higher and his breath grazed your cunt.

“My king,” you begged. You were trembling. You knew you could not stop him.

He ignored you still and kneaded your thighs as he pushed closer. His hands slid up your sides as he nuzzled the patch of hair between your legs and you gasped. You weren’t ready. You never truly were. His tongue surprised you as it flicked along your folds and he purred. He cupped your tender breasts as he delved into you, your core alight at his command.

He dragged his tongue along your bud and lingered on it, teasing it with small swirls and hungry suckles. Your arms flew back to grip the back of the chair and he rubbed his thumbs over your nipples as they stood out beneath your shift. He groaned as he lapped you up. His gentleness was disarming though he remained as adamant as ever.

“Please,” you begged as your body responded against your want. “Please…”

He purred and kept on, his head moving against your bunched up skirt and bobbing beneath the blanket. You arched in your seat, unable to resist the bloom deep inside. You felt the release and suddenly you needed it. All your stress, all your fear, anger, and hurt, bundled up and brewed inside you as ecstasy muted them.

You cried out as every muscle in your body tensed and eased in a split second. You moved your pelvis against Loki’s mouth as you rode out your climax and he didn’t relent until you were limp and breathless. He sat back on his heels and let the blanket drop to your feet. His hair was tangled and askew, his lips glistening as he grinned at you.

He rested his hands on your thighs and came closer so that he leaned against the front of the chair.

“My brother has been arrested,” he said. 

Your lashes fluttered and you nodded, speechless. He bent and the tip of his long nose met your stomach. He slid his arms to hug you as he turned and pressed his ear to your middle. You froze as you watched him, as if he was listening for the stirring of his child. You were startled by his tameness. He kissed your stomach as he drew back to look at you again.

“I need you.” He murmured, “I ache. Badly.”

You felt the stone set in your skull. Ever as you were, his plaything. You knew his meaning; it never differed. And he never asked, only demanded, 

He took your hand and stood. He pulled you up and you let him. You hadn’t the strength to deny him. There was no denying him. You didn’t want that Loki; cold and callous. So you would cede to his needs and hope they were met quickly.

He let you go as you neared the bed. He rolled down his shorts and his desire stood up before him. He lowered himself across the mattress and beckoned to you. You lowered your eyes and chewed your lip to keep from showing the turmoil raging inside you. You lifted your shift over your head and dropped it. 

He guided you over him and stroked his cock as he did. He pressed his tip along your folds, his hand on your hip as he urged you down. You sank to his hilt and he sighed. He stilled you and looked at the joining of your bodies. The silence enshrined you and you closed your eyes. He took your hands and placed them on his chest.

He gripped your waist and moved you atop him. Slowly so that your clit rubbed against him. You hated how good it felt, hated that you couldn’t stop, hated that he was being so… nice. You dug your nails into his flesh and sped up. He held you tighter and forced you to slow. You grunted and opened your eyes, frowning down at him.

“No,” he spoke at last, “Not like that.”

You shook your head. When had he ever wanted anything but hard, fast pleasure. You pulled your hands from him and he forced them back as they were. You struggled with him for only a moment as he squeezed your wrists in warning.

“Slow,” he bid as he stared into your eyes. 

His hands returned to your sides and he rocked you again. You shuttered as the tide began to roll inside of you, swelling as it grew. You moaned as you began to quake. Loki’s deliberate stride had you confused. His pace matched your pleasure, quickening only as your voice rose louder.

You came again. You twitched atop him and he moved you as your wits left you entirely. His own voice filled your ears and his thick breaths intermingled with his lurid groans. His hand snaked around to your back and the other spread over your stomach. He stilled you and tilted his hips into you over and over from below.

He exclaimed as his orgasm struck him and impaled you entirely. He slowed and eased you down against him. He embraced you as he laid you over his chest and cradled your head as his chin rested against your head. 

What was that? You wondered as your heart raced with his. His petered out but you couldn’t help as your mind struggled against your body.

When you calmed enough to move. His arms fell away and you parted from him, his seed spilling down your thighs. You fell back on the mattress, your flesh still buzzing. You couldn’t look at him. Why would he do that? Like that?

You were his whore, he’d told you time and again. You rolled onto your side, your back to him and crossed your arms. He ran his fingers along your spine.

“Are you unwell?” He asked.

You didn’t answer. Why would he even ask that? Your eyes tingled and you fought to hold back your tears. He was just torturing you. That’s all this was.

“Speak to me, mouse,” he grabbed your shoulder and forced you flat on your back.

You gritted your teeth and stared at the ceiling. “Why?”

“I was gentle…” He said, his voice tinged with confusion.

“Yes, why?” You repeated.

“I…” He paused and the silence was thick as it choked you.

“When your wife arrives, what will she think of me, your whore, and the bastard inside of me?” You spat. 

He sat up and leaned on his arm as he watched you. You refused to look at him.

“I’ll deal with my wife.” He said, “And I’ll deal with you. Don’t forget yourself, mouse.”

You scoffed and tried to turn away from him again. He held you down and let out a long breath. His hand came up to frame your face. “I am heartened, mouse, that you do remain so stubborn.”

🐍

Sleep did not come easy that night. Not to you. Loki was hardly bothered as he snored beside you. His arm was across you as if to remind you of his power over you. Your thoughts strayed back to all your worries. Gilla, Thor, the man beside you, the child in your stomach.

Your life was not your own. It had never been. As you thought, you realised you had only ever been used by others. You had only ever been a footnote to someone else’s will. You had nothing, not even your own body, your own mind.

You slowly slipped from beneath Loki’s arm. Your thighs were sticky still with his cum and you were sickened by the sensation. You stood and went to the bath chamber and cleaned yourself with the cold water of the basin. You saw yourself in the looking glass. You looked hollow; you felt it.

You went back to the bedroom and covered yourself with the silken robe allotted you. You bent, awkwardly, to feed a log to the ashes and stirred it until you found ember. As the flame began to lick at the pale bark, you stood with a groan and passed into the front chamber.

You wandered around the space; it was smaller than the king’s former residence. You neared the table placed against the wall and stared at the peculiar object left atop it. Careless, you thought as you pulled the leather-sheathed dagger towards you. Or deliberate?

Loki had a wife coming and brother to be tried. You were trouble for both. He was ever a trickster, ever deceptive, and perhaps, you had been dumb enough to believe him. Again. He didn’t want you back, didn’t want a bastard to muddy his inheritance; he’d only wanted a reason to be rid of Thor. Surely, he was so intent on keeping you hidden so that none would notice if you were gone.

Had you been foolish enough to think he felt anything towards you but the need to sate his own lust? That he had any loyalty to you beyond a warm cunt? That you had any place here once he married? That your child would be welcomed as anything but a nuisance?

You sat and freed the dagger from its cover. You held the blade up in the dim and felt its sharp edge with your fingertip. It sliced easily into your flesh. You turned it in your hand and thought of bringing it to your throat or plunging it deep in your chest. Your eyes welled and at last, the dam was broken.

You cried into your palm as your other hand gripped the dagger. You trembled and peered down at your stomach. Would he care? If he found you in a river of your own blood? It would be a favour to all. 

You wept until your eyes were swollen and your throat was hoarse. You were a coward. Why couldn’t you just do it? What did you have to live for?

“Mouse,” Loki’s voice was cautious. “What are you… give me the knife, mouse.”

You dropped the blade and flinched as it bounced between your feet. You shook your head and mopped up the last of your tears from your cheeks. Loki neared slowly and bent to lift the dagger. He took the sheath and replaced it on the silver. His jaw squared as you avoided his gaze.

“What were you thinking to do with this?” He growled.

“Nothing,” you croaked. “I was only curious.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He hissed. “Whatever you were thinking, I don’t want it to ever cross your mind again. Understood?”

You nodded and hung your head. He moved away from you and opened the chest atop the side table. He tossed the dagger within and locked it.

“I told you. It is treason to spill king’s blood.” He stomped back to you. “Death cannot save you from my wrath.”

“I didn’t--”

“You thought to.” He snarled. “Get up.”

“Your majesty--”

“I will not tell you twice.” He barked.

You stood and he seized your arm. He turned you and marched you back into the bedchamber. He sat you down on the edge of the bed and you expected him to tear open the robe. You expected the same as he had been. You were certain he would be atop you in an instant.

But he passed you and went to the cloak hung beside your own. He fished around the pocket sewn into the lining and took out a bundle. He returned to you and held out the folded linen, bound with a length of hide lace. You frowned and he dropped it into your lap.

“Go on,” he loomed over you.

Your hands shook and you pulled free the bow looped atop the bundle. You unfolded the linen and revealed a pair of green booties, winding snakes sewn into the soles and golden ribbons woven along the top. They were small, meant for an infant. You cradled them in your hands as your throat tightened.

“My mother sewed them,” he said. “I found them after she died. I had almost forgotten them before I moved from my own chambers.” He sat beside you heavily. “I don’t know what else to do with them.”

You peeked over at him. You lowered them back to the linen and set them aside. “They’re meant for a prince.” You muttered.

“No, only for my child,” he said, “Prince or no.” His cheek twitched and he stared at the carpet, “Don’t make me hide them again. I couldn’t bear it.”

You were quiet. You’d never seen him so vulnerable. Angry, annoyed, longing… but never so solemn. Despite all your loathing for him, your heart squeezed. You took his hand, he winced, but let you move it. You put it to your stomach.

“It is my child, too,” you said softly. “I couldn’t…”

He nodded and pressed his palm firmly to your midriff. You sat, silently, the crackle of the fire the only noise. Loki did not move, nor did you. A wordless pact forged between you. The child would live. It had to.

[kyber-queen]

Cold Feet (Din Djarin x F!reader)

Summary: Reader is a badass medic/bounty hunter who happens to be hopelessly in love with her stoic, metal-clad shipmate. Lil bit of jealous Din, some good old bed sharing, and a little bit of fluff :)

Rating: Everyone

Word Count: 2k ope

Warnings: mentions of food and drink, brief mentions of surgery, mentions of alcohol

Author’s Note: Hi guys!! This is my first fic so I’d really appreciate it if you gave it a read and some feedback. I might be writing a part two to this but we’ll see. Enjoy!!

*************************************************************************

You had only been on this ice planet for two rotations, but the chill had already crept its way into your insides. Your bones ached and your joints creaked, and you wondered how the little green child you had been tasked with managing seemed entirely unaffected by the unforgiving cold. You and the kid had holed up quite nicely for the past two days, bundling yourselves in blankets and tucking the child away into its pod, which had been outfitted with a temperature regulation system. Lucky bastard. While it slept peacefully inside its cradle, you had used up nearly all of the water reserve on the Crest. You’d been taking hour-long trips to the refresher, the scalding water providing little relief from the dull, cold ache that gnawed at your shivering limbs. Mando previously explained that successfully catching this bounty would take four rotations, give or take, and you had been too exhausted to ask questions or remember to replenish your food and water reserve. Now, your supplies were running low and you were dreading the mile-long walk into town to restock.

You strapped traction spikes onto your sturdiest boots and wrapped yourself in your warmest layers, stealing one of Mando’s old cloaks for good measure. Once you checked to make sure the child was asleep and comfortable in its pod, you set off across the frozen landscape. Ice rose like a parted sea to your left and right, and in the distance, you saw the gentle flicker of a lantern in the window of a dome-shaped structure. You picked up the pace as you walked; dusk was upon you and although you knew you could take care of yourself, you feared what could be hiding inside the many caves that marked the surrounding ice-walls.

You were an herbalist by trade, first catching Mando’s eye with your skill in preparing poisons. You had taken out two trandoshans with two quick, well-aimed throws of a dart tipped with your poison of choice—it was fast acting and non-lethal, and Mando in his curiosity and awe was just distracted enough for the third trandoshan to slip a dagger through the gap in his beskar. You finished off the third trandoshan easily enough, and Mando quickly became acquainted with your second skill set. You dragged him back to his ship, prepared a hemostatic tincture, stripped him of his beskar chest plate, and stitched up a two-inch laceration to his spleen. You insisted on staying with him until you could confirm that his wound had healed, but it had been three months and the two of you had reached a sort of mutual understanding. You cared for the child and assisted on bounties, and he gave you free room and board and an overly generous 30% of the bounty profit. Somewhere between bandaging his wounds, assisting him on bounties, and caring for his child, you had noticed a certain tightness in your chest whenever your hand brushed his. You would find yourself seeking out his company more and more, relishing in quiet conversation as he piloted you through the stars. You were falling. Hard. And you knew even on the off chance that he returned a fraction of the feelings you were developing for him, it could never happen. You’d never see his face or know his name. It was stupid, really. You were business partners, together purely out of convenience. You needed to get this silly crush out of your system before you managed to screw up the tentative friendship the two of you had grown.

Once you haggled for rations and water, you made up your mind that you would go to the nearest cantina and spend the rest of your credits on forgetting your troubles for a while. Although your plodding pace didn’t seem to carry you any further towards the lantern in the window, you were now only a few yards away from the village outpost. You quickened your stride, rushing into the hemispherical stone building and relishing in the warmth that overwhelmed you as the door slammed shut against the cold. You had been so lost in your thoughts you had nearly forgotten to shiver. You leaned casually over the counter to begin your haggling, the man behind it matching your sorry attempt at negotiating lower prices stride for stride. He was handsome, with an easy smile and a voice that rumbled deep from within his chest.

“I’ll do thirty portions, at three quarters of a credit each, but that’s the highest I can go,” you stated confidently. You fiddled with the ring on your right hand, hoping he couldn’t tell just how little experience you had at this.

The man, Linor, grinned. “I think we can arrange that—but only if you join me for a drink after this. I’ll throw in the water rations on the house.”

A drink couldn’t hurt, right? You were planning on headed to the bar anyways.

“It’s a deal, then,” you smiled, reaching out to shake his hand.

“It’s a deal,”.

**********************

You were four drinks in, and you were finally feeling warm. Your laughs bubbled in your throat, and the raucous atmosphere of the cantina dulled the cold ache that had settled in your bones. The room had taken on a soft, undulating glow, and your cheeks were flushed and gleaming. Linor was an excellent conversationalist, but the pair of you had been at the cantina for three hours, and you could tell he was itching to take you back to his ship. His hand had migrated from the top of your knee to your upper thigh, and when you laughed his eyes lingered on your parted lips for just a moment too long. You crossed your legs, effectively removing his hand from your thigh, and cleared your throat.

“What time is it? I promised my friend I’d be home by midnight,” a white lie, of course, but Linor didn’t need to know that.

“It’s quarter to eleven—comm them, let ‘em know you’ll be late. You’re coming to my place, right?” You didn’t like the sound of Linor’s tone, it was too confident, too demanding. His hand was back on your upper thigh as well, this time a rough squeeze jarring you fully back to reality. The more aware you became of your situation, the more you mentally kicked yourself for letting yourself end up in the cantina in the first place. You had left the baby in its pod, for maker’s sake. What if someone raided the ship, or the pod shut off, or the child got sick, or—

“Actually, she was just leaving,” a rough voice explained from behind you. A familiar voice. Mando.

You turned quickly to face him, and nearly wobbled off your stool. Maybe you had more to drink than you thought. You gave him a lazy once-over, letting your gaze linger on his armored form, and aptly assessed that he didn’t have the bounty with him.

“Didja get the bounty?”

“He’s in the carbonite freezer on the ship, the baby’s asleep. Let’s go,” He sounded pissed.

You stood from your stool, and promptly tripped face-first into his beskar chest-plate. You definitely had more to drink than you thought. You issued an insincere apology to Linor, who was making some very intense eye contact with the wood grain of the bar. As much as you hated to say it, you loved the effect Mando had on people. Tall, confident Linor wouldn’t even look him in the eye. Mando could be downright scary, and the best part was that he didn’t even seem to realize it. You enjoyed your little train of thought for a moment, until you circled back to the fact that his scary-bounty-hunter-tone was directed at you. His visor had not left your face the entire time you were lost in thought. You wobbled again, against your will.

“You’re drunk,”. His head tilted, the black t of his helmet fixating on your flushed face. He sighed, muttered something about talking about this in the morning, and scooped one arm under your knees and another at the small of your back. He carried you back out into the cold and you shuddered involuntarily as he dumped you onto the cold metal of the speeder. He shuffled in behind you on the speeder, his armored thighs bracketing yours. You lost your balance yet again, and as you steadied yourself against Mando’s chest you were suddenly very grateful that he had seated you in front of him rather than behind. He fired up the engine, and the two of you flew across the frozen landscape back to the ship.

If you thought you were cold before, now you were freezing. The wind bit at your exposed face, and despite bundling yourself in Mando’s old cloak, the icy air slipped in between the grain of the fabric and sapped the residual warmth from your limbs. You shifted further back into Mando’s chest, fixating on the rumble of the engine as you approached the Crest. The speeder skidded to a stop, and Mando slid off and fiddled with his vambrace for a moment before giving you a quiet, “C’mere,” and carrying you through the cold into the Crest. He carried you right past your little blanket pile and set you down in a corner of the ship. He punched a few more buttons on his vambrace, and a door opened behind you, revealing a small room with a bed and—was that a heated blanket?

“It’s warmer in here, I’ll take the cot,” Mando explained.

“Hey, no. Wait, is this your room? I’m not gonna steal your bed,” you crossed your arms defiantly, leaning back on the wall for support.

“I’m asking you to,” his voice betrayed a hint of exasperation, and you remembered the long, exhausting day he most definitely had. “Look, you’re shivering. If you freeze to death in that cot the kid’ll never forgive me,”.

You sensed you were fighting a losing battle.

“But if you freeze to death in that cot, the kid’ll never forgive me,” you mentally patted yourself on the back for that excellent stroke of logic.

“I’ll be fine, just go—”

“Why don’t we just share? Body heat, right?” Did you really just say that? You were sober enough to know that you definitely should have kept your mouth shut. You probably just made him uncomfortable, what if it was against his creed? You were mentally kicking yourself for the second time tonight.

Mando paused a moment before responding.

“Alright—the helmet stays on, though,” He was already stripping himself of his beskar, but his mechanical movements betrayed his exhaustion.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” You made your way over to the bed, shucking off your shoes and quickly slipping under the covers. The thin mattress was softer than the cot, but barely. Was being comfortable against the Way?

You were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that tipsy you would be sharing a bed with the man you’d been crushing on for months. With your luck, you’d probably drool on him in your sleep. Mando hit the lights, and moments later you felt a depression on the other side of the mattress, and Mando’s warm, solid body against your back. You scooted further back against him, and as if on instinct, he draped his arm around your waist. You were finally comfortable—you felt warmer than you had at the cantina. You were quickly drifting off to sleep, and by the sound of Mando’s modulated breathing, he was out like a light. A slight snore from under the helmet confirmed your suspicions. The man was like a generator. He practically radiated heat, and you suddenly felt less guilty that you hadn’t taken the cot like you had originally insisted on. You bent your knees, slipping your cold toes in between his calves.

CLANG

His helmet hit the durasteel wall, and you felt his entire body jolt.

“Why the fuck are your feet so cold?”

[antihero-writings]

Such Fragile Things

Beautiful cover art by niuan_ on Instagram!! I’ll put a link to her insta in the replies!! 

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix (the first chapter works for SOTN too)

Summary: Dracula thought love was gentle, soft, and breakable...but what he  feels when holding his newborn son (ch1), and in his final moments (ch2), is anything but. 

Chapter 1: His Son’s Life

Dracula did not read romance novels. He wasn’t really one for novels in general, especially written by humans. Science. Philosophy. Medicine. Not flights of fantasy.

But the humans have a word for this…and it isn’t quite scientific.

That word is ‘love.’

…But that can’t possibly cover it.

But ‘love’ was always a silly little notion. Love was flowers and candy. Love was sappy letters and maudlin advances. ‘Love’ was sensitive and easy to break. ‘Love’ was soft.

But this… this is anything but soft.

This is a thing that does the breaking. It is painful, and sharp in the way it pierces him so thoroughly. It is tethered so tightly around his heart, that if he tried to sever its bonds his heart would burn, and quite possibly break.

This is daggers and I’d die for you. This is a stake stabbed through the chest.

And that is not what he knows of love.

The the baby boy murmurs quiet nonsense beside his sleeping mother.

Vlad stands over the cradle—(a cradle his parents made out of metal, and cotton, and dedication)—the fabric soft against his fingers.

His mother. A human. Completely, and thoroughly. No turning necessary. He could have turned her…but that would have sullied the pink of her cheeks, the red of her lips, the blue of her eyes.

