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dreamonseems · 2 years ago

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King Haaland Part 2

Erling Haaland X Female Reader

Summary: Reader is brought to Norway as a slave, and King Erling buys her.

If you guys have any requests for this series, let me know in the comments or send me a message!

Ok, so I'm using Google translate for the Norwegian language, so if you speak, I'm sorry if it's not the proper way of writing it, lol.

Also, I am so happy you guys have been liking this series! Thanks for all the love, guys!

"Kom, liten en, for å sove,(come little one time to sleep)" King Haaland beckoned, hoisting me over his shoulders. Confusion and panic welled up within me, causing me to stammer out, "Wha... what?!" Seeking reassurance, I turned to Celine, desperately hoping for some clarity.

"You will be fine. King Haaland is a good man. He won't do anything to you that you don't want. You're just sleeping in the same bed, that is all," Celine assured me, offering a small, comforting smile.

As King Haaland strode down the hall, carrying me like a sack of flour, my heart raced with a mix of trepidation and a flicker of hope. He kicked open a massive wooden door adorned with intricate carvings and gently placed me on the floor as he closed it behind us.

Taking a moment to survey the room, my eyes wandered over the grandeur it held. A large bed, a wardrobe, and a trunk caught my attention, while weapons adorned the walls alongside cozy animal furs. The juxtaposition of comfort and danger left me unsettled, yet I found myself drawn to the bed, curiosity compelling me to poke at its softness.

"Fortsett å legge deg ned,(go on lay down)" he commanded, breaking my reverie. Startled, I turned to face him. "What? You do remember I do not understand, right?" I blurted out, a surprised squeak escaping my lips. Standing before me, he stood naked, his physique a testament to his strength and the intricate Viking tattoos adorning his powerful frame, are beautiful. Clearing my mind of such distracting thoughts, I quickly regained composure and focused on the immediate issue at hand.

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and I quickly covered my eyes. "Where are your clothes?" I demanded pointing at his clothes, my voice tinged with exasperation.

Confusion clouded his face as he looked down and burst into laughter. "Vi skal sove. Jeg trenger ikke klærne mine, lille,(we are going to sleep I do not need my clothes little one)" he chuckled. I felt my frustration deepen. "I still do not understand," I confessed, my brow furrowing in confusion.

He gestured, making signs for sleeping, pointing at his clothes, and then signaling "no." I deduced that he meant he didn't wear clothes to sleep. But how was I supposed to sleep with him naked?

He sat down on the bed and pulled me towards him, pointing at his hair. It was as if he was instructing me to undo his braids. Tentatively, I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself on my knees. With hesitant fingers, I began to unravel his intricate braids. As I finished, I ran my fingers through his hair, untangling any knots. A satisfied moan escaped his lips, which both surprised and unnerved me.

I swiftly withdrew my hands, realizing the intimacy of the act. In my haste, I lost my balance and began to fall, but Haaland's swift reflexes caught me, preventing my descent. I found myself perched on his lap, his deep gaze fixed upon me.

"Vær forsiktig, lille,(Be careful little one)" he whispered, his eyes holding mine with intensity. At this close proximity, I couldn't help but notice his true handsomeness. He looked young, his features softened, and it occurred to me that perhaps he wasn't much older than I.

Despite this realization, I pulled away from him, retreating under the furs and signaling my desire to sleep. He chuckled and shook his head, retreating to his side of the bed. There were no unwanted advances or intrusive touches. He simply lay down, closed his eyes, and left me to find solace in the comforting darkness.

As I nestled myself beneath the furs, a wave of relief washed over me. In this moment, it seemed that everything would be alright.

The enigmatic King Haaland respected my boundaries, and a glimmer of hope emerged, whispering that perhaps this unexpected journey held more than just fear and uncertainty.

As the morning light illuminated the room, its soft beams dancing upon the walls, I slowly became aware of my surroundings. The weight of the previous night's events still lingered in my mind, intertwining with the present reality. King Haaland, a figure both captivating and mysterious, sat on the edge of the bed, his presence commanding attention.

The room seemed to hold its breath as our eyes met. I felt a flutter of vulnerability, unsure of how to navigate my next move. His gaze, though inscrutable, held a certain tenderness that belied his formidable stature. A blush crept across my cheeks, and I instinctively looked away, momentarily unable to meet his penetrating gaze.

"God morgen, lille,(good morning little one)," he spoke, his voice a deep and melodic rumble. The words, foreign and yet strangely comforting, hung in the air. I gathered my courage and met his gaze once more, searching for any clues to his intentions. There, amidst the enigma of his eyes, I detected a glimmer of kindness, a flicker of understanding. It was a stark contrast to the tales of Viking kings I had grown up hearing—ruthless conquerors with hearts as cold as the winter seas.

"M-Morgen,(Morning)," I stuttered, attempting to speak his language, my voice barely above a whisper. I worried about my pronunciation, fearing that my words would fail to convey my thoughts clearly. However, his slight smile reassured me, as if he understood the meaning behind my imperfect words. It was a gesture of acceptance, a gentle acknowledgment of my efforts to bridge the gap between us.

As the sun ascended higher in the sky, signifying the start of a new day, I found myself seated beside King Haaland, partaking in a morning meal. The feast before us was a display of abundance, with an array of fruits, freshly baked bread, and hearty meats. My stomach churned with a mix of hunger and apprehension, unsure of what this shared meal meant for our newfound relationship.

Haaland ate with a measured grace, his movements fluid and controlled. There was an air of discipline and strength that emanated from him, a testament to the rigorous training he undertook as a Viking king. As he finished his meal, he stood, signaling his departure to engage in his daily training regimen. With a nod to me, he left the room, his figure exuding an aura of power and determination.

Left in the company of Celine, the day unfurled before us like a tapestry waiting to be woven. Together, we embarked on a series of chores and tasks that had become our daily routine. Yet, amidst the mundane tasks, Celine took it upon herself to teach me the intricacies of the language spoken by King Haaland and his people.

Words flowed between us, both foreign and familiar. Celine patiently guided me through the pronunciations, the grammar, and the nuances of the language. With each lesson, I felt a growing connection to this new world, a sense of empowerment as I began to grasp the means of communication in this foreign land. It was as if the words themselves were bridges, spanning the divide between my old life and the one I now found myself in.

Throughout the day, we moved from one chore to another, the sound of laughter occasionally punctuating the otherwise quiet atmosphere. As I swept the floor or tended to the hearth, I absorbed every piece of information Celine imparted, eager to grasp the intricacies of this culture and its language. It was a way for me to find my footing in this unfamiliar realm, to understand the customs and traditions that governed the lives of those who called themselves Vikings.

With each passing moment, I grew more adept at stringing together coherent sentences, my tongue beginning to mimic the inflections and cadences of the language. It was a small victory, a glimmer of progress in a sea of uncertainty. And as the day gave way to evening, I found solace in the fact that, step by step, I was inching closer to understanding the world that now enveloped me.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks transformed into a month, my life within the halls of Haaland's kingdom settled into a rhythm that felt strangely comforting. Each night, I would find myself in the embrace of sleep, sharing the same bed as the grand Viking king. The initial apprehension had dissipated, replaced by a growing sense of familiarity and trust.

Mornings began with the sunlight peeking through the windows, casting gentle rays upon the room. Haaland would rise from his slumber, his presence commanding, and his gaze warm. We would gather for breakfast, sharing meals that were no longer marked by tension or unease. It was during these shared moments that I realized Haaland's true nature, one that defied the expectations often associated with kings.

Throughout the day, my hours were occupied by a myriad of tasks and chores. From tending to the castle gardens to assisting in the kitchen, I immersed myself in the daily workings of the kingdom. Celine remained my steadfast companion, guiding me through the intricacies of the language spoken by the Viking people. Together, we navigated the complexities of grammar and vocabulary, piece by piece unraveling the secrets of their linguistic world.

However, it was during one of our conversations that Haaland revealed a surprising truth. His eyes twinkled mischievously as he confessed that he understood and spoke my language, albeit to a limited extent. He had learned it in secret during Celine's early days as a slave in his kingdom, he started practicing it more when I was brought here. It was a testament to his intelligence and curiosity, a demonstration of his desire to bridge the gap between us.

As the days turned into nights, Haaland proved himself to be a benevolent ruler, respectful of my boundaries and wishes. He possessed a playful spirit, often engaging in lighthearted banter and jests, effortlessly dispelling any remnants of fear or apprehension that may have lingered. It became clear that beneath the hardened exterior of a Viking king lay a compassionate and understanding soul.

Haaland's linguistic prowess extended beyond my own language. Through his interactions with merchants and travelers from distant lands, he had acquired fragments of various tongues, becoming a polyglot of sorts. This revelation only deepened my admiration for the king, highlighting his thirst for knowledge and his willingness to embrace diversity.

In this dance of languages and cultures, my world expanded. I found solace in the fact that despite our differences, Haaland and I could communicate and connect on a more profound level. The barriers that once seemed insurmountable crumbled, leaving room for understanding and companionship to flourish. Within the halls of the kingdom, I discovered not only a king but a man who defied expectations, captivating me with his intellect, his kindness, and his capacity for growth.

Today, an unfamiliar emptiness greeted me as I awoke in the vast expanse of the bed. It was a stark contrast to the usual routine, where King Haaland would patiently await my awakening, eager to embark on our shared breakfast ritual. Uncertainty gripped my heart as I made my way through the echoing corridors towards the grand feast hall.

As I neared the hall, the clamor of raised voices pierced through the air, causing me to halt in my tracks. Haaland's commanding voice reverberated against the walls, sending shivers down my spine. My instinct was to retreat, to remain hidden and observe from the shadows. With bated breath, I peered around the corner, my eyes widening at the scene unfolding before me.

"Finn den hesten og bring ham til meg!(find that horseshit and bring him to me)" Haaland's words thundered through the hall, his frustration palpable as he directed his words towards Gunnar, Knut, Sven, and Balder—his most trusted warriors. Their determined nods indicated their compliance as they swiftly exited the hall, leaving Haaland seething in his own discontent. In an outburst of rage, he lashed out, his foot connecting with a nearby chair, shattering it into pieces.

My heart skipped a beat as I involuntarily flinched at the sound of destruction. In that moment, Haaland's piercing gaze pierced through my hiding place, his eyes locking onto mine. "Forlat meg!(leave me)," he bellowed, his voice echoing through the hall, the words stinging like a verbal blow. Feeling the weight of his anger directed towards me, I turned on my heels, fleeing from his presence.

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes, my heart heavy with a mixture of confusion, hurt, and disappointment. Haaland's outburst had shattered the delicate equilibrium that had been established between us. The realization that he could unleash such fury upon me left me feeling vulnerable and betrayed. Yet, I refused to let my emotions consume me. With every ounce of strength, I willed myself to be resilient, to hold back the tears that threatened to betray my true emotions.

Steeling myself against the pain, I pressed onward, reminding myself of the strength that resided within. I refused to let this sudden shift in Haaland's demeanor define my worth. With each determined step, I vowed to remain steadfast, even in the face of uncertainty and unspoken questions that lingered in the air. I would find solace within myself and seek understanding in due time.

As I retreated to the solitude of my chambers, I allowed myself a moment to collect my thoughts. The once familiar walls now seemed to close in around me, suffocating me with their oppressive silence. I longed for the comforting presence of Celine, but she was nowhere to be found. It appeared that I was truly alone in this bewildering turn of events.

Resting my trembling hands on the edge of a table, I closed my eyes, attempting to steady my racing heartbeat. Haaland's anger had struck me deeply, leaving me questioning everything I had come to know about him. Was his previous kindness merely a facade? Or was there something more beneath the surface that I failed to comprehend?

As I battled with my inner turmoil, a soft knock on the chamber door startled me. Tentatively, I approached, hesitant to face whoever stood on the other side. Slowly opening the door, I found myself met with Celine's concerned gaze. Her presence brought a flicker of relief amidst the storm raging within me.

"Y/N, I heard what happened. Are you alright?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine concern.

I struggled to find my voice, but eventually managed to utter, "I... I don't understand. Why did he... why did he yell at me like that?"

Celine sighed, stepping into the chamber and closing the door behind her. She gently placed a hand on my shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze. "Y/N, you must understand that Haaland's temper is as fierce as his loyalty. He carries the weight of his responsibilities heavily, and at times, it spills over onto those around him. It was not directed at you personally."

Her words provided some solace, but the ache in my heart remained. "But why did he tell me to leave? What did I do to deserve such treatment?"

Celine looked at me sympathetically, her eyes filled with empathy. "I believe Haaland's outburst was driven by frustration and an overwhelming sense of pressure. He didn't mean to hurt you, Y/N. Please remember that."

Tears welled up in my eyes, threatening to spill over the dam I had painstakingly constructed. "I just don't know how to face him now. How can I trust him after this?"

Celine's grip tightened, offering me the strength I desperately sought. "Trust takes time, Y/N. We all have our flaws and moments of weakness. Give him the chance to explain, to make amends. Remember, there was kindness in him before, and there may still be kindness within him yet."

Her words echoed within me, resonating with a flicker of hope that refused to be extinguished. Perhaps this was a test, a hurdle we needed to overcome to forge a deeper connection. With renewed determination, I wiped away my tears and straightened my posture.

