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mooishbeam · 1 year ago

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『♡』 Treasures of the Fraud

♡ featuring: pantalone x f!reader

♡ summary: it's been forever since you've seen your friend, and as the hero of liyue, a new interruption has arisen. you pursue it, only to find memories awaiting you. wc: 9.1k+ (D:)

♡ cw/tw: long lonnggg fic, obsession, mentions of murder, mention of suicide, mentions of blood, manipulation, toxic pantalone, mean pantalone, possessive, spanking, degradation, mild praise, fingering, thigh riding, missionary, overstim, begging, edging, comeshot, pet names (darling, slut)

notes: helloooo!! ive been slow to get stuff out college is kicking my ass rn so sorry. not proofread so i apologize for any mistakes. I can't wait to have more time :) art by yion_yi on ig! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

12 years ago

“Come get me!”

The boy with inky curls spiraling down his back dips through trees, ducking under low hanging branches embellished with vibrant autumn foliage. Messy blends of pink and purple melt across the slowly bleeding sun carried into the night. His silhouette resembles that of a malevolent spirit peeking behind the boughs, leaping over tangled twigs and shallow ditches. His excited screeches signal you to chase after the leading direction. You’re both screaming and laughing down the undoubtedly dangerous shortcuts. If your mother knew about the adventurous risks you were taking at 13, you’d never leave the house again. Tag is a troubling game—despite the thousands of times you’ve played with him, you regularly end up being “it”. You don’t care about losing, though; having someone to call a friend is enough.

You turn into a clearing with columns of trees overseeing your small presence, hundreds of them. The colder night is rising, not a celestial body to shield. In this deep blue void, the leaves seem to be aggrieved at your interruption of some secret meeting, angry and smiling faces crumpling in the whispering wind. You spin around frantically, looking for signs or laughter, but neither reveal themself. It’s quiet besides the downy linger of grass. Your shoulders are snatched back and shaken to a rattling shock. You scream, and he laughs.

“Rahhh! Did I get you?” he jests. Your eyebrows narrow, and you push him lightly to a stumble.

“You scared me!”

“Hah, that’s the point. C’mon, it’s late. Let’s go.” He's scared too, swiftly grabbing your hand as you both brave the darkness back to the village.

“We should’ve been home a while ago” you say quietly. You feel the chill in your bones and press yourself closer to him.

“Yea.” He holds your hand tighter at the sound of a small rock bouncing down a steep hill.

“I had fun today. Let’s do this again tomorrow.”

“I have something to tell you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m moving in the morning” he states. It was nonchalant, but your stomach turns a churning sickness. One you can’t understand yet, it makes you uneasy.

“Oh. Okay, then.” It isn't okay, not in the slightest. But it had to be. Your best friend of 8 years looks at you, aiming to register the gravity of the situation. You both say nothing, but tears start to brim in your eyes in the silence. You wipe them with your arm.

“Will you miss me?” he asks.

“A lot.”

“I’ll miss you too. Lots and lots.” He sways your interlocking hands. You pass by vacant homes tattered and aged by abandonment, overgrown with invading ivy. Homeless reside, caring each other to warmth from the freezing draft. You were lucky to have a home in this little forgotten sector of Liyue. It's a small, unfortunate room, with holes in the roof that drips when it rains and bags over the windows to keep the heat in. The stove never works, and you share a bed with your mother, but every birthday she makes sure to save just enough for a slice of cake with one candle. There isn’t more you could ask for. Everyone in the village suffered from poverty but they made it work, sharing crops and dairy to persevere until the next year. That’s how you met him, sitting on a rock as your mother collected rations. You perform two pebbles in your hands, mumbling sea shanties while imagining voyage on a grueling journey—he sat next to you.

“Those aren’t dolls. They’re rocks.”

“You’re a rock” you retorted.

“No, I’m not.”

“Do you want to be a rock?”

“...That’d be kinda cool.” You gave him a pile of pebbles, and he joined the trip.

You’re getting closer to the village, still processing who you’ll play with once he’s gone. You glance at him, he’s spaced out in a faraway stare. You crave the power to read minds.

“Can we talk about something? I’m getting sad” you sniffle.

“What should be talk about?”

“What are you going to do after you move?”

“I’m gonna be super rich” he assures, looking up at the starless sky as if a meteor would shoot across and grant his wish. “What about you?”

“I’m going to save the world” you proclaim.

“Cool. I hope you do.”

“Me too.”

You arrive at your makeshift door drawn together with scraps of wood and twisted rope for hinges. A dim candle glimmers inside, most likely your vexed mother waiting for your tardily return. He makes space for your entry, and you undo your hands for the last time. Before you go, he snatches your wrist. His eyes are foggy, cheeks an anxious tinge of pink. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling, but the strings in his heart are tense. His mouth shapes to say something, but nothing returns.

“Yeah?”

“...I... I’ll really miss you a lot” he whispers with a lump in his throat.

“Then don’t forget me, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“You promise?” you say and raise your pinky towards him. He curls around it. “I promise.”

“Good. By the way, you’re it now.”

“I’ll get you back when I see you again!” he chuckles. You bid your goodbyes, unaware that it would mark the unforeseen conclusion.

Leaves crunch under your feet as you make your leisurely traverse to Liyue Harbor. It’s just before sunrise and you finished helping the elderly in Qingce Village carry copious amounts of heavy produce to their homes. The thankful candies from seniors' jingle in your pocket as you stretch your weary arms. Your mom offered to cook, but you're determined to locate the best commissions Katheryne had before afternoon. “Maybe I’ll pick up some rice buns” you think out loud at the rumble of your growing appetite. You still had a long way to go before you got to the harbor.

This was your new normal. After your thundering battle with Ningguang and Keqing against Osial, you became an example of Liyue’s triumph. You also became more aware of Fatui tactics, wiping out their swarms with the raging fury of your pneuma and swinging vision. Days of grueling bloodshed resulted in your victory, cementing you as the lionheart of Liyue. Beat up and bruised, the only request you made after your fight was a hot meal and a place for your mom to retire. They delivered both, and you used your recent hero status to provide help to the villagers where needed, be it casual favors or ruthless assault on Fatui agents. You were neither rich nor poor, and lived off the land and kindness of the Liyue Qixing. They often suggested you focus on less mundane tasks, but to you, the most vulnerable age groups warranted priority. There was something about the lighthearted innocent squeals of children and mellow grandparents rocking in their wooden chairs that made you protective to an almost volatile extent.

Bustling interactions of trade and commerce carry through the wind as you enter the harbor—a sound that’s brought you peace for years. The smell of food vendors has you drooling instantly. As you devour the complimentary rice bun, you feel the yank of a little hand on your skirt. You look down and a boy with brown hair searches for familiarity in your face. You recognize him, babysitting him numerous times. You kneel and pat his head, but he doesn’t react or move.

“Hey, what’s up? Where are your parents?” you question, briefly scanning your immediate area for his family. He’s hesitant to speak, as if he can’t find the panicked words, and rushes into your arms. You hug him instinctively and let him sniffle into your shoulder. You pick him up in your grasp and raise his head with your other hand so that he’ll hopefully be open to your compassion.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” The boy wipes his chubby tomato-red face. “Grandma is on the floor, what do I do?” You quell your rising nerves to suppress his alarm and speak calmly.

“Where is she?”

Speed walking towards the destination, the commotion of a small crowd surrounds a kneeling woman in the distance. She’s on her sun-spotted hands and knees, wailing for some bygone Archon. “Grandma!” he yells and jumps out of your arms. You run after him, relieved that the worst case scenario hadn’t occurred. You push through the group and get eye level with her, forehead pressed to the ground spouting religious scripture.

“Are you okay? Do you need medical assistance?” Wise sunken eyes wrinkled with age and torn by tragedy stick to your heart. Her feeble hands encapsulate yours, and tears stream down her cheeks. “They took my baby!” she rasps, rocking back and forth. “Who did?” you ask, and she weeps harder. “They took her memory...my baby, my daughter!” You support her weight and lift her hunched figure off the pavement. “What did they look like, ma’am?”

“A black hood...red mask” she recalls shakily. Instantly miscellaneous chatter ensues. They whisper nervously in each other's ears, he who shall not be named steals their voices. “Fatui probably got ‘er” you hear the mumble of one. Fatui. Your blood boils at the word, and you direct your view to the shrinking man with hands in his pockets. “‘He’ got all of us” he scoffs. “Did they hurt you guys, too?” you ask, and they stare. They’re pained but accepting.