So many humans are out for blood without thirst involved. He needn’t corrupt one that didn’t experience such desires.

Just an ordinary human, who was either brave or very stupid… or maybe a bit of both to walk straight into the demon’s castle. Maybe she was just curious. …He hoped it wouldn’t kill her one day, like the cat who meant well.

His mother. Lisa. With golden hair, and certain shimmer to her words too.

His father. Dracula. A vampire. The vampire. The king of night and all its hordes. A scary story, full of blood and death and the moon was full that night.

—(Could he even be a father after all that killing? Was there a father behind all that bloodshed? Dare he even try to keep something alive, when these hands were constructed to kill?)—

And Adrian. Just born, already with one foot in each world. Half human. Half vampire. The stars dripped from the ceiling, and the sun spilled in through the window.

Would they hurt him for it?

Would this fact grant him safe passage into both worlds, or make him hated by both? Had he cursed this being to a life of not belonging? Or had he given him an opportunity no one else had; to belong to both?

Would being Dracula’s son make him a villain? Or would it make him a prince? Would the humans fear and hate him? Would the vampires bow to him?

Would being Lisa’s son make him a hero? Would the humans accept him as one of them? Would the vampires exile him as a half-breed, impure, no matter if his father had a castle, and a crown, and fangs all too ready to sink into their necks?

Barely noticeable now, he has golden hair like his mother, and fangs like his father.

…He wonders how this creature, so full of light, could come from the king of night.

Then Adrian starts crying.

The king of night is uh…not equipped for this. He’s never comforted a crying child before. He’s made more than a few cry in his time, but he’s never been on the other end…it seems the much more difficult side of things.

He has half—(okay, more than half)—a mind to wake Lisa for help. …But Lisa has done enough for today. Surely he can handle one crying baby.

Vlad is careful not to let his nails pierce the child’s skin as he scoops him up, cradling him in his arms.

Adrian is so small. It doesn’t feel like he’s made of thumping, pumping blood and bone. He feels as if he’s made of glass, and Dracula fears he’ll shatter in his hands.

Dracula has killed so many things in his life. He has killed humans, and animals and, yes, another vampire or two. But he doesn’t want to kill this one. He is so desperate to keep him alive he thinks he might die himself before he saw anything touch him.

Lisa stirs, and Vlad moves the child further away so as not to wake her. He sits in the chair in the corner of the room, by the basket full of toys he will soon play with, and the alphabet charts he will soon learn with.

Dracula did not read romance novels. But he had once heard a lullaby, and he wonders if he can remember the lyrics.

At the gentle song, slowly Adrian calms down in his father’s arms, and looks up at him with those golden eyes.

And Dracula wonders if the world was always this big.

Vampire’s eyes are usually so cold and dark. But he is only half dark, and his eyes are full of sunlight.

He looks up at his father, this dark thing, the killer, the monster king. The creature they said could never learn to love.

And Adrian smiles.

When Dracula returns that smile, it is not an evil sneer tugging at his lips. It is like his face breaks, pouring out all the joy inside him. He leans forward and rests his forehead gently upon Adrian’s.

“My boy.”

***

Chapter 2: His Father’s Death 

Dracula throws the golden man into wall, hard enough to break it, revealing the room on the other side.

Nails against the wood, against stone, footsteps merciless as a death toll, blood in the burning halls; Dracula is the monster from the stories after all.

He stalks into the room, his cloak furling behind him, seeking his prey. The kind of snarl only things not-quite-human-anymore make emanates from his throat.

The moment he crosses the threshold, that snarl morphs into a gasp, and, as if it were some magic barrier…everything looks different.

His cloak falls softly, quietly like a hand on his shoulder.

This dhampir, this man, up until now has been Alucard. The reverse of him. The thing meant to destroy him and stop his war. A hunter of vampires that is himself a vampire—(or half of one at least). No, not a vampire hunter. Just Dracula’s hunter. All he has been is another thing in Dracula’s way.

But this thing sitting against the bed, failing to catch his breath, golden hair falling about his face…looks different.

A little boy is gasping, leaning on his wooden sword just to stay up.

“Father, do you think we can stop? I need a break.”

Vlad laughs, and the sound is warm. His hands fall to his sides and his smiles, stepping up to his son.

“Of course, Adrian.” He puts his hand on his shoulder/ruffles his hair. “You’ve done well today.

He is…so small.

This bed. A bookshelf. A wardrobe. A desk, with charts and maps. A basket of toys in the corner. All too small. Too dusty.

The window is letting too much light in.

On the wall, a painting of a family. Too happy.

…a boy, hurting, beneath the bed.

Not a hunter, or an annoyance, or an enemy. Not a mindless, heartless, thing. Not an other. Not a him or an it to be disposed of, but a living, breathing, thinking, hurting you.

A very specific you. A you with a name. A you with whom Dracula had shared so much of his life. A you who perhaps knew Vlad more than anymore else. Not a him or an it to be destroyed, a you that he needed so desperately to keep alive.

Not Alucard; the thing meant to destroy him.

Adrian.

“It’s your room.”

His fingers, a moment ago poised to claw at this man, curl gently into a fist, hiding his nails.

The rest of the castle was drenched in bloodshed. The rest of the castle was full of war. The rest of the castle had turned itself towards it’s master’s deeds, destroying itself in a pointless fight, just like him.

But not this room. He had protected this room from all the blood. He dare not bring it with him.

The heavens turn from hazardous red to delicate blue.

Both of them stare up into the stars. Not the real ones—though they are here to guide them too. The ones on the ceiling. The ones they played under, read under, the ones this golden man once dreamed under, the ones he used to learn their names and places in the sky when he was but a child. The rich blue like a spell, putting the warriors into a trance in the middle the battlefield.

—(But this isn’t the battlefield, and that’s why the war must stop here)—

The blood is clearing from Vlad’s view. It has been a long time since he’s seen the world without the blood.

The room has been empty for a while, but the boy it belongs to is here now.

And, in his proper place, all at once this golden man is that fragile thing again. That thing that could break if Vlad held him wrong. That thing Vlad, more than anything, wanted to keep alive, to protect, and who he would die for before he ever saw him get hurt.

Barely perceptible, Vlad is shaking.

His hands are no longer claws against the walls. He sees them for what ugly, monstrous things they are. Ugly, monstrous, because of what they’ve been doing. He crosses them over his chest, as if to cage them; as if trying to keep them from hurting anything, ever, anymore. As if to feel his own heartbeat, and remind himself there is still something living there.

This is the boy who he played cards, and chess, and swords with. This is the boy who asked about the myths in the stars, and the ones in our hearts. This is the boy who he bounced on his knee, and read to, and comforted when he cried, and on very special occasions sang to sleep.

“My boy.”

Adrian is trying to stand, and for a moment his father sees a tiny thing on wobbly legs reaching for his open arms.

“I-I’m killing my boy.”

Dracula steps to the painting—(though he can barely feel his feet)—where an echo of his wife sits on canvas, holding that infant golden thing.

He remembers her now. He wasn’t sure he did before.

“Lisa…I’m killing our boy.” His voice is soft and cracked and breakable itself. “We painted this room. We…made these toys…”

He was never one for sentiment, never grew attached to objects…but as he looks around at this room, and the things in it, those moments are flickering through his mind now—(is this what they mean when they say one’s life flashes before your eyes? Had he really forgotten so much? Had he really forgotten what life was?)—and the blood seems so obscene now.

Not in front of Adrian.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

With an exhale Alucard gets up, and it sounds like the world being crushed into a fine powder. The motion is not gentle…it comes with a cracking and all-too clear purpose, and now his steps are as calculated and foreboding as Dracula’s were moments ago.

Vlad’s hands are now too dangerous to let sit at his sides, so he uses them to cover his eyes…to hide his pain from the world, to hide the world from his pain. A feeble defense against the pointed intention in his son’s own dangerous hands. Playing peekaboo one last time.

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He hears Adrian’s breath very close to him, but it is not that of a beast ready to pounce, it is heavy, like the world is sitting on his chest.

He takes his claws from his eyes to look into his son’s face.

Vlad laughs, and the sound is cold.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.”

“What?”

“You didn’t kill me before. You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.”

“Do I?!”

“You died when my mother died. You know you did. This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

And if he could hurt this boy—Adrian—who he loved more than anything, then:

“I must already be dead.”

Adrian’s eyes are not full of malice. He is not like anyone else that would try to kill the vampire king. Anyone else’s eyes would not be soft; they would be solid and still, pointed and gleaming with with hunger and hate. Anyone else wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t be gentle.

Even now, Adrian’s eyes are still full of sunlight; trembling, rippling, ripping sunlight.

It is not fear, nor anger that makes his eyes shudder. It is heartbreak. Imminent heartbreak.

Because he wishes he could save him. Because he knows he cannot.

His heart has been aching for a very long time, slowly coming apart, and it is about to shatter. This golden man is about to split his own chest for the sake of saving the world.

Once upon a time all the stories they told him ended happily, and families stayed together, and no one ever died. His heart must fracture, for he knows their own cannot.

How could Dracula ever try to take that sunlight from the world, when Lisa had brought it down to him from her place in the sky? He’d traveled the world in search of the sun...but his sunlight was right here…and if he couldn’t see that then…

He closes his eyes. He opens them. A silent ask. A silent answer. They both know.

Alucard steps closer. And it is not to hold him tight—(no matter how much he they both wish he could just wrap his arms around him and cry, like long ago, and understand that after the rain everything would be better).

Now Dracula is the fragile thing. And they both know what he must do.

He is trying to be gentle. For love is the only thing that can be harsh in the kindest word, and gentle in the cruelest stroke.

That horrible cracking, crackling, squelching sound. Red drips from his chest along the golden man’s sleeve.

It isn’t death, really. It is mercy. Mercy on humanity. Mercy on Vlad himself. Death had already administered its kiss when Lisa died. And in his undead state Dracula had tried to spread that death to everything and everywhere else, in the world’s most exorbitant suicide note.

“Son.” The word is soft, rasping; the wind in a hollow house.

“Father.” The word is a broken plea; the sun on the abandoned floorboards and dolls, wishing it could illuminate the family that once lived there instead—

And this hurts, yes, but even so, it is the love behind it that is more piercing than any stake.

Love has never been breakable. Love is what does the breaking.

There is something defiant in Alucard’s eyes as he drives it in farther.

His heartbeat fills the room.

And, after much bending, the stake bores through, and the mirror breaks.

—(And for a moment Adrian could have sworn the sound came from his chest)—

Dracula does not burst into flame. Death, for him, is not an explosive show. It is soft whispers: he turns slowly to ashes, without any burn.

Vlad wants to wrap his arms around this small, precious, golden thing one last time. To say goodbye.

Adrian never looked at his father like a monster before, never backed away from his touch, but Dracula could swear the fear in his eyes now—(a little boy hiding from the thunder)—is the only reason the breath is leaving his chest.

Adrian is so, so tiny. (And after everything, he cannot bring himself to deliver the last stroke.)

Dracula’s last thought, the sonnet of a dying monster, is not a curse, or a threat, but something very gentle indeed.

Lisa, Adrian…I’m so sorry.

The only thing left of him is a wedding ring.

[symphonyofthewrite]

Such Fragile Things

Beautiful cover art by niuan_ on Instagram!! I’ll put a link to her insta in a reblog!! 

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix (the first chapter works for SOTN too)

Summary: Dracula thought love was gentle, soft, and breakable...but what he  feels when holding his newborn son (ch1), and in his final moments (ch2), is anything but. 

Chapter 1: His Son’s Life

Dracula did not read romance novels. He wasn’t really one for novels in general, especially written by humans. Science. Philosophy. Medicine. Not flights of fantasy.

But the humans have a word for this…and it isn’t quite scientific.

That word is ‘love.’

…But that can’t possibly cover it.

But ‘love’ was always a silly little notion. Love was flowers and candy. Love was sappy letters and maudlin advances. ‘Love’ was sensitive and easy to break. ‘Love’ was soft.

But this… this is anything but soft.

This is a thing that does the breaking. It is painful, and sharp in the way it pierces him so thoroughly. It is tethered so tightly around his heart, that if he tried to sever its bonds his heart would burn, and quite possibly break.

This is daggers and I’d die for you. This is a stake stabbed through the chest.

And that is not what he knows of love.

The the baby boy murmurs quiet nonsense beside his sleeping mother.

Vlad stands over the cradle—(a cradle his parents made out of metal, and cotton, and dedication)—the fabric soft against his fingers.

His mother. A human. Completely, and thoroughly. No turning necessary. He could have turned her…but that would have sullied the pink of her cheeks, the red of her lips, the blue of her eyes.

So many humans are out for blood without thirst involved. He needn’t corrupt one that didn’t experience such desires.

Just an ordinary human, who was either brave or very stupid… or maybe a bit of both to walk straight into the demon’s castle. Maybe she was just curious. …He hoped it wouldn’t kill her one day, like the cat who meant well.

His mother. Lisa. With golden hair, and certain shimmer to her words too.

His father. Dracula. A vampire. The vampire. The king of night and all its hordes. A scary story, full of blood and death and the moon was full that night.

—(Could he even be a father after all that killing? Was there a father behind all that bloodshed? Dare he even try to keep something alive, when these hands were constructed to kill?)—

And Adrian. Just born, already with one foot in each world. Half human. Half vampire. The stars dripped from the ceiling, and the sun spilled in through the window.

Would they hurt him for it?

Would this fact grant him safe passage into both worlds, or make him hated by both? Had he cursed this being to a life of not belonging? Or had he given him an opportunity no one else had; to belong to both?

Would being Dracula’s son make him a villain? Or would it make him a prince? Would the humans fear and hate him? Would the vampires bow to him?

Would being Lisa’s son make him a hero? Would the humans accept him as one of them? Would the vampires exile him as a half-breed, impure, no matter if his father had a castle, and a crown, and fangs all too ready to sink into their necks?

Barely noticeable now, he has golden hair like his mother, and fangs like his father.

…He wonders how this creature, so full of light, could come from the king of night.

Then Adrian starts crying.

The king of night is uh…not equipped for this. He’s never comforted a crying child before. He’s made more than a few cry in his time, but he’s never been on the other end…it seems the much more difficult side of things.

He has half—(okay, more than half)—a mind to wake Lisa for help. …But Lisa has done enough for today. Surely he can handle one crying baby.

Vlad is careful not to let his nails pierce the child’s skin as he scoops him up, cradling him in his arms.

Adrian is so small. It doesn’t feel like he’s made of thumping, pumping blood and bone. He feels as if he’s made of glass, and Dracula fears he’ll shatter in his hands.

Dracula has killed so many things in his life. He has killed humans, and animals and, yes, another vampire or two. But he doesn’t want to kill this one. He is so desperate to keep him alive he thinks he might die himself before he saw anything touch him.

Lisa stirs, and Vlad moves the child further away so as not to wake her. He sits in the chair in the corner of the room, by the basket full of toys he will soon play with, and the alphabet charts he will soon learn with.

Dracula did not read romance novels. But he had once heard a lullaby, and he wonders if he can remember the lyrics.

At the gentle song, slowly Adrian calms down in his father’s arms, and looks up at him with those golden eyes.

And Dracula wonders if the world was always this big.

Vampire’s eyes are usually so cold and dark. But he is only half dark, and his eyes are full of sunlight.

He looks up at his father, this dark thing, the killer, the monster king. The creature they said could never learn to love.

And Adrian smiles.

When Dracula returns that smile, it is not an evil sneer tugging at his lips. It is like his face breaks, pouring out all the joy inside him. He leans forward and rests his forehead gently upon Adrian’s.

“My boy.”

***

Chapter 2: His Father’s Death 

Dracula throws the golden man into wall, hard enough to break it, revealing the room on the other side.

Nails against the wood, against stone, footsteps merciless as a death toll, blood in the burning halls; Dracula is the monster from the stories after all.

He stalks into the room, his cloak furling behind him, seeking his prey. The kind of snarl only things not-quite-human-anymore make emanates from his throat.

The moment he crosses the threshold, that snarl morphs into a gasp, and, as if it were some magic barrier…everything looks different.

His cloak falls softly, quietly like a hand on his shoulder.

This dhampir, this man, up until now has been Alucard. The reverse of him. The thing meant to destroy him and stop his war. A hunter of vampires that is himself a vampire—(or half of one at least). No, not a vampire hunter. Just Dracula’s hunter. All he has been is another thing in Dracula’s way.

But this thing sitting against the bed, failing to catch his breath, golden hair falling about his face…looks different.

A little boy is gasping, leaning on his wooden sword just to stay up.

“Father, do you think we can stop? I need a break.”

Vlad laughs, and the sound is warm. His hands fall to his sides and his smiles, stepping up to his son.

“Of course, Adrian.” He puts his hand on his shoulder, ruffles his hair. “You’ve done well today.

He is…so small.

This bed. A bookshelf. A wardrobe. A desk, with charts and maps. A basket of toys in the corner. All too small. Too dusty.

The window is letting too much light in.

On the wall, a painting of a family. Too happy.

…a boy, hurting, beneath the bed.

Not a hunter, or an annoyance, or an enemy. Not a mindless, heartless, thing. Not an other. Not a him or an it to be disposed of, but a living, breathing, thinking, hurting you.

A very specific you. A you with a name. A you with whom Dracula had shared so much of his life. A you who perhaps knew Vlad more than anymore else. Not a him or an it to be destroyed, a you that he needed so desperately to keep alive.

Not Alucard; the thing meant to destroy him.

Adrian.

“It’s your room.”

His fingers, a moment ago poised to claw at this man, curl gently into a fist, hiding his nails.

The rest of the castle was drenched in bloodshed. The rest of the castle was full of war. The rest of the castle had turned itself towards it’s master’s deeds, destroying itself in a pointless fight, just like him.

But not this room. He had protected this room from all the blood. He dare not bring it with him.

The heavens turn from hazardous red to delicate blue.

Both of them stare up into the stars. Not the real ones—though they are here to guide them too. The ones on the ceiling. The ones they played under, read under, the ones this golden man once dreamed under, the ones he used to learn their names and places in the sky when he was but a child. The rich blue like a spell, putting the warriors into a trance in the middle the battlefield.

—(But this isn’t the battlefield, and that’s why the war must stop here)—

The blood is clearing from Vlad’s view. It has been a long time since he’s seen the world without the blood.

The room has been empty for a while, but the boy it belongs to is here now.

And, in his proper place, all at once this golden man is that fragile thing again. That thing that could break if Vlad held him wrong. That thing Vlad, more than anything, wanted to keep alive, to protect, and who he would die for before he ever saw him get hurt.

Barely perceptible, Vlad is shaking.

His hands are no longer claws against the walls. He sees them for what ugly, monstrous things they are. Ugly, monstrous, because of what they’ve been doing. He crosses them over his chest, as if to cage them; as if trying to keep them from hurting anything, ever, anymore. As if to feel his own heartbeat, and remind himself there is still something living there.

This is the boy who he played cards, and chess, and swords with. This is the boy who asked about the myths in the stars, and the ones in our hearts. This is the boy who he bounced on his knee, and read to, and comforted when he cried, and on very special occasions sang to sleep.

“My boy.”

Adrian is trying to stand, and for a moment his father sees a tiny thing on wobbly legs reaching for his open arms.

“I-I’m killing my boy.”

Dracula steps to the painting—(though he can barely feel his feet)—where an echo of his wife sits on canvas, holding that infant golden thing.

He remembers her now. He wasn’t sure he did before.

“Lisa…I’m killing our boy.” His voice is soft and cracked and breakable itself. “We painted this room. We…made these toys…”

He was never one for sentiment, never grew attached to objects…but as he looks around at this room, and the things in it, those moments are flickering through his mind now—(is this what they mean when they say one’s life flashes before your eyes? Had he really forgotten so much? Had he really forgotten what life was?)—and the blood seems so obscene now.

Not in front of Adrian.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

With an exhale Alucard gets up, and it sounds like the world being crushed into a fine powder. The motion is not gentle…it comes with a cracking and all-too clear purpose, and now his steps are as calculated and foreboding as Dracula’s were moments ago.

Vlad’s hands are now too dangerous to let sit at his sides, so he uses them to cover his eyes…to hide his pain from the world, to hide the world from his pain. A feeble defense against the pointed intention in his son’s own dangerous hands. Playing peekaboo one last time.