Later that night, the room was immersed in darkness, with only a faint glimmer of moonlight filtering through the window. My body lay tense on the bed, entangled in a web of conflicting emotions. The events of the day weighed heavily on my mind, casting a shadow of dread over the chamber.

In the midst of my restless slumber, I sensed his presence before I saw him. Haaland's figure materialized, his silhouette cast against the dimly lit room. He moved with a familiarity that was both unsettling and comforting, his steps echoing through the silence.

My eyes fluttered open, and I pretended to be asleep, hoping to gather my thoughts before confronting him. I felt the mattress yield under his weight as he settled beside me, the faint scent of Mead wafting through the air. His voice, tinged with a mix of regret and vulnerability, broke the stillness.

"Are you awake?" he inquired softly, his voice carrying a hint of apprehension. I remained silent, my heart pounding in my chest, uncertain of how to respond.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, his frustration evident. The warmth of his arms enveloped me, drawing me closer to him. Anxiety coursed through my veins as I wrestled with my conflicting emotions.

"I am sorry, little one. I did not mean to yell at you. Please forgive me," he implored, his lips pressing gentle kisses against my forehead. His apology hung in the air, laden with a sense of sincerity that tugged at my heartstrings.

"Why?" I found myself asking, my voice barely above a whisper. His admission caught me off guard, my curiosity piqued.

"I have a traitor in my ranks, selling my secrets. The frustration got the best of me," he explained, a mixture of weariness and determination coloring his words.

I let out a frustrated huff, my anger mingling with understanding. "Fine, I understand. Just... don't do it again," I conceded, my tone softening slightly. Despite my lingering annoyance, a sense of empathy welled within me, recognizing the burdens he carried as a king.

He chuckled, his laughter resonating through the darkness. "Yes, little one. I promise," he vowed, his voice laced with sincerity. A shy smile tugged at the corners of my lips, his presence somehow managing to ease the tension that enveloped us.

"Now, go to sleep. You're drunk," I teased, attempting to lighten the mood. His laughter filled the room once more, mingling with the soothing rhythm of his breath.

"Yes, you are quite fiery tonight," he jestingly remarked, yet his hold tightened around me, pulling me closer. As sleep claimed him, I found solace in the safety of his arms, an unexpected warmth radiating through my being.

That night, as slumber claimed us both, I found myself nestled in the king's arms for the first time. Unbeknownst to me, an ember of happiness ignited within my heart, signaling the possibility of a deeper connection. In the midst of uncertainty, a glimmer of hope emerged, weaving together the delicate threads of forgiveness, understanding, and the potential for a future intertwined.

Part 3

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thatwasreallygaybytheway · 1 month ago

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Read it on AO3 [x]

Begging

At the end of summer vacation and the beginning of his fifth year at Dursmustrang, Gellert predicted another dull, uninspired school year.

The school had an interesting curriculum, much more stimulating than other wizarding schools he researched, with their combat, gobstones and dragon taming classes, besides the contemplation of the Dark Arts in their curriculum as well, not simply defence against it.

However, his colleagues were dense, dim-witted and uninteresting, and the professors, mediocre, kept pace with their snail-progressing rhythm, making attending classes tedious and unchallenging. The retirement of their Transfiguration teacher, the useless old hag, was the full extent of excitement that place seemed to have to offer him besides the usual rush of relief of its provided shelter from what he called home.

Which was more than reason enough to make nice with his colleagues and cronies on the ship, pretend they weren’t as insipid as the water surrounding them and smile at the girls whose attentions were on him, just enough to feed their interests without engaging too deeply and having to do something dreadful, like talk to them or worse. After all, in his experience people were dull and expendable, but ultimately useful.

He may have no real need for them, except for where and how he could use them to gain influence, power or simply a better target to train on the more advanced dark magic he’d been studying by himself, since training alone just wouldn't do. Therefore, he’d make a point out of keeping people at his side as precious working supplies, even if, secretively, he valued them as much as the dirt clinging under his shoes. Looked forward to hearing them as he did for that stupid rain outside.

So, at the beginning of term, Gellert resigned himself to another dull, uninspired school year.

He hadn’t count with the peculiar presence of Professor Wulfric.

At their first Transfiguration class, nothing immediately seemed worthy of note.

The professor was at his table, waiting patiently for them to take their places. And when they did so and he started to talk, his voice had a slight accent but was otherwise clear and easy to follow.

He was a tall, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and twinkling, mischievous eyes.

He looked soft, in a way. Almost delicate. Which was detrimental to the authority figure he represented, but not enough to not capture the prompt attention of the class at large when his voice made itself known, clear eyes bright with some secret-held knowledge nobody else seemed to know.

But, as expected, the subject of that class was, as every other one appeared to until now, underwhelmingly easy.

“…for din første øvelse i år vil jeg at du skal prøve å forvandle disse middagstallerkene til sopp.” (…for your first exercise of the year, I want you to try turning these dinner plates into mushrooms.)

A cold rush of annoyance ran through his body at the proposed exercise. He had barely slept the night before, tormented by visions of a stupid snowstorm sure not to come for months yet invading the castle and causing mild damage and two hospitalizations, eluding his sleep and giving him a headache. And now here he was, out of bed attending class for this child’s trick.

He hadn't, exactly, turned a plate into mushrooms before, but the principle of this specific spell applied to any unequitative transformative spell. It was only a more refined version of the same tricks already learned and the complete incompetence of his colleagues meant he’d have to withstand the exhausting repetition of this pathetic trick for weeks until they moved on to something new to bore him.

“Du virker lei, Mr. Grindelwald.” (You seem bored, Mr. Grindelwald.)

“Ikke i det hele tatt, sir” (Not at all, sir.)

“Å, men det er du.” (Ah, but you are.) – the professor said with an amused smile, coming closer with his hands on his pockets. – “Kanskje vi kunne gjøre noe litt mer utfordrende ut av dette trikset. Fortell meg, har du noen gang kastet en ikke-verbal trolldom før?” (Maybe we could make something a little more challenging out of this trick. Tell me, have you ever cast a nonverbal spell before?)

The boy looked back at his teacher with renewed interest, sparkling something sweet and amused in those deep all-knowing blue eyes.

“No, sir. I haven't.”

“Oh, you do not have to trouble yourself talking to me in English, Mr. Grindelwald. I dare say I'm getting rather good in Norwegian, for a beginner.”

“It's no bother, sir. I have family there as well, learned it since I was small.”

“Very well then. Nonverbal spells are slightly trickier than verbal ones. The mind knows what command intends to give, but there's something about words… they help channel the magical energy to no small extent. And as such, I imagine you can easily understand how it's absence can make the most basic of spells rather challenging. Which I am inclined to say you might appreciate.”

And at it, there were two things he learned:

The first being – when the man approached him with a gentle incentive for him to repeat mentally the spell in his head with intend, envisioning the resulting transformation as if done already –, the smell of his perfume was pleasant as he rarely found. Warm, sweet and spicy.

And secondly, that man was much, much more than he seemed to be at first glance.

There on out, few things circled his head with the same intensity Professor Wulfric did.

He started to notice little things about the man.

His predilection for sweets. His enigmatic little remarks who flew over people’s heads more times than not, but still seemed to amuse him to no end. His endless patience over other’s stupidity and fondness for knitted things.

He noticed how observant the man was. How he not only enjoyed when a student got their spell right but also, much to the boy’s amusement, how he did as well the creative results of their failures.

He’d been a fool.

The authority he had didn’t come from intimidation, but from honest respect from those surrounding him. His mild, unassuming manners earned sympathies and his sheer unmatched intellect, admiration.

He walked around the school grounds, perfectly ordinary, except for how extraordinary he was, making people comfortable in their mediocrity while still influencing those around him with a superior mind without even having to try.

That man was just fascinating.

He started to actively study the subjects given in class for the first time since he came to that institution, determined to impress his transfiguration teacher.

He wanted the man’s attention fixed upon him more than anything. Unlike anyone else, his opinion mattered to him. He may even have learned by heart the schedule of supervision of students in detention to make sure when his one’s came his way as usual, it would be under his watch.

“I must say it doesn’t surprise me as it should, seeing you here, Mr. Grindelwald, meddling with dark, dangerous magic as it were.”

The boy chose to ignore the heavy feeling at his stomach at the disappointed tone on the man's voice, looking at him then with an unhappy look of his own.

“Sir, what is the use of a study subject if not to study it?” – he dared say, getting an exasperated, but surprisingly fond look in response.

“I understand you. Your mind is too bright for the restrictions of your year’s curriculum. But you are smart enough to know there are things too dangerous to meddle with.”

“But what does even mean this divide between dark and light magic, professor? Magic in its essence is not evil, so how could be labelled so?”

“You are correct, obviously. Magic is nor good or evil in its essence. However, the sources from which they can be channeled can be dreadfully destructive. It is the natural cycle of things, of course, destruction and reconstruction, but power fed from destructive forces is dangerous and costly. A power as great as such have an immense capacity to corrupt.”

The elder wizard paused then, caressing his beard thoughtfully while looking him with his deep, all-knowing blue eyes.

“So be mindful of it next time you get to your ‘studies’, Gellert. There are pursues that are simply not worth it. The greater the power you seek, the higher the price you pay for it.”

After his time in detention, while coming back to his room, the boy caught himself thinking about what Professor Wulfric said.

It didn’t sound hollow, somehow, but a thought born out of experience.

He expected to be disappointed in him for his reserve against the Dark Arts. However, he didn’t. He could feel something heavy taking in his chest, but it wasn’t disappointment.

He also felt a bit silly, because hearing him use his first name like that made him want to smile at nothing.

As it was, Gellert discovered the man’s first name by accident when his next turn down the corridors led him to find the wizard talking to Professor Vuković, his Dark Arts’ professor, and favourite one until Professor Wulfric.

“Brian…”

“Jeg ser for meg at du tenker annerledes da, Viktor?” (I imagine you think differently then, Viktor?)

“Not exactly, no. But we could better discuss it over some Brennvin.” – Professor Vuković said in a heavy accented English, cupping the other man’s elbow.

To which Professor Wulfric laughed, warm and friendly, but taking a step back.

“I am terribly sorry to inform I’m quite busy at the moment, Viktor, as you can well imagine. I was fool enough to ask for a five-page-long essay about the Theory of Unequitable Transformative Magic from my fifth years. Three full piles are waiting on my desk as we speak.”

“Well, another time then, Brian.”

And at that they parted ways, the first wizard nodding silently with perfect civility while the second one let out a little sigh, shaking his head as Professor Wulfric turned his back.

To his side of the corridor.

And as if knowing all too well who was there, the wizard gave a brief and meaningful glance with those piercing blue eyes towards where he hid himself to better observe them before he left.

And as both silhouettes faded from view, Gellert realized he learned two things more:

Brian.

His first name was Brian.

And secondly, he might not care for the Dark Arts as much as he first thought he did after all, since any buffoon like Professor Vuković could teach it.

It was clearly a mighty weapon used for lesser minds to mask their mediocrity by compensation. He'd be oh so sure to know how to use it, sure. But he didn't need it to achieve greatness. Not when a man like Professor Wulfric could yield such power without ever touching them.

Brian.

The dreams came as a surprise.

When he first woke up, feverish and aching, body shivering and wet with fluids, he didn’t know what to make of it.

His roommate dared to mock him, asking what lady had sweetened his dreams like that. He learned better after finding living spiders in his Havregrøt.

However, the dreams continued, plaguing his nights alongside his visions in a new, exquisite way. He could barely look at his professor the next class, breathless with exhilaration for his presence as well as dread to be found out.

He never felt something like this before. This hunger.

Bodily functions weren’t a mystery to him, but they were mere mechanics. It never felt like this.

He started to make sure to use silencing charms every night to make sure only he could hear that name falling out of his trembling lips.

Brian.

Brian…

Beatrix Kovács was a seventh year. She was a star student, which meant she was marginally less incompetent than her peers. She was good at duel and appointed Topptillitskvinne.

She was a pretty girl with straight dark hair half pinned over her head and mossy-green eyes.

He heard her and her cronies gossiping about a broken pendant they saw over Professor's Wulfric desk. The way ‘grief took over his face for a second’ when he put it away before starting class.

‘How much his figure was to his advantage’ and ‘his heartbreak and lack of a ring must mean he was unattached’ and ‘what a pity’ it was.

That he was ‘too vivacious to possibly be that old at all’. And ‘how much of an interest he apparently seemed to show over Ms. Kovács talents’ and how that ‘must mean something’.

How ‘she wouldn't mind having his attentions, as he already had hers’.

“I'm positive without his beard he'd not look a day over thirty.”

Beatrix Kovács was a stupid, vapid girl who understood nothing and deserved none of Professor's Wulfric attention.

So, he had to put her in her place.

The entire hall fell silent when a nondescript tawny-brown owl stopped in front of Professor’s Wulfric table.

Those beautiful twinkling eyes of his unguarded with genuine surprise before he took the small parcel with a frown.

He could barely sit still, heart thundering inside his chest.

He felt on top of the world, watching those elegant fingers unwrap the parcel, finding his offering of Fizzing Whizzbees with a little huff o delight.

Elated enough to not look away when the wizard looked directly at him, eyes twinkling with pleasure.

“I'm very happy to know your efforts to follow your other classes has been as excellent as in my own, Mr. Grindelwald.”