“500,000 mora.”

“194,000 for me.”

They list off their debt one by one, and you’re horrified at the accumulating number. They seem to endure, however; no longer phased by the incurable tally haunting their lives. “H-how are you paying any of this?”

“We can’t. It adds up. Interest, late payments, it always does. So, we give everything, and ‘he’ takes everything, until we have nothing left. We die poor without a possession to our name” a woman sighs. As a child, you heard of the loan sharks that purposely fed false promises to the poor, and once they were reeled in, charged insurmountable payments to blackmail—it was the origin story of most people in your birthplace. Your soul aches for them, but is there anything you can do?

“...I’ll help you, all of you. I’m sure I can-”

Ningguang arrives. She's a nurturing figure to you, the kind that asks if you’ve been eating well and politely scolds you. “What happened?” You lead the tired elder to the Jade Chamber, and she tells her story through choked sobs. You didn’t expect Keqing to already be there, arms folded and turned away from the situation. Ningguang can barely glance at the woman.

“They stormed my home and took my jewelry and belongings. They took the pendant my daughter gave me; it had her face in it. Archons give me strength, my baby! I can’t afford it; I have nothing!” she quakes. You rub her back and Ningguang nods, listening—you can’t help but notice the anxiety blooming on her abstracted face. They take her through the process and once she leaves, Ningguang and Keqing look at each other with a silent understanding. The room is eerily quiet, and Ningguang paces back and forth in front of the intel wall contemplating an uncertain danger. You fumble with your thumbs.

“What are we going to do about this?” you wonder. Keqing clears her throat loudly, attracting the attention of Ningguang. She looks at you, and sighs deeply. “We already know about this issue.”

Your ears perk up. “Great, so how can I help?”

“By doing nothing, (Y/N)” Keqing says.

“...What?”

“I have eyes everywhere; I’ve known for a long time. The Fatui are not people to be taken lightly, especially the harbingers. A few of their skirmishers were caught trading exotic goods and taxing medicine at high prices, on top of extorting the impoverished regions.” Ningguang points to one of the many Fatui exclusive headquarters on the wall. “Pantalone is the richest man in Teyvat, he has more political influence than anyone can imagine, and they answer to him. We can’t risk getting involved with this. They’ve brought this upon themselves, and unfortunately, they must deal with the consequences.”

You can’t accept this response. How can they just desert them? It doesn’t comprehend in your naïvity—you scold yourself for not spotting the signs sooner, furrowing your brows and looking at them with distaste. “I expected this. You shouldn’t have said anything” Keqing chides. “...Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped before-”

“You’re the last person I wanted to know about this” Ningguang interrupts. Your anger feels misplaced, and you bite your lip in restraint. She sits next to you and offers fleeting comfort with a graceful hand on yours. “You’re quite the reactionary type. In due time, this will be sorted. But right now, I need you to calm down, and trust me.” It sounds desperate, you know you shouldn’t go looking for answers, but a snagging thread pulls at the back of your consciousness, all too convincing. You bounce your leg. “You should want revenge just as much as me. Where we came from, where they end up, it isn’t fair.”

“You know I do, more than anything. But we must handle this with care, before too many people get hurt. I’m doing this for the betterment of Liyue as a whole. It’s not easy to make these decisions.”

“We can’t just go around serving justice, there’s laws we have to act with” Keqing adds. You don’t reply and stand up abruptly to leave. The worried Tianquan grabs your wrist one last time. “Promise me you won’t make a mistake, (Y/N). I’m trying to protect you” she pleads.

“I promise. Thank you.” You flash a half genuine smile, already planning to rebel against her wishes.

Who exactly is ‘he’—Pantalone. You don’t even know where to start looking. Too many headquarters, infinite possibilities. The best way you have to find him is through Fatui agents.

You start taking up odd jobs late in the evening, scouring for the possibility that a fatui agent might fall into your hands. Though you considered playing the part of an impoverished villager taking out a loan at Northland Bank, it didn’t guarantee that you’d meet Pantalone in the flesh—it’s more likely that would raise unnecessary suspicion in the process. It’s awkward at first, seeing the hero of Liyue fish on the dock for petty change throughout the night. As you do, the malicious fire in your eyes burns bright at the occasional voice in chill silence. Your vision glows as you toss the hunting knife between your nimble digits. Listening closely to conversations, hoping that one might be unguarded enough to slip up, but nothing of the sort appears—not even the boldness of Fatui skirmishers enables them to divulge secrets under the baleful existence of Celestia.

The moon illuminates sweetly on the tranquil waters lulling you to drowse. You hadn’t heard much since the start of your escapade. A fishing pole is weak in your resistless hold, and you’ve evidently given up on the idea of portraying the hardworking fisherman tonight. You vowed to help the people of Liyue, but justice was seemingly unfeasible. Maybe a direct approach? Should I ambush their headquarters? More so a suicide mission, you’d have no luck achieving that. Just as you’re about to leave, the crunch of withering grass straightens your posture. You make yourself hidden with a burst of energy and slouch behind the bushes as a Fatui pyro agent charges along the route. Through the glutted leaves obstructing your vision, you can just make out the heavy bag on his shoulder and jagged blade waiting restlessly on the other. His stride points towards Qingce Village. You hold your breath disguising yourself with the scenery and allow him to take a few feet between you before you begin following him. He’s rather shifty, those veiled eyes darting back and forth at the lightest noise. You’re careful to glide behind trees, moving with the heartbeat of the wind and taking advantage of the various melody's nature offers. You suck in a breath and duck behind a boulder a few inches too close, and his head snaps in your direction. The feeling of being watched besets him, but with no way to prove it and time running out, he secures his knife for the hypothetical ambush, and makes haste towards the target. Turning a tree, you watch as the pyro wielder knocks on the house of a small worn cottage. A short stocky man appears, shading half his body behind the door.

“H-hello...” you hear faintly. The Fatui keeps his hand firm on the door, one boot propped under the hinge. He presents the flaming knife loosely as he towers over the man. “We’ve given you time.” You were sure now that he's working for Pantalone.

“I don’t have it. P-please, if you could just give me some more-” He slams his fist against the wood, a resounding thump shakes the home. The man cowers. “Give me everything you have. The Regrator won’t wait any long-”

A small rock flies past his mask, skidding on the ground until it comes to a stop. He glares in the direction of the tree you’re hiding behind. You have no plan, nothing but the distracting impulse to stop the assailant from attacking. “Stay here” he commands, and stalks towards you. His slow footsteps get increasingly louder, playful stomps toying with your obvious whereabouts. He twirls the razor-sharp knife, and as he sharply peeks around the corner, you’re nowhere to be found. “Here, kitty kitty” he taunts, spinning towards the lake, then the village grounds for footprints. He severs the air aimlessly in mirth, believing some amateur fighter came to challenge him. As he monitors the tracks under you, you drop down from the wiry branches. Legs wrap tight around his neck, and you catch hold of his hood trying to pull his mask off. He gags but he’s too quick, throwing off your steadiness as he slams your spine on the grass. He whips around to take a stab at your chest, but you roll away guarding the vital arteries. You kick him in the crotch, and he recoils giving you ample time to stand.

You can’t feel the wet laceration dripping down your abdomen as you take a slash at his throat with your weapon, infused with elemental energy. He leans back and meets your strike. You trade blows, the strength of your smite bursting sparks of light above the scratches and bruises. Your wrist burns with the unmoving knives stumbling you. He begins to manifest blazing knives circling his figure, and you jump back from the singing cut melting the cloth. You wipe the dried blood from your mouth, and in the blink of an eye, he disappears. Suddenly, red auras similar to the pyro agent surround you. One by one, the clones charge at you, and you parry their overhead onslaught. Something is different about the last clone, your vision revealing a brighter outline than the others. When the next clone attacks, as you counter you pretend to fall for his trick. With your eyes on the other, he immediately passes through the black fog to deal the killing blow. You’re quicker this time and heave a heavy tear into his chest. Crimson splatters the grass, it shatters his element and rips open the robe. You tackle him on the dirt and wrestle until you kick his weapon away. Your knee digs into his back, and he can barely breathe with his arm locked behind him and knife rigid against his neck. He ttempts to swing at you, but you wrench his arm tighter and slice into his skin just enough to draw blood.

