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bits-and-babs · 2 years ago

Note

Your fics are amazing! Would you ever write about König?

𝐂𝐑𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐃 — 𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐆

synopsis : rumours of an elite soldier have the base reeling. murmurings of 'monster' and 'freak'. what happens when you come face to face with the beast, only to find he's nothing like the whispers cautioned?

pairing : könig x f!reader

warnings : 18+ mdni. war, violence, graphic gory imagery, self-conscious könig baby, little bit of hand kink, basic bitch smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, size kink, tight fit, sugar-sweet teeth rotting smut. this feels so basic… but I was struggling. please note, kilgore is a name previously linked to könig. I have used it as a codename 🙂

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Warfare training preps for the inevitable—those moments you need to fire a weapon and how to camouflage and navigate enemy territory without detection. These inescapable horrors are 'another day in the office' by the time you enter the field, the prickling chill of fear driven out of your system. Whistling RPGs are not dissimilar to the scream of your Drill Sergeant's commands, the cold, hard ground of a dilapidated building no more uncomfortable than the standard-issue barracks mattress you would ease your wearing bones into after training.

Fear, beaten out of each man and woman that slipped on the uniform, held no commonplace in the military. Weapons, the call to war, brutality and sirens did little to raise the blood pressure.

Whispers held far more weight and struck unease into the hearts of even the most desensitised of fighters.

It was inarguable that each military in every country, at any time, had its own 'boogeyman'. Notorious fighters with absurdly large kill counts consisting of three digits that inevitably earned a bounty for their head, funded by the enemy—elite warriors who acquired a legendary reputation that ultimately became horror stories. The Ghost of Kyiv, The American Sniper Chris Kyle. These military cryptids kept their enemies awake at night, baying for blood and begging for the piles of bodies they left behind to stop growing.

After years in the SAS, you were beginning to think that there was no such thing. Each soldier was prolific, brutally efficient and inarguably the best of the elite forces. It was only upon entering Task Force 141, a genuinely mean feat, that you began to hear the unshunnable, hushed whispers of Kilgore.

“Did you hear about Berlin?”

“Kilgore? Yeah, heard he blew away a whole Al-Qatala cell.”

“Twelve of ‘em. The hostages were traumatised.”

These mumblings had persisted for months, consistently updated with crazy tales of whole garrisons blown to smitheries by this massacre-happy hulking mass of pure military precision. You, like the rest of 141, elected to ignore the gossip. This was a battlefield, filled with elite soldiers, not a school playground.

✰

Austrian mud splatters your camo-clad shins as you sprint through the forest terrain, your heart lurching in your chest as your rain-soaked fingers almost fumble your gun to the sodden ground. It’s freezing cold, the gush of rain edging on a flurry of sleet as lightning cracks above your head. Clothes soaked through, the moisture and icy wind form something of a ‘Pact of Steel’, working together to deep freeze the marrow of your bones.

As you slip in the mud again, heel skidding across the slick soil, you realise how dire the situation truly is. Separated from 141 during the firefight, you’d navigated north. You continued running for the safe house once discovering your coms had been dispatched by a stray bullet— that certainly would have ripped through your heart and dispatched you instantly if not for the layers of plastic settled over it.

Thunder rumbles in the clouds above, the boom reminiscent of a distant air strike. Slurried earth gives way beneath your feet as you push on. Exhaustion gnaws at your joints as you scramble for safety, bested only by the adrenaline that buzzed in your ear like a vicious drill sergeant. “Move it! Do you wanna die?! Well fucking move!”

You can hear their boots in the mud, the advancing Al-Qatala mercenaries chasing after you and shooting blindly at your heels, competing with the distance and dense foliage. You’re like an injured fox, feverish bloodhounds nipping at the end of your tail— what could they do with an SAS hostage? How much leverage would it buy?

Bullets whistle by your feet, the proximity of some enough to set your hair on end. They’re closing in, jowls dripping with slobber as they attempt to close their teeth around you. Just a little mor—

Crack.

Chaos erupts behind you, the thump of a body and a flurry of shouts. Panicked voices overlay each other in different languages, Urzik and Persian. You scramble for cover behind a treetrunk, the bark cutting at your palms as you brace for incoming fire.

"Kilgore!" Someone shouts, and your blood runs cold, eyes wide as they dart around the foliage for the legendary soldier. The whizzing of high-powered bullets persists, dropping Al-Qatala mercenaries into the mud beneath them. You hear the yelled orders, Urzik fighters urged to retreat.

You're unsure if one fails to hear the directive over the din of warfare, but you hear the advancing feet of the mercenary advancing on your position—the squelch of the mud beneath the rubber sole of his combat boots. You scramble with your weapon, checking the gun's safety and readying for a one-shot shoot-out.

When a bullet shreds through a victim's head, the sound is reminiscent of a watermelon being cracked open. It's a sickening crunch. A wet spray of warm blood cuts through the downpour of rain, splattering across your face. Some of it is solid, brain matter and shards of cranium.

It's not silent by any means. The rain continues to beat against the floor, pattering in the puddles that had formed in sole-shaped prints in the soaked earth. Cracks of thunder sound in the distance, and the droplets drum against the leaves in the forest's canopy. However, the sounds of the firefight cease.

"You can come out," a voice calls to you. Accented; Germanic. You hesitate for a moment, once again strengthening your grip on the gun you'd clung to. Your lungs strain with the sudden intake of breath, ribs crushed beneath your tac-vest. "Ghost sent me."

Easing your head out from behind the tree trunk, you marvel, somewhat horrified, at the gigantic, hulking build of the man who stood in the clearing. Fallen enemy combatants surround him, a blanket of corpses draped across the turbid forest floor. A black veil covers his face, and his equipment litters his tac-vest.

You'd be lying if you said you were unperturbed by the sight. Instead, fear lurches in the pit of your stomach, and you freeze in place. It's only when your eyes catch the crystal white slicing through crimson on the patch sewn into his shoulder that the airy voice, which certainly doesn't match his enormous frame, brings you a sense of safety.

"The safe house is ahead. We could get you warm–– clean you up?"

✰

Staring into the bubbling pan of water settled over the small fire, you relish in the warmth that creeps across your chilled body. Still, you're soaked, the damp clinging to the threads of your clothes. The scent of iron still assaults your nose, the water that you pick off the fire cautiously heated enough to scrub the blood from your face.

Kilgore, who informed you upon entering the safehouse preferred to be called by his name König, had seated himself in the corner of the large, relatively empty room. He looked ridiculous like this, attempting to compact his body into the crevice. You don't doubt it's an attempt to ease the nervous energy bleeding through your pores, your hands trembling as you attempt to dip the rag he had gifted you into the hot water.

"Did..." You swallow thickly, glancing up at the Austrian, "Did you tell the Lieutenant where we are?"

"Mhm-hm," he nods slowly, his jade eyes watching you from beneath the face veil. They're sharp and bright, contrasting so strongly against his uniform's muted and inky shades. "He's planning evac."

You scrub the gore from your face, wincing as you feel the shards of bone scrape across your face. König's eyes bore into you from the other side of the room, watching you struggle to remove what was left of the grime the rain had failed to wash away.

"I've-... Heard a lot about you," you speak to him, attempting to cross the vast space he had consciously put between you. His green eyes gaze at you, unblinking as he watches your expression. König is trying to read you, trying to comprehend how you feel. He's cautious, trying not to push you outside of your comfort zone.

"About Berlin?" He asks, and his voice is so soft that it reminds you of a child attempting to speak after being reprimanded by their parents–– wary of a second bout of raised voices.

"Yes," you mumble, dipping the crimson rag into the water before laying it across your skin again, "About Berlin."

König hums softly, casting his eyes to the aged, wooden floorboards. The woodlice have chewed through them, moss growing in some parts. You can see he appears uncomfortable, his knuckles white from the fists that form in his lap.

"I didn't mean to scare anyone," König admits in a whisper, catching you off guard. His shoulders sag slightly, and you see him pick at loose threads in the knees of his camo trousers.

"N-No... I meant to say how courageous it was," you point out, watching his fidgeting hands still suddenly, "You risked your life for those hostages... saved them singlehandedly. No one else would have done that."

Hesitant silence settles between you both, König considering your words carefully as he stares at his lap. You can't see his face, the veil concealing all but his eyes, though you're almost sure he's stunned by your comment. It takes him a moment to discern his next step, but he finally lifts his body from the wooden chair he'd pulled into the corner. It creaks with the shift in weight distribution, floorboards straining as he walks across the space towards you.

"You also saved me," you point out, watching him kneel before you, "Faced a whole cell..."

König steals your words from your mouth when his huge hand settles around the bloodied rag in your palm. He doesn't speak at; first, silence hanging between you once again as he dips the cloth into the water. Then, he soaks it until it drips, droplets pinging off the surface, and wrings it out. His dorsal muscles ripple beneath the backs of his palm, veins a ballpoint colour and standing out against his pale skin.

"Ghost asked me to," he mumbles, carefully holding the damp fabric and slowly reaching for your face. He gives you time to pull away–– you don't.

"You could have ignored him," you whisper, suddenly breathless with this proximity. He still towers over you, even balanced on his knees, head and shoulders slumped over you. You can see the ocean green of his eyes clearly, the halo of brown flecks that cover the circumference of his pupil. His eyelashes flutter when he blinks, so pretty and oddly feminine.

The pressure of the cloth against your skull is so delicate. König appears to be afraid of hurting you, gently brushing away the flecks of blood in your hairline. He shakes his head gently, considering your kind words. "What kind of man would I be, Leibchen?" his voice is airy, tone flimsy.

Those stunning eyes take a moment to gaze into yours, searching for your answer. Instead, all you manage is a weak shrug.

"Were... Are they afraid of you?" You whisper to him, struggling to find the words to broach a topic that appears to affect König so profoundly. It's his turn to answer wordlessly, offering an equally frail nod.

König takes your chin ever so gently in his hand, his palm almost eclipsing the lower half of your face, and turns your head in search of further blood-spatter. He sweeps the makeshift face-cloth over your skin, focusing on removing the grime altogether.

You'd heard the cruel rumours, the whispers of 'monster' and 'freak'. This König you'd met couldn't possibly be the same they uttered about maliciously. He held a child-like kindness, the brutality of the job seemingly doing little to chip away at his humanity. The same couldn't be said about the others.

"König," you whisper his name softly, watching as he continues to focus on clearing up your skin. His soothing touch smoothes across your temple now, removing some mud speckles. "Don't listen to them."

You can see his eyes soften, once again turning to yours as you reach to fiddle with the edge of his veil. Upon tracing the border between the pads of your thumb and forefinger, you find that it's t-shirt material, the zigzag seam stitching rough against your touch like barbed wire. "They haven't seen you like I have."

Those eyes gleam with amusement, little crows-feet creases forming in the corners. He's smiling, and your heart stutters against your chest.

"That right, Leibchen? I've had a mask on this whole time."

The gentle teasing lilt to his tone makes you lightheaded, urging you forward with your frankly ridiculous plan. You begin to lift the edge of his veil upwards. You take it slowly, his pupils dancing across the bare skin of your face as you reveal the point of his chin. His skin is equally as pale there, barely exposed to sunlight.

König doesn't stop you as you continue to lift the fabric from his face, exposing the curve of his lower lip. The skin there is soft and plush, little creases in the flesh making your heart thud awkwardly against your ribs. Finally, you stop at his cupid's bow, so soft and subtle it's barely there at all.

You can feel his gaze warming your skin as you trace his lips with your eyes. Hesitation holds you still, uncertain about the final step of this stupid plan. König, as ever, doesn't push you. Doesn't even breathe. When you lean forward, the tip of your nose brushing his own that still lay beneath the cloth, you hear a sharp yet gentle inhalation. It triggers goosebumps across your forearms, butterflies battering the pit of your stomach.

Soft. His lips are so soft when you mould your own to their shape. König's veil tickles the skin of your face when you kiss him, and you feel his gigantic hands settle on either side of your neck as he begins to return your affections. They swallow you, and your pulse leaps against his palm.

König smiles, and the kiss turns toothy and a little lopsided. You can't help but giggle nervously, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw as he presses gentle pecks to the edge of your mouth. Despite his massive, intimidating frame, each action is deliberate and soft.