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He hears Adrian’s breath very close to him, but it is not that of a beast ready to pounce, it is heavy, like the world is sitting on his chest.

He takes his claws from his eyes to look into his son’s face.

Vlad laughs, and the sound is cold.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.”

“What?”

“You didn’t kill me before. You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.”

“Do I?!”

“You died when my mother died. You know you did. This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

And if he could hurt this boy—Adrian—who he loved more than anything, then:

“I must already be dead.”

Adrian’s eyes are not full of malice. He is not like anyone else that would try to kill the vampire king. Anyone else’s eyes would not be soft; they would be solid and still, pointed and gleaming with with hunger and hate. Anyone else wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t be gentle.

Even now, Adrian’s eyes are still full of sunlight; trembling, rippling, ripping sunlight.

It is not fear, nor anger that makes his eyes shudder. It is heartbreak. Imminent heartbreak.

Because he wishes he could save him. Because he knows he cannot.

His heart has been aching for a very long time, slowly coming apart, and it is about to shatter. This golden man is about to split his own chest for the sake of saving the world.

Once upon a time all the stories they told him ended happily, and families stayed together, and no one ever died. His heart must fracture, for he knows their own cannot.

How could Dracula ever try to take that sunlight from the world, when Lisa had brought it down to him from her place in the sky? He’d traveled the world in search of the sun...but his sunlight was right here…and if he couldn’t see that then…

He closes his eyes. He opens them. A silent ask. A silent answer. They both know.

Alucard steps closer. And it is not to hold him tight—(no matter how much he they both wish he could just wrap his arms around him and cry, like long ago, and understand that after the rain everything would be better).

Now Dracula is the fragile thing. And they both know what he must do.

He is trying to be gentle. For love is the only thing that can be harsh in the kindest word, and gentle in the cruelest stroke.

That horrible cracking, crackling, squelching sound. Red drips from his chest along the golden man’s sleeve.

It isn’t death, really. It is mercy. Mercy on humanity. Mercy on Vlad himself. Death had already administered its kiss when Lisa died. And in his undead state Dracula had tried to spread that death to everything and everywhere else, in the world’s most exorbitant suicide note.

“Son.” The word is soft, rasping; the wind in a hollow house.

“Father.” The word is a broken plea; the sun on the abandoned floorboards and dolls, wishing it could illuminate the family that once lived there instead—

And this hurts, yes, but even so, it is the love behind it that is more piercing than any stake.

Love has never been breakable. Love is what does the breaking.

There is something defiant in Alucard’s eyes as he drives it in farther.

His heartbeat fills the room.

And, after much bending, the stake bores through, and the mirror breaks.

—(And for a moment Adrian could have sworn the sound came from his chest)—

Dracula does not burst into flame. Death, for him, is not an explosive show. It is soft whispers: he turns slowly to ashes, without any burn.

Vlad wants to wrap his arms around this small, precious, golden thing one last time. To say goodbye.

Adrian never looked at his father like a monster before, never backed away from his touch, but Dracula could swear the fear in his eyes now—(a little boy hiding from the thunder)—is the only reason the breath is leaving his chest.

Adrian is so, so tiny. (And after everything, he cannot bring himself to deliver the last stroke.)

Dracula’s last thought, the sonnet of a dying monster, is not a curse, or a threat, but something very gentle indeed.

Lisa, Adrian…I’m so sorry.

The only thing left of him is a wedding ring.

[a-libra-writes]

Uhh, sorry, I was such an ass that I didn't even say anything before requesting 😭 I'm glad that you're feeling better now 😄 (I was following you since you started this blog too 😄)

lololol you’re fiiine, it didnt come across that way. Im glad you’ve still stuck around! :D thank you for enjoying the blog ⭐

the request was!!! 36: “we can never be together” kiss. I feel like the original prompt is meant to be angsty? but I just did a thing. bc ramsay.

From the edge of the lake, she could see her family’s keep on the other side, but just barely. Leaves had been falling in the water for the past hour, making little ripples here and there, and slowly covering the water with a blanket of orange and red. It was a long walk from her warm bedchamber to this crisp, chilly forest, but she enjoyed every minute. Bringing her cloak tight around her, she took a deep breath and let it out in a steady sigh.

“Did you have a good run, Sugar?” Y/N turned to the tree she hitched her horse to. Except, her sweet grey speckled palfrey wasn’t there.

She stared at the tree trunk, where the rope still was, but her horse was gone. Her heart beat frantically as she ran to it. It was hard to tell where her horse went; the ground was littered with leaves. Did a thief take her? If there was a thief, Y/N would have heard… and she might’ve had a slit throat. Sugar’s an ornery horse, she would have made a noise, or fought… She must have wandered off then, I shouldn’t panic…

A hand snaked around her waist, and before she could scream, another one covered her mouth. She yelped into the leather glove and kicked her legs. The thief was solid behind her, and when he laughed at her struggling, she stopped.

He let go of her then, and Y/N spun around. She pushed his chest hard, but he only stumbled back a step. “Ramsay! Gods, what is the matter with you!”

He laughed again, his light eyes twinkling in a way that would have been charming, if she didn’t know who he was. “It’s so easy with you, Y/N. Were you afraid?”

As if he had to ask. She scoffed and looked around. “Where did you come from? Did you take Sugar?”

“I did. She’s with Blood, and you didn’t notice me take her, either.” He only needed a few strides to take her in his arms, and like usual, Y/N felt the breath leave her. Bolton’s bastard always held her like she’d disappear into the air if he let go. “You should pay more attention, little Y/N. What if some frightening man was prowling these forests, looking for a pretty lady?”

“You mean what you did?” Y/N squirmed, though there was little chance of escape. She accepted her fate and rested her hands against him. “How did you know my parents were away?”

He grinned. “A lucky guess.”

“Liar.”

“Call me that again,” Ramsay’s voice lowered in that way that made all the twinkling in his eyes disappear, and that smile dropped to something dangerous. Y/N didn’t know how he did it, how he wore two faces and changed them so easily. 

She was on her tiptoes now, and his embrace was like a vice. She kissed his ear, murmuring to him, “You’re a liar, Ramsay.” And a bastard, and a killer.

He kissed her so hard, she thought she’d bruise, but she knew he’d do it. She parted her lips and whined when he bit them, and clinged to him when he bit her neck. There was no tenderness to Ramsay, only a frantic energy that waxed and waned. She started to moan when he licked the harsh marks he left.

“W-When will you give my palfrey back?”

“When I’m done.”

“Ramsay, we - you shouldn’t -”

“I’m a lord now,” He said the words against her hot, flushed skin. “I can have you properly. You could be my wife.”

It was hard to focus on talking when he already had a hand going up her dress. He moved too fast. “I’m engaged, I told you - I told you these meetings had to stop.”

He pulled away from his bites suddenly, but he kept his hand on her barely-clad legs. It would be easy to rip the stockings, and she knew he would eventually. “Yet, you came here.”

“... I did.” It was stupid, but it was the first place she thought of going the moment her parents left the front gates. She wasn’t pathetic enough to leave that night, but she was here this afternoon. For a stupider, more pathetic moment, she almost thought to ask him to come back with her.

“You miss me,” Ramsay said, and the voice was sweet again. His eyes were sweet, and while his smile was crooked, he had that little canine that stuck out. She always noticed it. “You love me, Y/N.”

He said it like he wanted to believe it, that he would believe it no matter what her response was. So, Y/N took his face in her hands and said, “A bold assumption. We couldn’t be together, Ramsay.”

“And who said that?” He was back to being cold, but at least he wasn’t angry. “I’ll take care of anyone that tries to get between us, Y/N.”

It was really so easy to him, so simple. He was like a child in that way, an overgrown, dangerous child. Her engagement wasn’t for another year, and her husband-to-be was still a boy. She wondered if she was really so important to Ramsay that he’d attempt something. He didn’t yet understand the limits his legitimization placed on him.

Her thoughts were scattered when he bit her neck again, and ripped her dress. Y/N gasped and held onto his shoulders, pressing herself against him. She let him lift her and place her on the soft ground, where her cloak kept her back off the leaves and soft dirt. The sound of fabric ripping echoed around the lonely clearing. It would be a trial to hide the evidence of this meeting, but she didn’t care. For all her pretense, she could be just as careless as the boy tossing her stockings aside. 

She tugged his hair and pulled him to her lips. Ramsay eagerly reciprocated, and she focused on the roughness of his lips, the smell of forest and leather stuck on him, and the growing heat in her body. When she brushed his messy black hair aside and stroked his cheek, he pulled away with impatience. That frantic energy was hitting its peak. “You do love me, Y/N.  Tell me you do.”

It was harmless to agree, she decided. Ramsay had to get bored eventually, especially when wedding planning started and she had to be away. This might even be the last time they meet. “Yes Ramsay, I do.”

[fea-warriorheart]

Another Life

His heart pounds as he edges around the side of the barn, peeking out into the field beyond. There's no sign of his hunter, yet he's not stupid enough to think he's safe.

He's given odd looks as he sneaks across the gap between the buildings, from people and animals alike. One of the horses gives him an indignant huff as he brushes past, and he's probably lucky there's a fence between them.

He's in a bad spot. His hunter knows it better than him. He has to get to familiar ground before-

"Found you!"

Jaskier shrieks as strong arms wrap around his waist, lifting his feet off the ground. He can hear the smug grin as the boy behind him adds, "Too exposed, lark."

The hands dart down his sides, tickling him while also letting his feet touch the ground once more. Jaskier shrieks again, but there's no fear this time; laughter and mirth sound in every sound as he squirms in the stableboy's hold.

"Geralt! Stop it! I yield!"

A soft laugh comes from behind him, and the arms around him loosen, releasing him. Jaskier turns, face flushed and split with a grin as he takes in the redhead before him. Geralt's a good head taller than him, despite only being two years older. While Jaskier spends his days studying and being proper, Geralt spends his split between helping at the estate stables and learning medicinal practices under the watchful eye of his mother. He's lean from winter, as most of the village is, but there's already muscle starting to build back up on his frame with the scraps of food he's given by a sympathetic cook.

Laughter sparkles in Geralt's fern-colored eyes, a feature many might call dull compared to some of the other shades sported by humanoid races, but Jaskier was of the firm belief it fit him perfectly. Geralt was a child of nature, just like his mother, and it was fitting for such a prominent feature to reflect that.

"Julian! Get back here!"

The brunette grimaced at the sharp tone. Geralt's expression instantly smoothed into the neutral stance most of the servants took when a member of the house approached, let alone one of Jaskier's parents.

His father stalked over, scowling at him. "You're late for your lessons. I shouldn't have to come out here and drag you around. It's disgraceful."

Julian bowed his head slightly. "Yes, father. My apologies."

An iron grip latched on to his upper arm. His father sneered at Geralt as he started dragging him back towards the manor. "Get back to work, brat."

Julian didn't risk glancing back. Geralt would only get in further trouble; he knew his father already disliked the boy for being friendly with him, but kept him around because of his old friendship with Visenna. The woman had been there for Jaskier's birth, as well as his two sister's. Plus, Geralt had a way with the animals that no one could quite explain - or replicate - and it was too much trouble in his father's eyes to find and train a new boy for the job.

Geralt is one of the few good things Julian has in his life. He won't risk him by being stupid.

-

A fierce storm is raging against the windows of the kitchen. Many of the servants are fast asleep, but Jaskier paces the room, worry lines etched into his brow. Geralt is making them both a pot of tea; a messenger had arrived in the early evening, stating that Jaskier's father had been ambushed by bandits and that his location was currently unknown. Despite being reassured by his mother, sleep had not come easy to the young viscount.

Geralt rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts, and offered him a steaming cup. "Sit down," he murmured. "You'll do nothing for no one wearing holes into the floorboards."

He sits with a flop, tracing a finger along the edge of the cup as he waits for it to cool a bit. Geralt sits beside him, something they're only allowed to do in moments like this; moments of solitude in a life full of company. "You know I worry."

"Yes. It's why I knew you would seek me out."

Jaskier glances at him. Geralt's coat is drying by the fire; he'd accompanied the messenger to the manor through the storm, soaking both of them through, and his mother had insisted the poor boy stay the night. He'd taken a place by the kitchen fire to stay out of the way, and had been waiting when Jaskier slipped inside.

With Geralt, Jaskier is able to be... well, Jaskier. He's able to laugh and tell stupid jokes and not care about being proper, but only with Geralt. With all others, he must be Julian Alfred Pankratz.

It's no wonder why he feels drawn to the boy.

He sighs softly, leaning against Geralt. "What if they hurt him?"

"He's a hardy man, you know. This isn't the first time he's had to fight."

"That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."

"I know, lark." Geralt gives him a one-armed hug-squeeze around his shoulders. "He'll be alright. Probably just lost his way in the storm, is all."

Jaskier shrugs miserably, sipping at his tea. They sit in silence for a while; Geralt eventually stands to clean their cups and dry them off. He's placing them back in the cupboard when the door slams open, startling both boys and causing the fire to give a threatening flicker.

Two figures stumble inside; one is unmistakably his father, while the other has broad shoulders and wears a thick cloak, obscuring all but the chestnut beard with gray flecks peppering it. The stranger slams the door shut, bolting it against the wind, and Jaskier's father stands there for a moment, breathing heavily as he takes in the two boys.

The stranger turns, then, and Julian's heart clenches when he sees the Witcher's medallion hanging around his neck. He pulls down the hood of his cloak, golden eyes reflecting the light of the fire. His gaze is on Julian, studying him curiously.

He turns back to Julian's father. "I assume you didn't expect either of them to be here. Which would fulfill your payment."

The man tenses, then shakes his head. "No, I expected my son to be here. He always waits up when I'm late. The stable boy, though- bah. You can take him."

Julian feels his world slow to a halt. When he looks at Geralt, he feels like he's moving through pine resin. The redhead's eyes are wide with shock and fear, and his mouth opens and closes a few times, though no sound leaves him.

"Fine. I doubt I have enough rations to bring both of them with me, anyways." The Witcher turns back to them, crossing his arms. "Your name, boy."

"No!" Julian's voice starts working again, and he stands between them. "You can't take him!"

"Julian," his father hisses, storming over to him and yanking him away. "He claimed the Law of Surprise for saving my life. It must be fulfilled."

"No! He can't take Geralt! Please, father, you can't let him!" Tears burn his eyes. Geralt still isn't moving, still hasn't looked away from the Witcher.

Golden and green gazes snap to them as Julian is backhanded. The Witcher is there in an instant, gripping his father's wrist enough to make the man cry out.

"I don't take kindly to those who would abuse a child for caring for a friend," the Witcher says softly. "Touch him again and lose your hand. Your oath has been fulfilled. Leave us, now."

"Wait." A small voice sounds from the corner where Geralt stands. He's trembling, eyes darting between the Witcher and Julian. "Can I- Can I at least say goodbye?"

Something in the Witcher's face softens, and he steps back, nodding. "Do you have any family?"

"My mother, she lives in the village..."

"You can say farewell to her as well and grab some spare clothes. Make it quick."

The Witcher leans against the fireplace, and Geralt rushes over, wiping at Jaskier's tears with soothing motions. "It's alright, lark. Don't cry... It'll be okay..."

"Geralt... Please, you can't leave me..." Jaskier gripped his shirt, twisting the fabric in his grip. A gentle hand brushes through his hair.

"You know I can't just ignore this, lark... I have to go, but we'll see each other again eventually, yeah...?"

Jaskier sniffles. Geralt lifts his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. He smiles gently, and for the life of him, Jaskier can't help but feel the truth in his words. He nods, even as his bottom lip wobbles. "Yeah."

The Witcher steps in again, a hand on Geralt's shoulder. He hands the boy his coat, and with one last look back, Jaskier's best friend vanishes into the stormy night.

-

He learns in Oxenfurt how few boys survive the Witcher mutations. He does not want to believe it, but part of him mourns his friend. Geralt was strong, but verging on too old for the Trials; his body would be more likely to reject them than to adapt to them. And besides, Geralt was a farmer, a healer, not a monster hunter.

So Jaskier does his best to move on. But there are nights, often dark with storms, where he curls in on himself and wishes things had happened differently.

He graduates Oxenfurt a master of the arts and top of his class, and then he just... wanders. He plays as a bard in taverns and inns, earning enough coin to stay the night and occasionally buy some new clothes. He takes lovers, but never partners; he loves too much and yet too little, flitting from person to person as his very being rejects each and every one.

He's nineteen, playing in some backwater village. The road there had been harrowing; he had been lucky to join a group of merchants at the last town. A nest of monsters - he wasn't sure what, he hadn't paid attention - had been terrorizing most travelers in small groups for weeks. They'd even been so desperate as to put up a notice for a Witcher.

Despite all of the stories, Jaskier hasn't seen another since that night. He's beginning to wonder if they're just a figment of everyone's collective imagination; perhaps the monsters just kill themselves off or migrate elsewhere when the pickings are slim.

He's just finished a song, collecting some meager coin as the door opens. Jaskier is retreating to his table when a hand rests on his shoulder; his mind runs through anyone he might have pissed off. He hasn't been in town long enough to anger any husbands, fathers or brothers, and no one would have followed him through such a dangerous area. So truly, for the life of him, he doesn't know why-

"Lark."

His world goes still in a way that has happened only once before.

He turns slowly. He's no longer a head shorter; his eyes are about level with his nose. His skin is paler than Jaskier remembers, contrasted with dark armor. A wolf's head gleams above it, snarling at his foes, and two swords are visible on his back.

Snow white hair brushes his shoulders, tied back clumsily. Jaskier can't find the strength to breathe as he finally looks him in the eye.

Gone is the green of ferns and grass in the spring; molten gold takes their place, slitted pupils darting in minuscule movements as he searches Jaskier's face. For all the differences, he's still the same boy - still the stable boy Jaskier knew.

He's still...

Jaskier is breathless as he whispers, "Geralt."

A small smile spreads across the boy's - man's, he's twenty, twenty-one now - face. He takes Jaskier's hand in his, squeezing it gently. "I told you I'd see you again."

//An indulgent thing that I came up with out of the blue. Lost steam at the end which is why it sort of trails off, but hey, if anyone's interested in a part two.... (bold presumption, I know.)

[scribble-blog]

Black Cats and Robinettes part 3!!!!

Part 1   Part 2

“No.”

Marinette eyed her brother balefully, even as she stuck another pin into the sleeve she was working on. “I don’t see how this is any of your business.”

“You’re my little sister,” Dick lamented. “I feel that it is completely my business to veto your budding love life.”

“The love life you know of,” Marinette muttered, ignoring Dick’s yelp as she stuck him with a pin. “Can you leave it be?”

“Can you leave him be?” Dick mocked her, rubbing the spot where she’d pricked him. 

“We’ve got more important things,” Marinette directed him to move, having him spin as her keen eyes watched. He did some light stretches to test the fabric, and she nodded. “Like, I don’t know, that hero Dad wants us to meet with?” 

“Hero schmero,” Dick grinned. “What are the volatile superhero politics of a different country compared to the love life of Gotham’s sunshine princess? And what are you going to have Alfred cook up to woo him tomorrow night?”

“Had it not been for the laws of this land, I would have slaughtered you,” She scowled, punching him. He just laughed in return.

———

Damian was not sitting on his bed mooning over Marinette Wayne.

No, Damian was staring out his window and mooning over Marinette Wayne. It was a small difference but it mattered, mostly because if he hadn’t been staring at the cloud cloaked sky and wondering if she had been flirting with him the rest of the day after her masterful takedown of Lila that had left the girl sobbing. She’d invited Adrien and Chloé, and him he supposed, to dine with her family the next night. She’d actually tried to include him in what could clearly have just been time for her to spend with her friends. 

What did it mean??

Staring out the window was nice, a sobering reminder that even if anything could come from this, Marinette Wayne was still the rich, beautiful, girl who was regarded as the Princess of Gotham. And he lived in Paris. 

And speaking of Paris, he caught the familiar movement of a red and a yellow suit, moving over the rooftops.

He couldn’t stop himself from standing up, a small intake of breath his only outward sign of surprise. Ladybug and Queen Bee? He watched them, spots and stripes, dart over a roof break, the streetlight filtering up and leaving them in stark definition. 

“Plagg,” Damian said, and the Kwami looked up from where he had retreated when it seemed clear that he was just going to pine over a girl for the whole evening. “Do you know why Ladybug and Queen Bee are here?”