“Fuck. Okay!” he wheezes. “Where is Pantalone?”

“I don’t know what you’re- shit!” You’ve lost patience long ago and twist his arm to dislocate the shoulder. He lets out a blood curdling scream thrashing in pain—you tug hard and focus him. “Shut up and answer my question. Where is Pantalone?” you demand. He hisses in pain and coughs up phlegm mixing with reddening soil. “Kill me.”

“Just tell me and I’ll let you go.”

“I’m a dead man, either way.” he rasps and hangs his head waiting for the execution. You grit your teeth; a drop of guilt leaves a bad taste as you thwack the pressure point on his neck that forces him unconscious. You glance at the bag he left and limp over to rummage through the contents. Useless papers crumple under stolen items, but one note catches your eye. Presumably a to-do list, you read to the bottom. A list of homes, goods on standby exchanges—at the bottom of those, a rendezvous point:

Report back- Yilong Bank, Liyue

You rest in a plot of prickly bushes and leave in the morning after patching yourself up. You couldn’t stop now, not when you were this close to facing him. You soothe your body from the twigs prodding you all night, and check the wound suppressed by gauze. It’s a light scar now, apparent after bathing in the warm water on the outskirts of Qingce. You contemplated telling Ningguang about what occurred, but imagining the look on her face once she knew kept you moving.

Tucking your vision where it can’t be viewed, you take a waverider to Yilong Port into the afternoon. You concoct a half-baked scheme, one that relies on every scenario being perfect to a tee. Unreliable, but probably your only chance. The plan amounts to scaling the building and breaking in through the office window, snatching everything owned by the villagers and breaking out before anyone notices. Easy in your capabilities, but you have no idea what the building looks like, nor do you know where the office is. The man driving wears all black, an outfit that stands out from the rest of the region. He stares at you blankly, and once you’re aware, you meet eyes. His smile is uncanny, stretching across his face with an abnormal friendliness.

“Is this your first time at the port?” he asks, finger tapping the wheel. Be it sleep deprivation or ignorance; you don’t recognize red flags in his behavior. You smile at the courteous face. “Yeah, the weather’s beautiful out here.”

“Mhm, hot weather up here. On vacation?”

“Nah, I have business here.” The minuscule edge of your vision catches in the light. He homes in on the passing twinkle. You wonder why his eyes widen momentarily, and his finger starts to tap methodically, as if memorizing a coded pattern.

“Business...what kind?”

“Oh...I have some items to trade.” You close off your answers feeling that you’ve said too much. He subsides with a stale expression. “If you’re looking to trade, you might find luck at Yilong Bank” he utters monotonously.

“And where is that?” You feign disinterest, but victory is too loud on your tongue.

“Up the mountain.” The waverider halts at the harbor, and he turns his head away from you unusually cold, akin to a mechanical bot shutting down. “Welcome to Yilong Port.”

You make yourself invisible in the crowd and wait for nightfall. People still roam the port along with Fatui monitoring the front of the bank, which gives you leeway to blend in as you find passage around the back of the mountain. It’s a steep, dark incline jutted with irregular jagged stones. The imposing size of the climb tangles knots in your stomach, and you wipe the persistent sweat on your top. In one huge leap, you latch onto a craggy indent, and begin your ascension.

Your legs feel like jelly with each contact of the unforgiving breeze. You sway alongside the spirit of anemo and swallow your anxiety before leaping to the next rock. Shoes plant into rock and nails excavate fresh cobble on the next jump. By the time you’ve realized, you’re already up most of the mountain. You tug yourself even with the land as a barreling gust of wind goads your glance to the ground, kilometers beneath you. Your breath stills, and for a second dizziness overtakes your nerves at the thought of slipping. I could die, one mistake and I’m dead. You focus, and spring to the next piece. Without warning, rock gives way into pebbles at the weight of your foot. You nearly plunge, but anchor onto the small bump out with one hand. You’re dangling off the edge, playing with death while you fortify your body. Hyperventilation makes your heartbeat thrum incessantly and stress palpitates tired muscles; If you didn't have your vision, you would’ve fainted to your demise. You bite the bullet, push your heels in and persevere through the hurdles. The next thing you clutch is malleable in your palm. You vault over the cliff, the smell of dew is overwhelming. The back of the bank—the end goal—is visible.

One Fatui member remains in the front. You scale up the building effortlessly, nothing compared to the hell you just went through. Shifting window to window, your eyes land on the pitch-black darkness of the room at the top of the building. An ideal glow casts on the fraction of precious gold resting on a coffee table. This has to be it. You slink through the window soundlessly, and land on the balls of your feet. Analyzing the dish, you don’t discern the pendant. You can faintly identify some bookshelves near the dish, and tiptoe further inside. You creep around luxury sofas, and squint at the embellished glass case next to the door, containing all manner of jewelry and valuable possessions. You won; this was it. You scurry to it, moving with abrupt carelessness. One more step.

Click

The fireplace you didn’t heed is set aflame. It flickers sneering shadows on the opposite wall and brightens the case. You pause and hope. There’s a confining silence stirring in the room, like someone is with you. The case is visible now, and so is the key to opening it.

You fell into a trap.

“Looks like I have a little thief on my hands.”

A bittersweet voice in the sable, reminiscent of rich dark chocolate, rolls off the room. He steps out obscurity behind his desk and your eyes adjust, revealing the tight black turtleneck compressing his willowy torso and gloves adorned with silver rings. You can’t see the upper part of his face, but the chains of his glasses hang in front of that duping smile. You expected the Fatui harbinger to be on the stronger side, physically intimidating. It’s not physical, but you feel a certain fear boiling in your body. He’s not terrifying, but you tremble. His presence makes your hair stand and sends waves of goosebumps up your arms. You can’t find the will to move your wobbly legs. His charmed laugh rings in your ears and causes you to hold your breath. He has no vision; you shouldn’t be afraid. You could take him on easily, why can’t you fight?

“Hello, honored hero of Liyue” the headless man taunts. It makes it worse that he knows who you are. How long had he known you were coming? Was your plan doomed from the beginning? Your feet are stuck in molasses as your fight or flight shuts down at the man before you.

“Now, tell me. What is the little thief doing, barging into my office to take the possessions I worked so hard for? Not very heroic of you, If I may say.” There’s power in his stature—you forget how to speak. He holds his palm out to you. Tangled between his fingers, is the ornate golden pendant you’d been searching for, a woman’s face in the frame. Your eyes widen, and the sweet familiar curve of his lips stretches in amusement.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” The plod of low-heeled boots accompanies unveiled darkness, and you can observe his entirety. Amethyst eyes drunk with an orchid hue pool into your being. Lazy curls brush against his glasses and kiss his porcelain skin. He’s beautiful, a calm enticing rip current that sweeps you with immeasurable pressure before you can pull yourself out. He leans on the desk, observing the chain halfheartedly. If you weren’t careful, you’d mistake the look on his face for genuine kindness; you’d drown, just like he craved. Nonetheless, you can’t shake the emotion his smile grants.

“Yes. That’s all I need, and I won’t bother you again” you whisper meekly, hoping that he’d let you go with the pendant in a spur of forgiveness. The jest in his eyes says something different.

“Come get it.”

Come get it. Your mind begins to piece the man into a stage of your life you’d forgotten. It can’t be him. Memory tells intrusive truth in short flashes. Inky curls spiraling in front of you as you chase. He was consistently miles ahead of you. It was irrelevant how far apart you were; he’d always find you. That big, curving smile for every match he won. Purple eyes glancing back at yours; the same ones that withheld tears when you said goodbye.

“Come get me!”

Tears stream down your eyes for the friend you thought you’d never see again. Childhood laughter bleeds into his current cat-like conniving snicker, and you gaze at his face.

“I... remember you” you choke. He looks up without a smile, perceiving an unexpected thought, and meets your eyes. There’s a hint of affection in the warm smile beaming on his face. “My my, (Y/N). You have quite the memory.”

You’re motionless, full of something that catches in your lungs. This isn’t the triumph you wanted, and now that you’re face to face you feel powerless. He must’ve known the entire time. Watching you fight and work alone, sending Fatui to roam in Liyue, all done to toy with you. Your lip quivers, swelling in your already deafening heartbeat.