"... Are your clothes still wet, Schatz?" He's breathless despite his seemingly put-together appearance, his nose bumping yours as he interrupts your answer for another fragile kiss. "We could get you out of them."

✰

Your standard-issue military t-shirt slips and falls from the cot's mattress as König gently pulls your hips towards the edge. His fingerprints have already bruised into your thighs despite his attempts to be gentle. When he'd begun to panic, you told him not to worry–– he'd already bruised up your neck with his teeth and lips; what was a couple more?

Butterflying your legs out for him, König groans softly as you expose your glistening cunt for him. You're shy, covering your face with your hands as his fingers massage the soft, malleable flesh of the inside of your thighs.

"Schatz," he whispers, and you peer through the gaps of your fingers. König gazes down between your legs, green eyes gleaming as he positions his cock between your folds. "So beautiful."

It's ridiculous, you think, staring down between your legs. König is huge in every sense, the shaft of his cock thick and veiny and drowning out the seam of your sex as König shifts his hips forward to swipe the length of him across your weeping cunt. You can't help your mind running away with itself–– surely he needed a weapons license to carry that thing-?

A weak chuckle sounds above you, and you crane your neck to catch his eye. "I will take it slow, Schatz, I promise you."

You believe him. He had been so delicate with you this whole time, laying you down gently on the bed, careful when removing your gear and your clothes not to let the material snag on your nose or chin.

König's hand disappears beneath the face veil, spitting into his palm before he smoothes it over the head of his cock. He groans, eyelids fluttering beneath the mask as he drags his hand over the length. It's a pretty sight, you think, such a colossal man shuddering in bliss. When he sweeps his cock through your folds again, he carefully taps the tip of his dick against your clit to illicit a whimper.

"Mhmm, gentle. I promise you," he repeats, inching the tip of his cock down until it settles at your entrance. The soles of your feet find purchase on König's hips, and he massages your calves gently as he begins to inch into you at your nod of approval.

Oh, Christ.

König stretches you the moment he sinks inside. There's a delicious burn, one that has you lifting your hips with a whimper as you equally try to escape and dive into it. He's wheezing, eyes glued to where your bodies meet as he watches you flutter around his size.

"Ha-So tight, Schatz," he groans loudly, stopping when you firmly grip the bedsheets. He notes your expression of slight pain, the tears welling in your eyes as your body attempts to accommodate the intrusion. König seemingly can't help the flurry of apologies that fall from his mouth as he leans over you, settling his thumb against your clit in an attempt to ease you open. "Here. I want you to feel good, Engel."

The tremors in your thighs rattle against his hips as he circles your clit slowly. It's blissful, the sticky, warm arousal that blooms through your abdomen as he teases at the sensitive nerves. You arch your back against the mattress, moaning out his name breathlessly as he continues to inch his cock further into you. You barely notice when he finally settles the rest of him inside, wailing softly when it twitches and knocks something earthshattering inside you.

"O-Oh fuck––" you choke on your curse when König shifts his hips forward, jutting into your cervix and winding you suddenly. You probably look ridiculous, eyes rolling back into your skull as you claw at the vast expanse of his chest. You drag pink lines down the pale skin, drawing blood to the surface, but it does little to phase König this far along.

"Good, Liebling?" He murmurs, continuing to assault your clit. You can barely form a coherent sentence in response, drooling around a string of 'yes, yes, yes'. It's all he needs to find comfort in advancing, easing the length of him out of your weeping cunt before driving it back in at an achingly slow pace.

You want to slam your fist against his pectorals and insist he go faster, but you're not sure you're ready for it when he slides into you balls deep. It's as though he's settling among your lungs, filling you so good that you're seeing static in your line of vision.

The sound of a desperate groan from above barely brings you back down to earth, noting how he's staring at your face. His pupils are blown wide, almost devouring the green of his irises. It takes you a moment to realise you're drooling, his slow and steady pace already pushing you to a mindless edge.

"Oh-" you moan, digging your nails into his abs. They ripple beneath your touch with each deliberate thrust, and König hisses at the sharp sting and the crescent moon indents they leave behind. "F-Fuck, König- Too much-!"

"It's too much?" He wheezes, eyes searching your face. You desperately shake your head, terrified he'll pull away from you despite the inching arousal building at the base of your spine. Wrapping your legs around his hips, your heels press into the small of his back and hook him in place despite your protests.

It sparks something feral in the hulking man, his hips surging forwards and jolting you up the mattress. Your breath escapes you in a squeak, arousal soaring and buzzing thickly in your abdomen as König mumbles in German, his soft voice coming out all gritty under the strain of his exertions and bliss.

"Mhmmm- fuck-" you babble, eyes rolling again as you lift your hips to meet his. He sinks impossibly deeper, and your breath stutters as you feel the telltale tug of your orgasm. "Oh God- König, I'm-"

"Tell me," König whispers, rutting up inside you. He doesn't bother to inch out of you now, repeatedly battering so deep inside you that you struggle to inhale as your orgasm approaches fast.

"Hngngg- hah-ah- I'mgonna- c-cum-" you choke with each sudden thrust, his thumb quickening its pace against your arcing clit. Perhaps he shifts his hips slightly or reaches even deeper than before, but he brushes against something utterly debilitating, and you cum with a loud shriek of his name.

It bursts through you with blistering heat, your fingernails sinking deep into the curves of his bicep as you brace against the waves of bliss that crash over you. König keeps fucking into you, your walls squeezing tight around him as his thumb persists in its assault on your throbbing clit. Tears stream down your face, and König can't hold on much longer as you strangle his cock.

"Hah-Shit-" he slurs, his voice barely reaching your ears as he buries himself as deep as you can take him. He cums with a haggard moan, body trembling as his cock spurts inside of you. There's so much of it, too, leaking out of you before he even manages to move.

Both of you take a moment, both stunned by the overwhelming ecstasy. König doesn't bother withdrawing from your heat as he slumps beside you, turning you on your side to face him. He offers no words, burying his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tightly.

Your chest heaves as you suck in oxygen, skin prickling with heat as König encases you in his massive arms. You don't need the sheets, his body-heat burning hot beside you as you press your skin to his.

No words need to be said, you think. König had offered his feelings in the form of his reverent touches and delivered his thanks for your kindness in the delicate kisses he'd pressed to your lips as he carried you into the bedroom.

As you lay in the dark, settled into König's side, you trace your fingers over the curved scars, the bulletholes that have healed over against his ribs. They rise and fall beneath your touch, lungs expanding and deflating with each breath. It's a sobering moment, the thrumming of his pulse against your palm reminding you of his humanity despite the whispers at the base that had insisted upon his bestiality.

You realise those who speak cruelly of him and ruin his self-worth don't understand their impact. To them, he's a cryptid–– his very existence called into question. They hadn't seen him with their own eyes, only heard the mind-boggling tales of his startlingly impressive missions and monstrous size.

They hadn't felt his heart, the way it fluttered against your touch when you'd offered compliments. Hadn't experienced the soft plush of his lips pressing into your own in heartbreakingly sweet kisses. He was no monster.

And when Lieutenant Riley came for you the following day, choosing to ignore the marks left on your skin and the way you hesitated before climbing into the helicopter to offer the Austrian a gentle wave and a promise that you would return, you began the mission to rewrite his story. To change hearts and minds.

It didn't take long at all.

"Did you hear about Kilgore?"

"I did! He saved a member of 141. Incredibly brave–– I heard the situation was dire."

"She spoke very highly of him. Said we could count on him."

"I certainly wouldn't mind fighting alongside someone so dependable and courageous."

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 16 days ago

Text

Love and Other Curses - Part One

Pairing: Dragon!Marcus Pike x f!Reader

Rating: E (18+ only, explicit smut)

Word Count: 10k

Summary: Being the oldest daughter in a poor farming family of seven, you had little hope of marrying for love, let alone marrying at all. But when one morning a letter arrives from the mysterious Prince of Azethia, you find yourself swept away–literally–to a faraway kingdom where mythical beasts are commonplace and magic runs deep in the blood of those who live there… Or is it a curse? It quickly becomes clear that the melancholic Prince Marcus is not what he seems… but can you learn his secret before you–and the Prince–run out of time altogether?

Warnings: Extreme cheese and flowery language ala the most ridiculous romantasy you can imagine; shape-shifting Marcus Pike (he’s a dragoonnnnnn!!); animal attack; animal death; brief violence and mentions of blood; curses; implied virgin reader; arranged-ish marriage; yearning and self-loathing that will break your little heart; non-human genitalia; human-dragon hybrids.

A/N: A few weeks ago I had a dream that Marcus Pike was a dark romantasy hero with a humongous monster dick. One day I opened a google doc and then several days later I had 20k worth of yearning and smut. The beginning especially is HEAVILY inspired by the book Once Upon a Winter’s Night by Denis L. McKiernan, which was the first book with smut in it that I read around age 14 and it changed me forever (and made me completely unhinged). The premise of the marriage proposal is almost exactly the same, to my memory. Credit to the lovely @pedropascalsx for the moodboard edits <3

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part Two

The envelope arrives early in the morning.

Your youngest brother is the one who opens the door to the modest farmhouse where your family lives, and even at the young age of seven, he immediately understands that the item in his hands is precious and expensively-made. You watch as he gasps softly at the feel of the thick parchment against his fingers, inspecting the elaborate wax seal with a little furrow on his tiny brow.

“What is it?” your father asks from the doorway to the kitchen.

Elias turns the thick envelope over and squints at the ornate calligraphy on the front. “It’s… it’s for grande-soeur,” he says in bewilderment, holding it out to you.

“Let me see,” your father interrupts, taking the package himself and frowning at the writing. The deep furrows in his brow deepen. “Elias is correct,” is all he says as he hands it over

You carefully take the envelope from his grip; the careworn hands of your father left a few dusty fingerprints on the expensive vellum, but you ignore them as you read the letters of your name spelled out in a fine flourish. There is no other writing on the front, no indication of the identity of the sender, until you turn it over.

You gasp, nearly dropping the letter in your surprise. “This is the seal of the prince of Azethia,” you whisper. Your volume hardly matters–the little farmhouse is so quiet that your seven siblings and your parents can still hear the hushed phrase.

“Open it!” Lucie, the second-oldest shrieks in delight.

“Patience,” maman scolds her, but you’re already sliding one fingernail underneath the heavy wax seal, trying to pry it up with minimal damage.

You carefully slide the thick parchment from the confines of the envelope and unfold it. Your eyes flit back and forth rapidly as you take in the meaning of the letter. No, no. It cannot be true.

“Read it out loud!” Elias wheedles.

With an unsteady voice, you comply.

Dearest; Many times have I strolled through the woods near your farmhouse at dawn to clear my head after a restless sleep, and my tired eyes have beheld your beautiful form laboring in the fields as though you may never feel fatigue. At first, I was simply impressed by your strength and steadfastness, but I must confess that, one morning, I stood in horror as your young sibling collapsed with a coughing fit, and as I watched you rush to his side and administer aid, I fell deeply in love with your kind and gentle nature. Please forgive my secrecy and imprudence for watching you unseen through the trees. I am accustomed to being a solitary man and have lived alone for many years, and could not summon the courage to reveal myself to you. Please know that, while this letter comes to you with no preamble, I have thought of nothing but this from the moment I first came upon your little farmhouse some years ago. I shall stop rambling now, and get to the purpose of this letter. For circumstances beyond my control, I must marry at once. I apologize that I cannot tell you, at this time, the reasons behind my urgency, but I must confess that I cannot fathom the idea of having any bride but you. I realize this may come as some surprise. Nay, not just surprise, but fear–you do not know me, not yet, and this letter brings no guarantee that I would be a good and gentle husband to you. All I can provide to you, dearest, is my word that I would provide you with all the riches and comforts you should desire as my bride, and that you would reside in splendor with me in my castle. Additionally, I commit heretofore to providing a generous dowry to your family, along with a monthly tithe to ensure that your family lives in comfort for the rest of their days. I promise to you that none of your seven siblings would go hungry from this day forward, and that your petit-frère would receive the medicine he requires. No longer would they need to labour in the fields. All this I can promise, and one thing more: I promise that I will love and cherish you, should you choose to become my beloved bride or not, until my dying breath. There is no need to reply to this letter; in three days’ time, a chauffeur shall arrive to bring you to me. If you so choose, simply wait at the edge of the woods on the east end of your farm at dawn, and when the sun rises, he shall appear. If you are not there to meet him, I shall understand that your answer is “no,” and I will harass you no longer. With ardent affection, Marcus, Prince of Azethia PS. Please do not be alarmed by the appearance of my chauffeur. His kind are quite common in my kingdom, and are not only docile, but quite intelligent and kind.