“Why should I know that?” Plagg snacked on another piece of Camembert. Damian made a face, incredibly glad he’d started putting Camembert in double ziplock bags to keep from smelling like it constantly. “I’m your kwami, not theirs.”

“Claws out, Plagg.”

It was a simple matter to climb out of the window, and throw himself to the rooftops using the staff. 

He spotted them immediately, the familiar joking and banter that Queen Bee and Ladybug exhibited during battles easy to hear. But now, with them here, he honestly would have felt stupid if he hadn’t already known that there was magic that kept any casual comparisons from revealing their identities.

Of course, it was Adrien and Chloe. Of course it was his two friends. Out of all of the idiots in Paris, it had to be his two idiots who ran around in magical spandex fighting monsters with him.

There wasn’t any other explanation for why they would be in Gotham of all places. And if they were using the Horse Miraculous to return to Paris for akumas-

Damian scowled. And now they were going on a joy run around a city they had no business being in? If anyone else was able to make these connections like him-

“So,” a voice behind him interrupted his train of thought. “Are you just an opportunist in a cat costume trying to meddle in the Bat’s affairs? An amateur wannabe hero? Should I let Catwoman know she’s got a copycat running around Gotham?”

Damian spun. Behind him was a girl, shorter than him despite the clear platforms on the boots, dark green mask glinting in the low evening light.

“I thought capelets were out of fashion,” Damian said dumbly. The girl smirked at him.

“Well,” she shrugged, “It’s part of the Robin ensemble. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to deal with a full cape.” Her pose never faltered from battle-ready, despite her easy tone. “Now what’s a boy like you doing in a place like this?”

Damian spluttered. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” She nodded towards where Ladybug and Queen Bee had been, stepping forward, into his space. “You were following the two Parisian heroes. Don’t argue, I caught you at it. What do you want with them, catboy?”

Damian wished very desperately that his mask could keep him from blushing. Was there something wrong with him today? First Marinette Wayne, and now Robin? Batman’s partner? Why was he noticing how cute she was when he’d been pining after Marinette earlier? Was there something wrong with him?

“Well?” Robin challenged.

“I’m Chat Noir,” He started babbling. “I’m their partner too, but I didn’t know they were here in Gotham, and I’d prefer they didn’t-”

“Find out?” Robin grinned, backing away a step. “You scared they’ll be upset for the misunderstanding?”

Damian fought the urge to squirm under the blank white eyes of her mask. What to tell her? “They don’t know who I am, and I’d really rather not have to deal with revealing myself tonight.”

She leaned away, taken aback. “You don’t know who each other are? How do you get anything done?”

Damian laughed. “Honestly, we don’t. I’m thinking that’s probably why they’re here, isn’t it? To ask you and your group for help. That’s how you knew they were Parisian. They’re here to meet you.”

She finally dropped from her fighting-ready pose, tilting her head as she looked at him. “You’re pretty sharp. I wish I could trust you.”

And then she swung, and Damian jumped back automatically. She had a staff, an extendable one, and she knew how to use it. Before she could make another move, Damian swung himself out over the open street, dropping until his staff caught him, carrying him to the next rooftop over. 

“I don’t want to fight you!” He yelled back at her. He could practically see the way she rolled her eyes. Honestly, if this had happened to him back in Paris, he couldn’t say he’d be any less suspicious than she was, but it was still annoying him that she couldn’t just take his word for it.

Which meant that he had three options, he reasoned as they stood off against each other, the river of traffic between and far below them. He could try to fight her and possibly incur the wrath of the rest of Gotham’s vigilantes, which, no. He could try to run away and transform back, and give up this whole outing before making his way back to the hotel. Or he could go after Chloe and Adrien, possibly reveal himself and them to the vigilantes they were meeting with, but prove to Robin that he really wasn’t just some masked asshole making the best of the rooftops that night.

He wanted to groan as he watched her pull out a grappling gun. And he decided that sometimes, retreat really was the better part of valor.

He leapt for the next rooftop, only to have her swing in front of him. He tried to course correct, but she managed to block him, leaving him lunging for the next roof. 

He swerved the second he landed, immediately jumping again. He had super strength! It shouldn’t be hard to out distance her!

Except that whenever he thought he’d managed to get out of her sight, she’d corner him again.

Finally, he realized mid leap that she wasn’t trying to catch him. In fact, she was barey trying to chase him.

No, she was corralling him somewhere. He sprang from the edge, to another, and found out where she’d been forcing him.

“Chat?” 

“Chat?!”

Ladybug and Queen Bee were waiting there, along with two other masked individuals. Damian didn’t scowl when he heard Robin’s landing behind him, but it was a close thing.

“Oh my god,” one of the others whispered. “We have to tell Catwoman. It’s fucking genetic.”

“Shhhh,” the taller hushed. “Robin. I take it this is Chat Noir?”

“Yes,” Ladybug answered for him, green eyes burning into his. “Glad you made it, Chat.”

Ah. Okay. Damian could put off talking to them until later then. Thank god. But he turned back to Robin, one brow raised. “Good enough for you?”

“Oh,” Robin grinned, and despite being named for a bird, she looked like the cat that caught the canary. “What do you think we are? I’ve known you weren’t lying the whole time. Welcome to Gotham, Chat Noir.”

Her teasing smile made his heart stutter. He might honestly have gone a bit weak in the knees.

Gotham was trying to kill him, he realized. And it’s chosen method was flirty dark-haired girls who were out of his league and far more trouble than he thought.

TAGLIST:

@silverwhiteraven

@ash-amg  @vixen-uchiha @redscarlet95 @dramatic-squirrel @athena452 @novaloptr @bee-wrecker @constancetruggle @pr-y-sha

@thestressmademedoit @noirdots @ranger-gothamite @the-fair-maiden-of-fandom @zalladane  @mewwitch @mochegato @justafanwarrior @catcusxx @indecisive-mess-named-me @resignedcatservant @marinettepotterandplagg @myazael @mochinek0 @shizukiryuu @fancandi @fusser90 @loveswifi @gm-nasai @peachedpocky @danielslilangel @whatthefox22 @jardimazul @ladybug-182 @schrodingers25 @karategirl119 @smolplantmum @maribat-is-lifeblood @thebookwormfairy @sassakitty @area51qt @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @amayakans @dast218 @myvividreams @dorkus-minimus @alexandriamw @elmokingkong @tis-i-beanbandit

[irishmacguirefucker]

Meeting Tilly Jackson

A.N: (So originally this was going to be for my au but I realized that if I wanna write Tilly in my AU i need to properly understand her background. We don't have a lot of specific details in the game, so i wrote this. Essentially its how Dutch found Tilly and took her in. She’s 14 in this. I will probably have a part 2 soon. Its a little dialogue heavy)

(TW: Sexual Assault of a minor is mentioned but nothing happens, blood)

Wordcount:  3110

-

Tilly Jackson has a family. They may be a little odd, different than what everyone else might consider a family, but a family nonetheless. Dutch and Hosea her father figures, Susan Grimshaw a motherly presence. Sisters in Karen, Mary-Beth and the other women of the camp, brothers in Arthur and John and most of the other men. The titles don't matter so much as the feeling of safety and comfort and appreciation among them. She missed her late mother of course, but she hoped on some level her mother would be happy with how things turned out for the girl in the end. Being kidnapped at the age of 12 was nothing short of traumatizing, and for a long while, things only got worse. The Foreman gang was the opposite of a family. They were nothing to her but the people who stole her away from her mother claimed to own her. The ones who tried to take advantage of her. The night that Malcolm Foreman tried to make advances on her and she killed him was the night she would consider herself grown. 

She's not sure exactly how long she was alone, it must have been under a year. She went to find her mother only to hear of her death, and with nowhere else to go she just kept running. The further she made it the less likely that Anthony Foreman would find her and pay her back for what she did to his cousin. She knows that it was early spring when she left. The snow had barely been off the ground, she supposed that no longer being wrapped in a ratty cloak and scarf was the reason that gang member thought to make his move. 

Dutch found her just when it was beginning to get cold again. 

Despite considering herself grown, her body disagreed. The shoes she ran away in were already ill-fitted, and by that autumn they were practically falling apart. Her toes stuck out the front. She had done her best to steal clothing off people’s clotheslines, but they rarely fit.

Dutch caught her doing just that. He had been watching the property of some well off folks, planning on casing it with Arthur later that week. He watched as a girl no older than 14, snuck out from the tree line in a torn-up blouse and a too-long skirt.

She was clearly not experienced in stealing as she tripped over her skirts up the property, but she made it to the side of the house mostly successfully. She quickly tore down a long dress and an undershirt and quickly started back to the tree line. She stared wistfully at the property's large orchard and nearly turned her course towards it before hearing the owner of the house open his front door and stealing away into the forest. Even from a distance, Dutch knew what that hesitation meant. She was hungry.

Dutch was hardly one to let a promising little thief like her starve in the forest, so with a passing glance at the house he stood from his hiding spot up the hill and mounted the Count.

Tracking was never one of Dutch’s strongest abilities but she made it rather easy, with footprints in the mud, a scrap of fabric where her clothing caught a branch, etc. Eventually, he reached a spot where she seemed to trip and fall, and then there were a few drops of blood here and there as he followed. He knew he was getting closer, the blood wasn’t dry. He dismounted his horse and began leading him forward when suddenly she jumped out from behind a tree wielding a large rusted hunting knife. 

“Don’t come any closer! You can take your clothes back, here.” She kicked over the items he had just watched her steal. “Don’t tell the law, and I’ll disappear. I don’t have anything more to offer you.”

Dutch grinned, she was strong-willed. But he also observed that her cheeks were sunken in, and her skin was dull. She was visibly malnourished, and there was blood dripping from one of her small hands. He hoped it was a branch she cut herself on and not that dirty knife of hers.

He put his hands up in a friendly gesture.

“I’m not the man you robbed earlier, don’t you worry. I watched you steal that dress, you’re quite the little thief.” 

She was doing a damn good job of hiding her fear, but Dutch was experienced in seeing past such facades. She didn’t seem scared of the weapon she was holding, as the young and inexperienced often were when they wielded such an item. She just seemed scared of him. 

“Why did you follow me, it ain’t your things I stole. I have nothing to give you, so you best just leave me be.” She didn’t stutter, her high pitched voice remained unwavering and strong. Dutch tried his best to look unthreatening, something he didn’t find himself having to do often. 

“Well, I myself was planning on robbing that house myself later with a few of my friends, perhaps I just wanted to see if you had any advice for me as a seasoned visitor of that property.”

She didn’t believe him and didn’t lower her knife, but she didn’t run either. Good. “Now if I reach for something in my saddle bag here are you gonna come at me with that big old knife?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

Dutch smiled. “Well if you and I are gonna talk business I thought that maybe I could pay you for your time, little lady.”

She finally lowered the knife a little, seeming less afraid but very suspicious. “You wanna pay me for information on that house?”

“I do. Information is worth a lot to us outlaws, you should know that well Darlin’” He slowly turned to the horse. Even if she did attempt to stab him, she wouldn’t get to him before he could turn around, so he wasn’t worried. As he was digging through the saddlebag she spoke up behind him.

“Don’t call me Darlin.” 

He smiled at her bravado but kept looking through the bag. “Well, you’ve yet to give me something else to call you Miss. Ah! Here it is!” He turned back to her holding a small stack of cash and a wrapped parcel. 

“Yeah, well neither have you!” There’s that reminder that he’s talking to a child. They’re always so petulant. John had been just the same, though a little more rabid. “Well, I’m Dutch, Dutch Van der Linde.”

He studied her face for any sign of recognition, but there was none. Good, less reason for her to be afraid of him. She didn’t give her name just yet. 

“Are you with the Foreman brothers?” She asked boldly. “I won’t let you take me back, I’ll kill you before you get me back there.” That would explain her fear, she wasn’t just a thief. She was a runaway from another gang.

“Now I’ll tell you right now Miss, I’m not with Anthony Forman or his little gang. The only gang I’m with is the Van der Linde gang, and I promise me and mine won’t bring you any harm.”

“You...You lead a gang?” She was shaking, it was starting to get colder as the sun was setting. 

“I am, but we aren’t like those bastards you knew. We’re just good people, looking to live free.”

Then he did something bold, a gesture to help her feel safer in the presence of a gang leader. Hopefully, she would be a little more at ease. “Do you mind if I sit down Miss-” 

“Jackson. Tilly Jackson.”

He smiled. “Miss Jackson. Do you mind if I sit while we talk? Tracking you was quite a little adventure.” 

“Go ahead, I guess.” 

“Thank you, Tilly.” He sat down on a log just to the side, and she lowered her weapon fully but gripped it tight. “Now, go ahead and take this.” He took a couple of bills and tucked them into the string around the parcel. She stared at it suspiciously.

 “I didn’t tell you nothing yet and I ain’t stupid mister Van der Linde, why are you giving me this.” 

He smiled and leaned forward to place the parcel on the ground in front of him, between them. 

“As I said, you’re quite the thief and I think you could help me out. Doesn't hurt to butter up the informant. There's some food in the package, I thought you looked a little hungry.”

She seemed to stare at the parcel longingly and something clenched in Dutch’s cold heart. The poor girl must be starving.

 “I…I don’t have no info for you, Mister Van der Linde. I just needed the clothes.” She seemed disappointed to be saying it, but she didn't lie to him like he thought she might.

“Well...maybe you could just keep me company then Milady. Good company is hard to find among us outlaws, as I’m sure you know.”

In a flash, she was back two steps and her knife was raised once more.

“I ain’t that kind of girl. you can keep your fucking money and go pay a real whore for your damned “company’”

This was the opposite of the outcome he was looking for, and entirely at the fault of his own poor word choice. He should have known better, there are only a few things that can happen to a young girl in this country to put her on the run and make her fear good company. 

“Now listen here, Miss Jackson. I am not that kind of man, I wouldn’t take advantage of you like I’m sure the bastards in Foreman’s gang tried. It’s like I said it, my gang is just good men looking for freedom and money. You can leave right now if you want and I won’t stop you, or you can stay and eat some, and I promise I won’t even look at you funny.”

She stood frozen, knife gripped tight. She seemed to be weighing her options. Dutch had yet to pose a threat to her, his weapons remained holstered. He hadn’t even tried to come close to her. She steeled her nerves and spoke again. 

“Then...Give me one of your guns. If you really ain’t gonna try nothing then give me one of your pistols and if you try and do anything bad I’ll shoot you.”

In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have even considered it. But this wasn’t some criminal who he was wringing for information. This was a terrified little girl who was too afraid of the man in front of her to even eat food when she was starving. He slowly reached for his left holster and pulled out the pistol. He made a big show of flipping it in his hand so that his finger stayed away from the trigger as not to scare her, and he placed it beside the parcel. Gently he pushed them both over with his foot and sat back on the log with his hands beside him. 

She stared at him, and quick as lightning she grabbed the items from the ground. She backed up to her spot and slowly sat on the ground. The pistol was too big for her hand, and her other hand was getting blood on the side of the wrapped meat. Slowly she unwrapped the piece of dried venison, not breaking eye contact with the man sitting before her. “Why are you being so kind to me, I ain’t never heard of a ‘Good’ outlaw, we’re all just killers and thieves.”

He took note of the word ‘we’ before killers and thieves. Perhaps there was a reason she was so steady holding that knife. “I suppose no truer words have been spoken Miss Tilly, but I was never the type to watch a young lady suffer…You know, I found my son Arthur when he was about your age. The boy was just starving in the streets, stealing what he could. Quite like you are now.”

She didn’t respond, just stared at him a moment longer before taking a large bite of the meat. He hadn’t seen someone eat so ravenously since he fed John for the first time.

It took a lot of talking to get her to let her guard down. She didn’t reveal much about herself, other than that her mother died and she wasn’t part of the foreman gang, she was just there. Though the tension in her shoulders slowly sapped away as she filled her stomach and let herself calm down. They spoke for a few hours and he tried his best not to treat her like a child, god knows they hate when you do that. He couldn’t help but notice that she just seemed so sad. Once all that fear subsided and she spoke more freely, it was clear that she was lost. She mentioned her mother’s death with deep sorrow, her eyes going glassy before she seemed to catch herself and move on. 

Eventually, her hand stopped bleeding, and he tried to catch a look at it as she gestured. The sun was nearly set and he would have to get back to camp before they went looking for him.

He told her as much and he watched that deep-set sadness seep back to her features. 

“Oh… well. It was nice to meet you Dutch.” She used his first name for the first time. He stood up and she did as well, wincing as she used her injured hand to push off the ground.

“You know... you could come back with me and let our doctor take a look at that hand. Well...she ain’t exactly a doctor, but she can fix it. We wouldn’t want that getting infected, it’s far easier to be an outlaw with both hands.”

She wanted to go with him, he could see it in her eyes. Good friends are hard to come by when you’re a child with no home. 

“And perhaps, you could stay awhile. Learn how to be a real outlaw instead of a dress thief.” She seemed offended at the comment, a funny little scowl crossing her features. She was thinking about the offer, and he hoped it sounded at least a little better than sleeping alone in the forest. 

“If I come to your camp….nobody's gonna try and touch me?”

 “Absolutely not my dear, if they try I’ll cut off their hand myself.” She seemed to giggle a little at the notion, a sound he would take pride in. She sobered up and asked; 

“And I can leave whenever I want? I ain’t gonna let anyone try and say they own me ever again.”

“If you come to camp, Tilly Jackson will remain a free woman, but you’ll have a home to come back to if that’s what you would like.”

He watched her hesitate a little longer. Some coyotes barked in the distance and she shivered.  “Maybe just for a little while. Just to try it.” 

“And you can leave whenever you want.” he reassured.

“And I can leave whenever I want.” She repeated it back like she was convincing herself. He turned his back to adjust the Count’s saddle and give him a sugar cube, and he heard small footsteps come closer to him.

“Um. Can I give him one? He’s real pretty.” Dutch turned and she was at his side, staring at the large animal. She was even smaller up close, and he could see that her bones stood up against her dark skin.

“You know, I think he would like that. Now here, take just one of these and put it in your hand flat. Don’t worry, he won’t bite you.” She went to take it from his hand before realizing her hands were full with the knife and Dutch’s gun. 

“Oh. Here you go, Mister Dutch.” She tried to hand him back the gun. Bravely he thought, to give up her best defense, but he didn’t take it.

“I’ll tell you what my lady, It’s gonna be a bit of a ride to get back to camp and I don’t want you feeling like you can’t hold your own. You hold on to that one just until we get back, alright? We can put your knife in the bag safe and sound.” She obliged, putting the hunting knife gently in the saddlebag and holding on to the pistol. Then Dutch gave her the sugar cube and she held it out to the horse gingerly. The Count had no such hesitation and stole the treat from her hand quickly, the softness of his nose near her fingers making her giggle.

“Now, I think we might just be ready to move! Can I help you up milady?” He said, with a ring clad hand extended like a butler. The gesture made her giggle more and Dutch was happy to see the sadness put aside for a little while. She took his hand in her much smaller one and let him lead her to the side of the saddle.

“Now, can I lift you or do you want to go stand on the log over there?” She could read the underlying notion. The hidden meaning of ‘Do you want me to touch you’, ‘is it okay if I lift you’, etc. He was being more considerate than anyone she had ever met. She took a deep breath and put a little trust in him.

“You can lift me if that’s okay.”

“It would be my honor milady.” He lifted her onto the horse’s rump and tried not to think about how light she was. How he could feel her bones through the layers of her shirt. Once she was settled, he climbed up himself. Before they got going he pulled out his canteen and an apple from the bag. 

“Here. Dinner will be done by the time we get to camp and there’s no reason you should go hungry back there, that just wouldn’t befit such a distinguished young lady.” She accepted the food, and he set the Count into a walk to get them out of the underbrush. Once they were on the path he pushed into a more brisk pace, but he wouldn’t risk trotting with her back there, the count’s trot could be rather rough and she’s so thin she would just be thrown off.

It would be a long ride back to camp at this pace, but it just gave him more time to get to know her and tell her about camp. 

[honestsycrets]

The Gods Only Knew || [ Hvitserk x Reader x Ivar ]

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader, ivar x reader (platonic? shit i dunno)

❛ type | series

❛ summary | Oleg brought you to a Thing. You’re pretty sure you know why-- despite your lover’s presence.

❛  tags | secret relationships, arranged marriage, brotherly tension, not really a love triangle, unless ya’ll want one, asshole oleg, like usual.