“Thank you, professor. But, if I may be so honest, it's barely been any challenge, sir.”

“Yes, I can easily imagine how underwhelming it must've been. I had similar problems back at school, save, perhaps, your resistance over doing any paperwork on subjects you are convinced you already know.”

Professor Wulfric smiled knowingly, getting an embarrassing blush out of him.

“But I have some advice to easy your suffering, my dear Mr. Grindelwald: try to write it as if you were the one teaching the subject to your reader. It'll easy your aggravation at working over what you already know if you treat it as if you are the one showing it for someone else for the first time.”

“I don't believe I have any talent for teaching, sir. Pulling teeth sounds less painful to me than trying to explain the obvious repeatedly.”

And at that the man laughed, shaking his head with a fond look.

“Well, I think you would do a marvellous job at it. You have so much potential, Gellert. You can do great things; I am sure you know.”

The boy felt something fluttery at the wizard’s words, helpless to contain the proud smirk on his lips.

“Thank you, sir.”

“However, I feel obliged to warn you about the dangers such potential carries. You can achieve great things, undoubtedly, but you can achieve terrible ones as well, if you're not wise enough to prevent your talents from blinding you from other people's worth. Self-importance is the weapon of the fools, I dare say. And, ironically, it's a much easier trap to fall prey to when the fount of said arrogance is rooted in genuine talent.”

“You think me arrogant, then, for thinking everyone else around me slow?”

“Oh, don't take offence of what I'm saying right now, my boy. I was quite arrogant myself when younger. So much talent and genius, so many miles ahead from everyone else, it seemed.”

“What happened?”

“The world taught me humility by showing how much stupidity can exist alongside a brilliant intellect.”

If there was one thing he could almost say he didn’t like about Professor Wulfric, would be his tendency to lecture him in subjects he held close to the chest.

Next time they met in one of Gellert’s deliberate detention spree, he offered him a sherbet lemon and proceeded to not only unveil his internal judgment of the clear inferiority of muggles, but to lecture him on the dangers of prejudice and bigotry.

“They are worse than animals.” – he argued with disgust. – “They are always at war; they have enslaved their peers based on skin colour and contaminated our culture with it; they are ignorant and turn love into disease. They’re like fleas, a pest in need to containment.”

“But they’re not. You see, I do not disagree with how backwards some aspects of their culture can be, but one could argue the same about aspects of our own culture. Moreover, we all are ultimately human. Some of our own are born without magic. Some of theirs, with absolutely no magical ancestry, are born with it. We create this divide; them, us. There are only people, and people, humans, are capable of extraordinary as well as terrible things.”

“…They destroyed my family.” – he whispered to the other wizard.

Professor Wulfric answered it with a heavy, warm hand on his shoulder. Elegant fingers holding him firmly and Gellert wanted him to never let go.

“I used to resent them too. You see, some muggles… did something terrible to my family and the repercussions were devastating.”

“Used to? Not anymore?”

“No. No… Not anymore. I learned generalization is another rather dangerous thing. It’s what led them to the witch hunts. It’s what could led us to a totalitarian regimen envisioning complete domination over the non-magical community. It’s a simplistic, limiting thought. Magical or not, there’s good and there’s evil in all of us. And no group of people should be judged by the wrongdoings of individuals whose hearts are tainted. And if nothing else, an evil wizard is infinitely more dangerous than a muggle, wouldn’t you agree, my dear Mr. Grindelwald, only for the power they hold?”

“You don’t think us superior then, for how much more powerful we are?”

“I don’t. More powerful? Yes. But never superior. Power requires compassion in order to not become only another tool of oppression.”

The next time, it’s him who receives an unexpected owl.

Inside a carefully brown wrapped paper is a copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and a velvet drawstring bags full of sherbet lemon.

Professor Wulfric hid a little smirk behind his glass, but after turning aside for a moment to reply something Professor Touissant pointed out, he looked back at Gellert, winking with his beautiful, twinkling eyes.

Of course, the other students started to finally notice the special connection he had with their Transfiguration professor eventually.

They dared call him professor’s pet a couple of times, but unlike any other time someone dared to mock him, he was content enough to let them be this time.

There was a certain secret pleasure in imagining himself at his professor’s feet, after all.

Ms. Kovács, as it was expected, noticed as well, and started to pay him an amount of attention he wasn’t all that keen on receiving, but did, nonetheless. With her mind fixed on trying to extract information about their professor from him, he could better control her and her pestering feelings towards the older wizard, after all.

But also, as expected, with their increasing contact rumours started to circle around school about their ‘special friendship’. Which amused Gellert to no end, as both seemed to have designs to reach the same man.

“I am starting to suspect you see your detention hours as a prize instead of a punishment, Mr. Grindelwald.”

Professor Wulfric smiled that secret smile of his, making his stomach flutter ridiculously.

“I have no idea what gave you this impression, sir.”

The man laughed at his blatant lie, shaking his head.

“Gellert, I cannot in good conscience condone with a student engaging in reprehensible behaviours. Although I will admit your ‘wandering after curfew’ infraction is surprisingly mild compared to ‘smuggling restricted books from the library’, as it were. I could declare myself proud of you, wouldn’t that be most inappropriate.”

Not the most inappropriate thing they could do, though. He could let Gellert trace his graceful neck with his lips and teeth, let him feel his beard scratching the soft skin of his inner thighs, take his pleasure on him over his very desk. That would be most deliciously inappropriate.

“Perhaps I do enjoy our extra hours together.” – he said daringly, looking at the wizard from between his lashes for a second.

He didn’t think he imagined the light blush of the man’s cheeks, although he only laughed, tapping his shoulder in a companiable, but innocuous way.

He took note. Badly concealed flirting was out if he wanted to succeed in seducing the man.

“It is pleasing, having someone to talk with who understands your mind.”

“You carry so much anger inside you, Gellert. I thought at first it was contempt for those who didn’t measure to your mind. But now I believe it is hurt. You want to be known.”

“I don’t need to be known. Perhaps known of. But I do not need anyone else.”

“Your relentless pursue of detention hours with me tells a rather different story, my boy. Everybody needs connection.”

“Can’t you be mine?”

He laughed again, walking away from him.

“Oh, Mr. Grindelwald, I have the upmost faith you can do infinitely better than befriend an old man.”

“But I want you.”

The boy watched the wizard freeze at his thoughtless words, eyes becoming wary as he looked at him.

“You are a great teacher.” – he completed with calculated carelessness, as if it was the intent of his little slip up all along.

The relief of watching his professor’s shoulders relax were greater than the disappointment of his terrible reaction to a possible deeper interest of his part.

“All students adore you, professor. Some more than.” – he proceeded innocently enough, watching closely the frown return to his face at his words.

Given the wizard’s reaction to his accidental declarations, Gellert was almost certain Professor Wulfric wasn’t overly fond of the idea of frolicking with students. Being so, it presented the most perfect opportunity to free himself of Beatrix Kovács’ shadow over what for all rights should belong to him.

“Is that so?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to come across as a gossip. Specially now it seems she and I are in friendly terms.” – he did his best to sound sheepish but changed course when he watched the older man’s eyes become wary once more at his actions rather than his words, smiling impishly and raising an eyebrow. – “Although, what harm can it do? It’s just a silly crush, I believe. Ms. Kovács doesn’t have to know I told you about it, does she?”

“Oh. Ms. Kovács is the subject of this conversation?”

“You don’t sound surprised, professor.”

“It would surprise you the number of students whose feelings about their authority figures blur the line of what’s appropriate. I believe it is quite common, in fact. What surprises me the most is, after all these years, it still happening with an old man.”

“She believes you wouldn't look a day over thirty without your beard.”

“Is that so?”

The wizard sounded delightfully amused, smiling at him, unguarded and beautiful.

“I personally believe you look quite distinguished, sir. I hope I can age as gracefully as you.”

“Oh, you will, Gellert. I can assure you, you will.”

The man sounded so wishful and sad at those words; the student felt taken aback.

Doubly so, at the inkling of a thought those words gave him.

He started to observe carefully. The idea sounding likelier at every small quirk of that man too out of place to look simply eccentric.

The older wizard wasn’t a seer, he could tell. He seemed to know more than everybody else and had an uncanny capacity to read him as no other ever had, but it wasn’t the same. Brian Wulfric carried none of the signs of a seer.

He was set apart from the rest, even when surrounded by people. And it wasn’t just his brilliance overshadowing everyone else. There was a lack of stiffness, a languidness of posture, a casualness, uncommon for other people his age or younger.

And it wasn’t disrespectful in nature.

He knew exactly how the entire social dance he had to perform to the world was played. He just had something… different about him.

And the way he said those words. How he affirmed as a fact, with such longing that he would grow old distinguished in nature as the man himself was. He couldn’t stop thinking how the wizard seemed to know him, know his ugliest, most hidden parts and being so intent on guiding him. Stop thinking of how he seemed to have known him for longer than just the school year.

“…Were we lovers? Where you came from?”

Gellert couldn’t help to notice Professor Wulfric’s hand going unconsciously to his breast pocket, eyes unguarded with surprise and alarm.

“I suppose I should have predicted this turn of events.”

“Kovács is stupid for thinking you were looking at her when your eyes are always fixed on me. But still, you seemed to become wary when I showed a deeper interest in you, even though you certainty know of my feelings toward you.”

“Gellert-.”

“Were we lovers?”

“…Yes.”

“What happened?”

“You became obsessed by the dark arts and your hatred towards muggles, and for that I lost you.”

“You mean to say muggles broke us apart?”

“No, Gellert. I mean to say your ambitions and hatred did.”

“How?”

“You murdered my sister!” the man exclaimed, covering his face with both hands for a moment.

Ignorant of the shock those words caused him.

“It is not-.” – Professor Wulfric started again before pausing mid-sentence, sighing loudly. – “The least you know of it the better. I just… Wished to change things. To prevent you from turning to darkness and away from me.”

“You love me.”

“As I will until my last breath.”

The confrontation let Gellert with much to think about.

One day he’d meet him. Not as Professor Wulfric, but as a young, brilliant Brian, and fall for those bright blue, all-knowing eyes and unmatched intellect. He’d meet someone worth knowing and somehow lose him.

He said his hatred towards muggles broke them.

He said so many things already, before this very conversation. About the humanity of them all, how there were more uniting than separating them. About how a power fed from destructive forces as the dark arts, were dangerous came for a cost. About its capacity to corrupt.

Had he lost his way? Turned away from the one person who could understand him, who loved him desperately enough to turn back time and try to prevent his future from happening by guiding him through another path?

Gellert couldn’t trust what Brian said in front of all he left unsaid; he wasn’t naïve enough to take his vague words at face value. However, he felt in his bones he could trust that man’s love, still.

Moreover, he could feel how no matter his path from then on, his future had already been irrevocably changed from the moment that tall, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and twinkling, mischievous eyes entered his life.

#ggad #grindeldore #albus x gellert #gellert grindelwald #albus dumbledore #gellert x albus #au #time travel au #pre relationship #middle aged!albus dumbledore #teen!gellert grindelwald #rated teen #fantastic beasts au #post secrets of dumbledore

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tanker-om-kon · 13 days ago

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My Voice, My Choice

Du kan skrive under for at sikre abortrettigheder i alle EU lande. My Voice, My Choice er en kampagne for fri abort i hele EU. De skal bruge 1 million underskrifter fra personer med statsborgerskab i et EU-land.

I Danmark har vi haft fri abort siden 1973

Siden aborten blev fri herhjemme, har man gratis og uden forklaring på hvorfor man ønskede det kunne få en abort til og med 12 ugers graviditet.

I maj 2024 fik vi ny abortlov. Her blev det besluttet at aborten skal være fri op til 18 uger. OG at 15 til 17 årige kan få abort uden deres forældre bliver indblandet.

Abortrettigheder er ikke kun kvindekamp!

Det er en kamp for alle mennesker, der kan blive gravide, uanset deres køn.

Det er klart at der er et stort fokus på ciskvinder i kampen for abort, men når jeg ser skilte med tekst som "Hvis mænd kunne blive gravide, ..." så bliver jeg sgu træt.

Nogle transmænd kan blive gravide. Ligesom nogle nonbinære kan blive gravide.

Kropsautonomi for alle

Det er vigtigt at alle, der kan blive gravide uanset køn, har ret til sikker sex og har ret til at få en abort når de har brug for det.

I EU er det desværre ikke en selvfølge. I Polen og Malta er det næsten umuligt at få en abort, uanset årsagen. I andre lande er abort lovligt, men svært at få adgang til som i Kroatien og Italien.

Jeg håber, at I har lyst til at skrive under på EU borgerforslaget. I kan læse mere om aktivisterne bag borgerforlaget her.

Underskriv her

#my voice my choice #abortion rights #bodily autonomy #afab #trans men #nonbinary #nonbinær #transmand #transkønnet #abortrettigheder #abort

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razzle-zazzle · 3 months ago

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Whumptober Day 05: Sunburn

Healing Salve + "If my pain will stretch that far"

2385 Words; Raised by Serpentine, sometime before "Can of Worms"

TW for mentions of past attempted indirect genocide (the serpentine entombment)

AO3 ver

“I wonder if we should go down to the lake later.” Lou mused.