The farmhouse is silent as you finish reading the prince’s letter. Silent, but for the pounding of your own heart. The bride of a prince you’ve never even met? You can hardly fathom it.

“You should say no, grande-soeur,” Elias says indignantly. “Who is this prince that must purchase a bride?”

“Hush,” hisses your sister Celine. “Imagine never going hungry again a day in our lives.”

“It isn’t up to you,” Lucie argues. “Let her make her own choice.”

“Which is no,” Elias insists again.

You finally speak for the first time upon reading the letter. “Elias… you could finally get the medicine you need,” you say gently.

You look to Mother and Father with a determined expression, forcing your words to be steady despite the lump in your throat and the fear in your heart. “I accept the prince’s terms.”

Celine cheers. Elias shoves her angrily, but when she shoves him back unthinkingly and he begins to cough, the rest of your siblings come to his defense and the small farmhouse dissolves into shouts and arguing.

“Stop!” you cry out over the din. “I’ve made up my mind. Please, dear sisters and brothers, do not fight over me.”

Your father nods, resigned, and looking more tired than you’ve ever seen him. Maman, on the other hand, seems triumphant, her eyes sparkling with the prospect of wealth.

“What did he mean, ‘do not be alarmed by the appearance of my chauffeur’?” asks Pierre, your other brother, three years older than Elias, pointing to the letter still held loosely in your hand.

“He must be terribly ugly,” Lucy suggests.

“Perhaps it is a ferocious beast with the intelligence of a man,” Elias adds. “I have heard tales of such things.”

“Fairy tales, you mean,” Pierre laughs. “No such thing exists in this world.”

“In this world, but perhaps in other kingdoms such a thing is common,” you say. “And Azethia is so very far away.” A pang of sadness washes over you at your own words. “So very far,” you say again in a near whisper.

Elias rushes into your arms, and you pull him close for a tender hug. “Oh grande-soeur,” he cries into your chest, “please don’t go.”

You ruffle his hair affectionately. “Silly frere, I came of age two years ago already. You must know I was never destined to stay–I must make my own way in the world, after all.”

“Yes, but to marry a man you’ve never met? And all the way in Azethia? It will take you a month just to get there, even on horseback!”

“Not just a man,” Maman reminds him, “but a prince.”

Elias blows a loud, wet raspberry in response.

Your dreams that night are troubled. A shadowy figure watches you from the trees, but even as you run at a full sprint, the edge of the woods becomes even farther and farther away. The fields of your farm melt away into a dark, foreboding castle, where, once again, you chase the shadow of Prince Marcus down long, winding hallways.

The next three days pass quicker than you’ve ever experienced days passing. On the third day, you wake long before dawn, and your family helps you pack your scant belongings into a small suitcase. You don your finest dress, the one you usually wear into town–which is still quite plain, but at least free of holes and tears–and walk in the waning twilight toward the edge of the woods with your seven siblings, mother, and father all trailing behind you.

Your nervousness has made you quite early. You stand at the tree line, watching the sky lighten, your breaths visible in the chilly air. Elias shivers, so you remove your outer cloak and drape it over his shoulders.

No one speaks.

The coming sunrise gradually fills the sky with beautiful pinks and oranges, bathing the land, and the tiny little farmhouse that you’ll miss so much, in warm colors. Finally, just as daylight hits the very top branches of the trees, you hear a great thundering sound, almost like… the beating of wings.

You cry out in shock as a large silhouette suddenly circles overhead–too large to be a bird, and too reptilian. Its wings send gusts of air down over you and your waiting family as the great beast lowers itself to the ground. Its landing seems to generate a small earthquake, and although every instinct is screaming at you to run in terror, you stand fast, refusing to move even as your body trembles. Its body is covered in scales of dark green, but when its wings move, you can see a hint of iridescence that gives them the illusion that they are shimmering.

The dragon–for you have no other word for this scaled, winged creature–seems to stare at you. As you stare back, it closes its eyes and drops its gigantic head in what can only be a reverent bow.

“H-Hello,” you address the beast timidly. “Are you the chauffeur of Prince Marcus that is to bear me to his castle in Azethia?”

The dragon huffs in assent, blowing a strong gust of warm air out of its nostrils as it does so. It carefully lowers itself to the ground, and that’s when you spot the ornate leather saddle attached to the beast’s back.

“I’m to ride you?” you ask in disbelief.

The creature’s massive head bobs up and down, and it makes a soft grunting noise in its throat.

With your heart in your throat, you take a few cautious steps toward the giant animal, and hold out your shaking hand until it gently touches the hard scales between its eyes. The eyes–which are a deep, chocolate brown and flecked with gold–close with contentment at your touch, and you conjure up years of memories doing the same gesture with your milking cows. Carefully, you rub up and down the creature’s snout, marveling at the strange feel of its scaly skin. The beast seems to shudder at your touch. Despite yourself, you begin to smile.

“Let us go, then, dear dragon.”

The beast is patient as you share your last tearful hugs with your family, before grabbing your suitcase and awkwardly climbing onto the large saddle. You notice the thick leather straps and buckles, and you hastily fasten them around you, tightening them as much as you can and hoping they’ll hold for what’s about to come. As the dragon spreads its massive wings, you curl over into the soft leather, squeeze your eyes tightly shut, and hold on for dear life.

The sound is deafening as the dragon’s wings begin to beat, creating great gusts of wind as it rises into the air. With your eyes closed, your only indication that you’ve left the ground is the way your stomach seems to drop out of your body. With a squeal of fear, you hold even tighter to the saddle as the beating of the wings sends you up and down, up and down, over and over again. Finally, when you can stand the feeling no longer, the thunderous wingbeats pause for a moment as the dragon glides through the air.

Desperate to catch one last glimpse of your family, you crack open one eye to see them staring up at you in awe as the dragon circles them once, twice, before letting out a great bellow and then beating its wings as it soars higher above the trees and toward the rising sun–and your new kingdom.

Your entire body is aching when, hours later, your ‘chauffeur’ comes to rest in a lush meadow near a spring. You stagger out of the saddle and collapse ungracefully to the ground. The dragon grunts, making a noise of what could only be described as concern, as it turns its head toward you.

“I’m fine,” you say, suddenly wanting to reassure the poor beast. “I’m being silly. You’re the one who’s doing all of the hard work, after all.”

The dragon huffs loudly and turns its head toward the clear stream, and then looks back at you. When you don’t move, it does it again–points its head at the water, and back to you.

“You want me to drink?” you ask.

The creature jerks its head toward the spring and huffs again.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” you say wryly, and gingerly crawl toward the clear, bubbling stream. You scoop handful after handful of blissfully cold water, sipping gratefully from your cupped hands until you’ve had enough. When you sit back with a satisfied sigh, only then does the dragon tip its head toward the water and drink for itself.

“You’re very kind,” you tell it, feeling the need to fill the silence. “Have you worked for the prince for a long time?”

The beast lets out a kind of a snort, and continues drinking.

“I’m not sure what that means,” you say, smiling softly.

When the dragon finishes drinking, it raises his head to look at you, then jerks its head back toward the saddle.

“Time to go again already?” you ask with a soft sigh.

It shakes its head back and forth in what clearly means ‘no,’ and then jerks back toward the saddle again. Your gaze falls on the bags hanging on either side. “Are you saying I should look in those?”

It huffs again in what you’ve decided is ‘yes.’

You comply, carefully stepping around the great beast’s claws and reaching into the first leather bag. You let out a cry of delight as you pull out package after package of food–dried meats, fruits, nuts, and loaves of bread. You take a piece of dried meat and tear off a chunk of bread, and put the rest back.

“Thank you,” you tell the dragon, as you eat your snack. “Those bags, are they all full of food?”

Huff.

“So the journey will be quite long, then?”

Huff.

“I’ve heard that it takes a month to reach the border of your kingdom on horseback, is that right?”

Huff.

“I imagine you are quite a bit faster than a horse, dear dragon.”

Huff. It might be your imagination, but the beast seems to pull itself up proudly at this last question.

“Then I will estimate that our journey will take… one week.”

Can dragons shrug? If so, that’s certainly what this one just did. When you finish your snack, you cup one more handful of water to your lips before standing and stretching luxuriously. The dragon seems to do the same, extending its wings and shaking them slightly. Looking at you, it bows its head and lowers itself to the ground once more for you to climb on.

“Here we go once more,” you sigh as you buckle yourself into the saddle. “I’m afraid I’m not quite used to this yet.”

The dragon whuffs and shakes its head, almost as though it was… laughing. You smile too, and this time, as its wings powerfully push you both into the air, you don’t close your eyes.

“Prince Marcus… is he… nice?” you ask on the second night of your journey. It feels like a silly, childish thing to ask, but you can’t help but give voice to the question that’s plagued you ever since you read his letter.

Your massive companion tilts its head to the side as it regards you, and then huffs in assent.

“It’s rather scary, you see, being promised to a man you’ve never met,” you explain, putting a few more branches on the little fire you’ve built to keep you warm. “I’m sure such a thing doesn’t seem frightening to you, being a dragon and all.”

The beast hums low in its throat as it lowers its head to gently touch your shoulder with its snout. Such a thing would have terrified you just two days ago, but you’ve translated this move to mean reassurance, and you’ve started to find it quite comforting.

“I suppose if he’s a cruel man, he wouldn’t have such a gentle creature in his employ,” you say with a wry smile.

The dragon pulls back slightly to shake his head back and forth vehemently, and you laugh.

“I take that to mean he’s not a cruel man at all.”

HUFF, the beast agrees loudly.

You tend to the fire until it blazes quite warmly. Being in the air all the time has left a chill in your bones that never quite goes away, causing you to shiver even when the sun shines warmly on you. As the night falls, you grow even colder, and you wrap the saddle blanket around you as you huddle closer to the fire. You’d left your cloak on Elias’s shoulders.

A twig snaps in the darkness, and both you and the dragon startle and turn your heads in the direction of the noise.

“Probably a little rabbit, or a deer–”

But your reassurance is interrupted by the cold, eerie howl of a wolf.

“Oh,” you whisper softly. “Oh no.”

The dragon growls low in his throat and stands at attention. The firelight glinting off its golden irises makes it look as though his very eyes are aflame, and you stare at the creature in awe. What a terrifying, beautiful thing, you think to yourself even as the first wolf stalks through the trees in your direction.

You can’t move, frozen in fear as you watch nine more of the predators surround you and your little campfire. All is quiet as the animals stand off against one another, none of them moving as the tension builds. Then, suddenly, one of the wolves lunges toward you.

You shriek, instinctively curling into a ball as you anticipate the sharp bite of teeth into your skin, but before the creature can tear into you, it’s snapped out of midair by the great jaws of the dragon. Your companion lets out a fearsome growl as it throws the wolf aside, its body colliding hard with a nearby tree with a broken yelp. And then all the wolves charge.

You fling yourself out of the way just in time as they all converge upon your protector, who roars and gnashes its teeth, catching one, then two, then three of them in his powerful jaws and biting down hard. Several others land on the great beast's back, and it bellows loudly in anger, shaking its body violently and sending more of them crashing into the trees. Blood splashes on your dress as the wolves are dealt with one by one, their lives violently ended by the teeth and claws of the dragon.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it’s over. The dragon breathes heavily, the hot air from its nostrils creating great bursts of fog that hang in the air around it. It turns back toward you, and then, finally, you find the courage to move again. You fly to your feet and rush forward, wrapping your arms around as much of the dragon’s snout as you can manage.

“Thank you,” you whisper shakily into its scales.

When you pull back, you discover that one of your hands is slick with blood, and you gasp. “Dear dragon,” you say urgently, “I think you’re hurt.”

The creature huffs indignantly and shakes its head back and forth, taking care not to hit you as it does. The message is clear: Don’t worry about me.

“Stop that,” you scold. “Let me see.”

Quickly, you find the culprit: a long scratch just underneath the dragon’s eye, where his scales are softer and more delicate.