❛ sy’s notes | i wrote this on request for my-little-wolfe, but it isn’t exactly what she wanted. Patreons, I’m really sorry. I went to post this but it seems like the platform has been down.

The gods knew why Oleg made you come on his impossible trip to Norway. There was more than one reason to be here, he said. With Oleg-- you always had to be a step ahead. Always prepared for what would be inevitable. The inevitable was as you knew it.

Oleg had someone he wanted you to meet during this Alþing. As a woman of minor influence, you surely wouldn’t be involved in the creation of new laws or an agreement for the future. You knew he wanted you to meet someone to marry someone despite knowing very good and well that you already wanted someone.

So yes, the gods knew why Oleg made you come on his impossible trip to Norway-- and maybe you did too. It wasn’t as if he needed your consent to marry you off.

You sat with your falcon upon your wrist. On the outskirts of the gathering, you were well aware of the men coming in and out, boasting about their sexual prowess or lack thereof. More likely, lack thereof.

Olga squawked as Dym slashed at the meaty carcass of a small game animal between her fingers. She loved the thrill of feeding him, but not so much watching him snatch it from her. You watched Dym pick and swallow with envious ease.

“I’m sure its nothing,” Olga said. “It is-- well, he probably wanted the company.” 

You turned your head over, propping your cheek on your hand. “And that’s why he wanted me to wear this dress.”

“Well--” Olga puffed out her lower lip. She’s struggling to make up a good enough excuse. You don’t blame her. You would too. “At times we should--”

“Should what?” you snapped. “He’s lying to me.”

You just knew it. The only evidence you needed was whoever he would have you meet. You had your suspicions and your hopes. “It isn’t him he wants me to marry.”

“Have a little faith in him.”

You watched Dym swallow his catch of the day and imagine Oleg probably looks the same as he negotiated trades-- or rather, threatened his way through them. You smoothed out your skirt and stood, holding Dym on your wrist.

“It’s hard to when he’s a tyrant. I’m going to shop.”

The journey into the sea of tents was a short walk. Male boys soared past you into the maze of testosterone and their own simple troubles. On occasion, you might have the occasional child, a girl, who stopped to marvel at your presence.

“You’re a princess!” an exclamation of the headdress, rather than a question.

You smiled chastely, “Unfortunately.”

The blonde-haired girl barely understood what you meant now. But maybe, one day, she would. You pressed into the makeshift village. Your fingers had barely run across a fine fur when you heard boots tapping down from the tent’s roof. You glanced up in time to catch a whirl of green and pale skin touch down. The pleats of Dym’s peppered wings outstretched, almost to take off, but you quickly snapped back.

“Prince Hvitserk,” snapped the old vendor, a man from Kattegat, where Hvitserk was born and raised. “Don’t tell me you’re up to your old antics.”

“Old habits die hard, old man.” Hvitserk looked that way, then another, sliding carefully behind you as if to wait for you to finish. It was a lie-- the edges of his fingers considered the back of your dress, tracing the loops of the fabric looped into a bow with his fingertips.

“Here to see my wares?”

“I’m in need of a new coat.” He answers.

He’s being brazen. Many days had not yet passed since you arrived here for the Thing where food and goods would be traded. Hvitserk acted as if-- he was fearful of nothing. The old man’s eyes crinkled in fuller wrinkles, knowingly pushing aside his table.

“Perhaps you should come look at my finer stock.”

“What a good idea. You’re full of them today.” Hvitserk stepped inside. You on the other hand did not. Not until the old vendor gestured his hand with a flick of his head. “Hurry on then. I remember being young. Go before the eyes find you.”

Inside the tent, you did find wealthier furs and capes. There was a place where an old woman was mending cloaks, sitting with an old elegancy you hoped to only come upon in your old age, should you get there. Thwacking behind another flap, you were tugged to the side.

Dym didn’t appreciate that either.

“Ow fuck--” Hvitserk jerked his leather-clad wrist back, not at all ignorant of the bird that was so stubbornly protective of its master, but rather annoyed as you found a stand for one of the old man’s birds. “I thought you taught him not to bite.”

“Not to bite?” you asked, verging on laughter. You set Dym on the stand to sit, languidly moving toward Hvitserk. He brought his leather gauntlet up to motion toward the striations that dominated his wrist.

Hvitserk hissed. “Yes not to bite-- what else?”

“He wouldn’t if you didn’t scare him.” You took his wrist, setting a small kiss to the affected area. Hvitserk hummed appreciatively for the motion. “Maybe I can live with it.”

“I wasn’t sure that you’d come.” He takes a step forward-- and you take one back-- back and back until your back connects with the lip of a table. You pull yourself on top of the heavy table, complete with a pile of furs from small game animals. Ones that the old man surely would sell out of before long.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you kept him ignorant of the truth, partially, because you wanted to be ignorant of it too. It was better when his breath was warm and gentle against your lips, close enough to be familiar. His thin lips pull from their usual flat lipped appeal, pulling with a practiced smile.

“I don’t know. I thought he wouldn’t let you,” he moves his lips soundlessly against the corner of your lips. Small, practiced butterfly kisses verged on a genuine full kiss to your lips. You leaned into the warmth of his cracked lips, only to receive his typical well rounded kiss, the one that said he wanted something else. Then, he moved on, drawing one after another against your neck, the occasional bite that had you smacking him--

“Don’t do that!”

“Why not?” he heaved, his breath was hot and warm, and how could you deny him?

“He’ll see.”

“Then let him see.”

Ten kings were gathered for the Alþing that warm summer evening where the warm waters ran freely, cascading down a local waterfall that set a calm and tranquil backdrop to the warm flicker of an open fire that kissed his cheeks inside a full tent. Ivar’s food had gone bad in a span of minutes in his lap.

Oleg has a way of ruining food. All kinds of food-- doesn’t matter what it is. The way he leans on the edge of the boundaries of society and never means the truth. It truly aggravates him. Ivar might be on the outside looking in but--

At least he means what he says.

“Why don’t you let my brother marry her?” Ivar said.

Sitting across from him at the blacksmith’s tent was Oleg the Prophet. His hair was cut short, smooth with the violent tattoos that marked him as a chieftain of his people; those who sailed east and came back to trade their wealth of goods. This year, he would trade more than honey and slaves.

“He’s insignificant.”

Ivar glanced through the open flaps where you rushed out beside Hvitserk from the old man’s tent. Your long skirt tumbled over the grass. The little children seemed to notice that, stopping you to talk, before they would scurry on. It had gotten late. Night had fallen. You donned Hvitserk’s dark fur. He shared something sweet with you at the tent next to the old man’s, smoothing his finger over your plump lip, and no one said anything. No one would say anything-- a son of Ragnar, a sister of the prophet.

Hvitserk was brazen. Ivar’s head swayed one side then snapped to another. In a rare flicker of empathy, Ivar spoke without weighing his options properly. “I’ve taken too much from him.”

Oleg sat imposingly across from him. His heavy boots propped on a smooth rock, and as he leaned into the flickering flame, it was to bully him into what he wanted. “Come on, Ivar the Boneless. You can’t tell me you’re denying my alliance?”

“No--” he looked ahead, bent over the axe in his lap. “What I am saying is--” the words stutter on their way out, rare for Ivar who normally bore his father’s silver tongue. He gestures with his metal pick, “Look at them.”

Oleg does him that favour and looks where you both stood. Hvitserk bent to whisper something into your ear. Something that the tooth locked prophet hasn’t missed, not in the way you clutched your long waterfall sleeves to your lips, smiling, nodding. He almost lurched up, his brow scrunched up in annoyance.

“What of it?”

“They are in love,” Ivar leaned into the prophet. “How can I take that from him?”

Oleg stared in a way that supplied his reply. “It is easy. You tell them or we can eliminate him entirely.”

“Are you threatening my brother?”

“Do I need to?”

He’s reminded of Hvitserk’s oath. He was going to submit himself to the element of violence-- and in return, he expected Ivar’s renewed loyalty. Unspoken forgiveness. The guards standing watch outside the door are reflections of the men Oleg holds over Ivar’s newly established troops as king.

“Come on Ivar the Boneless… I did not think you were such a stupid man. Here,” Oleg barked your name. “I’ll show you.” You scurried in, setting Dym in his cage, before looking toward Ivar and Oleg.

There’s a sudden realization that spreads across your face-- as if you want to say you knew it, but with your hand tense on the fur, you’re more concerned with whether or not Oleg had seen everything. Ivar looks down, his nails bitting the thickened skin of his palms.

“What is it?” you asked. Hvitserk trailed your steps. He stopped when Ivar’s hand shot out to cut him off from going a step further. His hand tremors. Oleg seized you by the shoulders and sat you down where he once sat, bending in nice and close, where his short-cropped beard itched your rosy cheek.

“You’re marrying Ivar.”

When Hvitserk looked at him, he knew he was fucked. Ivar swallowed dryly and accepts the wealth of eyes upon him when Oleg steps away. “You see?” he pats Ivar on the shoulder on his way out. “It is that easy.”

He knew that look. He’s been here before. Only this time-- he wanted to shout, rather than explain to his brother, that it wasn’t his fault. You sobbed something out but he only catches the end of it. No, no. Hvitserk knelt before you. Ivar faded into the background of the tawny tent.

He’s fucked.

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer​ @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff​ @affectionrabbitt​ @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim​ @msmorganforever @beyond-the-ashes @queenmissfit @x-valhalla @hissouthernprincess @tierneygonzalez @alicedopey @rekdreams-fandom @athroatfullofglass @supernaturalvikingwhore @laughinglikenialler @ilvebeenabad @mblaqgi @neeadinghugs @gruffle1 @p8tn0lish @lol-haha-joke @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @lovelynerdytraveler @winchesterwife27 @tephi101 @therealmrshale @vikingsmania @igetcarriedawaywithyou @the-geeky-engineer @whatamood13 @strangunddurm @thethyri @peachesnpisces @ms-allenbrown @tempt-ress @isthat-tyra98 @unacceptabletatertots @deathbyarabbit @lisinfleur @therealcalicali

[girlofmanyfandoms]

Kiss It Better

A/n: It’s like two or three days late (under the prompt of cuddles), but it has a decent word count so I’m not too upset with myself! It kinda accidentally turned into a hurt/comfort thing but that helped with ✨plot✨ So it’s okay! Also @titzweek here ya go-

Word count: 3000

Trigger warnings: mention of mild aggression (throwing plates), blood mention (nothing too graphic)

Warnings: it’s not the greatest and also i edited it at like 1 or 2am in the dark so like, maybe errors? Idk

Writing taglist: @everyonehasthoughts @imaramennoodle @bookwyrminspiration  @percabetn @an-absolute-travesty  @linhamon-roll  @a-lonely-tatertot @loverofallthingssmart @vibing-in-the-void @clearlykeefitz @callas-starkflower-stew @enbies-and-felonies

The morning mist held strong, reinforcing gravity and making it even more difficult for Tam to drag himself out of his makeshift bed by the lake. Leaning over the fogged up waters, he wrung out his bangs, combing them back into place with his hands. The water here could hardly be trusted.

“Well,” he grunted as he stood up, patting an old dying tree with a gloved hand. “It was nice seeing you, Wildwood. You take it easy, alright?”

The trees groaned in response, both from age and from the weight of all that it had undergone and seen from the hazy backgrounds of the world. Maybe that was why he cared for Wildwood. It was like him. From the shadows. Ignored until needed. Cast aside when they differ from the norm. To him, he and Wildwood were one and the same. Or at least, they used to be. In the past months, Tam had found what Wildwood could only hope to receive: love.

And as the colors of the sunrise faded into blue, Tam was comforted by that one constant he had in his life. His perfect golden boy there to bring light into his world.

————

As soon as Tam walked into the Vackers’ territory, he was yanked to the side, knocking the breath from his chest. He prepared for a fight, but upon seeing a stylized sparkling fabric blinking in and out of sight, he relaxed just a bit.

“What the hell, B? I thought you were trying to attack me.”

“Quiet,” Biana scolded, finally coming into view. Her annoyed expression quickly changed to fear and dread as a shattering sound echoes across the stone walls of the extensive landscape. Biana shut her eyes and winced noticeably. “He’s been at that ever since Dad stormed off.”

“Rough day?”

“I guess you could say that.” Biana bit her lip. “Mom went after Dad after he yelled at us.”

“But the two of you are okay, right?”

“I’m alright. It’s Fitz I’m worried about,” she admitted. “I’ve been too scared to go up to him because of… well, you know.” Biana’s thumb traced over her scars absentmindedly.

Tam squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “Hey, you did what you could. It’s not your job to stop him from doing something irrational, and you’re not expected to do something that’ll trigger you. I’ll go after him.”

“Tam, it’s fine, I’ll do it-”

“I’ll go after him, you get some rest.”

“Only if you promise to be careful,” she warned. “Use your cloak as a shield, so that you don’t get caught in the crossfire of his throws. And put your gloves back on!”

Tam slipped off his gloves and tossed them behind his back without a second thought. He dropped his cloak in a similar fashion, only going back to fold it neatly and add it to the pile. “I’ll be fine.”

“Tam, you know how he gets when he’s upset. The rage, it blinds him, it blurs anything and everything around him to the point where the only he knows is that fire of hate. He’s not going to register that it’s you approaching him.”

“I’m his boyfriend,” Tam pointed out in an exasperated manner. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

“Isn’t that a shame.”

Biana huffed, rubbing the crease between her brows. “You’re just as stubborn as he is.”

“Don’t they say that birds of a feather flock together?” Tam asked, walking backwards and opening his arms in a gesture that said That’s just how it is.

“Yeah, until the cat comes,” she shot back.

“Then let’s hope that cat doesn’t arrive.”

“You two idiots deserve each other!” she cried in one last attempt to get him to turn back.

“Thank you!” he called back, already headed towards the horizon.

Biana sank to the floor, scowling as she dragged Tam’s belongings closer to her for protection. “Dense fool,” she muttered. But Tam was already out of sight.

--------

Tam approached the area in a calm stroll, but as he drew nearer, the cold dread that Biana had described filled him and dragged him back, just like the familiar, addictive pull of the shadows. They gathered at his feet, shadowflux begging to be called on, but Tam was far too busy trying to calculate a way to coax his boyfriend into putting the crystal dishes down.

He was like a rampant bull, hurling plate after plate at the wall. His hands had small cuts, but overall he seemed to be unscathed despite the several hours this had clearly been going on. Tam avoided clumps of shattered pieces so as not to startle him. While his movements proved to make him a berserker, it was also an art. One slight decibel off might send him on the attacking side.

“Fitz!” Tam shouted. He didn’t even glance his way. “FITZ!” Still no response. He just kept on launching silverware as far as he could. Tam sighed. He didn’t want it to come down to this, but if Biana had waited hours just for him to show up and put an end to this, he was not going to let her down. He seized the tendrils of shadows that had been itching to be used and directed all of his focus towards the cup about to be thrown with the hope that if he used his ability instead of telekinesis, he would recognize his beloved.

Shiiiing!

Fitz immediately put his hands over his mouth in shock and guilt, rushing over to check the damage.

Tam cupped his hand, blood gushing from the wound like a river. “Guess you ran out of throwing stars, huh?” he joked halfheartedly, wincing as he applied pressure to the cut.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so dumb.” Fitz ripped off a sleeve from his shirt to wrap around the slice in his partner’s hand. He cupped Tam’s cheek, the boy gladly moving towards the physical affection. “I’m so sorry, Tammy.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t mean to do it,” he replied nonchalantly. Upon seeing the great panic spreading through Fitz’s person, he took a more gentle approach. “Hey, it’s okay. You’ve had a bad day and you just made a mistake, and I forgive you.”

“I hurt you.” Fitz’s voice cracked, and it became evident that Tam’s words had gone over his head. Fitz scooped Tam up in his arms and raced into the house.

“Relax, golden boy.” Tam rolled his eyes, but even he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed the attentiveness he was being given. “It’s just a little cut, it’ll heal.”

Fitz scrambled through the drawers until he found the bandages, a Bottle of Youth, and the antibiotic ointment. From there, his panic switched to precision, first rinsing the wound, then applying the ointment, then wrapping the gauze bandage. It was a completely different side of him, one that would sacrifice the world for the ones that he loved. And despite Tam’s rough exterior, he couldn’t help but lean his head on his other hand in admiration.

Once he had finished, Fitz sat on the bar stool next to Tam’s and combed through his rosy pink locks in distress. Tam nudged his shoulder with his nose several times, earning him a side hug and a kiss to the cheek, but no words other than the repeated apologies and self-deprecating phrases.

“Babe,” Tam said helplessly. “Let’s go upstairs at least, so we can talk about this privately.”

Fitz nodded, letting him lead the way. He was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he didn’t notice when Tam had tucked him into bed and wrapped an arm around him, burying his face in his neck.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Fitz mumbled again. Tears welled up in his eyes, and Tam used his abled hand to wipe them.

“I told you it’s forgiven,” Tam gently reminded him. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Not the Vackers,” he countered, sniffling. “We always have to keep up our reputation, keep on smiling and charming everyone just to go to the store. I can’t go anywhere without people expecting me to be the perfect golden boy.”

“No one is perfect. We’re all flawed and traumatized and hurt, and we make stupid decisions because of them. You’re a kid, Fitz, it’s not your job to hold your family together.”

“I guess. But Biana…” he sighed, pulling Tam closer as he facepalmed in guilt. “I shouldn’t have done that with her here. And how am I supposed to clean up the yard before Mom gets back?”

“Don’t worry about that, the gnomes are already on it,” he coaxed. “And Biana understands. You can talk to her later. For now, the golden boy needs to rest.”

“I can’t,” Fitz protested, trying to get up. Tam flipped himself over him, ending up besides Fitzroy once more. “Tam, I have to take care of you, and help the gnomes, and apologize to Biana, and-”

“And all of that can wait until tomorrow,” Tam finished for him. “Except me, of course.”

Fitz laughed, a real, rich laugh, and he could tell that it was the first time he had done that in a while. “I’m guessing you want me to stay here all day, all night?”

“Well, I do need medical and physical attention you know.”

He kissed Tam’s nose, making him blush furiously. “Well then, I guess I’ve got to cancel my plans. But seriously, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“You could kiss it better,” Tam suggested cheekily.

Fitz said no more, gingerly taking his wrapped hand and peppering kisses around where he knew the injury to be. He trailed them up his arms and neck until he finally met his lips.

“I am really sorry, babe. That got all out of control. My father, he… he’s done some messed up things to this family, and as the proclaimed ‘Gifted Child,’ I felt responsible for stepping in. And like everything else, I ruined it.”

“You don’t realize that the good you do purposely outweighs the slip-ups you make along the way.”

“This was more than a slip-up, Tam. I became a monster, something I’ve never seen before. I was a violent beast that lost control, all because my Dad yelled at me for being a ‘disgrace to the Vackers’ for being gay. And because of that stupidity, I hurt you, and scared Biana outside of that.”

Tam’s eyes widened with shock. “Wait, you got angry because you were protecting me?”

“Well, yeah, of course. My father can drag me down all he wants, but he’s not touching the people that I love.”

“Love?”

“I-I’m sorry, I should’ve known you weren’t ready-”

“I love you too.”

“I- Wait, really?”

“Duh,” Tam chuckled, before his expression grew shadowed and weary. “Besides… we all have a dark side. I know I’d do anything for the people I care about.”

“What does yours look like?” Fitz asked. “Your dark side, I mean.”

He smiled bitterly, shadows of his past trauma flashes before his eyes in a relentless, rough grip. “You don’t want to know that part of me.”

“Babe, I want to know every side of you.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Of course,” Fitz grinned eagerly. “I want to know everything you’re willing to share.”

“Then cuddle with me. Get to know another part of me.”

Fitzroy rested his chin on Tam’s chest and brushed his bangs away from his eyes, just as his own were dancing with glee. “Gladly.”

—————

Tam woke up to a loud series of sharp knocks on the bedroom door.

“Your breakfast is gonna get cold,” a feminine voice told him.

He inhaled sharply and ruffled his hair, using his tunic to rub his eyes, all in an attempt to focus on the figure leaning against the doorframe.

“C’mon, it’s past noon.”

Tam bolted upright, rushing to the bedside to pull his boots on. It could’ve been Fitz calling to him, but his mind was cloudy, warping any and all audio that reached his ears.

“I knew that would get you up,” the voice snickered. “Fitz told me to get you up in time for breakfast in bed.”