Skalidor turned his attention to Lou, “You hate the lake.” It was true—the lake was a deep half-flooded underground cavern that seemed to stretch on forever, the other end unlit and unreachable. Lou did not consider himself a strong swimmer, and rarely went down there if he could help it.

Lou shrugged. “I was thinking we might have fish for dinner.” He stepped to the side as an overexcited hatchling barreled between them, a harried parent chasing after them.

Skalidor hmmed. “That does sound good. Perhapss Cole and I can go down there to surprisse you with one.” The tunnel they were in opened up as they reached the central chamber, torches and patches of growing moss illuminating a spiral up to the ceiling high above. Chanting filled the area—there was an active Slitherpit in progress towards the center.

“You and I can what?” Cole arrived before them, the same hatchling tucked under his arm and squirming furiously. He turned his attention to the hatchling—ah, Skalidor recognized this one. Little Pebbline, the youngest in the entire tomb. “You can’t just run around recklessly,” Cole was chiding, as Pebbline struggled valiantly to return to the ground. “You’re going to break your face on a wall.”

“Will not!” Pebbline protested, hanging upside-down in Cole’s arms at this point.

“Pebbline!” And there was Bytar, her father. “Thank you for catching her, Cole.” He smiled, taking Pebbline in his arms, and she hissed her displeasure before subsiding.

Cole grinned. “Of course!”

Bytar turned back into the tunnel, then, heading off with Pebbline in tow. Skalidor could faintly hear her begging to go back so she could see the Slitherpit.

“It’s a good thing you don’t run around like that anymore.” Lou commented, as Cole fell into step with them. “I could barely catch you back then, I wouldn’t want to imagine having to catch you now!”

Cole opened his mouth to respond—

A terrible grinding sound filled the central chamber, the sound of stone against stone harsh and loud. Screams broke out as everyone looked for the source of the noise, and Skalidor clutched his staff and pulled Lou against his side. Cole leapt forwards, arms outstretched as though he might prevent the inevitable cave-in—as though he was yet capable of moving more than small pebbles.

“It’s coming from above!” Someone shouted.

“The ceiling will crush usss!” Another voice realized.

“EVERYONE OUT OF THE CHAMBER!” Skalidor commanded, watching as Dweller and Constrictai alike dashed for the tunnel entrances lining the wall. He started to slither back, Lou still close at hand, once it seemed as though almost everyone was out—Cole!

“Cole, what are you—” Skalidor started, almost ready to go back in just to drag him out. This reckless boy—!

“It’s not caving in.” Cole’s arms had fallen to his sides, and he was gazing up into the shadows of the ceiling with an unreadable expression. “It’s—”

He stumbled back at the same time that the grinding stopped, arm raised above his head as he stared up towards the ceiling.

“Cole.” Skalidor hissed. The whole chamber was clearly unstable, after a noise like that—or worse, it had been one of the tunnels, and Skalidor’s order had seen several of his people buried—

“Skal,” Lou stepped forwards, pointing up towards the ceiling, “dear, look up.”

Skalidor looked up.

His staff clattered to the ground from a suddenly boneless hand—Skalidor ducked down to pick it up, keeping his eyes up on the ceiling—at the top of the stairs that wound around and up, a remnant of when their community had first been entombed generations ago—

Eyes locked on the bright circle of light where before there were shadows.

The light shooting down the stairs was brighter than any torchlight Skalidor had seen before, brighter than any glowing moss. It almost didn’t seem real—never, in all of his decades, had Skalidor conceived of the tomb being opened. But that was what the light had to be, right? Surely, it couldn’t mean anything else.

Faces were peeking into the central chamber from the tunnels scattered about, curious mutterings filling the air as everyone present took in the new development.

“Open?”

“That light!”

“Impossible! Nothing can break the barrier!”

“It’ss ssso bright…”

“How did it open?”

“A monster! A monster iss coming down to kill uss all!”

There was a shape casting a shadow upon the steps. Skalidor gripped his staff, and slithered forwards. Cole fell into step beside him, and Skalidor held his staff in front of the boy to stop him.

“Wh—lemme help!” Cole protested, voice close to a whisper.

“Sstay here.” Skalidor hissed. “I will invesstigate. You will protect.” Cole made a face, but backed off, standing beside Lou as Skalidor ascended the ancient steps.

That the stairs were completely out of use wasn’t actually true—though the tomb was magically sealed, the stairs allowed access to the upper walls of the central chamber—Skalidor passed by murals and carvings that had existed long before him without a second glance. He slowed down as he reached the top, squinting against the light.

The form that cast the shadow stood at the entrance, backlit by light so bright that Skalidor couldn’t make out any features. But their shape was vaguely serpentine—they would likely be strong, if it came to blows. They might even have some of the strange adaptations Skalidor had heard the supposed other tribes of Serpentine possessed.

“Who goesss there?” Skalidor asked, when the figure remained still. After a moment, they moved, slithering forwards and ducking their head. Their neck was very long—a potential handhold for grappling, then.

“Greetingss, my Constrictai cohort.” Their voice was smooth and even, and they moved to the side of Skalidor. They were scaled, just as he expected—but where Skalidor bore the blacks and oranges of a Constrictai, they were violet.

“An Anacondrai?” Skalidor asked. He’d heard the tales—they were the strongest of the Serpentine, the fastest and most resilient. They outmatched every other tribe, and lead the charge in the ancient war—but even they, too, had fallen, or so every tale assumed.

The Anacondrai nodded his head. “Oh, where are my manners?” They offered a hand, “Pythor P. Chumsworth, at your service.” He smiled, then, pleasant and disarming.

“How did you open the tomb?” Not even an Earth Master could break the barrier, nor could they tunnel around it—though there had been plenty of attempts. The tomb was meant to be permanent—a resting place, where those entombed were to die and never return.

“Curious, no?’ Pythor inclined his head towards the entrance. “Far as I can tell, for all the effort they put into making the tombs inescapable from within, that same effort wasn’t given to prevent them being opened from the outside.”

Skalidor balked. “That easy? But why?” There were no intentions to let the entombed out—or else they wouldn’t have been trapped down there for generations. Right?

Pythor shrugged. “Well, the rock was rather heavy. But yes, I could feel the magic breaking as I moved it. The seal didn’t wear off.”

Skalidor hissed. The light seemed to beckon him, and he tore forwards, needing to see for himself that the tomb has well and truly been breached—

Skalidor recoiled as the light from outside the tomb hit him in full. After a moment, he reopened his eyes, slowly enough that, though the light still burned, it did not sear quite as bright as before. His eyes adjusted, to a light level they had never experienced before—

Skalidor gasped.

Pythor slithered up beside him. “Well?” He prompted, staring out at the sights he had already seen.

“It’s…” Skalidor searched for the words. He had thought nothing could dwarf the underground lake in terms of sheer size—and yet. The light bearing down was hot, far hotter than any torchlight, and brighter as well. It reminded him of a festival years past when they had set up a bonfire in the central chamber. Back when Lilly… back when she had still been alive, standing at his side and making sure the smoke didn’t flood the caverns.

But not even the bonfire had anything on this. Skalidor turned his head towards the sky, eyes squinting against the light raining down. It was so bright. He could hardly see—and yet it was still better than when he had first emerged, and couldn’t see at all.

Pythor watched as Skalidor breathed in the outside air—it was hot, bone dry, so different from the caverns—patiently allowing the general to adjust. “Incredible, is it not?” He asked.

Skalidor breathed slowly, just trying to take in the enormity of the sky above him. Brilliant blue—he wasn’t sure he had seen blues so deep—cascading from horizon to horizon like the roof of a cavern—and yet the sky seemed to go on forever in a way that stone did not.

“It’ss something.” Skalidor breathed, dizzy from the magnitude of it. “I never imagined…”

Pythor chuckled. “I think we’ve all felt like this.” He swept an arm out, “I can’t believe this was kept from us—and for what?” his expression darkened. “Because of some trifle like a war that ended long before you and I were born? For generations, we’ve suffered beneath the surface, locked away from all of this world that they’re not even using—!” He paused, taking a breath. “My apologies,” He bowed his head. “I lost control of myself. But the knowledge of all that we’ve been denied—” He cut himself off with a hiss, shaking his head.

“No, I think I get it.” Skalidor spoke. “There’s just. Sso much.” From this perch atop—a mountain, was that the word? Skalidor had to think back to the stories of the surface passed down through generations—but from up so high, Skalidor could see so much. And yet he couldn’t make out anything living—that he recognized. All this space…

The tomb was never really cramped, in Skalidor’s memory—there simply weren’t enough Constrictai or Dwellers in it. Maybe it had been cramped when the original community had first been sealed away—but that had been long before Skalidor’s time. But he had heard the stories, of what could grow up here, of animals much bigger than cave newts. The vast distance laid out before him suddenly seemed so ideal—and yet he couldn’t spot a single surface human, nor any sign of their communities. He absently noticed his tail buzzing. He didn’t quite care to stop it.

“They have all this space that they’re not even ussing.” Skalidor hissed. “We have had to sscrape together what little we could find—”

“They don’t deserve this.” Pythor agreed, “Not one bit. Not after locking us away like vermin!”

Skalidor’s grip on his staff tightened.

“Skal, you ok—OWWW—” Skalidor turned around to see Cole poking his head out the entrance—well, no, the boy had stumbled back into the shadows of the entrance, what little of his face wasn’t hidden behind his arm scrunched against the light.

Skalidor chuckled. “Bright, isn’t it?” Beside him, Pythor’s eyes narrowed.

Cole tentatively reached his hand out into the light. “It feels like I’m sticking my hand in fire.” He muttered, before pulling back. Slowly, he lowered his arm, eyes blinking open—and immediately squinting against the light.

Pythor grimaced. “There are humans in your tomb?” He sounded put out by the very idea.

Skalidor regarded him curiously. “Sssurface humanss were willing to entomb their own kind.” He spat. “But now the dwellers are simply more of our kind—our community—” He looked at Cole with fondness— “Cole is our Elemental Master. Earth, in fact.” There was uncontained pride in his voice, for all that Cole had yet to fully inherit Lilly’s mantle and powers.

Pythor hmmed. “I had heard that a Master of Earth took up arms on the side of the Serpentine.” He stared at Cole curiously. “I had thought it just a tale to tell hatchlings, to give them false hope.”

“Well, I’m real.” Cole replied. He glared at Pythor for a moment more before schooling his expression. “Thanks for opening the tomb.” He said, in tones of quiet disbelief.

Skalidor could hardly believe it himself. “We can leave the tomb.” He murmured. “We wouldn’t be trapped anymore—what you’ve given us access to, I—I don’t know how we could ever repay you.”

Pythor waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, no no! I don’t need anything in return! I just abhorred the thought of any of my fellow Serpentine continuing to suffer in their tombs.” His mouth curled in distaste, “It really was cruel of the humans to entomb us all. They don’t deserve this pristine surface of theirs.” He hissed. “Not one bit.”

Skalidor nodded. “You have my agreement on that.”

Cole leaned against the side of the entrance, arms crossed. When Skalidor glanced back, he could see others had climbed up the stairs—even if most of the watching faces were sticking to the shadows, eyes squinted against the light.

Pythor’s head tilted as he regarded them all. “Well, while I did say that I didn’t need anything in return…” He mulled over his words before continuing, “I was hoping you might join me in my endeavor to reunite the Serpentine once again. It would be so wonderful to take the surface back from the humans, don’t you think?”

Skalidor wanted to. Just looking at the open space spilling out before him, and knowing that there was yet more that had been denied to his people by the sealing of the tomb—he wanted the surface humans to pay for their crimes. To deliver the grievances of hundreds of Constrictai and Dwellers from generations of suffering unto them, and make them pay.

There was one problem, though. “We barely number two hundred.” Skalidor pointed out. “And many of our number are not built for war.” There were the elderly, the young, the sick and those disinclined to fight. Nobody was at full strength—especially not with the current blight. “How will we ever defeat the surface humans, when our ancestors could not?”

Pythor chuckled. “Oh, my practical friend, I have just the plan for that!” He looked to Cole, and then to the cautious faces peeking out of the tomb’s entrance, and spoke.

“Have any of you heard of the legend of the Great Devourer?”

#whumptober2024 #no.5 #healing salve #''if my pain will stretch that far''#lego ninjago #zaz writes #death mention #food insecurity #skalidor ninjago #cole ninjago #lou ninjago #pythor p chumsworth #raised by serpentine #this uh. this did not go in quite the direction i expected #but also i really do feel like seeing the sun & sky for the first time is like. akin to a religious experience in this au #given the whole. 2 and half cnturies long entombment #also damn i cannot win at getting my prompts out before 10 pm this year huh #got shanghaied into spending nearly all day helping move grandma's stuff that the movers aren't gonna get #bc she's moving in with us #tomorrow tho. i should be able to get tomorrow's out sooner #but yeah!!! the tomb is opened!!!#this was originally gonna be in cole's pov but the idea of pythor getting skalidor on the revenge train... oughhhhhh #pythor shut the fuck up challenge (impossible)

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justforbooks · 1 year ago

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The Nobel prize in literature has been awarded to 64-year-old Norwegian author Jon Fosse “for his innovative plays and prose which give voice to the unsayable”. His works include the Septology series of novels, Aliss at the Fire, Melancholy and A Shining.