“Oh,” you exclaim softly as your fingers trace the angry wound. “It’s pretty deep.”

The dragon huffs and shakes its head again–if a dragon could roll its eyes, you suppose it would be doing so right now. But you’re already springing into action, tearing off a strip of cloth from the bottom of your dress and pressing it firmly to the wound.

“I don’t think I can manage to come up with enough material to bandage it without embarrassing myself,” you say wryly, “but if I keep pressure on it like this, the bleeding should stop soon.”

At the touch of the cloth against his eye, your dragon seems to give up protesting. Closing its eyes, you can swear that it leans into your touch. You sit like this for quite some time, not speaking, pressing the scrap of your dress against the beast’s cheek until both the cloth and your hands are stained red. But the bleeding does, eventually, cease.

Another quiet howl sounds in the distance, probably miles off, but you still jump in trepidation. Giving you a solemn look, the dragon places one giant foot over the fire you built, plunging the woods into darkness once more.

“It was the fire that drew them to us?” you ask, racked with guilt.

A soft huff comes from the darkness, confirming your fear.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I did this.”

You can feel the dragon shake its head gently, and, as your eyes adjust to the dim, pale moonlight, you see its gold-flecked eyes still watching you. Carefully, it lowers itself to the ground beside you, laying on its side, before gently nudging you against him with one scaly wing.

When you feel the heat of its belly through your threadbare dress, you realize what it’s trying to ask. Gratefully, you curl into the beast’s side, and you’re plunged into darkness as its wing gently folds around you, enveloping you in a warmth so complete that you fall asleep in an instant.

The rest of your journey happens without incident. Six more days of flying through the sky on the back of a giant dragon, and six more nights curled up against its side for warmth, and on the dawn of the ninth day of your travel, it finally happens. The dragon grunts to get your attention, and jerks his head toward the sunrise. You follow his gaze, and then you see it.

The castle.

Your new home.

It cuts an intimidating silhouette across the horizon, its many turrets reaching toward the sky, and you remember the prince’s letter.

“He said that he’s lived alone for many years,” you tell the dragon over the rush of the wind. “He lives all by himself… in that?”

Huff.

“My goodness,” you murmur to yourself. It’s all you can think of to say.

It takes less than an hour for the two of you to reach the castle. When you do, the dragon gently touches down near the front gate and lowers to the ground for you to disembark with your suitcase clutched firmly in your hand.

No one is there to greet you.

With increasing nerves, you turn to your companion of nine days and gently wrap your arms around its snout, taking care to avoid the healing gash underneath its eye.

“You’ve been a wonderful companion,” you whisper, and the tears you’ve been holding in since the first sight of the castle finally spill over your cheeks and splash onto hard scales. “I do hope I see you again, dear dragon.”

The animal whuffs softly, and gently touches his long snout against your forehead.

“I do so hope that’s a yes,” you say, and you watch as the great beast rises into the sky. With thunderous flaps of its wings, and a strong gust of air, your dear dragon disappears behind a cloud.

With halting steps, you walk forward toward the imposing front gate of the castle. Shall I knock on the door? you wonder dryly to yourself, but then you see the thick parchment hanging there.

Dearest, I humbly beg your forgiveness for not being here to greet you in person. Something unexpected and unavoidable has called me away from the castle, and I hope to return soon. I have arranged for servants to see to your every need while I am gone. When you arrive, simply knock, and Annette will greet you and show you to your quarters. This is your home now; please do treat it as such. It is my only wish that you be happy here, and, when I am able to come to you, that we are both happy in this place. Your humble servant, Prince Marcus

You frown in consternation. The prince cannot be here to greet his new bride, who he must know is scared and unsure, and has never even seen–

You force the tears down again and stick your chin up as you rap your knuckles against the thick oak door.

Your maidservant, Annette, appears to be a woman of few words. She takes in your appearance–looking alarmed at the dress that you once considered your nicest, now stained with the blood of the wolves that had attacked you. Despite several attempts at washing it, some of the spots refused to come out. She leads you through the long halls of the castle toward your quarters in silence, and the sidelong glances that she keeps sending your way are pitying in nature.

Despite your many questions, she either unwilling or unable to provide any information regarding her absent employer, and eventually you give up, falling into silence yourself as you follow behind her.

Finally, you reach your destination; Annette opens a door and gestures you forward. Unlike the harsh stone hallways of the castle, your quarters are warm, comfortable, and cozily decorated. The floors are covered with plush carpeting and the walls decorated with a beautiful array of tapestries and paintings. Annette gives you one final, wary look before bowing and backing out the room, leaving you alone again.

Immediately, you begin examining your new surroundings. You discover that your quarters consist of several rooms, each one larger than your family’s entire farmhouse. You had entered into a little sitting room with soft chairs and couches, with an ancient-looking bookshelf along the wall, which, upon inspection, is filled with a wide variety of books, including many histories of the kingdom of Azethia, as well as encyclopedias on the flora and fauna of the region.

The next room is your bedroom, which features a massive bed with a soft, velvet canopy and dozens of pillows. The large windows overlook a beautiful garden that you immediately long to explore. Through the next doorway, you can see a large, ornate bathtub and a little table with a mirror, already laid out with more hair ornaments than you’ve seen in your life. There are two doors in here; the closed one you presume leads to Annette’s quarters (the one thing she did manage to say is that she’d be happy to draw a bath for you after dinner). The other one is open and leads to a room filled entirely with clothes. At first, you can’t fathom what you’re seeing, but then you realize… it’s your closet. A closet the size of an entire room.

There are outfits in a variety of styles and occasions–from sensible skirts, to riding outfits, to lavish dinner dresses. Your skin heats up when you realize that each one is your size…and your size exactly–demonstrating just how much the prince had watched you. Just when you thought you couldn’t get more flustered, you notice the dress hanging at the very back of the room, separate from all the rest–a beautiful white dress with a beaded veil. A wedding dress.

You eat dinner that night in the grand dining room–-alone, as usual. You had wondered, as Annette dressed you in a beautiful gown of lavender, if the prince would join you, but his letter had made it seem as though this absence was going to be a bit longer than a few hours, and you aren’t all that surprised when he doesn’t show. Although you attempt to make conversation with the butler who serves you your meal, he merely gives you a polite smile, nods, and slips through the door back into the servants quarters.

Although the emptiness of the castle is beginning to feel eerie, you can’t deny that the food is delicious. Still hungry from your long journey, you empty one plate, and then another, until you’re quite full. You had planned on taking Annette up on the offer of a warm bath, but a wave of tiredness washes over you, and you fall asleep immediately upon returning to your rooms, not even bothering to take off your fancy dress.

You fall into a habit over the next couple of days. You bathe in the morning after breakfast in your quarters, then walk around the castle gardens until lunch. After lunch, you read from one of the many offerings of your bookshelf, and begin working on a diary of sorts in order to organize your thoughts about the strange circumstances you find yourself in.

After dinner, you walk through the gardens again until sundown and the chill of nighttime forces you back to the warmth of your quarters to sleep.

Your surroundings are beautiful… but empty. The servants, for the most part, stay hidden. You aren’t even sure how many of them are under the prince’s employ. You only ever see a handful of them, and none of them seem to be particularly open to conversation with you. You find yourself wishing your dear dragon would return so that you would have someone to talk–and then laughing to yourself as you remember the beast doesn’t talk. And yet, somehow, he was a far better conversation partner than anyone else you’ve encountered so far.

You’re still dressed for dinner, in a gown of deep green velvet, as you walk through the gardens watching the sun set on your third day in this castle. You gravitate toward your favorite spot–a small pond, complete with a little waterfall, with a number of bright orange fish darting in and out from underneath pink water lilies. You sit on a large flat stone beside it and watch them chase each other around until, suddenly, you hear footsteps crunching softly down the gravel path behind you.

You turn in surprise to see a tall, handsome, well-dressed stranger walking toward you. By the way he holds himself, you know he’s no servant–which means that this could only be…

“My lady,” the man says softly, ducking his head reverently as he addresses you. “Please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting all this time.” He extends his hand toward you in greeting. “I’m Marcus.”

You take his hand, and allow him to help you to your feet before he bows forward to gently kiss the back of your hand before releasing it. Now that he’s closer, you can see that he’s not just handsome–he must be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life. His dark hair falls perfectly over his smooth forehead, his lips are full and soft-looking, with a cute little cupid’s bow on his upper lip. He has a strong nose and jawline, but his eyes—

His eyes must be the saddest, most soulful eyes that you’ve ever seen on a person.

“M-My Prince,” you stammer, remembering your manners and bowing clumsily back at him in return.

The prince smiles softly and shakes his head. “No, please–just Marcus. And again, I apologize for my absence; please believe that only the most dire of circumstances outside of my control would keep me away for so long.”

“Is everything all right?” you ask with a small frown at his words.

“I—” he begins, but falters. “No. No, it’s not. I–” he hesitates again. “Please, understand that when I wrote to you, I wasn’t aware of–”

“Aware of… what?” you finally ask, when he doesn’t finish his sentence.

The expression in his eyes is tortured as he gazes at you. “The situation has changed,” he says solemnly. “Please know that I never would have asked, if–”

“If…?” you prompt him again.

The prince shakes his head rapidly as if to dispel an unpleasant thought. “The situation has changed,” he repeats, “and it is no longer advisable that I… that we marry.”

“I don’t understand,” you say, shaking your head slowly as the words sink in. “No longer advisable?”

“Something has happened–something outside of my control, that was unknown to me at the time of my proposal. This being the case, I am willing to release you from your end of our agreement. You can return home, and I will still keep my promise to you and your family.”

“But…” you mutter in consternation, “But I just got here.”

“Your family will want for nothing,” Marcus continues as though you hadn’t said anything. “You can take anything you’d like–your new clothes, blankets, anything–”

“You proposed to me,” you interrupt, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “You wrote me a letter about how you’ve secretly loved me from afar, you sent a dragon to come collect me, and after nine days of flying on its back, I arrive here just for you to send me away?”

“If there was any way I could keep you here, dearest, believe me, I would,” he says, chuckling humorlessly, and you can see the pain in his eyes as he looks at you.

“The poor beast fought off ten wolves for me, did you know that?” you continue, your voice rising in pitch and volume as you lose the internal war with your emotions–and you see the prince flinch at your words. “He nearly lost an eye just for me to come here and be told to go away. And now my best dress is ripped and covered in blood because of it, and I came all this way, and–and—I’m staying right here until you explain yourself to me.”

You throw yourself down onto the low stone wall that lines the garden path, cross your arms, and try to look as indignant and angry as you can manage with your lower lip trembling.

The price–Marcus–stops in his tracks and stares at you as though he’s never seen you before.

“You should–” he swallows thickly, the emotion evident in his voice, “–you should want to leave,” he murmurs. “To escape this place and return home and never again have your doorstep darkened by this sullen prince.”

“To darken my doorstep again, by definition you must have had to darken it once before, and you haven’t done that,” you point out acerbically.

“Why?” the prince whispers, ignoring your childish argument. “Why do you not turn and run? You only agreed to come here for the wellbeing of your family; once I released you from that obligation… why?” His eyes search you entreatingly, desperately. In the soft glow of the rising moonlight, you take note of one tiny imperfection on this man’s face–a faint, white, crescent-shaped scar just underneath his right eye. You find it hardly mars his beauty; rather, its ruggedness seems to improve upon it.

“I… I am simply owed an explanation,” you say, trying not to pout. “Surely I deserve one, after coming all this way and facing death-by-wolves to do so.”

The prince’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips as he stares at you with those soulful eyes. Finally, he speaks quietly. “You’re right. I do owe you an explanation. I can’t tell you everything, for reasons that will soon become clear, but I will try to… to elucidate, as best I can.”

A breeze blows through the darkening garden, and you shiver, the stone wall cold and unforgiving beneath you as you sit stubbornly upon it.

“Come,” Marcus extends his hand to you once more. “Let’s talk somewhere warm.”

You hesitate, looking up at him warily.

“Please,” he begs softly.

Your hand slips into his, and you realize for the first time just how large they are. His warm, strong fingers curl around you and a brief sense of familiarity washes over you, as though you’d met this man, with his sad eyes and soft demeanor, many times before, in another lifetime, perhaps.