“How long...” you utter. He inquires with the tilt of his head.

“How long have you been messing with me?” Your eyes adhere to the floor, pride that won’t permit you to shed misery for Pantalone. He drinks in your resistant frame, the kind he desires to break; perhaps this game of cat and mouse isn’t done, after all.

“This hurts me too, (Y/N). I wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t so…persistent.” Your confusion spills over in shaky, weak huffs. You can’t maintain your composure, and make yourself first to oppose the authoritative man on his own territory.

“How could you do this to anyone? We grew up poor!” You shout with balling fists.

“It’s inefficient to dwell on the past” he replies with gentle cadence and languid grace unrepresentative of his cruel tactics. You nearly regret raising your voice.

“These people are at their wits end and you’re taking advantage of them” you chide. He slowly paces towards you. Pantalone looks down on you from height disparity, but the royal glower pities you, judges worth you can’t see.

“Driven by emotions, are you that simple? You presumed that if you stormed in here, and professed a touching story, that I would suddenly see the error in my methods?” You’re not sure what you’re here for anymore or why you haven’t left yet. Subconscious urges can't determine if they should slap or hug the man inching towards you. “I simply enforce contracts and exchanges. No one can be swindled by a debt accreted on their own.”

“No one asks to be poor either” you interject. Pantalone’s a foot away from you now, analyzing your reactions to his personal entertainment. He recalls the blurry past—the pranks you pulled together that ultimately failed from your loud hurried sneakiness tripping to alert the farmers, helping out for loose change so that you’d split a snack between each other that wasn’t big enough to share, gazing at the twinkling night imagining a distant future—you changed and stayed the same, but he keeps wanting more.

“Weigh the odds. They either die impoverished or live by passage of loans. I merely provide a service. Does that make me so cruel?” You can’t find an answer.

“You’ll always be my friend, but I need it back. It can’t be much to forgive someone’s debt” you plead.

“You still consider me a friend?”

“I think…you’re hurt. And you’re trying to heal. We all are. I know I’ve dealt with a lot as I’ve gotten older and I think you have, too. Power corrupts even the best people in this world, so maybe you’re not a bad person. But you’re doing bad things, and this isn’t the right way to get better.”

Pantalone is quiet for a few long moments. His hands web his face, but you can clearly see the pearly fangs in his open-mouthed smirk. Then he laughs—dulcet and mocking, it lingers for too long as he throws his head back and relishes the obtuse notion. He gazes with insulting compassion and stalks towards you.

“Incredibly…. gullible. Mora is the pathway to all endeavors. Devoid of gnosis or divine knowledge, wealth has rendered me impervious to control. Suffering and destitution only manifest if I will it. I am the guise of a false god, an emblem of achievement.” It’s borderline delusional the way he regards himself, arms moving in theatric grandeur, the star of his own opera.

“Does that make you feel good? Stepping on the backs of the community that raised you, and abandoning them because they chose not to be influenced by greed?” Pantalone towers over you. His fingers brush light against your sensitive ears, trail to your clenched jaw, and finally cup your frustrated cheeks with the cradle of a long-lost lover.

“It does, in fact. I’m not easily swayed by ridiculous optimism, that’s why I’m at the top. You’ve devoted your blood and tears to a region that will succumb to adversity in your absence. Is that not a pointless feat?”

“So what? That doesn’t mean we just don’t help people. You have nothing without the Fatui, you’re a pawn just like the others” you retort. He brings his lips close to the shell of your ear, and his breath hot on the untouched skin drags a tingle up your spine.

“And what do you know about the Fatui?” he whispers.

“I know enough. You’re all disgusting.” He huffs out his nose.

“Disgusting isn’t the right word. I’d say...opportunists.” Pantalone backs up, sliding his hand up your chin and tilting your attention to the intense glint. “But you’re clever, I’ll give you that. If only you were clever enough to know your place.” You'd forgotten you were acting out of line. You refocus your mindset to negotiation.

“I’ll do anything you ask for the debt. Please, just give it back.” The word “anything” evokes a malicious yearning—so forthcoming without understanding the implications of “anything”, of eternity. He caresses your cheek.

“Anything, hm? Even if I said to give up being a hero for good? Would you still call yourself a heroic traveler if you weren’t allowed to travel or adventure as you please?” he teases. Your mouth opens to refute, but you bite your bottom lip instead. Pantalone walks back to his desk and leans while dangling the golden chain. Now that he’s far, the invading space between you two shows how insignificant you are in this luxury palace.

“Your resolve moves me. Consider this; make an exchange with me, and I’ll guarantee not only her debt, but the debt of all residents in Liyue forgiven” Your face instantly lights up, ready to accept it without thinking.

“What is it?” you ask.

“In exchange for regional loan forgiveness, I want you.”

“...What?”

“I want everything you have. It’s the fairest exchange I can make. Your obedience, your loyalty, and your body.”

The choice turns in your frontal lobe. You can’t fathom giving yourself to a man, let alone a Fatui harbinger. It’s unbecoming of a hero to lie with the enemy.

“Absolutely not” you assure.

“Alright. Then allow their village to be reduced to nothing.” No, wait. “You may leave. However, if you do, you’ll cause great misfortune to that woman and her struggling family” You play into his covet so smoothly as you stand in the center of the room, reluctant to leave.

“I’m not a complete monster, so I’ll give you 5 seconds to make a choice.” He sways the pendant in his hand like the transient time of an hourglass. 5 seconds, all you have to sign your life away.

“4.”

What if no one ever sees you again? What’s the point of sacrificing your happiness and freedom, are the people of Liyue truly worth it?

“3.”

You could threaten him, take him hostage so that a harbinger might bow to your demands. That, or they kill you, and the village suffers anyway.

“2.”

You think of your graying mom, the sweet boy with his chubby red face who cries over the smallest things, the grateful elders that give you candy after every good deed, Ningguang and Keqing stressing over the next financial impact.

“1.”

“I’ll do it.”

Pantalone swings the chain into his palm, an undefeated smug overbearing as he sets it on the desk. There was never a point in resisting; he always got what he wanted, no matter how long it took to achieve it. He waited months—no, years—to get you in this exact moment. There’s a daunting beguiling charm in the way he closes the gap between you two. You glare at him; a temper common people would dread shooting. He assesses the pending punishment and lowers himself eye-level. He grins, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I can see the defiance in your eyes. Do you want to talk back? Go ahead, challenge me.” You don’t test this scenario and turn your head. “Don’t patronize me. Get it over with, ‘Pantalone’.”

He quirks an eyebrow, and pliable flesh strains your teeth as your face is gripped rough by satiny leather. You’re twisted sharply to the calm expression—it humbles you.

“That’s not how you address your superior. What should you call me?” You don’t answer promptly to his liking, and he tightens his grip. “Answer me properly, darling.”

“...Sir.” Pantalone plants a sickly sugary kiss on your forehead, the kind that makes you forget how petrifying he can be, and lets you go.

“Good.” He walks back to the desk and sits in the onyx chair embellished with silver jewels fit for a king. His chin rests on bridging hands. “Strip.”

You don’t move, your heart hammers in your chest at the request and you stir uncomfortably. You have no experience with sexual gratification, let alone exposing yourself to an old friend.

“(Y/N). Don’t make me say it again.” Keen agitation in his voice serves as a final warning. He eats you with his eyes, homed in on your hands clumsily snaking the top over your head. A glimpse of the scar you received during your fight with the Fatui captures him. He takes a mental entry, for an explanation that might justify why the agent suddenly goes missing. You were generally too busy to look in the mirror or analyze your assets, and pleasure was a removed afterthought—so the hungry fervor warming your skin and permeating the room clamped your thighs shut. You’re visibly flustered and nervous fumbling with the clasps on your bra while stabilizing your anxiety, and he delights in every second of the accidental strip tease. It feels like fresh meat introduced to a savage animal, and the instant your bra omes off, a new vulnerability coils in your gut. You move to your bottoms; the sheen of sweat polishes your plush thighs to wiggle out of them. You’re left in nothing but tantalizing panties hugging you in the right places. His eyes undress and redress you, tracing up and down the perk of your nipples, tempting fullness of your thighs, each unseen curve and perfect imperfect mark on your glistening body. He lets out a deep breath to stop himself from jumping over the table and taking you right there.