Tam chanced a glance up to see if his vision had finally cleared. Yup, definitely not Fitz. “Oh hey, B. I take it you and your brother talked?”

She nodded, arms still crossed tightly around her lilac fleece-like pullover for warmth. “Came running to me and went on his whole apology speech once you passed out. It was dorky, but it was also very… him. If that makes any sense.”

“It does.” He took a moment to inspect the tray and found a neatly folded piece of paper. A note from him. He read through it as Biana kept talking.

Good morning dearest, I just wanted to leave you this note to remind you that I love you and to apologize once again.

“When I saw him rush outside a few minutes after Mom left with an armful of tupperware, I was confused, but when he started throwing them in the yard, I was terrified for him. He’s lost control, but never like that. I felt powerless.”

“You did what you could, no one can ask you for more,” he mumbled.

“I stood to the side and waited for his boyfriend to come and stop him, and he wound up getting hurt. Real brave on my end.”

“It’s not being brave you should be aiming for, it’s doing what you need to do in order to protect the people you live for.”

I’m sorry. I know you’ll probably tell me not to apologize, but I really needed to get that out there in ink. Thank you for being there for Biana, I don’t know how I would live with myself if I had traumatized her or made her feel unsafe around me, but we talked for a bit and she helped me find better coping mechanisms, so all is forgiven. Well, as long as I give her my desserts for this month.

“I don’t think I did that yesterday. I chose the coward’s path.”

“You took the wise path, and you protected number one,” Tam corrected. “You know your brother better than anyone, and you knew the right choice was to let him blow off some steam until someone who wasn’t present when everything went down could talk him out of it. That was brave, and I think it’s quite admirable, too.”

“I guess you’re right.” She sighed, pulling her hair into a messy ponytail to give her hands something to do. “Still, I’m sorry about your hand.”

Tam waved it off. “I’ve gotten enough Vacker apologies over that. There’s no need.”

“If you say so.”

You were completely understanding last night, even while I was breaking down. You guided me through everything, and you were there for me, even when I couldn’t be there for myself. Thank you for being there. For letting me shadow you until I could be whole and healed again.

“You’re good for him,” Biana blurted out abruptly.

Tam furrowed his brows, sure he heard that wrong. “I’m what?”

“I said that you’re good for him. Fitz. I meant what I said when I told you that you two idiots deserve each other.”

“Thank you,” he breathed in shock.

“Remember the idiot part and don’t let it get to your head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You are my healing darkness. No, not light. Darkness. Because I never understood why darkness was so demonized. Shadows are what keep you cool on a hot summer’s evening, what provides cover from the rain, and what puts you to sleep at night. The color black is as natural as the air flowing into our lungs, the blood circulating through our bodies, and the dirt under our feet. So when I think of darkness, I don’t think of fear; I think of hope. I think of you.

“You better not hurt him.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m serious, Tam. I know it sounds hypocritical considering what happened to you yesterday, but I’m just as protective of Fitz as you are of Linh. Understood?”

“Yes, Ms. Vacker.”

Biana relaxed a bit at the confirmation. “You promise to look after him?”

“I promise,” he agreed.

Y’know, when you called me golden boy, it got me thinking. Gold is the weakest metal, and for a while I thought the nickname fit me perfectly. A boy who was seen as the perfect, charming, valuable golden boy who could break in the blink of an eye. But the more I was with you, the more I thought about it. If shadows were misunderstood, maybe gold was too. And here’s the thing: gold doesn’t rust. You can break it and bend it and try all you want to ruin its life, but no matter what, you can’t make it rust. And second to you, that is the strongest thing I can imagine. So for you, I’ll stay strong. I won’t give up. I won’t rust.

“One last thing before I leave you alone.”

“Go right ahead.” Tam let himself free fall onto the mountain of pillows behind him, note still in hand.

“Don’t take advantage of him. He may be a pain in my neck, but he’s valuable,” Biana mentioned, clearly having so much more to say. “You’re… incredibly lucky to have him.”

So let’s work jointly on this. On healing. I’ll be your gold, strong when you’re weak. And you’ll be my darkness, always there for me. But we have to do this together. I’m willing to take a leap of faith if you are. All of my trust lies in you, and I hope you’ll pay me the same honor. So what do you say? Circle yes or no and meet me by Moonglade with your response. Last I remember, I still have to kiss it better.

With love,

Fitzroy

Tam picked up the pen tied to the tray and circled yes without hesitation. “I must be the luckiest man in the world.”

[littlemisslol-fic]

Summary: Two years after the events of Barviel Keep, Varian has tried to adapt to the expectations brought by being a King’s Ward, with mixed results. Haunted by ghosts, Varian is forced to face the demons he tried to leave behind in Bayangor when his abdication is forcibly stopped by a third party, out for revenge against the Bayan Royal bloodline. On the run, with few allies left to turn to, Varian finds himself chasing a ghost through a series of tests that only a true heir of Demanitus could ever hope to pass.But the shadows are ever present, looming and dark, and not everything is as simple as it might seem.

Notes: One problem gets dealt with. Another gets worse.

The woods were quiet.

Varian scowled as he shoved at a branch, stalking down the path. The letter in his hand was nearly crumbled from how hard he was holding it, balled up tightly. He winced when he realized how it was starting to tear, finally slowing his pace.

He’d left Rapunzel and Eugene behind. Eugene had put himself between Rapunzel and Varian before she could chase after him, not that Varian had taken the time to really look. The alchemist wasn’t sure if that was a good thing- on the one hand, he definitely needed the space, but on the other he was now alone in an unfamiliar area with who knows how many Bayan operatives skulking around. He needed to slow down, get his bearings. To take a breath.

Varian sighed, stopping in a small grove in the woods. He huffed for air, wheezing at finally taking a break. He didn’t know how long he’d been running, at least half an hour, but it felt like longer. His lungs burned, even as he choked air back into his chest through gasping breaths.

Tears stung at his eyes, but he pushed them away. He’d done enough crying, by the Sun, he was sick of it. Varian rubbed at his face with his free hand, shaking his head. The sting of Rapunzel’s betrayal was still fresh, a somber pain deep in his chest that refused to leave. He couldn’t believe that Rapunzel had been hiding this the whole time, while he’d been suffering, desperate for answers after all this time, and she’d taken them from him. She, he knew, would have denied him the truth so long as he was protected, just as she let Corona burn while they ran.

Something in Varian’s stomach curdled at the thought. He wiped at his face again, ignoring how the rough fabric of his cloak rubbed at the skin. He felt stupid; in the time since he left Barviel Keep, he’d spent so long wallowing in his own misery he’d failed to see an extremely dangerous anxiety growing in Rapunzel- and now it was coming to bite him.

It was high noon, the sun weak through the clouds as it tried to break through the treeline. Varian sighed as he walked into the glen in front of him, an open, grassy space surrounding a massive, gnarled willow tree on the bank of a small creek. The alchemist kicked at the dirt under his boots, shaking his head and making his way to the base of the tree. He twisted around, gently falling back against the bark, and sliding down until he was curled at the base of the tree, nearly hidden by the massive roots poking out from the earth.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, taking a second to compose himself. He wasn’t sure what exactly his plan was- he’d never been to the Wildshore Isles, had no idea how to even get there, but it wasn’t like he’d go anywhere else. He pushed a niggling sense of doubt away, shoved it as deep into the back of his mind as he could, and looked back down to the note.

It was basic, simple parchment and elegant script in smudging ink. He read it over once more, shaking his head at the audacity of his sister hiding this from him. He couldn’t help but feel a small splash of guilt at the memory of her heartbroken face, but shoved it right next to the doubt to fester. He was making his own path now, and damn the rest of it. The brook to his left babbled quietly, a soft song that whispered through the trees. It was almost loud enough for Varian to miss the sound of twigs snapping nearby.

Almost.

Varian’s hand flew for his alchemy belt, grabbing one of his bombs. He felt himself tense, fear skuttling up his spine. Varian tightened his grip on the glass, cursing himself for stopping- stupid, stupid, he wasn’t safe here- as a familiar pair of green eyes glowed from within the darkness of the forest.

Rapunzel gasped as she burst through the trees, her hair a mess and her dress dirty. Eugene was close behind, the man obviously relaxing once he caught sight of Varian. Rapunzel moved from the forest, her eyes wide with relief. Varian let his arm drop at the sight of his sister, though the glare stayed. Rapunzel rushed to him, her dress almost a blur.

“Varian,” she sighed, putting her hands over her chest to calm her breathing. “Thank the Sun, we found you.”

Varian scowled, refusing to stand up from where he was hidden in the roots. “Yeah,” he griped, “You found me.”

She paused, stopping at the center of the glen. Her dress swished around her for a second, revealing Ruddiger at her heels. The raccoon chirped with delight at seeing his boy, the animal running along the grass to park himself in Varian’s lap. Rapunzel’s face fell when she saw that Varian was still upset, but she bit her lip and pressed forward. Typical, an angry voice in Varian’s head whispered.

“Varian I-” she cut herself off, her hands dropping to her sides. “I am so sorry.”

The boy only scowled, tears he’d just managed to brush away returning in full force. “That’s great for you,” he said, “But it doesn’t fix this. What you did- what you said.”

Rapunzel looked hurt, green eyes blinking away tears of her own. “I… I know,” she said softly. “I know, it won’t magically fix things. But please, Varian, we have to deal with this once you’re safe.”

Varian felt himself uncurl a bit, meeting her eye a little more as she went on.

“I’m sorry,” Rapunzel said, her voice thick. “Varian, really, I am. I just wanted to protect you.”

The boy scoffed, shrinking back into himself. Rapunzel seemed to notice him closing off, brazenly stepping closer. Her bare feet were silent in the grove, like a ghost. Varian felt the sudden urge to kick at her ankles when she got in range, but shoved the impulse down. Even if he were upset, it wouldn’t be right. Rapunzel sank to her knees so that they were eye to eye. Varian was struck by a feeling of familiarity, of the two of them hiding away in the depths of Corona Castle together, the chill of the earth easy to mistake as the cool touch of polished tile. He shook himself, trying to cling to the feeling of bitterness in him- lest he sink back into the terrified apathy he’d been in since the beginning of his birthday.

Varian moved back when she reached for him. Rapunzel shook her head, trying again and succeeding in taking his hand the second time.

“We need to keep moving.” She sounded close to begging. “Even if-” A heavy sigh, “Even if that means going to the Wildshore Isles, like you want.”

Varian’s head snapped up, eyes widening. “You mean…” he trailed off, unbelieving. Rapunzel nodded, the motioning seeming to pain her. Eugene’s face broke into a small smile behind her, obviously approving.

“If you’re sureyou want to chase this, then that’s where we’ll go,” she said.

Varian felt his lungs twist, the boy sniffling. “I want to,” he said it hesitantly, like he was afraid to say so. “I need… even if she’s just as bad, she might be all that’s left. I need to know. I want that closure.”

Rapunzel winced when he said so, but didn’t argue. Eugene stepped up then, putting a hand on her shoulder and offering the other to Varian.

“Alright kids,” Eugene said, “Glad we got to kiss and make up, but we really should be taking this show on the road.”

Varian huffed, taking his hand and letting Eugene pull him to his feet. Rapunzel followed, wiping at her eyes. The boy shifted from her grip, keeping Eugene between them for now. Varian couldn’t help but still want distance from her, the sting still fresh even with the apology, but it was when he shifted to the side, he saw something move in the woods beyond.

“Look out!” he screamed, shoving Rapunzel roughly to the side. Varian toppled as well, landing a bit to the left. She yelped as she hit the dirt, but the noise wasn’t enough to cover up the loud thwack of a blade embedding itself into the bark of the tree. Eugene let out a shocked shout, the knife having missed him by a hair. All three of them snapped their heads towards the woods, eyes widening in shock as Cerise stood from a lunge, her hand outstretched from throwing the blade.

“Shit.” she sighed. “Must be rusty. Oh well.” She reached behind her, bringing her halberd out from its place on her back. Varian’s heart sank at the heavy thudit made as she settled it in the dirt. Cerise grinned, rolling her shoulders casually as she fixed them with a smug look.

“Who’s ready for round two?”

There was a split second of silence, the four of them staring at each other, waiting for the other side to make a move. Rapunzel had her frying pan ready at her side, Eugene had his sword. Varian’s glove tightened around his last bomb- he couldn’t help but feel underprepared for a fight. The silence stretched, thick like molasses; Varian started to worry no one would ever make the first move.

But Cerise, it seemed, was out of patience.

With a small cry of exertion she ripped the halberd from the ground, running toward the Coronians. Eugene let out a startled noise, moving himself between her and his prone charges. Varian scrambled to his feet, a hand already on his alchemy belt, and looked over just in time to see Cerise stab the axe end of her halberd into the earth, using the momentum of her run to use it almost like a pole vault. She launched herself into the air, her cloak flaring out behind her like bat’s wings that blocked out the sun for a quick second, before landing both feet on Eugene’s shoulders, the man yelping as she used him as a jumping point. Her grip on the halberd never faltered, dragging it behind her as he sprung into the air.

He hit the ground with an oof, knocked to the dirt from the force of her jump. She landed in front of Rapunzel and Varian in a crouch, taking a second to blow a wayward piece of hair from her face. When she stood, Varian felt himself tense. Cerise stood, shifting her weight once onto her heels with a little bounce.

With that, she swung the halberd around, sending Varian backpedaling with a yelp. Rapunzel shot to her feet at long last, only to be smacked to the side by the blunt edge of the axe. She shrieked as she was batted away, being thrown a good few feet and back into the dirt. Ruddiger screeched, disappearing into the treeline, knowing better than to stick around.

Varian winced, his hand tightening on his final goo bomb. He chanced a wide-eyed look up to Cerise, who seemed to be over even trying to play around at this point, and threw the bomb. The Bayan woman seemed to have figured out his tricks, however, and it too was swatted away by the halberd, launching it to the side and- Varian noticed with a grimace- hitting Eugene head on, trapping the man flat on his back with the sticky chemical.

Eugene let out an indignant cry at that, something about his hair and dirt, but Varian was too busy being forced to duck as the halberd, now with the blade pointed towards him, was swung back around. He hit the dirt with a gasp, curling into himself as the blade embedded itself in the tree trunk behind him.

Varian heard Cerise snarl, something in a language he’d never spoken, and took the chance to push himself off the ground and around her, dodging a grab when he did so. He ran to Rapunzel first, trying to pull her to her feet. She shoved him back gently, shaking her head.

“GO!” She screamed at him, her voice echoing. “We’ll handle this, just go!”

Varian stumbled back, his gaze flicking between Rapunzel and where Cerise was pulling at her halberd in an attempt to get it unstuck. “I can’t just-” he started to say, only for Eugene to butt in from behind.

“Kid, we love you, but get outta here!”

That was enough to get Varian moving again, shoving a vial into Rapunzel’s hands. It was neutralizing agent, which he was confident she knew, and took the second to look at her. She caught his eye, getting to her feet and shaking herself.

“We’ll find you once this is done.” Rapunzel muttered, running past him to get to Eugene. Varian didn’t take the second to think, his feet moving without thought. The treeline opened up around him, the boy sprinting for the brook without thought. At least if he followed the water he’d be able to find his way back.

Varian sprinted along the bank of the river, his boots sinking into the damn earth and causing him to stumble a few times. He cursed when he nearly twisted an ankle, only just catching himself on a knee before pushing his weary bones back into a run. His lungs burned, his tired legs pumping as hard as he could force them. He was exhausted, from the run earlier in the afternoon but also just from the past week in general- Varian forced air down in a gasp, nearly tripping again and sliding in the mud.

The ground began to rise in front of him, turning into something of a ramp taking him up, up, up and into a gorge. Before he realized it, Varian found himself on a high footpath along the stone wall, the creek having turned into a rushing river nearly forty meters below. Varian shuddered when he caught sight of how far up he’d managed to run, forcing himself to pay attention to the thin path in front of him.

He felt like a coward for running, but at the same time he knew Rapunzel and Eugene were right on this one. It was wise to get Cerise’s target away from her and give the heavier hitters have more space to work. It was smarter, sure, but as he felt his body slow from the exhaustion creeping in, his stomach churned. What if his family got hurt, and he wasn’t there? He had full confidence that Rapunzel and Eugene could take their Bayan opponent, but she was still formidable enough, and it was obvious that Cerise had started to learn their tricks.

He slowed to a walk, gasping for breath through his aching lungs. His legs hurt, mostly around the knees and ankles after the rough week. He wiped sweat from his face, trying in vain to rub the salt from his eyes. His ears perked up at the sound of moving stones from the path, the snapping of twigs. He listened, trying to pinpoint the noise, and tensing when he realized what hey were.

Footsteps.

He turned around, looking down the path he’d come from, foolishly hoping to see Rapunzel or Eugene coming up behind him, but only groaned when he caught sight of black hair. Of course.

“You’ve gotta- ugh- gotta be kidding me,” he sighed in between panting breaths.

Cerise seemed to have lost her halberd somewhere along the line. Her hair was a frazzled mess, and she had a horrible bruise started on the side of her face. She caught sight of Varian, and seemed to run even faster- Varian stepped back with a yelp, already turning to run farther down the path. She must have seen him following the river, of course.

“Get back here you little shit!” He heard the Bayan woman scream at him, sounding nearly feral with rage as he ran. She also sounded much closer than he thought she was, and he spurred his aching legs to work double time.

The canyon around him was becoming taller by the second, covered in thick foliage, creeping ivy and stubborn trees, and far below the river grew more and more violent. Up ahead was a fallen tree trunk, the thick column spanning across the cliffs and creating a bridge of sorts. It was wrapped in ivy and vines, grown over with foliage. Varian’s heart sank when he saw it, knowing exactly what it was.

An opportunity.

If he could just get across before her, find a way to dislodge it- he’d have time to get back to Rapunzel and Eugene before Cerise could make it around the gorge. He groaned, forcing himself to run faster toward it. Stones clattered when he ran by, dropping the long fall into the water below. He tried to ignore how long it took for them to hit the ground.

Gods, this is the worst, he thought to himself, the absolute worst.

The log drew close; Varian didn’t bother to stop before he jumped up onto it. He grit his teeth as it wobbled under him, rolling nauseatingly to the side a bit before settling back in its place. He threw his hands out to either side, his balance absolute crap as he took the first few shaky steps on the bark.

It was about ten meters to the other side. Varian shuddered when the wind blew past him, making his footwork falter in a way that sent his heart into his throat. He chanced a look down, tensing up and nearly screaming at the sight of the drop below. The log gave a sickening creak, rocking in place again.

Varian was forced to windmill his arms to keep balanced, stopping so that he could regain balance. Bile rose as the log settled, but he choked it down.

“Don’t look down,” he muttered, “Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down-”

He looked down.

The makeshift bridge shuddered again. Varian chanced a look behind him, and saw Cerise step up and onto his little platform. Shit. The alchemist was only halfway across. Cerise was still for a second, seeming to gauge how good of an idea stepping fully off solid earth was, before looking up at him with a scowl.

“Are we really going to play this game?” she asked, “This seems like a hell of a gamble, crow.”

The log swayed again, but Varian stood his ground.

“Worth a shot,” he replied, already cautiously taking a step backward, never breaking eye contact with her. Cerise responded by taking another step, mirroring his movements. They went like that, back and forth, until she was fully onto the log and over the gaping maw of the gorge. She was putting up a brave front, but Varian could see a tenseness of her shoulders and the way her eyes darted between him and the drop below them both.

They reached another stalemate, both of them waiting for the other to make a move. Varian knew she wasn’t out to kill him- she’d had enough chances to murder him and every time she’d aimed to get him back to Corona, just like her brother. Why they wanted him alive, Varian didn’t know, but he was willing to bet it was important enough to keep her from sending them both down to a watery grave.

He wasn’t sure what to do, barely able to think over his racing heart- he’d wanted to knock the log away after crossing but Varian wasn’t sure if he was capable of doing so while someone, even someone out to hurt him, stood on it. The log wobbled under him again; both of them swayed a bit to keep their balance. The wood under them let out a terrifying groan, and began to shake.

Varian hissed when the shaking didn’t stop, and with horror he looked behind himself to where their bridge was connected to the stone. With a sinking feeling he saw the ivy begin to snap, and the whole structure begin to slide.

“Oh no,” he gasped, stepping back. Cerise looked around him, her stance going horrified when the log slipped down a level, jostling them both.

”Shit!” she yelped, ducking down on her knees to grab at the log with her hands. Varian mirrored her, lost as to what to do, trying to slowly scramble toward her- he had to get the hell off this thing before-

Snap.