The prince leads you to another sitting room–one you’ve never seen before–with a fire already blazing away in the stone fireplace. As you sit on one of the cushions closest to the fire, he procures two steaming mugs of tea, seemingly out of nowhere, and hands one to you. You wrap your chilly fingers around it gratefully.

Marcus sits opposite you and gives you a soft–but sad–smile.

“This land,” he begins solemnly, “it’s… different. A–A power runs through it. A sort of…” he pauses, searching for the words.

“Magic?” you offer.

He shakes his head. “No. Not magic. It’s more like… a curse.”

“A curse?” you repeat, leaning forward in interest.

“A curse,” he nods. “Weaving its power all throughout Azethia and touching both man and beast, but afflicting none more strongly than those who rule it.”

“So you’re saying… you’re cursed?” you ask him, eyes wide.

“My family,” he murmurs, looking away in shame. “For millennia before I was born and for centuries untold after I die.”

“What is the curse?” you whisper with trepidation.

“I cannot say,” Marcus answers quickly. “That’s part of the cruelty of it. I’m not able to tell anyone unless they find–” he cuts himself off with a rapid shake of his head. “I’m not allowed to say.”

“If you knew you were cursed,” you begin carefully, “then why–”

“Why ask for your hand in marriage, binding you to a cursed man?” the prince finishes sadly. “I have dedicated my life to studying this affliction. I’ve spent countless years reading ancient texts, in so many ancient tongues, and in my desperation, I came across one passage that brought me hope. A passage that spoke of love being the key. And oh, dearest, I’ve been alone for so long…” He sighs. “I wish I could tell you my intentions were noble. I wish I could say that I was certain this–that you–were the solution to my kingdom’s problems, but in truth, I was simply a man driven to madness by his solitude, and I had wanted beyond all reason to have a companion by my side for the rest of my days, and you were so soft, and luminous, and good–” he breaks off with a small shudder. “I am sorry, to have brought you into this.”

“I don’t understand,” you say gently. “If you read that love is the key… why, then, would you bring me here with the intent to marry and then change your mind?”

“Things have changed,” the prince rasps, his tone laced with desperation. “The curse… it’s changing. I’m changing. It’s becoming worse, and I can’t, in good conscience, allow you to stay here, for fear that it will eventually consume me until I’m no longer myself.”

“All that has changed between your proposal and now?” you ask in disbelief.

“Yes,” Marcus says simply. “Please, I can’t say any more than this.”

“Then don’t,” you shake your head. “Don’t say anything else. But… maybe I can still help you. Maybe we can figure this out together. Maybe there’s a reason I was brought here–why we were brought together.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. What you’re agreeing to,” the prince warns. He’s so close, now, that you can see that his eyes are actually a deep brown, with hints of amber. With the light of the fireplace reflecting off them, they look like embers themselves. A chill runs through you, unbidden, and you shiver again.

“I’m agreeing to help,” you repeat. “If it’s true what you say–that you can no longer marry, then what if we became good friends instead.”

“You…” Marcus looks utterly bewildered. “You want to be my friend?”

“I came here with the purpose of marrying you,” you shrug. “Is it so strange that I'd want to be friends as well?”

His sad eyes fill with wonder at your words. The flecks of gold seem to dance within them. “You… You are different than I expected,” he says quietly.

“You are different from what I expected as well, my prince,” you point out.

Marcus seems to allow himself a small, genuine smile. It completely transforms his face from that of a lonely bachelor with a mysterious curse into quite boyish, almost impish demeanor. But as quickly as it comes, it retreats, and his face falls as he murmurs, “It's late. I should escort you to your quarters.”

He stands quickly, seeming to hesitate before offering his hand to you again–but you take it anyway. With it, he guides your hand to rest at the crook of his elbow as you walk together down the hallway. As the heat from his arm radiates through your skin, you're struck by how incredibly warm the prince is. The chill from the evening air dissipates completely at his touch.

When you arrive at the door to your quarters, Marcus turns to you and asks softly, “Would you… have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

“Of course I will,” you say with a little laugh. You don't bother pointing out that, since you are the only two living in this giant castle, it would be rather silly to take your meals separately.

“Then I will see you tomorrow night.” He takes your hand in his much larger one and bends down to give it a gentle kiss.

“Until then,” you answer, giving him a small curtsy.

You feel his eyes on you until the door to your quarters shuts completely.

The next evening, you are dressed in a gown of pale pink silk, and your heart thrums with anticipation when a knock sounds at your door, knowing the prince is here to escort you to dinner, and nervous despite yourself to see him again.

Tonight, Marcus is wearing a light grey suit with a waistcoat of dark maroon. Upon closer inspection, you realize that it contains little flecks of lighter pink, and it complements your attire perfectly.

You want more than anything to ask more questions about this mysterious curse over dinner, but you don’t want to trouble the prince any further over what is clearly a sore subject. Instead, you quiz him relentlessly about your new kingdom. How far is the nearest town? What is it called? What is the name of the mountain range you can see in the distance to the north? The prince seems to enjoy this new line of questioning, and he smiles as he answers everything you throw at him and more.

Even still, you can still see the sadness lurking in his eyes–and on his face when he thinks you aren't watching. You don't want to presume, but whatever his reasons for no longer wanting to marry you, they must be significant, because his longing is palpable. For you, or simply for companionship, you aren't sure, but you do know that the way he looks at you does not indicate a man who is remaining a bachelor by choice.

After dinner, you partake in your usual habit of walking through the garden, but this time with your hand neatly tucked in the crook of Marcus's arm as he names the various flowers and shrubs that are not native to your kingdom, and that you don't have a word for.

You sit by the little fish pond long after sunset, and when the evening chill becomes too much and you start to shiver, you find yourself draped in Marcus’s dinner jacket, surrounded by the warmth that still permeates it even after taking it off.

At the end of the night, he once again bows before you to kiss your hand, and this time, you try to hold on just a little bit longer.

There's a spring in your step when you stroll across the castle grounds the next morning, enjoying the warm sunshine and listening to the birds chirp. Marcus had made it quite clear that he intended to dine with you every night, spending the evening together until it was time for bed. You found yourself already looking forward to the next dinner. Despite his warnings about curses and danger and whatever else, you couldn't help but be enchanted by the man. How could you not? He was so gentle with you, so thoughtful and kind, and yet in his eyes there was always that dark, desperate longing that made your breath catch in your chest.

Two days of knowing him, and he was already consuming your every thought.

But your thoughts are elsewhere in an instant when you suddenly hear the sound of beating wings–and far too loud to be one of the birds. You shriek in delight as your dragon swoops down from the sky and lands several paces away on the castle lawn.

“My dear dragon!” you cry, rushing forward to throw your arms around its gigantic snout–your fingers having no hope of meeting on the other side. “How I have missed you!”

The great beast lets out a rumble deep in his chest that you can feel in your own.

“And how is your eye?” you ask, gently palming the area underneath, finding only a thin scar. “Coming along quite nicely, I see,” you answer on his behalf. “Dragons must heal quickly.”

The creature huffs in agreement, and you laugh joyfully.

“It's so good to see you, dear friend. I must tell you about the last couple of days of living in the castle.”

The dragon walks patiently by your side, even though you figure this pace must be intolerably slow by comparison. It seems to listen intently while you talk about everything that has happened, from the odd behavior of the servants, to the delicious food, and even the room full of dresses, which you’re sure he neither understands nor cares about, but it’s so nice just to have someone–well, something–to talk to, besides…

“Oh, and that’s not even the strangest part,” you tell the dragon. “I must tell you about my conversations with the prince. He told me that this land has power–that part didn’t surprise me one bit, dear dragon, as this land must be magical if it could produce such a great and intelligent beast such as yourself.

The dragon shakes its wings rather proudly, and you giggle before continuing.

“But dragon, if the same magic can produce something as incredible as you, then why would the prince consider it a curse?” you wonder out loud to yourself. “Do you know about it? About the thing that he calls a curse?”

The creature raises and lowers its mighty wings in the imitation of a shrug.

“Does he not talk to you much, like I do?” you muse. “How did you come to be under his employ? Have you been his er… chauffeur, for a long time?”

The dragon, of course, cannot answer such a question, and you make a mental note to yourself to bring up your mutual friend and protector over dinner tonight.

Speaking of food, you’re famished. You decide to arrange for lunch to be outside on the castle grounds so you may continue to enjoy your afternoon with the dragon. You whisper your wishes to the butler, who simply nods and disappears, although this request of yours is completely normal.

Just half an hour later, the staff brings out tray after tray for your picnic outdoors: one tray for you… and five trays laden with the finest cuts of raw meat for your companion, just as you had requested. You continue your one-sided conversation with the beast as the two of you eat together, telling him everything you can remember about your conversations with the prince over the last few days.

“Dear dragon, can I confess something?” you ask after all the trays have been emptied, and you’re contentedly full.

Huff.

“He says he no longer wishes to marry me–no, that our marriage would be… ‘no longer advisable,’ whatever that means,” you tell the creature. “But I think I would marry the prince no matter what danger he believes is involved–curse or no curse.”

The dragon tilts its great head to stare at you with one gold-flecked eye, and you giggle and pretend to hide in embarrassment. “Don’t tell him, for goodness’ sake,” you tease. “Perhaps, if I’m able to help aid in… whatever this curse may be… then we will be wed after all. The only problem is, he can’t seem to tell me what it is. The magic prevents him from doing so.”

The dragon seems to nod its head solemnly, and you smile softly back. “I don’t suppose you could give me a hint, dear dragon?”

The creature merely blinks slowly, displaying its double eyelids–like a lizard’s–that wipe sideways across its narrow, reptilian pupils.

You pause, watching its eyes. Watching them watch you. Through flecks of glittering gold against a bed of dark charcoal brown. Cocking your head to the side, you reach your hand up to trace the thin scar below its eye that you had pressed the fabric of your own dress against almost a fortnight ago now. A crescent-shaped scar.

“Dear dragon,” you intone softly. “What do you know that you aren’t telling me?”

Suddenly, without warning, the gigantic beast spreads its wings and launches itself into the air, flapping until it gains enough height to glide through the clouds, disappearing behind the castle.

“Typical,” you huff. “Everyone in this palace is keeping secrets, even the animals.”

“Your dragon,” you say suddenly over dinner. “Does he have a name?”

“Pardon?” The prince looks confused.

“Does he have a name?”

“I–I don’t believe so,” Marcus stammers, sounding unsure of himself. “If he does, I certainly don’t know of it.”

“He must have a name in his own tongue–do dragons have their own language?–they must, I’m sure of it. Anyway, I wish I knew it.”

“If you learned his name in the language of dragons, what use would that do you? No human can replicate those sounds,” he chuckles.

“Well, perhaps if I knew it, I could find a way to translate it into a language I can speak,” you say matter-of-factly. “What other manner of work does the beast do for you”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“He must do things other than fetch maidens for you,” you tease. “How long has he been in your employ?”

“Er, a long time,” Marcus answers awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You’re awfully interested in the beast.”

“I spent nine days travelling by its side,” you reply. “I know the creature better than I know most cows I’ve milked.”

The prince chuckles. “Don’t let it hear you comparing it to a cow.”

“Oh, certainly not,” you reply with a wry grin. “Besides, he took off rather quickly after I questioned him about the mysterious curse on your kingdom.”

Marcus’s eyes darken upon your mention of the curse. “Perhaps he was simply full after your lunch.”

Careful to keep the triumph off of your face, you regard the man across from you innocently.

“I don’t believe I told you about our picnic lunch, my prince.”

The momentary look of panic in the prince’s eyes is all you need to confirm your suspicions. “As prince, I have dominion over this castle, and over any goings-on within it,” he lies quickly, but the damage is already done.

“How did you get the scar on your cheek?” you press.

Marcus springs to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the wood floor in his haste. “The meal isn’t agreeing with me,” he says stiffly. “I’m afraid I must–”

He flees the room before he finishes his sentence.

You follow.

He quickly ducks down hallway after hallway, clearly trying to lose you, but you’ve always been fast on your feet. Finally, you corner him at the door to what appears to be his own quarters.

“One thing that never made sense to me,” you accuse as he backs up against his door, “is the first part of your letter, where you said you fell in love with me after watching me for years during walks when you couldn’t sleep. You said you would stroll through our woods at dawn after a restless night, and yet your castle is nine days’ travel from there on the back of a dragon. You never walked there at all,” you jab a finger at his chest. “You flew.”