“The underwear. Take it off” he says, an undertone of lust. You shimmy the fabric off and fully expose yourself. You impulsively cover your intimate parts and avert your eyes, but you can still feel Pantalone on you, ravaging you. He doesn’t bother telling you to put your arms at your sides, your bashfulness combined with an attempt at stoicism is comical.

“Ah, the little thief is trying to act tough. That's cute” Pantalone teases and leans back in the chair. Manspreading, he pats his thigh. “Crawl.”

He’s hellbent on shaming the defiance out of you. It’s a vile command, but you begrudgingly drop to your hands and knees. You drag your chaffed knees on wood, balancing like a newborn fawn adjusting to its legs. It’s humiliating and downright degrading; the cold floor fails at cooling your burning fever. You’re on the verge of tears, but Pantalone can’t help but smile. You get around the desk and look up at him, waiting for the next horrible thing he’ll have you do. “Unfortunately, the stunt you pulled impeded my paperwork. Be a good thing and sit on my lap until I’m done.” A “thing”—that’s all you were now, a shiny trophy meant to be ogled at but never taken seriously, used and thrown away. You stand off your scraped raw knees and straddle his thigh, hands balancing the leg so you don’t fall.

And Pantalone starts to work. Working as if you’re not there, filling in the spaces on his documents. For some reason, it’s more demeaning this way, you truly are just a prize. One hand dances beautiful penmanship in masterful motions on embossed paper, the other fondles and explores your being. The gloves brush down your delicate spine, nonsensical shapes drawn on your lower back that make you shiver and pool heat in places you’ve never thought of. You’ve never been touched like this, it’s needles light on your skin. They move to your stomach, pleasant circles above the pelvis that threaten to go lower. He’s careful to trail his hand up your cleavage and behind your neck, neglect your hardening nipples and repeat the process over and over. He’s painstakingly slow, savoring the dazed arch of your back, massaging your inner thighs and dragging the sleek material over your rear.

Middle and index sweep across your lips, pulling your bottom lip to reveal teeth, and prods your mouth. Pantalone’s fingers are invasive, they exploit your gums and twirl around the squishy tongue molding to his appetite. He plays with the pink mass, and it fills you like a kiss. He’s everywhere and he hasn’t looked at you once. You hate it, the kind elegance and refinement of his technique that makes every calculated word and action reek of opulence. Yet, arousal pools on the surface, sticking to your labia and clouding your drowsy mind. It’s an extreme ache that doesn’t go away from cold showers or shrugging off like you usually would. You can’t remember what you did today, yesterday, or the day before that. The sensation of him consumes you and persists in spots he left. He smells of expensive cologne, hints of heady wood and sage. You’re lucky his fingers are in your mouth, or piteous moans would spill out of you. Flat on his thigh, the subtle jolts of his leg rub against your hypersensitive clit and set your nerves on fire. Throbbing swells in your core, and you struggle to stay stiff as your hips stutter.

Pantalone knows exactly what he’s doing. Your labored pants sound like saintly melody while you writhe on his lap. The fabric goads your pulsing pussy, and you hang your head in embarrassment of the juices soaking your thighs and his. He’s surprised you have strength left to withstand the itch. You do your best to hover above it, trailing thick strings of slick. “There’s no need to pretend you don’t like this. Just give yourself to me” he whispers. And it’s so enticing, an invitation that might let you come if you ask. However, remnants of pride cling to your melting resolve, you can’t give in yet. He takes the fingers out and presses on your nipple, flicking the bud. You can’t hold the mewl, and he snickers.

“So indignant for the hero of Liyue, to be on a harbingers lap, reduced to a pretty pet.” Your ears tune out the insults. The damp gloves pull and pinch your puffy nipples, then knead to soothe the pain. He does the same to the other, switching between both as he feels you squirm.

He works on the last few pages. Piles upon piles of reports and records—they detail the deaths, or “suicides”, of clients who’d disappeared mysteriously after extended absence of payments for millions of mora, people who dared go against the Regrator. Unruly, uncooperative clients that take advantage of fair exchange, and pay the price for it.

Your arms get tired, and you settle on him again. Pantalone starts to softly bounce his leg, enough for you to notice the friction on your clit. It’s too much, you can’t take it anymore, and start to rut your hips on his thigh. You look messy, smearing your essence on those overpriced slacks and biting back your moans. Pleasure flows in your veins, and you give up. His cock throbs nonstop, print stealing space in his pants. “Did you believe I wouldn’t catch you? You’re not sneaky enough. You’re not good enough," he taunts from the corner of his eye. You hump his leg like a desperate bunny, chasing the addictive high.

“Nasty slut, fucking your hips on a man you barely remember.” He moves his hands to your clit and replaces the slacks with slippery leather. You grind on it harder and hold your moans. More, more, more. He coats it in the mess and finally diverts his attention to you. He teases your entrance gliding vertically on your vulva before pushing one finger in. It hurts at first, but your walls hug him eagerly, pulling it deeper. He coaxes it to take another and starts scissoring your gushy walls.

“I’ll devour you. I’ll inscribe my name upon every surface of your physique until it adorns your lips, and I’m the only thing that remains.” Pantalone starts pumping rhythmically, tormenting, poking everywhere but your g-spot. Gloss drips down his knuckles and glazes his rings.

“S-sir please, s’too much” you whimper, mustering up an ineffective stable voice. “Hmm? Can you hear the lewd sounds you’re making?” Loud squelches sing from him fucking your insides. Each time you try to speak, he elicits another moan.

“M-my sto-mach hurtss” you whine. He holds your waist in place with the other hand and continues the assault. “I know, it hurts? Would you like me to alleviate the pain?” he coos. You nod fast.

“Hold it in. You ask for permission every time you’re close, do you understand?” You don’t reply and try to angle your body to get more contact. You make the mistake of guiding yourself to your clit and earn a harsh stinging slap on your hand. “Don’t touch what’s mine” he orders. You’re frustrated and he’s doing it on purpose, it’s entirely too hot where pleasure and pain blur. “N-not yours” you stammer, and he stops. He pulls out your warmth and you whine from loss of pressure. Looking at him, there's no smile, and the irritation on his face makes your heart drop. You're really in for it.

Without delay, your stomach flies over one of the chair arms, and you hold onto it for dear life. It presses firm on your ribs, and he slants your ass to the air. “You have courage, speaking back to me” he says. He pulls his gloves off and hurls them. They’re lovely, the silken soft hands of a man who hadn't lifted a finger through combat a day in his life. They sink into your sex, and you moan out for him. The other winds back, and you feel the palm hit brutally on your unsuspecting backside. Crack. It echoes in the room, and you almost fly forward.

“Disrespectful.” Crack. He keeps pumping through it, and tears collect in your lashes.

“Disobedient.” Crack. There’s blood rushing to your head, and violent smacks make your pussy flutter and ass ripple; his control won’t give you adequate touch.

“Little.” Crack. Every time he feels you getting there, he pauses. A masochistic pleasure whirls innermost.

“Brat.” Crack. Both cheeks are a sore fiery color and beginning to welt, but he resumes. You’re drenching his palm, sobbing from prolonged edging and Pantalone laughs. “Pfft, you’re crying? Too embarrassed to beg? Perhaps I’ll give you what you want, if you grovel hard enough, darling.” An incoherent orchestra of please’s mesh with broken moans. “Sir m’sorry. Wan’ it so bad, p-please!” you mumble. There’s no dignity on your lips, no residue of the hero you once were. Drunken ardor floods your short-circuiting brain.

“Oh, what do you say? You want it? Is that it? I'll let you have it... but only if you say it loud and clear for me” he croons. He winds his fingers in a come-hither gesture that licks your core.

“Please...I won’t misbehave again!” He spreads your ass apart and watches your hole pucker from lining the brink.

“I’m not sure I want to give it to you now. It's a lot more enjoyable watching you squirm and beg.”

“’M yours, sir. Please give it to me. I’ll be s’good, promise!” you mewl. You’re so pathetic, it’s endearing. He simpers and maneuvers impossibly fast while gyrating your clit. “How humiliating. You’ve satisfied me.” Your eyes roll back, and you dissolve in pure euphoria. There’s black dots in your vision, and it doesn’t stop as he starts torturing your overstimulated clit with the pad of his thumb. Your tears only encourage him. You jerk and spasm, but he moves where you move with insistent skill. “T-too m-”

“Aww, what’s wrong? Isn’t this what you wanted, where are your manners?” Pantalone pulls out and delivers staggering mean swats to your pussy, and you recoil. “Say thank you” he demands.