Varian shrieked as the one end of the log dropped, sending their bridge pointing directly down into the chasm. He felt his stomach swoop out from under him as his side of the log fell, swinging like the worst pendulum in the history of man. He clung to the bark with all the strength left in him, his aching fingers surely bloody with how tightly he was clinging.

Cerise wasn’t faring much better, having slipped a bit down the log until catching a foothold closer to Varian. He could see the way she gnashed her teeth against the pain. The log swayed, held up only by a series of clinging vines and a dash of terrified prayers.

Varian was the first to move, raising a shaking hand up to grab onto a branch above him. He managed to snag it, hesitantly pulling himself up a little more. Cerise seemed to get what his plan was, the woman spitting out a curse. Varian flinched when she too grabbed another branch, reaching into her boot with her free hand.

His heart sank as she pulled out a small dagger from her boot, the metal shining in the weak sun.

He nearly fell when she swiped at him, forcing Varian to grab onto another branch. His sweaty hands almost slipped, his gloves the only thing keeping his grip on the rotting bark of the tree. Another gust of wind sent them spinning, their log twisting and swinging in a way that made Varian motion sick. Cerise seemed unaffected as she took another swing with the dagger, narrowly missing as Varian shuffled his way onto another branch. Her blade sliced through a vine cleanly, causing it to fall away from the tree.

He chanced a look behind him, seeing the insane glint in her eye. A line of ruby red blood dripped from her temple down into her eye, coating nearly half her face and pasting whisps of hair to her face.

“I’m donewith this,” she snarled, moving after him like a hunter after prey. She took another swing when she was close enough, the blade of the knife catching Varian’s arm. He shouted at the burning pain of the slice as it cut cleanly through Quirin’s cloak and into his skin, but the cry was cut off as he saw her knife go through another vine.

The tree gave an unhappy groan, sinking a bit. Varian felt ice cold fear creep up his spine, looking up towards where the other vines were keeping them attached to the cliff were taut and strained with the weight.

“Stop,” his breath was a whisper, choked as he tried to push air past the knot in his throat. “Stop!”

Cerise raised her blade high, either unaware or uncaring of what he was saying. Varian scrambled for a higher foothold, grabbing a branch higher up and tucking his knees up against his chest to keep the blade from him. The cut in his arm burned, his fingers ached, but all of that faded to the sound of another swishof a vine being cut.

“You’re going to kill us!” he gasped, scrambling higher along the tree. Cerise followed, snarling like a beast. Varian felt another cut, this time on his leg, and screamed again. He kicked at the woman, wincing when his boot connected with her nose. She fell away with a yowl, catching herself on her branch as she held her nose. Her knife dropped, disappearing quickly into the water forty feet below. Varian took the chance, moving away while she was distracted.

He was close to the top when he heard another long groan from the log, followed by a small snap. Blue eyes widened in horror when he saw another vine give way, not cut, but snapped under the pressure of holding them up over the long drop. He watched with terror as the vine fell, following Cerise’s knife in dropping into the raging water.

Varian scrambled for the top safety and caution thrown to the wind, just wanting to get out. He was nearly to the top when he felt a hand grab at his boot. Blue eyes frantically looked down, seeing Cerise clinging to his ankle with a steel grip.

He swung his foot again; Cerise let go to avoid another kick to the face. Varian pulled himself up another foot- the edge of the cliff was right there- and managed to get a hand on the uppermost branch of the tree when another vine snapped.

Varian grabbed hold of the rockface, the breath in him leaving with a huff of relief as he finally grabbed something solid. Another vine let go with a horrifying groan; the tree began to slip, falling a good few feet down. Varian felt a pulse of terror at that, his feet leaving the wood as the tree dropped away from under him. The tree swung away, spinning once more as a few more vines let go.

Varian twisted to look down, swallowing bile at the sight of the drop. He caught site of glowing green eyes through the foliage of the tree, wide and furious. Before he could think, Varian was reaching down with his free hand, his shoulders straining and his feet digging into the stone wall.

“It’s going to fall!” he screamed, stretching as far as he could push himself. Even if she was out to kill him, she was still a person-

Another vine snapped.

And the tree dropped.

Varian shrieked as the broken vine smacked his hand, hard enough to surely bruise. He winced and drew his hand back, eyes slamming shut against the pain. In that split second things were nearly silent, save for a small whoosh but then- with a noise like snapping bone- a massive crack of wood against stone.

When he opened his eyes again, the tree was shattered against the rocks. Wood splinters littered the water, which had turned a sickening red; the colour spread like an illness, changing white and blue to ruby without preamble.

Varian was unable to tear his eyes away, scanning the wreckage for any sight of Cerise. She’d just- not even a scream- dropped like a stone-

Varian felt his chest hitch roughly as a body floated to the surface. His heart stopped. The boy’s arms were shaking not from exertion, but from primal horror. He watched Cerise’s corpse float a few feet from the wreckage of the tree, coming to rest on the bank. Blood, fresh and deep red, flowed freely along the water, staining the white sand crimson.

The alchemist bit at his lip, forcing himself to turn away. He bullied his aching arms to pull himself up and over the edge of the cliff, the wave of panic only just slowing when he had solid ground under him. He lay flat on his stomach for a second, forcing himself to breathe his way through the adrenaline rushing through his system.

He trembled, rolling onto his hands and knees, unable to shake the image of the corpse below from his mind. He retched, though nothing came up from his empty stomach. His whole body shook violently, harsh tremors that rattled his entire frame. She was dead, and he was to blame for it. He’d killed a second person.

The river below continued to rush by, loud in the deathly silence that surrounded him. Varian’s trembling fingers gripped the stones under him, a tight hold that surely turned his knuckles white under the gloves. The shock of it was immense, a wave of terror that refused to abate no matter how long it had been since the danger had passed-

“Varian!”

Eugene.

Varian didn’t look up at the familiar voice, his eyes locked onto the dirt. He didn’t move when hands fell on his shoulders, shaking him lightly, nor when Eugene’s voice grew more frantic. Varian felt like he was underwater, the noise around him filtering away and the world smudging- everything spun, his soupy thoughts unable to make connections with anything. His head nodded a bit… oh, Eugene was shaking him. Varian blinked slowly, looking up to the man with a blank face. Eugene’s face was pale, obviously shaken. He said something, but the words filtered through Varian’s mind without sticking.

The boy focused on the direct center of Eugene’s face, not registering. The man shook him again, slightly rougher, but still Varian did not respond. Something in him couldn’t, wouldn’t; if he opened his mouth, he’d surely vomit. His stomach rolled again, but Varian forced it down- Eugene surely wouldn’t appreciate sick on his jacket.

The man finally seemed to give up, releasing Varian and pushing to his feet to peer over the edge. Eugene made a disgusted noise when he saw the corpse Varian had put there. The boy gagged again at the thought, spitting into the soil to rid his mouth of the foul taste.

Eugene moved back to the boy, spreading a hand in between his shoulders in a move that was probably supposed to be comforting.

“Varian,” he said, soothing, “Buddy, we should go. This isn’t a good place to be.”

The boy shuddered, shaking his head. His knees were like jelly, trembling and weak; if he weren’t already kneeling, they’d surely give out from under him. Varian spat the taste of bile from his mouth.

Eugene was in front of him again, his voice swimming in and out of comprehension.

“-go, get away-”

“-Rapunzel-”

“-Varian.”

That caught his attention.

Varian forced his eyes up from looking at the dirt, blinking dazedly as Eugene’s hands came back to rest on his shoulders. The man seemed disturbed, eyes wide and frantic. The man shook him gently, but Varian still didn’t reply. Eugene switched tactics, holding his arms out and wrapping Varian in a gentle hug, his movements slow, like he was approaching a spooked animal. When the alchemist didn’t pull away, he tugged the boy closer, holding him tightly.

Varian forced a hand away from the dirt, grabbing onto Eugene’s coat with a sudden purpose. His fingers dug into the fabric of the jacket, a vice grip that trembled as Varian sank into the man’s hold with a sob.

“Oh, shit, hey kid,” Eugene murmured, “You’re okay, it’s over.”

Varian could feel hot tears trailing down his face, the adrenaline and fear leaving his body and leaving only a hollow feeling. He gasped for air, burying his face into the front of Eugene’s jacket and refusing to look up. Varian felt arms wrap around him, supporting and calm.

“Let it out, bud.” Eugene murmured, placating.

Varian barely registered when Eugene scooped him up off the ground. If it were any other time he’d be surprised- Varian may be short but he didn’t think he was that light- but for now he only felt a strange numbness. It was similar to how he’d felt after Barviel Keep, but less intense.

Less biting.

He buried his face into his friend’s chest, letting himself be carried for a while. It felt… nice, to be honest, to be wrapped up and held tightly, to not have to think, to run, to work. Thick arms around him, ones he knew wouldn’t let him fall, safe and warm. Varian’s breathing began to even out, shuddering gasps relaxing into deep sniffles.

He drifted, adrenaline leaving as quickly as it had come. Varian shuddered, pressing closer into Eugene’s shoulder. He didn’t notice as the scenery changed, the cliffs disappearing and slowly filtering back into forest, only to thin once more. The sound of waves were audible, a gentle lap that was in sync with the rocking of Eugene’s footsteps. Varian kept his eyes closed, letting his shaking hands relax from their death grip on his friend’s shirt.

He was nearly asleep when Eugene stopped.

Varian cracked his eye open, wincing at the bright sun. They were out of the forest, on a sandy beach. There was a large body of water in front of them, one that Varian knew eventually connected to Corona’s bay. He sniffed again, the fresh air helping to clear his head. Eugene’s arms hugged him a little tighter, not constricting, but solid.

“Rapunzel?” he called down the shoreline, and his grip on Varian tightened marginally when the boy tensed up at the name. Varian shifted, moving to look down the sand. He blinked away the sunlight, noticing an approaching figure.

“Eugene,” Rapunzel’s voice filtered through the buzzing in his skull. “Varian! Thank the Sun, you’re okay!”

“We’re fine,” Eugene soothed. Rapunzel’s figure came closer, her hands lifting up towards Varian’s face only to stop when the boy flinched away. Varian began to squirm, pushing at Eugene until the man set him down on wobbly legs.

“Sure,” he sighed, “Fine. Let’s go with that.”

Rapunzel was pale, frazzled. Her arm was still covered in blood, ruby red; Varian shuddered at the sight of it. He stumbled a little when his feet hit the sand, boots sinking into the earth. Something in him felt almost numb. Cold.

“Is she still following you?” Rapunzel asked, clearly talking about Cerise. Eugene grimaced, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“She’s dead,” Varian said bluntly. Rapunzel blinked, rapid and confused, but when Eugene nodded, she turned her focus back to Varian. The alchemist refused to meet her eye, instead turning out to watch the waves.

“It was an accident.”

Eugene, ever the mediator. Varian slowly blinked as the waves continued to pound at the sand, pushing and pulling with the tide. The water rushed over the tips of his shoes before receding, a hypnotic ebb and flow. The numbness in him did the same, slowly washing over the remaining horror. The noise of his friends faded away, taken out with the tide. Little bubbles crept up from under his sinking boots; he wondered if he stood here long enough if he’d disappear completely beneath the waves.

“Varian?”

Varian looked up at his friends, finding them both looking at him. Eugene rolled his shoulders casually, before clapping his hands together.

“Well, goggles,” he said with a false cheer, “This is your circus, what’s the plan?”

Rapunzel’s face soured, but Varian elected to ignore it. She could be upset if she wanted; he knew what he had to do, with or without her. Varian pulled Aisha’s note from his pocket, looking down at it once more. He nodded once, more an assurance to himself than anything, before looking back to his friends. A tentative grin crossed his face, weak but obvious.

“We’re going to need a boat.”

>>>><<<<

When Arianna heard Merrick scream, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

The war room, the same one that had been in use by the Bayans since the start of this whole thing, echoed with the wail. All heads snapped towards the front of the table, Coronian and Bayan alike. Merrick’s lieutenants, a group of men and women about the same ages as Rapunzel and Eugene, all looked to their leader in concern as he doubled over, the scream ripped from his chest in animalistic agony.

Arianna watched in unsettled curiosity as Merrick dropped like a stone, his metal hand catching the edge of the wooden table. The two Bayans closest to their leader stood to help him, but stopped when the shriek cut off with a terrifying silence. All Arianna could see was Merrick’s metal limb clutching the table, the grip tightening with every second until the wood finally gave way. Metal claws sank into the softer surface before finally tearing a fistful of oak from the edge, as easy as one would a handful of snow.

She could hear clicking gears and whining steam- a spark of something fizzled through the air. Arianna didn’t seem to be the only one perturbed by the sudden change, everyone in the room holding their breath as Merrick pushed himself to his feet. The queen shuddered, forcing herself to maintain a blank look on her face even as a cold feeling sank into her stomach.

Merrick had gone pale, a sickening white pallor crossing his face with reckless abandon. His eyes were wide, bloodshot; his chest heaved as if he’d just run a marathon. He pressed both palms to the table, slumping over it with tenseness in both shoulder and spine.

There was a brief second of tense hesitation, no one in the room willing to make a move, until one lieutenant got brave.

“S-sir?” her voice shattered the silence, leaving the air oddly empty save for Merrick’s still heaving breaths. “Sir, are you alright?”

Merrick’s wild eyes snapped from the table up to her, the blonde woman shrinking in her chair at the manic grimace that crossed his face.

“Cer- the general,” his voice actually broke; the room’s atmosphere seemed to break with it. “She- I felt her-”

“Sir?”

Arianna watched that metal hand grab into the table again, Merrick sucking in a deep breath through his nose. He pushed himself upward again, forcing his gaze forward. Arianna noted, from her place to his left, that his eyes were strangely bloodshot and red. Almost like-

“Our general is dead,” he said bluntly, loud and strong and oh no, Arianna recognized that voice. She’d heard it from Fred, from Rapunzel, from Eugene, seven hells she’d even used it herself; it was the sound of someone trying to be strong in the face of tragedy. Someone pushing down tears to seem infallible to the people under their command. Arianna was grateful for the lieutenants all exploding into a cacophony of questions, demanding to know what he meant, the noise covering her own shock.

Merrick sucked in another breath, and held up his metal hand. The room went deadly silent.

“We can only assume she found the crow-” The words rang out, accusatory. Arianna caught a few of the Bayans flinch at that; one lieutenant covered his mouth with a hand. “-and that she wasn’t able to best all three of them.” Merrick paused then, swallowing thickly. “She is- was, a brilliant general. One of the best. She will be remembered in the light of the new Bayangor, just as any of us will be.”

Arianna felt sick- she couldn’t see her children murdering the woman, but Merrick certainly seemed convinced she was gone. The queen couldn’t help but think back to Varian, just a child, in a mechanical monster, grabbing at her, crushing her, blinded by rage-

“This meeting is over.” Merrick’s voice snapped her from the memories. “I… I have to think over our next steps.”

Arianna had never seen a room empty so quickly. One of the Bayans, the one who had asked when Merrick had fallen, took a second to approach her leader, gently putting a hand on his shoulder. Merrick caught her eye, nodding to her. She patted his shoulder once before leaving, shutting the door behind her.

The room was quiet, save for Merrick’s thick breaths. It was just Arianna, Frederick (or what was left of him in the obedient shell that he currently was), and the Bayan man who had done nothing but cause them misery. Once his underlings had left, Merrick slumped like a corpse, falling back into his chair without any of his usual bravado.

Everything was still.

Until it wasn’t.

Merrick began to shake his head, quietly mumbling to himself. He wiped at his face with hands on flesh and metal, pushing and pulling at his skin in rough movements. Arianna tried to ignore the small sliver of pity in her heart at the sight of tears in his eyes. Suddenly the person in front of her didn’t seem like a brutal separatist who had attacked her home and family- if Arianna didn’t know better, Merrick almost reminded her of Varian, right after he’d lost Quirin for a second time. A young man, barely into adulthood, in mourning.

The Bayan in the chair shuddered, his shoulders shaking with some kind of emotion. He brought his knees up to his chest, shrinking into himself- and he truly did seem small. Merrick brought a shaking hand- the human one- up into the air, quietly drawing the shape of some kind of rune into the air. Where his finger traced, he left a small flaming line, as if drawing with chalk on a board. When he was done, Merrick leaned back, curling tighter into the chair.

“S-show me,” his voice cracked with the command. The pity in Arianna’s gut began to grow at the absolutely devastated look on her enemy’s face. Merrick didn’t even seem to notice she and Frederic were still in the room with him, instead looking at the rune a little more intently. “Show me!” he snapped, waving his hand in a rough motion.

The rune gently spun in the air, flat like a disk, until an image began to appear in the very center. Arianna couldn’t help but feel fascinated by the casual show of magic; Corona had always been less inclined towards the arcane arts, so she couldn’t help but marvel at the spectacle.

The image solidified.

The first thing Arianna saw was Varian. Her heart stopped at the sight of him, bloodied and bruised and filthy but alive, a hand splayed out towards the viewer. Varian looked terrified, pale and wild. The image moved, almost like it was from the point of view from someone- Cerise, if Arianna were to take an educated guess- dropping down from what looked like a cliff.

Merrick watched with focused eyes, scanning the image as it ran through. Varian’s mouth opened in a silent scream, and the image began to shake and twist in a disorientating way. The last thing it showed was the rock face rushing past, a river drawing close at an alarming rate- Cerise was falling- before suddenly going black.

Merrick flinched when it did. The Bayan huddled tighter as they watched what must have been his sister’s final moments, from her eyes. He waved a hand again, reversing the images until they were back at the top of the cliff, Varian scrambling to safety and kicking at Cerise to keep her from grabbing him. Merrick made a growling noise when the boy’s boot slammed into her face, the vision snapping to the side with Cerise’s head.

Arianna focused mostly on her boy- Varian looked rough, and where was Rapunzel? And Eugene? The fact that it was just Varian holding his own made her concerned over her daughter and son in law, a wave of dread coming over her at only seeing one of her children safe-if-not-sound.

Merrick waved his hand again, pausing the image. He had stopped it on a view of Varian’s face, scrunched up in anger as he kicked at Cerise. Merrick stood from his chair, leaning forward.

“He killed her,” the Bayan breathed into the silence of the room. Arianna paused her own thoughts, turning attention to Merrick as he leaned closer and closer to the image of Varian’s face. Something furious took over his face, locking eyes with the still image of Varian. “He killed her.”

Arianna felt her heart stop.

Merrick leaned into the table again, palms down once more, but this time was different. Where before he had been shaking in misery, now… now it was very obviously rage. Arianna jumped as a nearby candle’s flame burst, the fire growing to five times its original size. A quick glace showed all the candles in the room growing, the flames rising towards the ceiling. Nearby, one of the bayan banners lit up as well. Arianna could feel the heat on her face, silently counting down until the moment she’d have to give up her ruse and run for her own safety.

The nearby hearth, once only embers, was spilling out from the stone, eating at the wooden mantle and floors, singing everything nearby. Merrick hunched over, jerky and uncoordinated, before letting out a guttural shout of pure, feral rage. He brought his arms up, swiping at the table in front of him and sending the contents scattering, papers, pens, and inkwells flying across the room.

The flames grew, wild and uncontrollable- like an animal prowling through the air. Merrick’s shout cut off into a snarl, the man slamming his hands onto the table with a loud BANG and the fire around them growing even higher. He seemed to be scanning the image of Varian, searching for something. His eye seemed to catch something, leaning closer.

“Oh,” his voice was deceptively small. “Oh, I see your game, crow.” He nodded to himself, and Arianna heaved a sigh of relief as the fires all puttered out, trails of smoke floating through the air.

Merrick pushed himself from the table, walking toward the door his lieutenants had left from. Though Arianna ached to follow, she kept herself still as he kicked the door open. She caught site of the Bayans, the group waiting outside. Merrick paused when he saw all of them waiting, but the queen watched the façade spring back up in the way he threw his arms wide.

“Time to pack your shit,” Merrick declared, “We’ve got our heading.” The Bayans cheered at the declaration. Merrick’s arms dropped, the man making his way from the room and into the hallway beyond. The meeting room was plunged into a silent darkness, the fires snuffed out and filling the space with hazy smoke. It was a false peace, like the eye of a hurricane.

Arianna couldn’t get her hands to stop shaking.