“Dearest,” your prince whispers, those familiar brown eyes beseeching you without saying anything further.

“If I’ve lost my mind, then tell me so,” you insist. “Tell me I’m being ridiculous, that this giant, lonely palace has altered my sanity.”

Marcus remains silent, his eyes full of terror as you put all the pieces together.

“I don’t care. You must know that, right?” you plead with him. “If this is it–the big, mysterious curse–then it hardly matters to me. I quite liked you as a dragon long before I met the man.”

“You don’t know anything about this curse,” Marcus hisses through gritted teeth.

“You can tell me,” you insist. “I figured it out on my own, right? Now I know. So the curse of silence doesn’t apply any more.”

Marcus huffs humorlessly through his nose–and now that you know his true identity, it reminds you of his mannerisms as a dragon. “Leave it to you to find loopholes in ancient magic.”

“Try,” you insist. “Tell me something.”

“Okay, okay,” he grimaces, holding up both hands in supplication, “Just… come in. Let’s sit down, have some tea, and just… take a breath.”

You nod, and allow yourself to be guided into his quarters, sitting down on a soft couch while he sends for tea. When he returns and hands you your mug, his fingers press against yours as though he can’t bear to let go–but quickly retreats, sitting down opposite you. You’re both quiet for a long while. You wait patiently, sipping your tea, and wondering if your little game of logic worked to dispel the part of the curse that meant he couldn’t talk to you about it.

“I have been this way since I was a boy, since before I can remember,” he finally says. “This is the way it’s always been with the rulers of Azethia.”

“All dragons?” you ask, eyes wide.

Marcus chuckles softly. “Part dragon, I suppose. Shape-shifters. Legends say that this, er, talent arose during a time of war, when our kingdom was hopelessly outmatched and unable to defend itself. A desperate king prayed to the Old Gods and received a power that he didn’t know how to control. It helped them win the war, but at a great cost. The ancient king lost himself in the beast. Because he could not control it, it consumed him instead.”

“And ever since…?”

“Every ruler–queen, king, prince, or princess–has succumbed to the beast eventually. Some go willingly, addicted to the great power that comes with it. Others take longer, but in the end, their fate is the same.”

“But you read somewhere that love might be the key?”

“It could just be another superstition,” Marcus admits defeatedly.

“But you were going to try,” you remind him. “Then the day I first met you, you told me the curse had changed,” you remember. “What did you mean?”

The prince’s expression clouds over, becoming more guarded. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” you push. “Why not still try and test your theory–the ancient theory–that love will break the curse?”

“Because marriage is no longer an option,” Marcus snaps suddenly, raising his voice for the first time since you’ve met him.

“I don’t understand,” you sigh in exasperation. “Tell me why.”

“All my life, I have been able to change my form from man, to dragon, and back to man again. I thought I had more time… but there are parts of me that will no longer change back to man.”

You cock your head to one side and stare at him in consternation. “You don’t look like you’re turning part dragon.”

“Clothing can hide many secrets,” he says in a monotone.

“Show me,” you demand.

“You don’t know what you’re asking f–”

“You don’t know me,” you interrupt. “Please,” you add, softening your tone. “I just want to understand.”

“You want to understand?” he repeats, sarcastically. “You’ll flee this castle.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” you argue. “The first day we met, you told me to go home. So fine. Send me home.”

“That was never what I wanted,” Marcus argues, his voice rough with emotion. “Never. But it’s what’s right.”

“Then my point stands,” you say stubbornly. “You want me to flee for my own good? Here’s your chance. Frighten me.”

Fire and fury dances in the prince’s eyes as he stands before you. You watch as he slides off his dinner jacket, unbuttons his waistcoat, and sets both aside on the chair. He unfastens the white collared shirt underneath, never once taking his eyes off of you, and you don’t dare to look away either. He shrugs it off his shoulders, leaving him bare-chested in front of you. You watch as he straightens his left arm and shows you the little smattering of dark green scales just under his elbow.

You raise one eyebrow. “I’m not exactly fleeing in terror.”

“I’m not done.” Your mouth clamps shut as the prince begins to untie his trousers. Your heart starts to beat uncontrollably as you realize what he’s about to do. His gaze never leaving you, he lets the fabric fall, and you finally see the part of him that he’s so afraid of.

You’ve seen a naked man before–not in any sexual context, but you have at least seen a human penis.

This was not a human penis.

It’s impossibly long, incomprehensibly thick, and covered with the same dark green scales that you recognize from his dragon form. You can see the hint of iridescence to it as well; the little glints of purple and blue where the light hits it. It’s… alien, unhuman, and… fascinating. Despite your trepidation, you want to come closer. You want to know if the scales covering it are hard like those on the bridge of his nose, or soft like the ones on his belly. You’re terrified by it, and entranced at the same time.

“Now you can see why no marriage of mine can ever be consummated,” Marcus rasps, his voice full of grief and self-loathing. “Now you see why you must leave–before I become more monster than man.”

You slowly rise to your feet and approach him. He’s close enough to touch–all you’d need to do is extend your hand and you’d satisfy your burning curiosity. Your fingers twitch forward, but just before they make contact, Marcus flinches, jerking backward away from your curious exploration. He quickly bends down and wrenches his trousers back up, hiding himself from view as he hastily ties them up again.

“You should go,” he says softly, not looking at you.

You don’t move. You can’t. You want to see it again–see him again, you want to kiss him, you want to throw your arms around him, to shove his shoulders roughly as you call him an imbecile for thinking you’d flee in terror… But mostly, you think back to your dinner earlier, when he had smiled. Oh, you longed to make him smile again. Would he smile at your touch? Would he shy away?

“I think it’s quite pretty,” you admit quietly, wringing your hands together nervously as you stare at the floor.

“W-What?”

“I’m not scared,” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears as you try desperately to tell him it’s all right.

But the prince shakes his head in disbelief. “You should go,” he says again. “Go!” he begs through clenched teeth when you still don’t move. A single tear slips down your cheek before you finally take flight, rushing out of Marcus’s quarters and slamming the door behind you. You don’t stop running until you’ve reached your own rooms, and you collapse in exhaustion and overwhelm on your own bed as you finally let your sobs go.

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x f!reader #pedro pascal #the mentalist

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whipped-for-kpop-fics · 7 months ago

Text

Dark - Y.JH

🌲Who: Gender-neutral reader x Jeonghan 🌲What: Horror. Human reader. Monster Jeonghan. 🌲Wordcount: 3.2k 🌲Warnings: Mental manipulation/control. Some blood and injury. Gradual loss of humanity. Biting. I truly do not know how to tag/warn this but basically, Jeonghan is some kind of eldritch horror who wants reader and morals do not exist for him

Summary: There’s something watching you. It feels old, feels evil, feels dark. You can feel its eyes on you when you pass the woods to get home. It feels hungry.

-2024 Masterlist-

AN- @ourdawnishotterthanourday , thank you for reading through this for me, little one 💗

Edit 8/9/24; bonus artwork by the lovely @monamipencil ! thank you so much for making this, sweetheart, it was such a lovely surprise! 🥺

Edited: 22/12/24

It’s dark. The kind of dark that isn’t just seen but felt. The kind of dark that seeps into your skin, wraps its cold fingers around your veins and travels through your veins. The kind of dark that makes a home of the deepest corners within you and steals the warmth from your soul. The kind of dark that hardens your heart and refuses to let go.

It’s dark and you don’t know if you can find the light again.

You’re the last to leave. Again. It doesn’t surprise anyone anymore. You’ve been leaving later and later with every passing week.

The sun had set long ago by the time you leave work and start the walk home.

A walk that you shouldn’t really take. The way is dimly lit; the neighbourhood too old for modern security cameras to be commonplace.

It’s dark and not safe. You know this. You had been scared about this when you moved here all those months back. Back when you used to get lifts home from colleagues who worried for your safety too. Back before you lied about being okay to walk home alone.

Something changed. You don’t know what it is; but something in you isn’t the same as it was then. You don’t know if you miss it.

It’s dark and you’re walking home the same route you take every night after work. Far too late into the night.

A cool breeze flutters your hair, presses against your back urging you onwards. Closer to home. Closer to the darkness waiting for you.

An empty house, no one to come home to. No one to wait up and scold you for being so late and reckless, yet relieved to see you home safe. No life within the walls until you return. No one. Just the dark.

It’s a calm night. Like the world has decided to take a break and let the nightcrawlers go about their business with nothing to disturb them. It’s nice. Soothing almost.

You take a deep breath, let the night air chill your lungs, send prickles over the back of your neck.

You almost pause as you realise the shiver running its fingers up your spine isn’t from the lungful of cool air. But you don’t dare.

You know something is watching you. Something is always watching you as you pass the opening to the deep, old woods near your home. The only companion you know on these nights.

It used to scare you; cause your heart to race and your lungs to shudder in your chest, expand and deflate erratically and leave no room for anything else. But now. Now there’s something else in your chest, spreading and winding around every inch of you, filling all the gaps and limiting how your lungs expand, forcing them to behave.

It used to scare you; it doesn’t anymore.

Still, you don’t dare slow, you don’t dare look because you know with everything in you, you know that the moment you show weakness, show interest, whatever is lurking in the dark will be upon you and you will be helpless to stop it.

It’s dark and cold and…soft. The world is cold around you, burrowing under your skin and spilling ice into your heart, but there is softness underfoot. It’s a little damp and something small tickles over your bare skin, but it’s soft underfoot.

It’s soft and it’s not as bad as you thought it would be.

When you open your eyes on a new day, the curtains are pulled open allowing the morning sun to stream into your bedroom. You remember closing them last night before climbing into bed. You remember locking the window securely.

There’s a gentle breeze against your face, birdsong reaching your ears.

You’re not surprised to find the window open when you look over.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” One of your co-workers, a friendly young man who seems to light up any room he enters checks, even as others call for him to hurry.

“I’m sure, I’m not much of a drinker,” you assure, smiling at him in a way that you hope is assuring. Really, you just want him to leave. You used to like him; when you first met you thought he was the kind of man you would love to have by your side in any capacity, but especially as a romantic partner. But now. Now his sunshine hurts your eyes and makes the fire burn cold at the back of your neck.

“Okay,” he agrees, though he looks disappointed and very bad at hiding it. You pretend not to notice and turn your focus back to your work, tilting your head down in a clear sign of dismissal.

“Come on, Seokmin!” One of your colleagues yells.

“Alright!” He calls back yet hovers a moment longer before abruptly grabbing a pen from the pot and leaning over to take your left hand and scrawl numbers down on your skin. “If you change your mind, here’s my number; I’ll keep my phone on loud. Or if you want someone to walk you home, I’m happy to! It scares me thinking about you walking-”

“There are post-it notes right there,” you comment, looking between his phone number written hastily against your skin and the little stack of bright yellow squares of paper. They’re impossible to miss.

“Oh, right, sorry.” He quickly puts the pen down and backs up with an embarrassed, apologetic smile when you raise your eyes to look at him. “I just-”

“Seokmin!” The loudest of the group almost screeches impatiently, making Seokmin jolt and look at them. “Flirt on company time, not mine!”

“I’m not flirting!” Seokmin shrieks, whirling around to look at you with wide eyes of alarm. “I-I’m not flirting!”

“You should go before they drag you,” you suggest, raising an amused eyebrow.

Seokmin opens his mouth to respond yet just closes it again and nods rapidly before turning and rushing off, zipping his coat as he goes.

You hear him whispering madly, sternly to his friends when he reaches them but you don’t care to discern the words. You’re already looking at the numbers on your hand and wondering if he purposely picked the permanent marker to stain your skin with.

It’s dark, and cold, and soft, and you’re not alone. The ground is still damp and soft under your bare feet, the gentle breeze cool against your skin and you can’t see. But there’s something against your left hand that feels almost tender.

A touch. An icy finger tracing over your skin. Admiring.

Until it’s not.

The gentle touch turns sharp, a piercing burn in a purposeful line across your skin. Warmth spills out, trickling over your skin, dripping off your fingers to the soft ground you stand on.

Your breath catches as your lips press together firmly. You want to cry out, but there is something telling you not to open your mouth. You can’t let the dark spill onto your tongue and slip down your throat.