“Thank you, sir.” He hums and picks you up in his arms. Before color can return to your numb cells, he lays you on the desk. You watch him pull his shirt up to his pecs with haste and uncover the lean skinny midsection. Unzipping his pants, he unsheathes his leaking thumping erection. Even his dick is pretty, it curves upwards and shades a starving dusty pink past the thin strip of tissue on the underside of his bulbous tip. Composure thinning, a bead of pre come runs down his tip at the sight of provocation sluicing your ass and thighs. His glasses plunge down his neck, body blushed wildly, but he doesn’t care. Pantalone slides between your labia and groans at the sound. Engulfing the tip in awaiting velvet warmth, “You’re so good for me, hm?” he sighs. You embrace him, delicious searing stretch of your walls forming to his cock. Your orgasm builds just from your body accommodating the size. He places your hands on your calves and holds them at your sides. He slips out, and in one swoop, drives into you. His heavy balls smack against your ass as he thrusts frenetically in the gooey grip he’d been waiting for, stalking and spying for. He digs crescent shapes in your waist and uses you to his abundance. The desk base creaks and grinds on abrading wood and obituaries float to the floor with overturned calligraphy ink from the unrelenting momentum. You throw your head back and indulge the carnal lust washing over you both.

“You’ll never see anyone ever again. Fuck- you’re mine, and mine alone. You’re nothing but a come dump, your purpose is to please me, hah, until I say it’s over” his voice is unexpectedly deprived and weighty with vulgar whimpers. Pantalone eyes your neck and encapsulates it in his slender hand. He clenches tight and releases in sporadic bursts that have you seizing around him. For a split second there’s the image of you—exorbitant pearled collar wrapped around your throat, with “Pantalone” inscribed in bedazzled letters—and he loses it. He swipes your clit rapidly and feeds you deep strokes; you’ll definitely die. You speak, but it’s unintelligible rambling.

“Use your words” he lilts, squeezing your airflow taut. “C-can I, sir, please?”

“You’ll do it on my command.” Pantalone thrusts frenetically, you can feel him bucking, twitching and quickly approaching his climax. His hips sputter, chanting some mixture of your name and curses under his breath. “You’re so obedient for me, aren’t you? F-fuck, darling, go ahead. Come on my cock.” You permit yourself to surrender, white noise streams in and time slows as you come down his shaft. A creamy ring forms at the hilt of his slaps. You recite “thank you” through wails with the semblance of a follower at the altar of their savior. Then he grabs your face and goes in for a kiss.

It’s sloppy and misses half your lip, but its doughy attachment mellows your blissed out head. His lips taste like the bitter excess of green tea, and you crane for a better sample. His tongue does things his fingers couldn’t, and swirls around yours in a passionate bruising waltz. Pantalone breaks away, a string of saliva when he frees himself. “Mm, coming. Gonna claim you everywhere” he whimpers. Sweat on his lustered abdomen, he pumps his tender cock before spurting thick hot ropes across your tits and stomach. He paints your vulva with the rest and plunges the tip in your entry so as to not waste the endless globs of white. He tremors inside you until soft, and when some dribbles out he fingers it back inside.

Afterwards, Pantalone opens one of the drawers on the desk and takes out an embossed loan dismissal form. You can’t read the finer details through hazy eyesight. “It’s already signed, so don’t worry. I won’t deceive you.” He caresses your face in his normal sing-song attitude. “We depart in the morning.” You don’t have a clue where you’re going or how you’ll get there as you drift unconscious. Once you’re asleep, Pantalone shuffles in a different locked drawer. He twiddles the stunning purple geode in his hand, a crystal lined mineral you gave to him years prior. He looks at you, then the druse, and cackles.

“Mine. Always.”

#genshin impact #genshin smut #genshin au #pantalone smut #pantalone #pantalone headcanons #headcanon #pantalone x reader #pantalone x you #pantalone x y/n #genshin impact pantalone

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misswynters · 3 months ago

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Weirwood Whispers

Davos/Benjicot Blackwood x targ!afab!Reader

[warning: mdni (18+), smut, p in v, unprotected sex, rough sex (kinda), not proofread

[note | pls don’t just like, reblog & give me feedback. i don’t want to get shadowbanned

[similar | As the Tides Turn | Surrender

Seeing the beautiful moon as it hung low in the sky, casting a silver glow over the godswood at Raventree Hall, was an ethereal experience. The ancient weirwood tree stood as a silent sentinel, its red leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. You stood beneath its boughs, the cool night air whispering secrets against your skin. Your Targaryen blood felt almost foreign here in the Riverlands, a land steeped in history and lore far removed from the dragons and fire of your heritage. The soft crunch of footsteps on the fallen leaves drew your attention.

Benjicot Blackwood emerged from the shadows, his dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of desire and reverence. His raven-black hair framed his strong face, and his presence sent a shiver down your spine.

"My lady," he greeted, his voice low and filled with warmth. He reached out, his fingers grazing your arm as if to reassure himself of your presence.

"Benjicot," you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips. The formalities dropped away, replaced by the intimacy of shared nights and whispered promises. You had come to Raventree Hall as a guest, but the bond you had forged with its lord went far beyond that of simple hospitality.

He stepped closer, his body heat enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth.

"You look enchanting tonight," he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "Like a queen of old, standing beneath the heart tree."

Your breath hitched as his hand moved to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer. The scent of pine and earth filled your senses, mingling with the faint hint of smoke from the evening's hearth fires. His lips brushed against your ear, sending a spark of electricity through your body.

"I've thought of nothing but you," he confessed, his voice husky. "The way your eyes shine like dragonfire, the softness of your skin..."

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your fingertips. "And I of you, my lord," you replied, your voice barely more than a breath. "Every moment apart feels like an eternity."

Benjicot's mouth captured yours in a searing kiss, his lips demanding yet tender. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened.

The world around you faded away, leaving only the sensation of his touch and the taste of his lips. He pressed you gently against the ancient weirwood, its rough bark a stark contrast to the smooth heat of his body.

His hands roamed over your curves, memorizing the shape of you through the thin fabric of your dress. Each touch ignited a fire within you, a dragon's flame that burned hotter with every moment. You broke the kiss, gasping for breath, your foreheads resting together.

"My lord," you whispered, your voice trembling with desire. "I need you."

Benjicot's dark eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. His usual restraint was gone, replaced by a raw, primal desire.

Without a word, he closed the distance between you, his hands gripping your waist with a possessive strength.

His response was a low growl as he captured your lips in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed over your body, rough and demanding, leaving no part of you untouched. The urgency of his movements sent a thrill through you, and you arched into his touch, craving more. He lifted one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist as he pressed you harder against the tree. You could feel his arousal through the layers of your clothing, and it only fueled your own need. His hands found the hem of your dress, yanking it upwards with little care for the delicate fabric. The cool air hit your bare skin, but the heat of his touch quickly chased away any chill.

"Do you want this?" he demanded, his voice rough with need.

"Yes," you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "I need you."

That was all the encouragement he needed. With a swift motion, he turned you around, pressing your front against the tree. The bark bit into your skin, a sharp reminder of the intensity of the moment. His hands were everywhere, one gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck to his biting kisses. The night air caressed your bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his touch. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. Each kiss, each gentle bite, made you ache for more.

You could feel his hardness pressing against you, and you pushed back, seeking more. He obliged, his hand sliding down to lift your skirts higher, his fingers teasing your slick entrance. When he finally entered you, it was with a rough, urgent thrust that had you crying out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. It was a tight fit however he was struggling to keep his thrusts slow. Your hole was hugging him and sucking him in, he lost control of his thrusts due to pleasure.

His movements were fierce and relentless, each thrust driving you harder against the tree. The roughness of the bark against your skin only heightened your arousal. His grip on your hip was bruising, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered your name.

"You're so tight," he growled, his voice filled with possessive fury. "Only for me."

"Yes," you panted, your hands clawing at the bark for support. "Only yours, my lord."