“His huge oeuvre, spanning a variety of genres, comprises about 40 plays and a wealth of novels, poetry collections, essays, children’s books and translations,” said Anders Olsson, chairman of the Nobel committee for literature. “Fosse blends a rootedness in the language and nature of his Norwegian background with artistic techniques in the wake of modernism.”

“I am overwhelmed, and somewhat frightened. I see this as an award to the literature that first and foremost aims to be literature, without other considerations,” Fosse said in a statement.

He also told the Norwegian public broadcaster NRK that he was “surprised but also not” to have won. “I’ve been part of the discussion for 10 years and have more and less tentatively prepared myself that this could happen,” he said.

Jacques Testard, Fosse’s fiction publisher, said on hearing the news: “He is an exceptional writer, who has managed to find a totally unique way of writing fiction. As his Norwegian editor Cecilie Seiness put it recently in an interview: if you open any book by Jon and read a couple of lines, it couldn’t be written by anyone else.

“His fiction is incantatory, mystical, and rooted in the landscape of the western fjords where he grew up,” Testard added. “It’s very important to remember that he writes in Nynorsk or New Norwegian, a minority language in Norway, a political act in itself. He’s also an exceptional playwright and poet. He’s an incredible mind, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”

The Norwegian writer’s English translator Damion Searls said he is thrilled Fosse’s work will now find an even wider audience. “I first brought Fosse’s fiction into English almost 20 years ago. I read Melancholy in German and immediately felt that the work was brilliant and needed to be translated. I found an American publisher and a co-translator, and started learning Norwegian”, he told the Guardian. “I have since translated around 10 books of his, depending on how you count them, including a libretto, a play and a forthcoming children’s book.”

Though the author and translator mostly communicate via email and hadn’t met in person until the 2022 International Booker prize events in London, Searls considers Fosse a friend. “He is the same kind, wise, modest, friendly, supportive person over email as you would expect from his novels, and corresponding with him has always brought me the same kind of peace and serenity his novels so magically impart.”

Born in 1959 in Haugesund on the west coast of Norway, Fosse grew up in Strandebarm. Aged seven, he nearly died in an accident, which he said was “the most important experience” of his childhood and one that “created” him as an artist. In his adolescence, he aspired to be a rock guitarist, before turning his ambitions to writing.

His debut novel, Raudt, svart (Red, Black), was published in 1983. His first play to be performed, Og aldri skal vi skiljast (And Never Shall We Part), was staged at the National Theater in Bergen in 1994. Yet, the first play he wrote, Nokon kjem til å komme (Someone Is Going to Come), would lead to his breakthrough in 1999 when French director Claude Régy staged it in Nanterre.

Fosse went on to become the most-performed Norwegian playwright after Henrik Ibsen. He has written more than 30 plays, including Namnet (The Name), Vinter (Winter) and Ein sommars dag (A Summer’s Day). His longer works include the Septology trilogy, the third volume of which was shortlisted for the international Booker prize in 2022.

Septology, which Fosse started during a pause from playwriting and after converting to Catholicism in 2013, is about an ageing painter, Asle, living alone on the south-west coast of Norway and reflecting on his life. There in Bjørgvin lives another Asle, who is also a painter but struggles with alcohol. The doppelgangers are consumed by the same existential questions about death, faith and love.

In 1989, the same year that Fosse’s novel Naustet (“Boathouse”) came out, the writer taught the fellow Norwegian author Karl Ove Knausgård, who was a student at the Academy of Writing in Hordaland. “Fosse’s voice is unmistakable in whatever he writes, and is never anything if not present,” wrote Knausgård in 2019.

Fosse’s UK publisher is Fitzcarraldo Editions, which also publishes Annie Ernaux, the winner of the 2022 Nobel prize in literature. Fosse’s win marks the London-based independent publisher’s third win in five years: Olga Tokarczuk was made laureate in 2018. The prize was postponed and awarded in 2019 instead due to a sexual assault scandal involving the husband of one of the academy’s former members which led to several members resigning.

Fosse resides between Austria and Norway. He will receive the prize at a ceremony in Stockholm on 10 December. He will receive 11m SEK (£821,209), up from 10m SEK awarded last year.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Jon Fosse #2023 Nobel prize in literature

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oliverferrie · 1 year ago

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It's Trans Day of Rememberance, time to support your local trans author while they are still alive

I originally put this thread up on blue birb hellsite, but I wanted to make a longer, more nuanced post for Tumblr. TDOR is a heavy day for me, and every time I see the list of names it makes me want to squirrel away and cry. So instead I want to spread around some books by trans authors, to uplift our voices. The books themselves are not necessarily about trans characters (mine is not) but my experience as a trans guy does inform the text, and when I read these other works, I feel a kinship to the author in that regard, however imagined that is.

I'll start, it's me, buy my horrific (seriously, read the content warning) fantasy book about young queers surviving atrocities: SUGAR PEOPLE

Next up: Δάιος, by Andromeda Ruins (@andromedaexists). A heavy anti-establishment retelling of the fall of Icarus that leans heavily into the reality of queer folk as outcast and put at risk by the powers that be. I have yet to finish it but the prose really slaps you with its urgency.

Next up: FEMININ GANGE (Feminine gait), by Molly Øxnevad, a contemporary novel about the trans healthcare system in Norway. It's written in Norwegian (bokmål) but I really hope to see it translated in English one day because it's such an important piece of literature on the state of our centralised transmedical health system here in norway.

Next up, MAO SIN RAUDE KJOLE (Mao's Red Dress), by Jan Elisabeth Lindvik, (also norwegian, nynorsk) a coming of age novel set in the backdrop of the sixties. It's only really available in Norway, and it's another one I hope to see translated someday, but it's worth knowing about, as it's a seminal novel by a trans activist with so many decades of lived experience, as the country slowly changed its views around trans folk.

Next, we have JACK OF THORNS, Book 1 of INHERITANCE by AK Faulkner, a dark urban fantasy featuring messy queers and LOTS of trauma. I had the pleasure of meeting Faulkner at a con earlier this year, and they have got an awesome thing going with the Inheritance universe. I've been enjoying Jack of Thorns a lot, it does not hold back.

Next, it's the astounding FRESHWATER by Akwaeke Emezi, a magical contemporary novel about dissociative experiences and trauma, and how they interplay with culture and growing up. A very intense and beautifully written book that isn't afraid to tackle dissociative identities AND gender identity (something those of us who have both often have to mask for fear of being denied treatment).

AND THEY LIVED... by Stephen Salvatore, a very contemporary YA romance that deals with societal issues around being gay and nonbinary. It's written from the POV of a cringey, hopeful teen, and dances between happily-ever-after romance and a pointed exhumation of incredibly dark things.

Finally, LARK & KASIM START A REVOLUTION by Kacen Callender, a contemporary YA written in a comfortably snappy rhythm, about love, friendship and a social media mishap that spirals out of control.

If you are an author listed here and you want off this list, just let me know! If you are an author and you want ON this list, feel free to reblog and add your stuff.

Otherwise, go forth and support a trans author today! Connect with our stories, real and imagined. Increase empathy and understanding around the world. Maybe TDOR will be a memorial of the past one day, instead of a memorial of the present day.

#tdor #trans day of remembrance #trans authors #uplift trans voices

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islandtarochips · 1 month ago

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Anastasia, though looks very harmless as she is.. but originally, when she has that rush of adrenaline, she can even kill a dangerous Skal. And she got that from her father.

Her father being a former Priwen hunter, too had the same kind of adrenaline rush which made him kill numerous Skals, and also at the point of killing Ekons. If Diana came and saw Anastasia, all bloodied, shivering in fear as she screamed out at the Ekon she killed in cold blood, who tried to attack her in order to get her blood, what would she do?

OOOOOOOOO! An innocent looking person had become VIOLENT? This is getting interesting.

Okay, to answer this.

Diana would be stepping through the streets before hearing something. As she went to follow that sound. THAT is when she saw Anastasia finishing off the Skal.

She won’t be surprised for she knows Anna can handle things herself but not like THIS. Seeing and hearing Anastasia screaming and stabbing the Skal over and over again. Diana would know that she’s overdoing it to herself, so quickly but gently stopping her as she tried to call out to the poor nurse.

Remembering how Anastasia reacted with vampires from her past. Diana did her best to calm her down. By using her soothing voice to reach to her. And will gently take her knife away and just place it next to her. The young Ekon would look at her with worriedness on her face. Looking into her eyes to see if Anna is still there.

Diana would keep telling her that she’s safe. She had already killed the Skal. They won’t harm her any more.

And if Anna would like some comforting hugs. Diana would give her a tight hug, placing her head against her chest as she rubbed her back. She wouldn’t mind Anna crying against her.

And once Diana felt Anna was feeling a bit tired, she would carry her in bridal style after placing her father’s knife back into Anna's hand. And would just head over to Pembroke Hospital. Hopefully, Johnathan was there.

I hope this answers your question, Khushi! And sorry for taking so long to answer! And let me know if I did anything wrong over here! Love ya, pele!

#diana lune #anastasia graham #vampyr oc #friends oc #mutuals oc #vampyr 2018 #welldonekhushi ask #ask taro #ask islandtarochips #friends ask #mutuals asks #johnathan reid #reid vampyr

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simpforsix · 2 months ago

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ai continues fanfics badly

hello, i am a fanfiction writer and i've seen people say that they use ai to continue stories past what the author has written. i don't like the use of ai for this, since it steals writing and is very lazy.

so, i decided to experiment by putting one of my fics into chatgpt and telling it to continue the story.

i used my fic 'cotton and wool', which you can find on my ao3 under the same username as here (simpforsix). it's a short fic about historical fashion in the video game vampyr. please DO NOT put anyone's stories into any ai! i only did this because 1. it is my fic and 2. i wanted to see how good it actually is at continuing fics.

let's go through what chatgpt wrote paragraph by paragraph:

As Jonathan steps out into the cool night air, the streets of London feel both familiar and foreign. The gas lamps flicker like distant stars, casting elongated shadows that dance across the cobblestones. He pauses for a moment, allowing the sounds of the city to wash over him: the distant clatter of horse hooves, the soft murmur of conversations spilling from nearby taverns, and the occasional shout from a street vendor hawking his wares.

this just doesn't make sense in canon. chatgpt doesn't seem to know what era it's even writing for, talking about horses even though this is london in 1918. it is able to mimic my writing style a bit, but my writing style isn't particularly unique so it could just be getting lucky. i like the descriptions, but it just doesn't set the scene as post-war london. it's more small town than what the game is actually like.

Tonight, he plans to visit his usual haunts: the alleyways behind Whitechapel, where the lost and forgotten often gather. They are his people—those who have slipped through society’s cracks. As he walks, he can’t help but reflect on the changes that have occurred since his transformation. The world feels sharper, colors more vivid, and sounds more pronounced, but it’s a trade-off he never quite reconciles.

ok so it knows about whitechapel but... what does it mean the alleys behind whitechapel? because whitechapel is a district, and the citizens are on the streets. bigger issue here is the bit about his transformation. if i was writing this i would note the fact that he can see the blood or has greater power, since that's the actual trade-off that was made. also, a bit nitpicky, but the use of commas in the last sentence is a bit off for reasons i can't put my finger on. i'd also use the past tense in the bit about a trade-off, but that's just me.

(though, it is trying to emulate my work, so i guess my nitpicky things about what i would do are valid)

He makes his way through the winding streets, his mind drifting to the last patient he treated—a young boy who had fallen ill with a fever. Jonathan remembers the boy's mother, her eyes hollow with fear, and he had promised to return with more remedies. He should check on them tonight.

As he approaches the alley that leads to Whitechapel, a low voice calls out to him from the shadows. "Doctor! Over here!"

It’s Clara, a familiar figure draped in a tattered shawl, her face partially obscured by the darkness. She is one of the many souls he has helped, a former seamstress who now lives on the fringes of society.

most of this is fine, except for the fact that clara does not exist in game and no citizens live in any of the alleys that lead to whitechapel except for one man who lives in a flat. i would have used an already existing character for this, or if i was making an oc i would have given her a bit more background if i wanted her to be a 'familiar figure'. her description is also a bit too similar to old bridget or another skal, which i would have avoided.

“Clara,” he replies, hurrying toward her. “What troubles you tonight?”

She leans closer, her voice a hushed whisper. “It’s not me. It’s Benny. He’s gone and got himself into a right mess. He was chasing after some street rats and came back with something…something strange.”

who is benny and why was he chasing street rats? what is happening?

Jonathan furrows his brow, his instincts kicking in. “What do you mean, strange?”

“He’s feverish, but it’s different. His skin—it's all red and raw, like he’s been burned. And he won’t stop shivering, even in this cold.” Clara’s voice trembles with urgency.

“Lead the way,” Jonathan replies, following her deeper into the alley.

The narrow path twists between crumbling buildings, their brick facades covered in grime. The air grows thick with the smell of dampness and decay. As they approach Clara’s makeshift shelter—a collection of blankets and old crates—Jonathan feels a sense of dread settling in his stomach.

if i was writing this i would try to match it to the map, which chatgpt is incapable of doing because it can't play the game. i can't think of a single place that matches this description that goes off an alley leading to whitechapel. and why is her shelter just blankets and crates? if this happened in universe she would already be a skal. i would have either written her as a squatter or as someone living in very cheap accommodations.