There’s a sound; something you don’t understand. Something that rattles the very core of you, something indescribable even if you were to try. But it feels old, it feels powerful. And it’s talking to you.

You don’t know what it’s saying but it’s talking to you, voice vibrating in your bones for only a few seconds yet it feels like those few seconds have changed you irreversibly.

Something wet touches your hand. The icy touch of slender fingers hold your palm, leading it closer to the soft wetness. It’s almost warm, but not quite.

The cool wet traces over the warm trails that spill over your hand.

A tongue. Whatever is with you is tracing its tongue over the trail of your spilled blood.

There’s a sound; it sounds pleased.

The tongue passes over the back of your hand. It burns.

You want to cry out.

You keep your mouth shut.

“What happened?” One of your colleagues asks, eyeing the bandage wrapped around your left hand as you take your mug from the coffee machine.

“Just wasn’t paying attention,” you reply with a light-hearted little laugh and shrug. She accepts your words just like that and starts to prattle on about something as she puts her mug where yours was moments before and places a fresh pod into the machine.

Your gaze slides to the white gauze hiding the raised line of a fresh wound on your hand, cutting straight through the stained ink you couldn’t scrub off before bed.

“Did you hear?” Another colleague walks in, his hands holding his oversized empty mug ready to refill, and his eyes are wide.

“Be more specific Seungkwan; you catch so much gossip it’s impossible to know what you’re talking about at any given time,” the woman on your right scoffs, rolling her eyes but her lips are turned up a little in amusement.

You glance at her and suddenly wonder why you don’t know her name. Have you ever known it? Surely. You must’ve. But you can’t for the life of you remember what it is.

You look at Seungkwan as he moves closer and you realise that you had forgotten his name until the woman spoke it. You wonder what else you’ve forgotten lately; you get the feeling it’s a lot. Yet you find that you don’t care, not really. It’s all meaningless.

“You know how Seokmin didn’t turn up today, right?” Seungkwan whispers as he leans closer to yourself and the nameless woman.

You didn’t ask to be included in this and you almost walk away, but he’s half blocking you in and you don’t really want to go back to your desk and stare at a screen which hurts your eyes even with the brightness turned down. So you remain and just watch the conversation happen as you sip your drink.

“Hungover; he went out with Mingyu and Soonyoung last night and you know how those three get,” the woman muses while plucking her mug from the machine and turning to lean back against the counter, leaving space for Seungkwan to access the machine if he wants to. But he doesn’t and continues to clutch his empty mug with wide eyes.

“We all thought that too but he didn’t answer anyone’s texts or calls and you know he’s too nice to do that.” The woman hums in agreement. You don’t have any input yourself but nod a little when Seungkwan looks at you.

It seems right for Seokmin’s character at least, to never intentionally avoid others like that. He always seems too…warm.

Your nose turns up a little at the thought of that warmth. You used to like it. But now. Now even the thought feels suffocating.

“Exactly,” Seungkwan continues, entirely missing your unimpressed turn of expression. “So Mingyu went around there on lunch break to check on him and he’s not there.”

“What?”

“Seokmin isn’t there.”

“Then where is he?”

“Nobody knows. They’re trying to find out. It’s not like Seokmin to do this. They’re worried something happened to him.”

It’s dark, and cold, and soft underfoot and you’re not alone. It’s dark and there’s a cold trail of a gentle touch over your cheek.

There’s that sound, that noise you know means that whatever is with you is talking to you. You don’t understand, but you think you’re starting to.

It’s dark and you’re not alone anymore. You’re not sure you ever were.

There’s a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, a hamper of unwashed clothes in the bathroom. None of it matters. It’s all meaningless.

You’re waiting. Though you’re not sure what for.

But you think you’re starting to understand. Every morning you wake with a breeze on your skin and you think you understand more.

You feel it in you.

Whatever it is, it’s almost ready.

A gasp of your name makes you look up from the display of apples before you. You know the approaching man, he’s familiar. You work with him.

He gets closer, plastic disposable coffee cup in hand and he’s already talking away, gossiping. You lift your eyes from his cup and to his face. He always has a cup. You know that. But you don’t know his name. It doesn’t matter.

“It’s so sad, isn’t it?” The man finishes, frowning at you as if he truly is upset by whatever he had just said to you. You blink at him, not sure what was said but willing to agree to be left in peace already. “About Seokmin?”

You don’t know who Seokmin is. You think you should know, but you don’t. You don’t care either.

“Were you listening?” He frowns further and reaches out towards you. You take a step back out of his reach before his palm can touch your forehead. “Are you okay? You look pale and you feel cold.”

“I’m fine,” you assure. It’s the truth. You are fine. He’s the one emanating a disturbing amount of warmth.

“You’ve been strange lately. Not yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“Right.” Genuine concern twists his mouth as he curls his hand back around his cup. “You should text Seokmin, let him know that you’re thinking about him; it’ll cheer him up.”

“I have groceries to buy,” you point out. He opens his mouth to say something but you’re already turning and walking away with your basket in hand.

Those apples didn’t seem fresh enough to you anyway.

There’s a man standing on the path as you walk home, a grocery bag swinging from your hand and guided by the gentle moonlight. He’s not moving, just standing, staring into the dark of the woods transfixed.

You know better than that.

As you near the man-shaped obstacle in the path you make an attempt to give him a wide berth, but suddenly he turns to face you with wide eyes void of any light. You recognise him, even without his normal warmth.

“Come for a walk with me,” he speaks to you in a voice layered with sounds you can’t describe. Though there is his natural voice and another one there, one you don’t know by ear but you know it. Whatever is in your chest knows it.

You almost falter in your steps but remain steady. You ignore him and walk around his form to continue on your walk.

“You can’t avoid it forever. He’s waiting for you,” he calls after you.

“Go home, Seokmin!” You reply yet don’t look back.

You don’t see him take a step off of the path. You don’t see him slink off into the woods, drawn by something that has its cold fingers too deep in his chest for him to ever be free of again.

It’s dark, until it isn’t. No light comes yet shapes start to form in front of your eyes. Pale, thin fingers reaching for you, tipped with short, pointed nails. The sharpness of which you have proof of underneath the bandage on your hand.

A gentle caress on your cheek.

A blink of your eyes and a face appears. Or perhaps it was always there. You just didn’t see it before.

It looks human, yet doesn’t. Too beautiful, too ghastly. A contradiction you are unable to remove your gaze from. You don’t want to remove your gaze from.

Dark wisps of hair fall over an even darker eye as its head tilts a little. To the left then to the right.

Pretty lips stained red stretch wide, too wide. Sharp teeth put on display. Too many teeth. But so pretty. Dangerous. And beautiful.

It’s smiling, eyes swirling with twisted pleasure as it stares at you, a cold, gentle thumb rubbing a tender pattern against your cheek. The smile grows as you tilt ever so slightly into the touch.

Teeth rescind before your eyes. They remain sharp yet fewer appear and are smaller than before. Leaving space for sounds to slip through. You catch sight of a pale tongue moving within its mouth as it forms sounds. Words.

But you don’t understand. You don’t know the ancient language it speaks.

Yet.

A soft touch to your bottom lip and your mouth falls open at the request of this horrifyingly beautiful creature before you.

It smiles widely, pleased by your willing obedience as darkness spills onto your tongue and slips down your throat.

It’s dark when you open your eyes, no light streaming in from your window. The breeze is still on your face where you lay.

It’s soft under your back, soft, and cold, and damp.

“Welcome to your new life, little one,” you’ve never heard the voice before, not on its own, only blended with the man on the path. It’s velvet smooth yet crackles at the edge with a cold fire. Comfort and danger in one. You know the owner even without looking over.

Still, you look.

Beauty and horror rolled into one haunting creature resembling a human male, yet far from it.

He’s sitting on the damp forest ground a little to your right, smiling at you with those sharp teeth on show, his dark, dangerous eyes which hold no light or warmth locked on you. And yet you feel…adored.

“What’s your name?” You ask, voice soft and calm; at peace here laid on the bed of moss beside the being that could tear you apart and swallow you whole if he so desired. You think he once wanted to. But now. Now you think he still might. But only to carry you with him always.

You think you would let him if he asked.

“My name?” He repeats, leaning forward. You nod and then suddenly he’s slinking over the ground, crawling in a manner that should not be possible; his bones should not move in such a way if he were human.

But he’s not.

“Names hold power here, little one, do you think I would give a mere human power over me?” He taunts, placing each of his bony hands either side of your head as he leans over you, head tilting too far to the right for a human neck.

“I don’t feel human anymore,” you reply and lift your hand to feather your fingers over his cheek. Perfectly smooth and cold, yet still soft.

“I suppose you are not.” He chuckles and dips down to brush the tip of his nose over your neck, to breathe the scent of you in.

“What am I now?”

“Mine.” Sharp teeth pierce your delicate skin, not deeply, just enough to draw blood that a cold, wet tongue laps up greedily.

“Then tell me your name. If I’m yours, I will never want to do you harm.”

He leans up. Peers at you as he licks blood stained teeth and swallows every drop.

“You are mine,” he repeats.

“I am yours.”

“Prove it, let me have you.”

“I am yours,” you repeat firmly, tugging him down to taste your blood on his tongue.

It’s dark, and cold, and soft under your bare back, and you are not alone.

“My name is Jeonghan.”

It’s dark and you don’t want to find the light again.

Don’t forget to reblog if you liked to help spread the story and let others read it too! And don't be shy to leave comments or send an ask so I can see your thoughts 🥺 💖

Permanent taglist: @okiedokrie @variety-is-the-joy-of-life

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doctorbitchcrxft · 2 months ago

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Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader ( :0 ?? )

Warnings: angstangstangstangst, choking in a non-sexy way, canon violence, canon gore, reader is reeeallly unwell mentally, mentions of paranoia, mentions of self-hatred, just all the warnings. put 'em all here.

Word Count: 3154

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Trailing Sam and Dean was easier said than done. It took you about a week to catch up to them. You only happened to find them when you went to Bobby’s house as a last-ditch attempt in your search.

Staying out of the sights of three of the most skilled hunters you’d ever met was easier said than done. However, your years of experience spying on the lairs of monsters for your father helped you to feel prepared for a high-stakes situation such as this.

Something that was making your job slightly easier was Bobby’s house being in the middle of nowhere. It allowed you to conceal your car in a clearing about a mile away from Bobby’s house at the edge of the woods. There, you slept; nights terrorized with traumatic memories and your visions of Dean in Hell. It had been months since you slept decently.

****

The soft morning light coming through the tinted windows of the trunk of your car was somehow soothing. You blinked the sleep away from your eyes and suddenly remembered why you were here. Just like that, the peace you’d felt had dissipated and was replaced by a crushing weight.

It was a heaviness you’d become accustomed to. There hadn’t exactly been room for joy in your life in days of late, and you hadn’t tried to find it. How your past-self had managed to become human again after the deaths of your immediate family members; you had no idea.

After concealing your car with fallen branches, you made the trek to the Singer house. You put a tracker on both the Impala and Bobby’s truck to avoid you losing them in the event you had to get back to your car when they decided to leave.

Hopefully, the thick tree branch you sat on would be enough to hold you up for the long hours you’d be spending on it. The birds chirped as the sun rose, painting the sky in soft hues of orange, pink, and purple.

Hours passed, and the loneliness began to set in. The yearning you felt for Dean when he was gone had only grown stronger since he’d been back. And yet, it still felt as though you were grieving him: as if you’d wake up the next morning, and he’d be gone again.

You used a pair of binoculars to spy yards away into the kitchen window. You saw Sam sitting on the bench below Bobby’s kitchen window, the oldest man standing nearby with his arms folded, and Dean pacing the floor. Your heart nearly stopped when you laid eyes on him for the first time since he’d been back, and tears sprang to your eyes.

Your stomach began to growl. Hunger was a feeling that had been evading you in the months after Dean’s death. Every once in a while, it had begun returning to you. Maybe you were healing.

**** You were cursing Uriel every two seconds as you barrelled down the road after the Impala. With no idea where the boys were off to or when they’d return seeing as they’d taken their duffel bags, you had no choice but to follow.