The intensity of his thrusts began to become more animalistic, each one pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel the coil of pleasure tightening within you, ready to snap. His hand moved from your hip to your front, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. His fingers worked in tandem with his thrusts, driving you over the edge into a blinding climax.

Your body trembled and tightened around him, and with a final, forceful thrust, he found his own release, his growl of satisfaction echoing in the night air. He held you there, pinned against the tree, until the last tremors of pleasure faded away.

Once he saw that you calmed down, he turned you around to face him. Your own hands were not idle, working to free him from his clothing until you could feel the warmth of his skin against yours. When he entered your already wet and sensitive core, it was sweet feeling of longing. Your bodies moved together in a primal dance, the rhythm as ancient as the weirwood itself.

Each thrust brought you closer to the edge, your gasps and moans mingling with the sounds of the night. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he drove you both towards release.

When you both finally came, it was like a dragon's roar, fierce and consuming, leaving you trembling in its wake. Benjicot held you close as you both came down from the heights of passion, his breath ragged against your ear. "I love you," he whispered, a promise and a claim all at once. You nodded, your heart swelling with a love that went beyond mere words.

"Me too" you replied, sealing the vow with a kiss.

As the night grew deeper, you stayed entwined beneath the weirwood's watchful gaze, two souls bound by love and desire, finding solace in each other's arms amidst the ancient shadows of Raventree Hall.

#house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #hotd imagine #hotd season 2 #hotd x reader #benjicot blackwood #benjicot x reader #davos blackwood #davos x reader #hotd smut #benjicot blackwood smut

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trashmouth-richie · 1 year ago

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master list

eddie! x fem reader

summary: 3 years later; happy birthday

I can’t believe this is almost the end. It is so bittersweet to be uploading this and thanking you all for the continued support on this story. I hope you will miss eddie + tooty just as much as I will. The epilogue is next and then a fun little surprise for you all.

trigger warnings: fluff, sweet sweet fluff 💕

Crinkly paper streamers twist down into even boughs along the cedar planked walls. A homemade banner crafted with the best paint Melvald’s could offer, hung over the sliding patio door, freckled with glitter and deep hues of scarlet and onyx.

Carefully stenciled uniform letters spelling out a greeting for the birthday boy, line the banner— perfectly positioned.

Looking at it now, you can nearly feel the backache it caused from the leaned over pretzel position you were tangled in while attempting to make it look store bought. Instead it took hours and a ruined shirt to paint each letter with precision on your living room floor.

Red plastic cups were stacked in a corner on top of a cheap plastic table cloth adorned with paper plates and plastic utensils. A smaller card table from the Wheeler-Byer’s held a two tiered homemade cake, dolloped with sticky whipped strawberry frosting. His favorite.

Polaroids of the birthday boy were placed, in no particular pattern, with sticky tack to the wall above the card table holding the presents.

Various shots from the past year capturing adventures big and small. He had wanted that.

Wanted to remember every detail— an important step to moving forward, leaving the past in the dust and enjoying the second chance at life you had both been given.

The pictures were mostly candids, snapped in the blur of a moment, memories to be cherished for a lifetime to come. And although some of them were cheesy, or horribly cliche; they held delicate moments of the past two years of you and Eddie, together at last.

You suck the sticky remnants of frosting from your thumb as you carefully arrange a framed picture of his graduation day just so on the table, stepping back and admiring the hard work and weeks worth of planning you had done.

Your fingers dance along the sharp edges of the selected photos you had given Jonathan to print for you. 8”x10”, 5”x7”, colored, sepia tone, and even black and white you had wanted to give it more of a collage feel to the project, and Jonathan did a great job.

The pictures varied from moments that probably didn’t need to be remembered and ones that should have been taken by a professional, but it was perfect, exactly the way you had envisioned it.

A snapshot photo of Eddie’s plump lips wrapped around a brown beer bottle after a night of helping Wayne paint the outside of his trailer, his signature middle finger in the air, the rings glittering with the flash— was propped next to a candle.

One of Wayne and Eddie hugging on Christmas last year, a small tree tucked into the corner of the yellowing smoke stained walls and part of your finger covering the lens, and another one right after the first of them both looking shocked that you snapped the picture.

A picture of you and him, holding fishing poles on the bank of Lover’s Lake. His arm wrapped around your waist, your pole holding a sizable fish, his line snagged on moss and a tattered beat up tennis shoe, a proud smile on his face as he looked down at you, you mid laugh as Wayne teased Eddie behind the lens.

Another of just him in black and white, asleep on the bed you shared his dark tattoos looked piercing against his bare chested. Long angelic lashes closed against pinked warm cheeks, the silver scar barely visible on his bottom lip.

One with Eddie and the boys, sitting in the backyard, the tails of the fire licking into the sun fading sky, his hands wild in the middle of explaining a campaign idea.

A candid of Steve, Eddie, Robin and Dustin wearing their tuxes and running into the ocean. Shoes snug into the sand and socks left forgotten. Steve’s white jacket thrown into the air, half of a laughing, Leighanne all dolled up and beautiful on their big day.

A photo from the same day, but of only you and him, your lips perched on his cheek as he held you in his lap in the back of a limo. His other cheek sparkling with the residue of a lipgloss kiss, one hand holding your strappy lavender heels, the other wrapped around your waist. His dimpled smile wide and toothy.

And finally, your favorite one: one of just you and him, dressed in your homemade costumes as Mario and Luigi. A felt mustache falling from under your nose,his white gloved hands holding up rock n’ roll. Right before you two had won the Halloween costume contest at Nancy and Jonathan’s house.

Wayne had brought baby pictures that he had dug out of an old box in the forgotten storage shed when you had moved in. Dust lining the frames showing a brown haired baby with doe eyes, drooling over a washcloth while in the sink for a bath. A curly haired toddler with a big smile while on the swings at a park. And many more that were placed around the house.

The most special of them all sat on Eddie’s bedside table: a woman with soft honey muddied curls sweeping down to the middle of a white blouse, sunglasses pushed into her hair atop her head, kissing the forehead of a baby swaddled in a blanket.

“Tooty!” Gareth called from the kitchen, “phone call!”

You set the napkins next to Nancy who was meticulously adjusting the m&m dish into its correct place. Trying to balance out the clashing colors with the black and red theme.

“Looks perfect as always, Nance,” you murmur as you squeeze her arm gently when you pass her.

She huffs in disapproval, sweeping a permed curl behind her ear, her finger to her lips as she tuts, “it’s missing something.” You squeeze her arm again and trot into the living room.

Gareth is holding the blue phone by the long cord twirling it around like a pair of nunchucks, shoving the last bits of a hot dog in his mouth, ketchup wedged into the corner by his lips. “ it’s Hig D,” he announciates horribly, “somthin’ about heddie— shit that’s good— something about them just getting ready to leave work.”

laughing at him you can only roll your eyes, “you’ll make a good whore someday deep throatin’ like that,” you tease, taking the phone from his hand.

Gareth chuckles and shoves your shoulder, “haven't had any complaints yet, Oh! By the way, I need a three day extension on rent. Cool?”

Rolling your eyes again, a smile escapes your lips as you flip him off.

Of all of Eddie’s friends, Gareth was the hardest one to crack, but now he was easily your favorite. He reminded you a lot of Eddie in high school. A wild haired mess, always down for a crazy adventure to surely land him into trouble. But a big ol softie when it came down to people he cared about, especially Will.

Curling your fingers around the telephone cord, you talk into the receiver, “hey D, what’s up?”

—-

Argyle and Jonathan arrive through the front door, smelling like purple palm tree delight and balancing pizza boxes in their arms.

Robin spins at least a dozen times trying to find a place for the tower of cheesed pie and nearly knocks into Jonathan in her pursuit of frenzy. The boys slide them into place onto a card table against the kitchen wall, a photo of you and Eddie holding the keys to Hop’s cabin with wide grins on your faces hanging above it.

The brisk May breeze flows through the house, flickering the candles and making the helium balloons bump into one another in a lazy staticky dance.

A blur of red stalks into the house holding two bottles of liquor in each hand, a baseball hat backwards on her head, “hope Eddie likes whiskey because that’s all Walt would sell me,” she says heaving the bottles onto the counter in a clunkered manner, wiping the sweat from her freckled forehead, sporting a fresh new bob cut all thanks to you, “stubborn ass, he charged me nearly double,” she huffs, folding the paper sacks haphazardly, “son-of-a-bitch wouldn’t even let me use my employee rate!”