Inside, the flickering light of a single candle reveals Benny, a small boy with tousled hair and wide, terrified eyes. He is curled up on the ground, shaking violently. Jonathan kneels beside him, placing a hand on the boy’s forehead. It burns like fire.

a SINGLE CANDLE?? that's just not how light works. chatgpt also never tells us the relation between clara and benny, which seems like important information. and jonathan, being cold as a corpse, is not a reliable narrator when it comes to temperature.

“What did you find, Benny?” he asks gently, trying to coax him to speak.

dude you use mesmerism all the time why aren't you using it here?

The boy’s eyes dart around the room, finally resting on Jonathan. “Rats,” he stammers, “but they weren’t like the others. They had…glowing eyes.”

Jonathan’s heart sinks. Glowing eyes? That could mean something far worse than just an ordinary illness. “Clara, did he touch them?”

again, if chatgpt was capable of playing the game it would make a connection between the glowing eyes and skals. but it can't. because it's a computer program. this also feels completely divorced from canon. authors making new threats usually connect them in some way to the already existing threats. this is a completely new story that it's making up as it goes along.

AND JONATHAN LITERALLY FACED THE VAMPIRE EPIDEMIC! HE KNOWS IT'S NOT SPREAD JUST BY TOUCH AND SHOULD HAVE ENOUGH EXPERIENCE TO BE COMING UP WITH THEORIES!

“I don’t know! He just started screaming and ran back here,” she replies, wringing her hands.

As Jonathan examines Benny, he can feel a chill creeping into his bones, a reminder of the darker forces at play in the city. He knows he has to act quickly. “We need to get him to a proper place, somewhere safe where he can be treated."

why isn't he using his blood sight? you know, the mechanic that literally every medical examination in the game is based around? and why would he bring someone possibly infected by a supernatural virus to the hospital?

Before Clara can respond, the ground beneath them trembles slightly, as if the city itself is responding to their urgency. Jonathan stands up, determination setting his jaw. “I’ll find help. Stay with him, and keep him warm.”

very cliche to have the ground tremble. i don't like it. and what help is he getting? why isn't he, as a doctor, handing out medicine for the fever? this guy isn't jonathan reid at this point.

With that, he rushes back into the night, his mind racing. The glowing-eyed rats are no ordinary creatures; he can feel it in his marrow. They are likely a symptom of something more sinister lurking in the shadows of London, something that could threaten not only Benny but all of those who live in the dark corners of the city.

wasn't this... the plot of the game? this would be a very boring story if i wrote it like this. it's just rehashing the exact same plot as the game.

As he weaves through the streets, Jonathan knows he must confront this new menace. After all, he’s no longer just a doctor; he’s become a guardian of the night, a protector of those who cannot protect themselves. And if there’s one thing he’s learned in his time walking these streets, it’s that the darkness can only be fought with light.

it's a bit pompous to refer to himself as the guardian of the night, but i'll allow it for the sake of his saviour complex. what i won't allow is the fact that it does not reference the source material at all. there's nothing about the skals, about the red queen, hell it doesn't even say the word vampire! you would have no idea this was about vampyr if you read this as a standalone.

the biggest issue with this whole thing is that it DOESN'T CONTINUE MY STORY AT ALL. that was the only goal and it failed. my story is about historical fashion, exploring menswear in the early 20th century. that was why i wrote it. this "continuation" doesn't even mention historical fashion. it doesn't continue my idea of how his clothes would constantly be getting dirty, it doesn't show him providing healthcare, it disregards the entire story that it was based on. this is just a oneshot with a plot that rehashes the original story as if it never happened and doesn't even mention vampires.

so my question is: WHY would you use chatgpt to continue stories? even disregarding all the ethical concerns, it's just bad at it. maybe it does well sometimes, but other times it seems to go rogue and forget what you even told it to do. this is nothing like what i would write, nor does it make sense as a vampyr fanfic. if you want to see a continuation, ask the author to either continue it or for permission to write a continuation yourself. don't plug it into ai just for it to steal work and give you shit.

#vampyr #anti ai #anti chatgpt #fuck ai everything #fuck ai art #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction writer #chatgpt #ai #ai art

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king-of-men · 1 year ago

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The Battle Hymn of the Republic is probably most familiar as music; but in translating it I found that it is really excellent as poetry. Consider that famous phrase, "the grapes of wrath"; it is a dead metaphor now in English, killed by overuse out of its original context. Seeing it with the fresh eyes of a different language let me appreciate the power of the image: The grapes of wrath, from which are made the wine of wrath - heavy on the tongue, hot in the belly, a fire in the blood; the wine that soldiers drink before battle, that makes them charge the cannon's mouth. It's a phrase anchored in physicality, if you don't slide right past it through familiarity; "He is trampling out the vintage" - I am pleased that in Norwegian I was able to add an additional verb here, "han har trampet ut en årgang og av vredens druer smakt". I don't know if Mrs Howe had drunk of the wine of wrath herself; but when she wrote that, she'd surely had a glass or two of the mead of poetry.

I have dropped the refrain "Glory, glory, hallelujah", which relies for its best effect on being sung by several hundred deep male voices marching down a dusty road with a battle at its end; it is fine music but does not really contribute to the poetry of the words alone. I've kept, however, the concluding "…is marching on" that punctuates each verse, making it "…er i anmarsj", slightly archaic Norwegian that fits well with the religious imagery. This turned out to be the most difficult part to illustrate, in a poem in which I struggled much more with the images than the words; in the end I gave up on getting any sort of metaphor for "truth marching on" through StableDiffusion, which I used for the triple-alpha rhymes, and instead put in contemporary paintings and drawings. At any rate this serves to mark the refrains as distinct from the main verses.

The final line, which Howe wrote as "let us die to make men free", is now often sung as "let us live to make men free", presumably on the theory that dead men do not actually accomplish very much and the real goal is to make the other side's soldiers die for their cause. The argument has undoubted force. On the other hand, so many of the men who sang these words in deadly earnest genuinely did die to free the slaves; died by the hundreds of thousands, by bullet and canister and cholera. My translation, somewhat unfortunately, avoids the difficulty entirely with "menns frihet er vårt krav"; the triple-alpha rhyme scheme is a cruel master here, and I could not find any way to work in either life or death.

Jeg har sett med egne øyne Herren komme i sin makt; han har trampet ut en årgang og av vredens druer smakt. Han har sluppet asgardsreien løs og lyn fra sverdet brakt. Hans sannhet i anmarsj!

I hundre vaktmenns leirbål har jeg sett ham klar til kamp; de har reist for ham et alter her i aftnens røk og damp; en rettferdig dom jeg leser, og jeg hører bødlens tramp: Hans dag er i anmarsj!

Jeg har sett hans skrifter flamme i stål og krigersk mot: ``Forakt skal dere hevne, og jeg tilgir deres bot''; la helten, født av kvinne, knuse slangen under fot, For Gud er i anmarsj!

Vi har hørt trompeten kalle, det blir aldri mer retrett; han veier alles hjerter, for hans domstol er vi stedt; Vær rask, min sjel, å svare ham; føtter, vær beredt! Vår gud er i anmarsj!

Han ble født i liljens skjønnhet langt der borte over hav; i hans bryst var det en glorie som hver enkelt nåde gav. Han døde for menns synder, og menns frihet er vårt krav! For Gud er i anmarsj!

#wait I didn't actually post this thing?#dignobbit!#rescued from the drafts folder #poetry translation #english to norwegian #battle hymn of the republic #republikkens krigshymne #julia ward howe

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blooddrinkingbartender · 3 months ago

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I actually got inspired to write something for the Vampyr verse for these two lads. And so I did.

Another night, another search attempt.

"You'd think it would be easy to find a small blonde American..." Bill said, with a quiet sigh, as he ducked through an alley to avoid yet another two Priwen scouts, "Damn hunters... worse than ticks on your ass."

He failed to notice that he was being followed. His mind was so set on working out where Russell was and following the recent lead he had that nothing else mattered. Even if it did, he wouldn't have noticed his pursuer anyway.

The sickle came out of nowhere. It happened so fast that Bill hadn't realised what had happened yet. One minute he was walking, the next, he had been pinned to a nearby wall like a butterfly to a board. The blade sat in the middle of his chest, and it pumped pain through him as he realised what had happened. He almost wanted to laugh. Even though it hurt, whoever had thrown it had completely missed any vital organs.

But then he saw the runes on the handle as he reached up to try and pull it out so he could escape. His blood ran cold and his grey eyes slowly lifted up as the realisation set in. There he was, watching with utter stoicism. In his hand was the other sickle; the deadly twin to its counterpart.

"Azrael."

The Angel of Death. The Immortal Huntsman. The Gravedigger. Bill had been lucky to escape him once, but now the nemrod approached, his brown eyes burning into Bill's soul. Bill desperately yanked the blade, even as the orichalcum dust burned his hands. But it was to no avail. He had been thoroughly trapped. There was nothing he could do but watch as the hunter of hunters drew closer.

"Azrael... this isn't like you," Bill said, "You're usually a fair fighter and I don't think this is fair."

The other man remained silent. Even his footsteps hardly made any sound. Bill caught the scent of herbs wafting off his clothes.

"Look, I know I cheated last time, but come on, you can't hold a grudge for that, right? I had so much to live for."

No response. Bill gave up trying to pull the blade away and let his arm hang by his side. Even if he tried to use his shadows now, Azrael would catch on to what he was up to and most likely act accordingly. He had clearly learned from their last encounter.

"Okay, I get it. You win. I can't cheat the Angel of Death twice. Just, please. Seeing as you're killing his dad, look after my boy. Watch over him or something. He's done nothing wrong. He's just a mortal and I raised him like a son. That's not his..."

"Be quiet," Azrael's voice, despite holding no anger or hostility, felt like a slap in the face.

Bill was quiet.

"You are correct in that my purpose for being here was to find you and finish what I had begun fifty years ago," Azrael continued, "But I have seen the skals. The disease that plagues this city. I feel that there is something much larger afoot."

"Well, now that you mention it..."

"I said be quiet," Azrael repeated. Bill snapped his mouth shut, "This is larger than all of us, and so I feel that I must postpone your demise. I am offering a truce until this is over. Whether you accept is up to you."

"It feels a bit one-sided, given the situation," Bill said, on realising it seemed to be his cue to speak.

"I suppose if you don't find it acceptable, I could save myself the future inconvenience and rend your head from your neck right..." Azrael had already started to raise the second sickle

"I accept!"

"Very well," Azrael replied. There was no hesitance as he grabbed the weapon that had kept Bill trapped and yanked it out with no effort at all. Bill found himself sliding down the wall, still stunned by everything that was happening.

He was vaguely aware that Azrael was holding out a hand, having transferred both sickles to the other. Bill hesitated for a moment, but then took it. The shake was firm but brief and when Bill looked up again, Azrael was all ready gone. A glance at the wound in his chest was a confirmation that what had happened was real. His head leaned back briefly and he took a ragged breath.

"God damnit. If I wasn't already dead, I would have shit myself. I've got to find Russell and get out of here."

#Drabble #Bound Blood | Vampyr Verse #Frisky Barkeep | Bill #Reproached Paladin | Leofric

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undeadunalive · 1 year ago

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A VERY DESCRIPTIVE PROFILE OF YOUR MUSE. Repost with the information of your muse, including headcanons, etc. if you fail to achieve some of the facts, add some others of your own!

NAME: Jonathan Emmet Reid

NICKNAME: Johnny / Jonny

TITLE(S): Dr.

AGE: 137

SPECIES: Ekon ( formerly human )

SEX: male

NATIONALITY: English, British

INTERESTS: science, helping people, piano, poetry

PROFESSION: surgeon, blood specialist ( formerly field surgeon and medical officer in France during WWI )

BODY TYPE: Malnourished ( extremely skinny )

EYES: very pale blue

HAIR: dark brown

SKIN: extremely pale

POSTURE: straight

HEIGHT: 6'5

VOICE: smooth, calming yet authoritative

SIGNATURE OUTFIT: grey tweed three-piece suit, light blue shirt, red tie, long navy coat, gold pocket watch and black oxford shoes.

SIGNIFICANT OTHER: thread determined

COMPANIONS: none

ANTAGONISTS: Mary Reid, the Red Goddess, Lord Redgrave, Harriet Jones, Father Tobias Whitaker, Jimmy Barlow, Leon Augustin, Fergal Bansha, feral Skals, rogue Vulkods, rogue Ekons, Ichors, feral beasts, Guard of Priwen, Geoffrey McCullum, the Ascalon Club

STRENGTHS: determined, loyal, brave, wise, intelligent, compassionate, adaptable.

WEAKNESSES: stubborn, guilt-ridden, solitary.

FRUITS: he can't eat any fruit but he likes the smell of pears because they remind him of his childhood holidays in France with his family.

DRINKS: can't drink anything except blood, not even if he tries to mix blood into something. Although he does enjoy the smell of tea and will sometimes make a cup of tea just to take in its aroma.

ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES: can't drink any but likes the smell of a good scotch whisky.

SMOKES: no.

DRUGS: no.

DRIVERS LICENSE: yes.

tagged by: @arcanescholxr, thank you! <333333 tagging: feel free to steal this.

#𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐙:

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alienaiver · 6 months ago

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i always ask him "skal du have noget at spise?" which means "do you want something to eat?" when its food time and i wanted to film it but id forgotten there was a filter on.. AND THEN ITS ALSO A VOICE FILTER HELLO 😭😭

#i am ugly laughing at this. KUROO laughinf actually #snøfle tag

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storiesundercandlelight · 9 months ago

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In The Eyes Of Priwen - Chapter One

My first chapter of my Geoffrey x OC fic! I decided to write it for an OC in the end! I hope you guys don't mind! This fic takes place a few months before Jonathan comes into the story of the game! PS. Sembene is 100% inspired by Sembene in Penny Dreadful! He was amazing in the show and I basically imagined him right into this fic!

Geoffrey hated London, the wet streets becoming worse with everyday that the epidemic continued to plague the streets. Barricades blocked so many paths, it took months for him to secure a pass for each member of the guard to get through them without a fuss.

He scoffed to himself as he made his way through Whitechapel and towards Pembroke Hospital, if only they knew how much Priwen sacrificed to save their miserable city from Skals. God if only they knew about Skals in the first place, maybe he could actually put his feet up for once.

The hospital was busy as ever, the few nurses they had dashed past Geoffrey without so much as a glance in his direction. Not that he wanted the attention, in fact he only came her because Edgar was useful for information. Well...when he wanted to be or Geoffrey made it clear bad things would happen if he didn't help Priwen. The wooden stairs of the hospital were study under Geoffrey's boots as he quickly made his way up them to Edgards office.

Just as he'd made it to the large wooden doors he stopped, hand mid air reaching for the door knob. There were voices coming from the office. Geoffrey gave it another moment before deciding his time would not be wasted because Edgar was running late or forgot their appointment. Especially given that he was the one who insisted they have them. Pushing the door open Geoffrey walked in, his eyes finding Edgars who looked surprised by his unannounced entrance and then finding the pale blue eyes of the woman stood in front of his desk staring back at him. He hadn't seen her before, her clothes were plain enough on her elegant figure but of a decent decent quality so Geoffrey suspected she came from money, her light ashen hair fell freely in loose waves, unusual to see given that most women wore their hair up.

"McCullum! Gosh is that the time I apologise, however your timing is most convenient, Evelyn here-"

"Does once again not need help" She was well spoken. From money then.

"Evelyn please McCullum here can help I am sure"

"We do not need help. I would appreciate it if you kept your always over reaching and prying nose out of our business" Geoffrey's eyebrow quirked up on its own accord, perhaps he was wise to have come in and not miss this show. Evelyn turned and began walking towards McCullum who was still holding the door open. He moved to the side to allow her past, their eyes meeting as she moved passed him and out the door.

Geoffrey's gaze flicked back to Edgar half in curiosity but mostly in his usual annoyance at being in the same room as the man. "By the Stole she is stubborn, come in McCullum lets hear your reports"

Geoffrey let the door close behind him as he made his way over to the desk, he never sat down. He didn't want Swansea getting the impression that he enjoyed of was remotely comfortable being here. "What exactly was I supposed to be helping with there?"

Edgar sighed dramatically before turning his attention fully to Geoffrey. "Evelyn Cooper, her parents were patrons of the hospital, they have passed sadly but Evelyn was good enough to keep the donations going, her father left her everything. Anyway she has a brother, a twin, Thomas. He went missing. Then a fortnight later Evelyn is rushed in here by her servant man Sembene - wonderful man, you know he came from-"

"I'll have the short version of this"

"Very well" Edgar sighed again, rolling his eyes. "As I was saying she was rushed in here, her back torn to shreds - poor girl it's rather unsightly- by what I can only imagine were the claws of a vampire!" Geoffrey attention was finally capture at this. "Once she came to I obviously asked her what happened, in her partial lucid state she admitted it was Thomas, that he had returned home but wasn't himself. When she recovered - only a few weeks ago mind you, she told me that she wanted no one to hear of this"

Geoffrey allowed himself to lean back against one of the side units adorning Edgards office, his arms crossing over his chest as he continued to listen to Edgars story. "I told her to meet with you, that I would arrange the meeting myself. I told her that you could help us track Thomas down. McCullum I don't think the poor girls slept a wink since she returned home"

"She doesn't seem to want my help"

"She doesn't know what's best for herself, we as men must make this decision to intervene, her parents were dear friends" Geoffrey felt himself grimace at Edgars entitled opinion before pushing himself away from the sideboard he was leaning against.

"I don't go begging toffs for work, if she doesn't want it, I won't be giving it. Now get on with the reports I have better places to be"

_______________

McCullum was tired, irritated and itching for a drink by the time he left Edgards office. His feet carried him without aid to the Turquoise Turtle where some of his men were waiting for him. Philip his second in command was waiting outside with a few other lads.

"Took you fecking long enough" His deep Scottish accent almost sounded harsh to Geoffrey after listening to Edgar waffle on for the better part of an hour. "Got ya a whiskey in"

"So kind" Geoffrey took the drink without any complaints, settling himself against the low wooden railing that lined the outside of the pub. The scent of sticky spilled beer and old bar stools filled his senses as he sat listening to the banter between his men. Only occasionally joining in himself. But this wasn't a bad way to end his night at all. In fact it felt like a luxury given how run down they'd been recently.

"So the reports with the ol' toff went alrigh' then?"

"Aye, he's as fucking annoying as anything but sure what else is new" Philip chuckled as Geoffrey took a sip of whiskey, his eyes narrowed suddenly as he noticed a young lad hovering near them. He couldn't have been older than thirteen maybe younger, but the way he stood so close to them told Geoffrey he was after something. "You got something to say lad?"

Geoffrey's men hushed at the sound of their leaders voice, all of them turning to look at the boy in front of them. "Yeah I got a message for a McCullum? Was told he was the leader" The boys cockney accent suited the way he tried to make himself look taller now that the attention was on him, a show of bravery Geoffrey supposed.

"Come on then hand it over" The boy hesitated for a moment, his eyes tracking over every one of Geoffrey's men before he gave in and walked between them up to Geoffrey, handing over the folded up note. "Thanks" The boy nodded before walking off quickly leaving Geoffrey and the note the most interesting thing for his men to look at.

"Got an admirer we don't know about?" Philip smirked, elbowing one of the lads as they giggled like girls. Geoffrey rolled his eyes before opening the paper, a neat handwritten note inside.

If you are interested in helping me, please visit at your earliest convenience, I am aware you work late, this won't be an issue for me. You will be compensated for your time. My address is...

Geoffrey read the address, he knew it was in the west end. So he had been right. Evelyn Coopers name was signed at the bottom of the note. "So?" Geoffrey's gaze flicked up to his men who were watching him, waiting for some insight.

"A job perhaps. I'll look into it" That was all they needed to return back to their drinks and banter, only Philip kept his attention on Geoffrey.

"Don't usually get hand delivered notes, we going up in the world?"

"Perhaps" Geoffrey smirked, another gulp of whiskey burned it's way down his throat. "Or it might be that we're no longer invisible to the public eye"

"Aye that too, not sure I like the idea though"

"Me neither, I'll see what comes of it anyway" Knocking back the last of the whiskey Geoffrey nodded to Philip before setting off back to Priwen's current base. He would follow up on the note tomorrow after he'd gotten some sleep.

#vampyr #vampyr game #vampyr 2018 #geoffrey mccullum #geoffrey mccullum x reader #geoffrey vampyr #jonathan reid #dr jonathan reid

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skugge · 1 year ago

Text

The A/B/O AU

Word Count: 4k Rating: E Content: Masturbation, Fingering, Mating knot, Vaginal penetration, Angst, Pining, Established Relationship, Rutting, Marking, Biting They use to lay together as boys. Back when life was peaceful and the summers were long. Hand held in hand, and tail around tail, they were together. Always.

His mother and father were both betas. He knew this, but he didn't understand what it meant. To children as carefree as them, it didn't mean anything. Why would it? After all Airoch would be a beta when he grew up. He wasn't anything special. Tiernan on the other hand. Radiating sunlight through his smile. Oh he was special. He was special and he would be an alpha.

He didn't know what these words all meant. But of these things he was sure.

And together they slept. Until they didn't.

It was when they were left alone. His parents long since gone, and their horns, oh their horns, painful and aching as they came in. That's when he started noticing Tiernan looking at him differently. And he, him.

But they were still together. And that's all that mattered. That's all that would ever matter. As long as they could hold hands. As long as Airoch was still Air, and Tiernan was Tier, then everything would be alright.

Air grew, as boys did. And so did Tiernan. But where Airoch grew long and lanky, Tiernan grew strong and handsome. He exuded a strength, a brightness that was hard to look away from. He was the center of Airoch's world. And he knew in his heart. This is what an alpha was like.

No one could tell them, no one wanted to tell them, the orphaned children who grew horns, what had happened to their bodies. What had happened to make them look at each other differently. Why Airoch was suddenly… shy. Around his best and only friend. Or why when Tiernan took his hands in his own and kissed his cheeks, and told him in hushed whispers, “You're beautiful.” why he blushed.

Part of growing up he reasoned. He still loved him, of course he did. But part of growing up meant to let go of childhood fantasies - like them staying together. After all, an alpha was supposed to find a mate and be with them. And Airoch? Was nothing special.

That’s why he insisted on sleeping apart. Even though his heart yearned to be close. Even though every part of his soul cried out in pain when they were apart. Because Tier wasn’t *his* and never would be.

Especially when his charming and charismatic friend. His love. Pulled in swarms of people, all fighting for a spot to hear his voice. To watch him perform. He was beautiful. Enchanting. The sun when darkness fell over the lands.

And Airoch simply… Tattooed. Quietly. Knowing his fantasy of them together forever was soon to be shattered.

Skugge.

*Skugge* they eventually started calling him. *Shadow.*

“My Shadow. My love.” Tier would call him, and each time it would break just a little more. Every time they kissed, every time they touched, Skugge felt like he was going to burst into tears. This wasn’t his. These kisses weren’t his to take. But Tiernan gave them freely anyway.

Skugge tried to take solace in the here and now. Tried to appreciate the time he had left with his beloved, before someone caught his eye and he’d leave him forever. And someone *would* catch his eye. It was summer time. And many travelers were passing through their village now that the ice had thawed and the snow had melted into sopping puddles of mud.

And now that it was summer, the summer festivals would start. Skal! He’d hear from the long house from their small home. He’d watch from the window as little girls chased each other with crowns of flowers on their head and dresses so white it blinded. All excited and getting ready for the Midsommar festival.

And with Midsommar, came the rites of fertility. Betas would pair off with their sweethearts or find new mates all together under the light of bonfires. Alphas of course, had their pick of the pack, all wanted to be mated by them. To have the prestige of having an alpha at their side.

Forever.

Skugge’s heart sank at the thought, and his hands almost slipped. Almost marked his client with a line unwanted. She wanted to look her best in battle and for the festival. And he would provide it for her.

It was strange that despite being the outcasts of the village, they were tolerated because Tiernan was an alpha. And alphas were rare.

She prattled on and on about her sweetheart. Another girl she had met during their younger years. She said they were childhood friends, and that they had practiced kissing once together and knew from then on they’d be together. She giggled when she said she’d catch her crown from the river, and that together they would jump the fire.

Both of them betas. Skugge listened quietly to her as he worked and couldn’t help but consider how much her story paralleled his own. Except her partner wasn’t an alpha. Her partner wasn’t expected to take a partner at all.

“Done.” He said roughly. He didn’t want to hear anymore. He wanted to sulk in private. No. Not sulk. Mourn. He wanted to Mourn the coming loss.

They were both adults now. Their horns had finished growing and they were - Tiernan’s were beautiful. His were - he had a broken horn. An odd number of intact ones. He was imperfect.

He remembered when it had broken and Tiernan packed it with snow, trying to ease the ache and sharp pain from its loss. How he held him close and cradled him to sleep when the pain got to be too much. They were boys then.

The aches had long since faded to memory.

And now they were both expected to take mates.

Skugge would refuse. He would stay a recluse. He would take no mate. No one was better than his Tiernan. But…

Tiernan wasn’t his.

And as soon as he understood that, they happier they’d both be. Tiernan would be. Skugge was ready to suffer in silence for the one he loved so dearly.

“Skugge.” Tiernan said coming through the door, arms laiden with flowers. Smile bright on his face. Like the sun. Like the warmth of summer. Brilliant. Beautiful. Inviting. Skugge didn’t smile back. His veil making sure his expression was hard to read to anyone. Anyone but Tiernan. Always anyone but Tiernan.

His smile faltered and almost at once he dropped his basket of flowers. They spilled onto the floor, forgotten as he cupped the other’s face. Kissed his forehead. Held him close. A tear almost slipped from Skugge’s eye when he closed them. He hadn’t thought his vision was that blurred when he hugged him back and buried his face into his shoulder. Their horns knocking together, making the angle just a bit awkward. But they had been practicing since boyhood.

“What’s the matter my love?” Tiernan asked softly.

“Mh…” Skugge didn’t trust his voice. The quaiver in his throat.

“Tell me. I’ll fix it.”

“Nh.” “It’s alright I promise it will be. Did your customer not pay? I’ll make her pay. I’ll make her miserabl-” “Paid.” Skugge grunted and wiggled himself free from Tiernan’s arms. As much as he wanted to stay within them and just inhale his scent.

“Did she say something?” Tiernan’s hackles were already raised. Ready to fight. Ready to defend. He’d make a wonderful mate to someone. But not Skugge. He deserved only the best.