[kumeko]

Title: for the dances that never were

Prompt: Exploration, Secret, Ambition, Devotion, Bonus: Gossip

A/N: For the Fódlan Bakeoff challenge! I couldn’t post it on time due to internet issues (sadness). I had a hard time picking what characters to write before realizing, I haven’t posted anything with my OTP of the series!

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…

…

i.

There was, Claude had to reluctantly admit, a sort of grace to Fódlan dancing. Standing in the Great Hall, he watched as his peers swirled on the dance floor. Above them, enormous chandeliers gave enough light to chase the shadows out of every corner. Dresses swished as women twirled, the silken fabrics resembling a fully-bloomed rose. Pairs of dancers glided past one another, just narrowly avoiding collision.

 This dance was nowhere near as loud or energetic as an Almyran dance. There was a vibrancy, a feeling of life in their movements that just couldn’t be matched with a simple twirl and side-step. Still, the dances here were nonetheless pleasing to watch. Standing in a corner, he swirled his wine and watched as the lion prince and eagle emperor dominated the dance floor, elegance and poise radiating off every step.

 Claude wasn’t the only one watching. Across the dance floor, he spotted Byleth and Jeralt chatting amicably, their eyes firmly on the students. Well, he guessed they were having fun. It was hard to tell with his professor sometimes, her expression was often blanker than a slate.

“Whatcha looking at?” A familiar voice asked beside him and he didn’t have to turn his head to know it was Hilda. Slightly breathless, she leaned back and fanned herself. “Or should I say who?”

 “You can say whatever you like,” he replied smoothly, smiling as he turned to his exhausted friend. Her neatly coifed hair was starting to unravel, stray hairs falling out of her bun. “Someone’s popular.”

 “Please, I’m not that popular.” Despite her words, she looked utterly pleased. Winking at him, she gestured at the professor. “She’s everyone’s first choice.”

 That didn’t surprise him in the least. It explained why Byleth’s expression looked slightly worn, the way it did when she’d entertained too many of his questions or cleaned up after his pranks. “I wonder who her’s is.”

 “No idea.” Sighing, Hilda shrugged. “She accepted everyone who asked, which is really stupid. You have to be picky or you’ll wear yourself out.”

 “Like you have?” he teased, smirking.

 “I am just taking a short break. I can still dance.” Hilda glanced at Byleth, than at him. “You going to ask her too?”

 “Maybe.” It wasn’t a bad idea. She was Jeralt’s daughter, a teacher at the academy, the wielder of the Creator’s Sword, and seemingly Rhea’s favourite. There were only bonuses to getting closer to her. One way or another, she’d be useful to his ambitions. He wasn’t sure why he was hesitating, standing on this side of the room and as far from her as possible.

 “Ohh, too late.” Hilda giggled as Sylvain approached Byleth, looking as charming as ever. “You have to be fast to catch her.”

 “There’s always the dance after.” Claude shrugged. Holding out a hand, he winked. “Care for one more?”

 Hilda frowned. She still took his hand. “I thought I told you I didn’t like too much work.”

  ii.

Claude stared at the ceiling. It was funny how, five years later, this sight remained the same. The dorms hadn’t been as badly damaged as the rest of the academy in the attack, but his room had remained utterly unscratched. The structural damage remained unseen.

 Closing his eyes, he listened to the leaves as they gently rustled. An owl hooted nearby, crickets chirped. Five years ago, there would have been students chattering as they snuck off for a nightly escapade. Now there was just the clink of chain mail, the guards patrolling the area in case of attack.

 After tomorrow, they wouldn’t need to. A final clash between Empire and Alliance, one that would hopefully go as the battle of Eagle and Lion had gone years ago. Claude sat up at the thought. Who was he kidding? That had been a friendly bout between houses. Now almost everyone he’d defeated from that time was dead. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. There would be no sleep tonight, which was a pity. A tactician needed his rest. Edelgard and Hubert wouldn’t make tomorrow’s battle easy.

 Slipping out of his bed, he crept out of his room. The sensation as he stalked the school at night was both familiar and strange. Even now, he remembered the secret passages, which stairs creaked, the best shadows to slip in. Yet the stairs were different, the walls lined with scorch mark, and he felt like he was exploring an entirely new place, an explorer finding ruins where a city should have stood.

 He was not sure what led him to the great hall, to the half-collapsed ballroom. He wasn’t sure, but when he spied Byleth inside, sitting on a jagged piece of rubble, he couldn’t stop his smile. Somehow, his path led to her, and he shouldn’t have expected this to be any different. They were connected, fates intertwined, and he was certain that if she died, their journey would end right there.

 Despite his quiet entrance, Byleth noticed him right away and watched as he slowly approached him. Bathed in moonlight through the broken roof, there was something ethereal about his former teacher. She had always been a mystery, even before all of this. With her blank expression and gaps of knowledge, there had been something interesting about her. The secrets she held now only made her even more intriguing.

 He always liked puzzles. Sauntering over, he asked, “Couldn’t sleep, Teach?”

 Byleth shook her head. Her eyes looked even darker in the gloom. It was strange to think that he’d seen this place entirely lit up once. Now all it held were shadows.

 “Me neither.” He leaned against the rubble, looking around him. “One way or another, it will end tomorrow.”

 “Can we…” Byleth trailed off, her voice so low he could barely hear it. She wrapped an arm around herself, her fingers digging into her arm. “Do you think we can…”

 “Win?” Claude guessed, giving her a confident smirk. “Of course.”

 She shook her head. “Save them.”

 “Oh.” That was a harder question. Almost impossible to answer. Edelgard and Hubert would fight to the death; he had never seen either of them back down. Dedue seemed to be on a suicide mission. How many others were left alive? Petra, Dorothea—but who else? Maybe some of the Blue Lions had survived that last skirmish and were just hiding. “I don’t know.”

 Her shoulders slumped at the answer. It was strange to think that at one point he thought her emotionless. Her tells were more subtle than others, for sure, but he could read her now. It was hard to mistake the sorrow washing over her for anything else.

 Maybe she wouldn’t smile, but he wanted her to be at least a little happy before it went down. One way or another, it would end tomorrow. Maybe he’d die. Maybe she would. Maybe neither of them would and he’d remember this night as the time he had been a little dramatic. Claude gestured around them. “Remember the last time we were here?”

 Byleth glanced at him curiously before nodding. “The dance.”

 “Yep. I remember someone being very popular that night.” He winked at her. “I think you danced with everyone that night.”

 Still not following him, she nodded. “There were a lot of hands. I didn’t want to refuse anyone.”

 “Even Marianne asked you to dance.” Claude sighed. “And yet, I think I’m the only one who didn’t get a dance.”

 “You didn’t?” Byleth frowned, ticking off her fingers as she remembered that night. It might have been five years for him, but for her it must have felt like months.

 “Every time you took a break, someone else approached. What’s a poor guy to do?” Claude tapped his chin for a long minute before pretending to come up with an idea. “Oh, but you’re free now.”

 “There’s no music,” she pointed out, catching on.

 “That’s fine.” Claude held out a hand. “I still want my turn.”

 She looked at him for a long second, and he wondered what was going on behind her green eyes. There had always been a practical air about her, no doubt from her lifetime of mercenary work. He wasn’t even sure if she liked dancing, let alone wanted to do it. Before he could retract the offer though, she slipped her hand in his. “Alright.”

 “Great.” He pulled her down from the rubble and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. Winking, he started waltzing through the debris. “I hope you haven’t forgotten how to dance.”

 “I never learned in the first place,” Byleth answered, her tone lighter. It was a start.

 “Then I’ll just have to take lead.” Claude twirled her. He wasn’t sure when it happened, when he’d stopped thinking of Byleth as a friend and instead as something more. Maybe that was what had stilled his hand all those years ago, an emotion that had slowly taken root and refused to go.

 He had always known he was a bit of a coward, but hadn’t realized that it even extended to his feelings.

  iii.

 It wasn’t a surprise to find Byleth alone, after all was said and done. They had defeated the Empire and yet somehow, it didn’t feel like a win at all. They had lost almost all their classmates, either at their hands or at the hands of the Empire. Even Dedue, who had reappeared out of nowhere, had fallen in his last-ditch attempt to avenge his king. And even then, after killing Edelgard, they had discovered that they had an older enemy to face.

 It was no surprise that victory rang hollow. His peers were scattered about the monastery, trying to make sense of it all, and so it wasn’t a surprise that Byleth had isolated herself as well. What was surprising, though, was that he’d found her here in the ballroom once more. The repairs were almost done now, the rubble from before cleaned up. There were cracks along the walls, signs of the war that wouldn’t fade, but with a little paint this would be a ballroom once more.

 The late evening light bathed the room a dark red. It wasn’t the same colour as Edelgard’s cloak, as her blood, but he couldn’t look at it all the same. Byleth stood in the center of the room, back toward him. He wondered what expression she had.

 “You okay?” he asked, leaving off her nickname as he broke the silence. It was too quiet in here. It reminded him of the throne room and he didn’t want to think of that.

 Byleth didn’t reply. She turned toward him, looking utterly heartbroken.

 Stopping next to her, he lifted his hand before dropping it back to his side. He didn’t know where to touch her, what to say that wouldn’t hurt her. She had looked like this as she’d lifted her sword, as Edelgard had closed her eyes. He should have stepped up then, taken her sword so she didn’t have to carry that burden too.

 He could still hear the sound as Edelgard’s head hit the ground. Maybe she was still listening to it too.

 Finally, she uttered, “Did it have to be like this?” Byleth gestured around, her voice cracking slightly. “We danced here. Edelgard, Dimitri—I danced with all of them. Couldn’t we have done something?”

 It was a question he had asked himself many times. There had to be a path, somewhere, somehow, that had all of their houses surviving, all of the people coexisting. But there had been too many secrets, too many untold ambitions and hopes. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

 He hoped there had been but it was too late now.

 “I should have been here,” she murmured, her shoulders sagging from the weight of it all. He had never thought of Byleth as a small woman, but she looked tiny now. A single touch could shatter her. Somehow, despite it all, she didn’t cry. Her expression looked like she wanted to, needed to, but her tears remained unshed.

 “There’s nothing you could have done.” Gingerly, he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in for a hug. He hadn’t understood the word devotion before, what had made his mother leave her homeland and everything she’d ever known, but he could feel it now pulsating through his veins. Claude would give anything to make Byleth whole again but after this, he wasn’t sure anything could.

 “There had to be something.” She rested her head against his shoulder.

 “Even if there was, we can’t change the past.” Claude slowly walked her around the room, a slower version of the waltz they’d done just a month ago. He hadn’t imagined that the next time they’d be in this room, they’d feel even worse than they had then. “There’s only the future.”

 “The future.” She followed his steps automatically. “Another fight.”

 “Beyond that.” He shook his head, pulling back so she had to look at him. Smiling gently, he added, “After the war, after it all—that future.”

 She still looked lost. “What happens then?”

 “Many things. My dreams. Yours.” He rested a hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the dance. Half of him wanted to confess, to kiss. To show her there was some light in the darkness. But the future was still too uncertain and he didn’t want his love to be another stone she had to carry. “We’re bringing peace to everyone. We’re going to change Fódlan, for the better.”

 “So no one has to go through this again.” Byleth nodded, her lips pulling up slightly.

 “So no one has to feel like this again,” he echoed, resisting the urge to push back her hair. “We can do this.”

 “Yes.” While her expression still looked bittersweet, he thought it was more sweet than bitter this time. “Thanks, Claude.”

 “Anytime. We’re in this together.” Claude winked. “We’re partners, right?”

 “What about you?” Byleth asked, looking at her hand. She turned her attention to him, her green eyes bright. “How are you feeling?”

 “Better now.” It was a truth, in a sense. He felt much better now that she did. After all this was over, maybe he’d tell her what was really in his heart. When she still looked doubtful, he playfully added, “Teach, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

 She didn’t refute him, like he’d expected. Instead she gave him a flat look. “Of course I do.”

 Claude wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He wasn’t even sure what she meant, or if he wanted her to clarify. There was no way to tell without asking. Faking a laugh, he replied, “Aww, Lorenz will be jealous.”

 “How are the others?” she asked, looking past him at the ballroom entrance. “I should check on them.”

 “They’re coping, but I think they’d like a little comforting from you.” Claude sighed. “I guess I can’t hog you all to myself.”

 “No, you can’t,” she agreed, letting go. Byleth had always been all work and no play, and he had expected this reaction.

 That didn’t make his hand feel any less empty. “I’ll head to the war room, then. Maybe Judith has some information on those slithering guys.”

 Byleth nodded before heading to the doors. At the threshold, she paused and looked at him over her shoulder. “After this is over, let’s have another dance here.”

 “A dance?” Claude smiled as he looked around the room. More than a paint of coat, what this room needed was laughter, was the smell of sweets and the bright lights of a thousand candles. It was what they’d all need, after it was all over. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. A party would lift everyone’s spirits.”

 “And this time, you’ll ask me to dance.”

 He whipped his head to the entrance, but she was already gone.

 Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one who had some feelings left unsaid.

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary:  “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”

((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))

Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Rating: M

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Thank you so much for your support! I hope you enjoy this chapter! Feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen

                                  Chapter Ten (Part One)

"End me."

It was as if everything around her fell still. The world ceasing its ever spinning rotation. Agatha's mouth was dry as she stared into the vampire's dark eyes, his icy fingers wrapped securely around her fist. He didn't blink, made no show of wanting to move as he held the spike over his chest. Just one fluid motion. That's all it would take. Just the slightest bit of pressure.

"Agatha."

Blood pumped through her blood vessels and pounded against her eardrums. The former nun knew well enough he could hear it too. Perhaps even smell it. But his eyes remained locked on hers. Two beasts waiting to see which would strike first. And he knew, just as well as she did, who would be the one to break.

Agatha's fingers loosened around the sharpened wood. The stake clattered to the stone floor, the sound reverberating throughout the castle walls. Her head was spinning, temperature fluctuating between very hot and very cold. She almost wished Dracula didn't let go of her hand as if doing so would cause her to fall.

"I can't..." She said quietly, not understanding her own words.

"You can't." It wasn't a question, more of a statement. "Why?"

"I just..." Agatha fumbled with her words. "I just...can't." The former nun looked up at him, the blues of her eyes gazing into the deep, dark pools of his. "And I want to but I can't."

"Why?" Dracula ventured, moving closer, so close that the coolness of his skin soothed her burning. "Why can't you, Agatha?"

"You know as well as I do." She said inhaling deeply. "Don't you?"

He watched her closely as she waited with bated breath for his answer. After a moment's pause, the corners of his lips twitched into a small smirk. Taking a step back, he eyed the woman who looked back almost pleadingly. Dracula's attention turned to the stake lying on the ground and with one swift motion, he crushed it into splinters. Agatha visibly winced.

"Pine is never a good choice with this sort of thing," he shrugged. "Oak or cedar would've been a better choice. Don't bother with the mess." The Count smiled, lightly kicking at the loose pieces. "I'll take it upon myself to straighten up." Running a hand through his somehow still neat, dark hair, he let out an unnecessary exhale. "I'll be going back to sleep now if you so kindly will let me. I trust you won't be attempting to kill me again?" Her lack of an answer made him grin wider. "Good. I'll see you at dinner then. Or for a game of chess. Whichever comes first."

With that, he turned on his heels and walked away. Leaving as if the altercation between them never occurred. Agatha stood there for a minute. Then two. She stood there and waited. Waited for something that she wasn't even sure she knew about. Finally, finding it within her, the former nun went her own way, exiting the vampire's chamber. Disappearing from the darkness and back into the fire lit room that fed into each hallway of the fortress. The castle's heart.

Dazed. At a loss. She sat there in front of the fireplace, watching as the flames licked at the stones above. Darkening the spots where their tips touched. Agatha wanted to forget it all. All of it. Be swept away by the same fever that plagued her from the very beginning. The decisions she made that led her to this point. That changed everything that she stood for. Clear. To forget. She just needed to sink into the numbness that was her mind.

This was his home. His castle. Not hers. She'd never belonged here to begin with. If she thought really, truly hard, not even the convent was her rightful place. Agatha Van Helsing had no place the moment her grandfather, Abraham, died. And up until now, the former nun finally accepted that.

Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes gazed at the dark entrance that led toward the hallway and to the steps of the cellar. To where his coffin was. Count Dracula. Always one step ahead of her. Always. And something within her twisted at the thought. Tightened like a noose. Running a hand through her tangled hair, Agatha sighed softly. For days she had been putting it off. Weeks. Telling herself each night. Each morning. Today would be the day. No longer could she put it off. Not after what happened.

Unrequited. Or so it felt. Or so she very much believed. And the answer to such a conclusion was simple. A very easy fix to an almost painful realization. If their feelings were unmatched, as she so thought, perhaps she was better off alone. Maybe. Just maybe.

Not that he would care...Would he?

Her attention turned to the main set of doors that led to the outside world. A land she had yet to face for such a long time. Agatha stood up, a chill coming over her that not even the fire could melt away. She looked to her feet. To her body. And swallowed hard. She was in no state of mind for doing what she planned to do. But then again, would a person in such a state come to such a conclusion? It was time for her to go. To leave and never return, so long as she lived.

And so it was decided. As simple as that. Finding a scrap of paper, Agatha scribbled down one final message to the Count before abandoning the letter where he could find it. A fitting goodbye. The farewell he deserved.

                                                     XXX

If the circumstances weren't as severe as they were, Agatha might've found it humorous how many strips of fabric it took her to wrap around her feet before they fit into Dracula's boots. She wobbled, bracing herself against one of the columns as his cloak weighed heavily on her shoulders. She surely must've looked ridiculous, but that was the least of her worries. No. When the icy blast of air hit her the moment she yanked open the doors only to see that the rain had turned into curtains of snow, that was when the fear hit.

One step at a time. She tried to reassure herself as she slowly forced herself to leave the safe confines of the castle. Just one step. That's it. One foot after the other.

Agatha wasn't sure where she was. Or how far the nearest village happened to be. She'd never seen the path that led from Dracula's fortress to the outside world. And the snow that had begun to blanket the ground made it that much harder. But the Van Helsing blood coursed thick through her veins so she pressed on, arms pulling the cloak tighter around her. It smelled like him. She tried not to think about that.

The further she trudged through the snow, the darker the clouds became. Whether it was due to the time of day or the storm, she wasn't sure. Her feet ached and her lips were growing chapped from the cold. Part of her wondered if she should turn back. Return to the castle. Return to him. But the greater part, the stronger part pushed her to press on. Mind of matter. It was cold. So cold. And the cloak was warm. His scent comforting. Agatha hated that.

Focus. The wind blew violently, crystals of snow collecting on her eyelashes. The boots were heavy and each step grew increasingly harder. For all Agatha knew, she was a mere few meters away from the castle walls. That when Dracula awoke from his slumber, he'd find her standing outside like some stupid, mindless creature prancing carelessly to her own death. He'd probably laugh. She wouldn't blame him. Keep going.

Time passed. Minutes maybe. Hours. And Agatha's mind struggled to keep up with its previous motivation. But she tried. Tried so hard to keep pushing that she missed the tree branch that fell from above. It hit her hard, striking her in the chest. She stumbled, tripping over a slick patch of ice and falling backwards down, down, down from an unseen ledge below. Her head made a sickening crack as it struck the rock, something warm and wet beginning to pool under it.

She didn't feel cold anymore. Didn't feel anything really. As if a spell had been cast, the clouds parted, the snow stopping. Agatha lay there peacefully as her life blood spilled around her like an elegant crown. A small smile graced her features as she stared up at the bright, full moon in the sky one last time. Her eyes closed, the former nun welcoming whatever greeted her next.

                                                        XXX

Dracula sensed something was amiss the moment he sat up abruptly from where he lay. Without a second thought, he strode with purpose down the corridor and towards the sitting room. The place he'd always find Agatha when she didn't look herself away in the bedroom. It was empty. He knew it would be. That didn't come as a surprise as he thought it would. No. It was the little piece of paper he found resting neatly on the table that had him taken aback. A message that caused his already still heart to freeze again.

I love you, I must be sick. -Agatha

(A/N: Short, but that's why this is a two parter. Next chapter we will FINALLY get to see what is going on in Dracula's mind like we have been with Agatha. See his point of view. His feelings. Will he realize his mistake? What his lack of words led up to? Will he find Agatha in time? He  might be forced to make a VERY important decision. Tune in for part two! Coming soon to a writing site near you! Feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! Stay healthy and safe! -Jen)