Everything about your current situation was foreign to you. You had no desire to partake in whatever hunt they were going on. All you wanted to do was make sure your boys— most of all, Dean— were okay. Such a blatant lack of empathy for whoever was in trouble was commonplace for you nowadays, but it still made your stomach turn. You had become so different from the person Dean fell in love with; even more of a reason for you to stay away from him.

You followed the boys all the way down to Jackson, Mississippi. It looked like they were doing a wellness check. They weren’t in any form of a costume, and they knocked on the door of the person’s home they’d led you to. From the glimpse you got inside the window of the house the brothers were in, whoever lived there was good and dead. You assumed another hunter, given the circumstances.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ you thought.

Night had fallen, allowing you to remain fairly inconspicuous as long as your headlights were off. While you waited a little while to begin following the Impala again, you sat back in your seat and closed your eyes. The next time you opened them, you felt a presence next to you.

Jolting upright, you turned to face the passenger side of the car. “Corbett?!” you squeaked.

“Hi,” he said, seeming far less timid than he was the first time you’d met him at the Morton house haunting. “ ‘S been a while.”

“Corbett, how are you—?”

“Why’d you do it?” he asked evenly, cutting you off.

“Do what? I didn’t do anything—”

He laughed bitterly. “Exactly. You didn’t do anything. You just let me die!” It was then the spirit of the shy Ghostfacer was on top of you in the driver’s seat with his hands around your throat.

Gasping for your breath, you fumbled for the railroad stake you kept in your center console. Thankfully, you managed to get it out and swiped at Corbett’s ghost with it just as your vision began to blur.

When he was gone, you just sat breathing heavily and trying to process what the hell had just happened.

****

Given your little encounter with Corbett had lost you significant time on catching up to the Winchesters, you had to speed the rest of the way to Bobby’s house. Every slight sound and movement out of the corner of your eye had you on edge, and you clutched the railroad stake in one hand and the steering wheel with the other.

It wasn’t until the next morning that you made it to the aging hunter’s house. You stayed hidden in the tree line with your sawed-off in hand, praying that Corbett didn’t return. You were so exhausted, scared, and paranoid, you hadn’t even given yourself a chance to process how and why Corbett was back. He’d been dead for over a year— and died in a completely different state from where he’d tried to kill you. Why would he be back for revenge in a place he wasn’t even murdered in?

Suddenly, you saw Meg through one of the second-floor windows of Bobby’s home. ‘No, it couldn’t be.’ But it was. She just had longer brown hair. And she was attacking Dean.

‘C’mon, Sam,’ you mentally begged. ‘Where the hell are you?!’

You couldn’t stand to watch her knock him around anymore. In your rational mind, you wouldn’t have made your next move. You were terrified of facing him again. However, your declining mental state had you bursting through Bobby’s back door and shooting shot after shot at Meg’s ghost when you’d reached the top of the stairs.

It seemed Dean’s brain stalled as he lay frozen on the ground, and yours did, too. Everything in you was screaming to run back out of the door before he could catch sight of you. But you remained frozen until it was too late.

Dean pushed himself up on his elbow, wincing and turning to see who’d saved him. Your heart stopped when he breathed out, “(Y/N)?”

Tears immediately flooded your eyes. “Hi, Dean.”

He scrambled to his feet. Various conflicting emotions crossed his face— anger, relief, betrayal, joy— and you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. “And where the fuck have you been?” he asked when he’d gotten ahold of his facial expressions again.

“I’m sorry,” was all you could say.

Dean laughed bitterly. “ ‘Sorry’ ain’t gonna cut it. Explain. Now.”

You cast your eyes to the floor. “I— I can’t.”

He huffed angrily. “You can’t?” He turned away from you, running a hand through his hair. “How long have you known?”

“Known what?” you returned, still unable to meet his eyes.

“That I was alive? How long,” he demanded.

Tension hung thick in the air as he awaited your answer. “I always knew.”

That disdainful, bitter laugh returned, and you couldn’t bear the way it made your heart squeeze in your chest. “I’m sorry, Dean,” you pleaded, tears flowing down your cheeks. “But it’s too complicated to explain.”

“ ‘Too complicated’? Or you just don’t give enough of a shit about me to even try,” he snapped.

Your eyes snapped up to his. “No, it’s not like that, I- I promise. Everything I’ve done the last five months has been for you.”

“Really?” he deadpanned.

“Really,” you nodded. “I know you have no reason to believe me—”

“You’re right,” he cut you off. “I don’t.”

You held your head low in shame while you waited for Dean’s next words.

His voice was considerably lower when he asked, “How long did they give you, huh? Six months? Less than that?”

“I didn’t make a deal, Dean,” you said, beginning to get frustrated with his accusatory tone; even though you could understand where he was coming from.

“I still don’t believe you,” he said.

“Well, it’s the truth,” you shot back.

Dean scoffed. “I don’t know why you’re gettin’ pissy with me, I’m not the one who abandoned family”

Your voice rose in anger. “I didn’t abandon you—!”

“Then what do you call the last month, huh? ‘Cause if I knew you were back from the grave? Come Hell or highwater, I would’ve made it back to you,” he said gruffly.

“Don’t you think I wanted to?” you pushed. “I told you, it’s not that easy!”

“Then tell me, (Y/N). Tell me what could’ve possibly been so important that you couldn’t come back to me,” he demanded.

You opened your mouth as if to start explaining but snapped it shut a second later.

Just then, Sam called, “Dean?!”

You turned down the stairs, hesitantly stepping closer to where your friend was waiting for his brother. When the younger Winchester’s eyes met yours, your stomach dropped.

“(Y/N)?” he breathed out.

“Hi, Sam,” you said quietly.

“What— Where did you—”

Dean brushed past you to head toward the kitchen. “We don’t have time for this.”

Sam looked hurt. You could understand that. This was the third time you’d walked out on them. You hated yourself for making them feel abandoned over an angel you had no true loyalty to.

When Bobby came in through the back door, he was both shocked and upset to see you. You were unfortunately becoming accustomed to that look.

“Kid…” he trailed off, keeping his distance from you.

“I know,” you said, idling near the front door. “I’m sorry.” You reached for the doorknob.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean grunted. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t stay,” you said, still staring at the ground.

Dean laughed coldly. “Of course not. Do me a favor, huh?”

You looked up to him, eyes dewey.

“Stay gone this time.”

Your heart sank. Bottom lip trembling, you bolted out of the door and back to your hiding spot in the trees behind Bobby’s house. Sitting down against the trunk of the tree, you leaned your head back and closed your eyes. You did your best to stifle your cries, but it was no use.

When your cries turned to sniffles, you prepared yourself to climb back up the tree. However, a whooshing sound caught your attention. With your eyes bloodshot and wild, you spun around.

“Behind you, (Y/N),” a voice cooed.

When you spun around, the source of the voice had disappeared. It wasn’t Corbett, and it wasn’t Meg… ‘What the hell is going on here?’

When you turned your head forward again, it was Nancy, the girl from the police station where you met Henriksen. You jerked back in surprise, taking a swipe at her with your iron stake.

Her laughter echoed in your ears as she disappeared. Something had turned this very sweet girl into a callous, cold shell of the person she was.

The next time she appeared in front of you, you noticed a symbol on her wrist. “What the hell are you?!” you cried, scrambling away from her on the ground trying to get to your sawed-off shotgun.

“Why didn’t you save us?” she asked, stalking toward you.

“I thought we did! Cut me some slack here, huh? I had no idea Lilith was coming your way,” you said.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” she spat through her teeth. “Do you know what she did to me?”

You just stared at her, clutching your shotgun and afraid of what she’d say.

“She peeled my skin off. While I was still alive,” she sneered.

“Nancy, I’m so sorry—”

“I don’t wanna hear it!” she roared, lunging for her.

You shot at her and braced for the impact in case she didn’t disappear. When you reopened your eyes, she was gone.

The next thing you knew, you were pinned to the ground clawing at the hands around your throat. Corbett was back, and he was going to ensure he took you with him to the afterlife.

Tears swam in your eyes as you tried with no avail to get him off you. Just as your eyes began to roll back in your head, the pressure around your throat went away. Breath filled your lungs once more through a big, heaving gasp. You coughed once, then twice, then sat up to see where Corbett had gone.

No matter how much time passed after Corbett disappeared, your heart rate wouldn’t slow, and the pit in your stomach didn’t subside. Hesitantly, you made your way back to your stolen car to have some sort of safe space. You refilled your gun with rock salt rounds and sat up straight with your nerves feeling completely fried. Every small sound and movement of a woodland creature outside the car made you jolt. Even the wind made the hairs on your arm stand up.

The passing hours gave you time to think over how your “reunion” with the Winchesters had gone. You felt so incredibly guilty for making them feel like you didn’t care about them, but it was for their own good. You knew you would be putting them in danger they didn’t need by getting involved with them again. Still, that didn’t make you feel any better when the man you loved most in the world told you not to come back.

Even thinking about those words made your heart squeeze in your chest. Tears sprang to your eyes, but you still tried your best to keep them at bay. If Corbett or Nancy came back, you wouldn’t exactly be having a therapy session with the two of them.

“Be not afraid, (Y/N),” a familiar voice said from beside you. “The Winchesters got rid of them.”

You clutched at your chest and squeaked out a yelp. When you realized it was only Uriel, you dropped your head back to the seat.

“You gotta stop doing that, man,” you breathed out.

“Excellent job with the witnesses,” Uriel told you evenly.

“Wh— The witnesses?” you asked, tossing your shotgun into the backseat and turning to face Uriel.

“Yes,” he nodded.

You realized then that your mother had once read you the extended, ancient version of the book of Revelations that detailed the beginning of the apocalypse. “Holy shit,” you breathed out.

“Ah, you do remember,” Uriel nodded.

“What, do you have, like, access to my memory bank or something?” you questioned.

“No,” he said. “But do you think it was coincidence that your mother had access to that book?”

You gave him a confused look. “What, have you always been involved in my life?”

“Like I told you, god has a plan for you.”

And with that, he was gone.

****

You hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. All night, you scribbled in your journal everything you remembered about the version of Revelations your mother had read you:

“Revelations— the extended director’s cut,” you began.

“- Recipe for the apocalypse (sp?):

66 seals

There’s a lot of options to choose from, but you only have to break 66 of them to free Lucifer from hell

Seven ‘published’ seals

The cries of martyrs

Plagues/electric storms

Last involves seven angels with seven trumpets dealing out seven plagues

“And it is written, that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood on behalf of Hell and his divine counterpart sheds blood on behalf of Heaven. As they break, so shall it break.”

Fuck you, uriel

The Rising of the Witnesses— ghosts forced to rise. Usually experienced violent deaths

Lilith, probably

Purposefully used spirits hunters couldn’t save? Dean with Meg; me with Nancy and Corbett?

Natural disasters, ‘fiery skies’, Four Horsemen— all signs of the apocalypse

I am struggling so hard to remember specific signs

Oh!

The woman clothed with the sun

The Great Red Dragon (Satan)

The Land Beast with horns like a lamb

antichrist?

Something about a false prophet?”

You slammed your pen down in frustration and ran a hand through your hair. “Fuck,” you cursed. The hazy bits of Revelations that you did remember were absolutely horrible, and you were terrified of what was to come. If only you’d listened to your mother more closely when she used to read you those stories.

Her methods of soothing you to sleep were unconventional to say the least. She read you and Steven books on demonology she plucked from local libraries or the Bible because your father believed that fairytales were a waste of your time. Your mother at least wanted you to be somewhat of a normal child and insisted on reading you some kind of bedtime stories.

It was all getting to be too much for you to handle on your own. Everything in you desperately wanted to run that mile through the dark woods to Bobby’s house and throw yourself into Dean’s arms. It hurt you so badly to know that he didn’t want the same thing; in fact, he never wanted to see you again.

If only he knew that everything you did, you’d done for him. You wanted to tell him about Uriel and the men you’d kidnapped and that you’d seen him in Hell every night. But a much more logical part of you drowned out those voices, reminding you that you were given a job to do.

Maybe Uriel— and Heaven, by extension— needed you to be the Winchesters’ protector so they could stop the apocalypse from happening. As outlandish as that felt to even think about, you’d become accustomed to far weirder happenings in your life. Maybe when this was all over, you could tell Dean everything.

A mocking phrase danced in your head that threatened that somewhat optimistic outcome: ‘If you even live long enough to see the end of this.’

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-nesmith @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

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