“No.” He didn’t want to talk about it, so he nodded over to the flowers instead. “What are those for?”

“Wh-oh. Ah shit…” He grumbled as he piled his fallen flowers back into their basket. “I wanted to make flower crowns with you. You know. For Midsommar.” The smile was back on his face. Bright as ever.

Skugge’s heart stuttered in his chest, but he tried to remain stoic. He must have found a beta who caught his eye. Although alphas didn’t typically wear flower crowns. But that’s what made Tiernan special. He wasn’t like the other alphas. He had no grand designs to rule the village, or become Jarl. Not that Skugge knew. He was just… Tiernan. Sweet, beautiful Tiernan. With his pale eyes and long hair.

Skugge swallowed hard and nodded. Even though it made his chest ache. “Okay.” He said and moved his tools away. There was no need for them when it came to flowers.

Tiernan sat close, their knees knocking together as they worked. Each and every time Skugge tried to suppress a shiver. He wasn’t immune to the scent of an alpha. So strong. So close. No one would be able to. But they kept on their task of weaving together flowers and leaves. Small berries that would last for all the days of the celebration.

Tiernan put his on Skugge’s head when he was done. Smiling like the sun. Skugge looked at him and swallowed.

Later that night he put seven flowers under his pillow. He hoped the visions he would see were that of Tiernan. But he doubted it. It had never worked before.

In the days that passed the celebration of Midsommar began. The young lovers would squeal with delight and the older couples held each other close, heads bowed together.

Everyone was happy. Everyone but Skugge.

As he watched from the shade of trees Tiernan play well into the night. Fires lit behind him. It made his skin glow. Like he was fire itself come to life. Skugge sipped at his mead. Alone. Forgotten among the crowd.

That was alright with him. He didn’t like people anyways. If it had been any other night, he would have joined Tiernan over there by the fires, and conjured little creatures to dance along with his voice. But tonight he felt…

He couldn’t even look at Tiernan without blushing deeply, tail thrashing. He blamed the mead, but he didn’t stop drinking. At least not until…

He felt hot. It was summer, of course he would feel the heat of the skies bearing down on him, but it felt… different. And from across the crowd, he could feel eyes on him. Tiernan’s eyes. He swallowed.

Something inside him told him to run. To flee. That a predator was watching him and that he was in danger. But there was no one in the dark whos eyes were upon him but Tiernan. And Tiernan wasn’t some beast of the woods used to frighten children. At least not anymore.

But the fear, the anxiety overtook Skugge. He took off the crown Tiernan insisted he wore, and dropped it to the ground. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He couldn’t stand the thought of Tiernan wearing someone else’s crown. Kissing them so gently like he would with him. Kissing turning to more, and going to their home to. To… To mate…

He bit his lip. He didn’t feel good anyways. He felt… Weird. Knowing Tiernan was watching him from across the crowd. Across the clearing where they held their bonfire celebration. But that was silly. How could he see with the fire in his vision. How could he see with the throngs of people dancing and eating and milling about. How could he see *him* when all eyes were on him? He left the celebration early.

And headed straight home. Home where he. He leaned against the door. He couldn’t stop imagining Tiernan. Tiernan holding someone else. Tiernan kissing someone else. Tiernan laying in someone else’s bed and waking with them the next morning. It should be him. *It should be him.*

The images came unbidden. Him. Him and Tiernan. And head flushed his face a dark violet crimson. He imagined Tiernan kissing him instead. Like they use to. But different. His tongue sliding into his mouth. Demanding to be let in. Taking what was his. He imagined Tiernan’s hands slowly trailing over his body, and Skugge found himself tracing those same lines where he imagined Tiernan’s hands to be.

A small gasp came to him when he touched over his chest and trailed down his stomach. He leaned his head back until his horn bumped against the wooden door, and trailed his hand lower, sliding into his soft linen pants. He imagined Tiernan touching him there. His mouth and breath, hot against his skin.

He whined when he slid a finger inside of himself and rocked his hips against the intrusion. He thanked the Stone Court for making his body easy to navigate. He imagined it was Tiernan pumping into him instead of his own fingers. Telling him how easy it was to enter him. Telling him how good it felt to be inside. Growling into his ear. His breath coming in short huffs. Skugge’s legs shook and his breath shuddered as he slumped against the door, but still he couldn’t seem to satisfy himself. Couldn’t get rid of the feeling of wanting. The *needing.* The great emptiness inside him that demanded to be filled.

“Gods.” He panted, looking around the dim interior of the dwelling. Candles were unlit, but the hearth still had warm embers inside. There was nothing. Nothing inside their home that he could have used to fuck himself with other than his own hands and he growled in frustrations. This endless want was maddening. Infuriating. He was going to die if he couldn’t be sated.

And that’s when he noticed. The scent of alpha, alpha, *alpha* coming from Tiernan’s bed. It smelled like him. It smelled like Tiernan. It smelled like solace. His fingers dug into the flesh of his thigh as he dragged his body towards the furs, and buried his face into his pillow.

Immediately he felt calmer. More able to think clearly.

He would have to spend the rest of the night and well into the day cleaning to get rid of his scent from Tiernan’s belongings. His beloved couldn’t, *couldn’t* know what he had done while he was out singing. Dancing. *Mating*.

He finally let slip a tear while he ground his hips against the end of his tail. It should have been him. It should *be* him. He lifted his hips into the air as dove in again. Fingers reaching deep inside him as his senses swam with the scent of *alpha*.

He was so engrossed in his own lusts that he didn’t notice the sounds from the clearing had changed. That there were steps, steady and strong headed towards their home. That the smell of an alpha. One alpha in particular got stronger, and stronger. Until…

The door creaked open.

“Skugge, are you -”

Time seemed to freeze as they both stared at each other.

“Shit…”

“Tiernan - I - I - I can explain!” He couldn’t. Not with a hand wrapped around a fully hardened cock. Not with him rutting against his tail like a maddened dog. “I… I can’t…. Help me…”

He couldn’t stop himself as he watched Tiernan. Watched as he swallowed, arms raised as if to reach out though he stood stock still. Save for his tail that swished about fiercely. “How… how can I help…?” He asked, his voice breaking on each word. Less of the shrill noises they made as children growing into adults, and more growls. Deep and hungry. A predator waiting, stalking its prey. Ready to strike.

Skugge’s breath stuttered in his throat. A sudden idea slotting into place - a solution to the puzzle. He needed to be *hunted. Marked. Claimed.* He lifted his hips and moved his tail away so Tiernan could have a better view of the slick entrance. Dripping onto the cold floor. “Please.” He begged, his head bent at an uncomfortable angle to watch Tiernan. If he refused, then Skugge might as well die on the spot. “Please. I need… fuck me.”

A shudder ran through Tiernan’s body as he closed his eyes. His nostrils flared and breath quickened. Just when Skugge was about to lose hope, and sink back into the thoughts of *not mine not mine, never to be*, Tiernan nodded. His eyes blown wide. “Okay. Yes. Yes okay. Just let me get undressed -” “No. *Now.*” Skugge demanded, his voice rough with need. “If you don’t come here right now, I’m going to *die,* Tier.” A hyperbole to be certain, but it worked to hurry him into coming closer. Stumbling through removing his trousers, feet catching in the legs. He didn’t bother with his tunic, and for that Skugge could only be thankful. It’d get caught in his horns if he tried removing it in the state he was in. They were both in. Driven mad with lust.

Tiernan dropped to his knees and almost reverently touched Skugge’s skin. His back and down along his spine. Skugge arched against his hand. But soft touches wasn’t what he craved. Not now. “Tiernan…” “No, you have to wait. I need to… I need to…” He continued his exploration of Skugge’s body. His cock, Skugge could see was thick and hard. Clear fluid building at the tip.

They both wanted this. Needed this.

The witch rocked his hips back towards Tiernan. “Tiernan, *please.*” If this was anything, then it was torture. Tiernan’s hands on him. Him so close. His cock so close. And yet so far away from where it should have been. *Inside* him. His body trembled.

“Okay. Okay I’m sorry. I’m sorry, love.” He brushed away Skugge’s hair from the nape of his neck and kissed him softly there. Along his shoulders and down the line of his back. His hands massaging the flesh of his ass and hips.

Skugge moaned, his body relaxing minutely. This was good. This was a good start. His eyes closed slowly like that of a cat’s under the soft kisses and roaming hands. If Tiernan said he would, then he would. They would come together, and Tiernan would fuck him. And everything would be better.

His soft moan turned into a whine when Tiernan’s fingers slipped further down and into the slit of his body. He couldn’t see the wonder on Tier’s face as he stroked his fingers inside the warmth of his body.

“You’re so wet…” He said softly as if the moment was a dream and anything too loud could break it. Skugge almost laughed, he knew he was. He had touched himself already and felt the slick coating his fingers. Felt it on his tail when he tried riding it. But the laugh had turned to moans. It felt different with Tiernan doing it. “You have to go deeper.” He instructed trying to keep his voice level and calm, when on the inside he felt nothing of the sort. His heart stuttered and he felt his stomach twisting into knots. Not unpleasant, but… It made him swallow convulsively when Tiernan entered inside of him.

He balled his hands into fists and panted, sure he was making nothing short of a mess on Tiernan. He heard behind him the soft sounds of flesh on flesh as he pumped his cock. The wet *schlick* sounds as he stroked in and out of him. He almost cried out in frustration when he pulled out and kissed the base of his tail however.

“Turn around.” Tiernan said. “So I can see you.” There was a soft growl in his voice. One that made the witch shiver. Not from fear. Anything but fear. Slowly. Calmly. He flipped over onto his back. And the sight that greeted him was nothing short of incredible. It was Tiernan. Of course it was Tiernan. Like he’d seen him a thousand times before. Like he kissed him, touched him a thousand times before. But there was something different about him too. Something Skugge couldn’t put his finger on that just made him want to *submit.* To offer his throat.

He swallowed and slowly undid the ties for his veil. For this, he would see his sunlight properly.

He was *wonderful* as he leaned in. *Incredible* as he kissed him. *Magnificent* as his hands roamed his body and found their way back to his hips.

Skugge spread his legs wide as an invitation that Tiernan quickly accepted. Slotting himself between his knees. His cock rubbing against the glistening slit. Skugge wrapped his arms around Tiernan’s neck as they kissed. This felt heavenly.

But nothing could have prepared him for when Tiernan slipped inside. His hips still rocking back and forth. In and out. Skugge gasped and his head fell backwards. Exposing his throat to the predator on top of him. “So… So good…” He moaned as Tiernan moved his lips from jaw to neck. Kissing and sucking at his skin. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to bruise.

“Skugge…” It was a growl. “I want to bite you. Please.”

His hips kept rocking and Skugge could feel his mind going numb. Numb from all the sensations he was experiencing. His mind weak with lust. With the primal thoughts of *mate. Submit. Alpha.*

But more than that. His thoughts were for *Tiernan. Tiernan. Tiernan.* And if Tiernan wanted to bite him, then who was he to refuse? He was his after all. He was Tiernan’s from the very beginning until the end of things.

He didn’t understand it. Not fully. He doubted either of them understood the deep primal needs that called out to them. But they listened to them. Listened to each other. “Yes.” Skugge said on a gasp. “Bite me.” *Mark me. Claim me. Make me yours.* It was hard to speak. Tiernan had gone from gently rocking his hips to *thrusting* inside of him. And Skugge felt like he was going to break apart at the seams. So full. He wrapped his legs around Tiernan’s hips, not caring if his claws dug into his love’s soft flesh. He just wanted him close. Needed him close. As close as they could possibly be.

“Tier. Please. I. I’m-” He felt something building from within him. Something that scrambled his thoughts and made him want to *beg.* But it’s a thought that he doesn’t have to finish. Because his love, his sunlight, *his* Tiernan is already there. To give them both what they want.

His hips slam into Skugge’s open and willing body. Once. Twice. Teeth descend on him. Sharp and into the soft flesh of his neck. There’s a shock of pain as Tiernan breaks the skin, he can feel the warmth of blood burst forth. But more than that. He feels something growing inside him. From the heat between his legs. Something almost as painful as the bite.

Something that made Tiernan stop thrusting inside. He felt something from deep within, like an explosion of. Of… He could only assume it was Tiernan’s seed that filled him up. That made him cling tighter, until he felt the soft skin of his love’s back give way under his claws.

He clung. As tightly as he could. Until the spasms that wracked his body ceased and his limbs felt heavy and boneless. But the swell of Tier’s cock hadn’t gone down. Just a quirk of being an alpha he supposed and kissed his forehead while Tiernan kissed at the bite. Licking at the blood as if to clean the wound.

They were both panting messes, laying in a heap of tangled limbs. Hair and skin sweat damp. But as they breathed into each other’s skin, and his eyes grew heavy, Skugge couldn’t help but think: *his his his.* Tiernan was his. His and no one one else’s.

And he was his. What they did, felt… Important. Like he could feel Tier’s heart beating in his own chest. Like he could close his eyes, and see into the very essence that was Tiernan. And he was sure Tiernan could see him as well.

He nestled his head against the crook of Tier’s neck, kissed his skin, and closed his eyes.

Together. He thought as his mind drifted. *Together. Forever.*

#a/b/o au #not canon!!!

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