“Thanks for getting it Maxi-pad,” you say over your shoulder stifling a giggle from the old nickname you hadn’t called her since middle school, “Eddie’ll drink beer from a boot as long as he got a buzz from it—let me know what I owe you.”

She spins on squeaky sneakers and grabs a slice of pizza from one of the leaning boxes, squishing the greasy cheese between her teeth, talking with a mouthful “quit— we’re square for all the times you’ve come over since moving back.”

A sad expression falters behind the mask on her porcelain complexion. But she’s quick to shove it all away. It had been months since she’d been back in Hawkins, and your friend since elementary school was just starting to get her life back into order.

“Eddie’s offer still stands by the way,” you gently whisper, turning away from placing candles into the pink frosting to give her a quick squeeze, the fringes of your friendship mending together after years of not really speaking.

Holding Max at arms length you raise your eyebrows at her, “I’m serious,” a clip in your voice that even Nancy would envy.

She shrugs quickly and looks back with wet blue eyes, not willing to let her guard down on the eve of a party, “I’ll think about it,” her jaw set tight.

“Let's have fun tonight, okay?” she begs, “it isn’t every day Eddie’s old decrepit ass turns forty.”

The giggle she was hoping for to ease the tension tickled your throat, “he’s twenty nine, Maxine,” you tease back.

“Oh-ho-ho,” she chuckles, crossing the linoleum to the fridge in a swift motion, throwing open the door and leaning into the illuminated box, fingers dancing along the brown neck of a Bud Light, a smug smile on her salmon lips, “government names huh, T? I’ll remember that.”

—

Will and Mike were in charge of moving vehicles behind the north tree line away from the driveway and out of sight. Each car owner silently held their breath and the litter of anxiety rising higher as Mike got behind the wheel of each car. 13 tickets by Hopper’s deputies hadn’t slowed him down yet.

Leighanne, and El had just finished hanging the decorative white lights on the back deck and around the trees. The backyard looked like a little cozy oasis. And it warmed your soul to see it all come together.

It was rough when you had first moved in here. Hopper had a buddy who owned the cabin you now call home. It was far from town but hadn’t been renovated in years. Nothing a little elbow grease and nights after work wouldn’t fix, it took six months with help from just about everyone you knew, but the place was perfect.

And after everything that happened in Hawkins, Eddie’s promise stuck.

He got you both out. Started a new life away from the wandering eyes and whispered lies. Even after he was cleared, people still wouldn’t let it go.

But, the cabin was everything you could imagine and more. Perched into a thick grove of trees. Secluded. Secretive. Exactly what you both needed.

It was heaven.

Lounging on blankets in the soft grass, bare toes curled into the soft comforter, the girls sat back and laughed as Steve nearly tipped over the entire pan of grilled burgers and hot dogs.

“Yeah laugh it up you two!” Steve scolded playfully, tugging and shoving a hand into the thick tuft of hair on his head, “you won’t be laughing when there’s nothing to eat!”

“Such sass from The Grill Master,” Leighanne giggled, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, a large diamond on her ring finger.

Before Steve could whip up something cheeky, Arygle’s smooth baritone voice broke amongst the laughs, “Damn my dude,” he chuckled, leading Eden’s small frame through the patio door, “smells good out here.”

Steve huffs again, “Thanks, I’m just doing what I’m told, don’t mind the peanut gallery back there,” he gestures with his spatula to the two giggling gals on the blanket.

The keg was perched on the small back deck, ice melting slowly around the tin base. Steve had been grilling burgers for the last half hour, smears of grease rubbed on the bottom of his red apron embossed with fancy lettering, kiss the cook.

“And you’re doing it man,” Argyle salutes him as a fellow culinary soldier, “it’s art what you’re doing dude, pure fuckin art—like Picasso if he was a chef… piSteveo.”

“Okay man—yeah, I get it,” Steve says all in one breath, rolling his eyes and cracking a grin back at his bride who was biting her own cheek and trying not to laugh. “Dustin and Susie ride with you?”

“Yeah,” Eden scowls, crossing her legs and dragging Argyle down to sit on the picnic bench, her black pixie cut fluttering in the light breeze resembling a real life goth tinkerbell, “that four eyed little shit kept going on and on about the ecosystem and methane gas or whatever, so yeah they’re here— probably terrorizing everyone else about the election or some shit.”

Steve snorts and flips another burger onto the grates, the sizzle of charred seasoned beef signaling the first signs of summer, “sounds about right.”

“Alright guys,” you say stepping through the sliding patio door, the sun close to setting in the west taking the warmth with it, “D said they’re just leaving so everyone get in position.”

“..I’m just sayin’ is all,” D barks, finishing wiping the grease from a gas station bean burrito on the back of his hand from his pudgy lips, “I’ll give you top dollar for it.”

Eddie took another sip from his Mt. Dew, barreling down the highway and thumping his thumb along the steering wheel, contemplating heavily on what Big D had been asking of him.

“fuck I dunno man… it’s like a part of me y’know?”

Eddie rubs the beginning of his scruffy chin, unable to grow a full beard even though he’s nearly in his thirties, Peter Pan syndrome hitting him square in the jaw.

“had it since I was fifteen, fixed it all up with my uncle,” he mumbles lighting a cigarette between his teeth, “it’s a staple to the Munson name.”

D rolls his eyes and tosses the foil wrapper to the floorboards of Eddie’s truck. “that was like twenty years ago man, you don’t even drive it anymore.”

Eddie chuckles through a cloud a smoke, turning the steering wheel to the right down the hidden driveway, overgrown grass on both ends of a rotted through fence post, “easy there asshole— ‘sides, thought you were buying Jeff’s mom’s car?”

D slides belches loud and throws his chubby hand out the window, fresh air wiggling his fingers slowly, “I did, just gotta fix it up, but the van would be my daily driving chick magnet.” He wiggles his eyebrows like two black caterpillars dancing a tango.

Eddie smiles to himself, memories of past times booze cruising to Rick’s and hauling band equipment to the Hideout. Times long gone and fading like the moon into dawn.

A time when he was ruthless, chaotic and hungry for the world’s shittiness just so he could add his own fucked up version to it. A big fuck you to anyone who ever doubted him.

A time before you were officially his.

Nowadays the bear inside of him was tame, licking its paws in laziness, hibernating with the sounds of a calm beating heart. Fed and cared for, content.

“We’ll see,” he replies, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth, “you still owe me $40 for that service you gifted to that waitress last week, fucker.”

“Pffft,” D says lighting a cigarette, “take it out of my check boss man.”

Eddie cranked his lips into a smirk, it still didn’t feel real.

The roar of Eddie’s diesel truck echoes along the tree line, vibrating against the fallen branches from the late winter storm that snapped full grown Red Oaks like matchsticks when the ice built heavy onto its branches.

The cabin lights were dim, curtains pulled tight to barely show the glimpse of any crack of light. It wasn’t unusual, your lives were kept pretty private after everything that happened, doors always locked.

“The hell?” Eddie grumbled, wiggling the stick into neutral with the palm of his hand and killing the engine, the old dodge sputtering out to quiet, “thought you said Gareth was comin’ over to practice tonight?”

D fumbled for words, reaching for the metal door handle “no, yeah he’s here— maybe Will dropped ‘im off.”

Eddie quirked an eyebrow, the exhaustion from work taking over his features as he let out a loud yawn and arched his back against the velour seats, he climbed out of the pickup, lunchbox in tow.

“alright man, ‘m just gonna shower quick,” he hooks a thumb behind his shoulder, walking up the stone path to the front door, “think Tooty still has the hose hooked up if you wanted to rinse off.”

D stomps around the truck, leaning a thick arm onto the hood, “don’t make any special accommodations for me dude, I’m cool.”

“Yeah yeah you’re pretty cool alright,” Eddie said climbing the two steps with heavy footsteps, and putting a brass key into the knob, twisting it in his grasp, “why’d you think I had the window dow—”

Eddie is almost knocked back into the wall by the room full of his friends shouting surprise! as he entered the cabin.

Shock and a racing heartbeat wash away to a dimpled smile and squinted eyes. It was worth the weeks of planning and aligning everyone’s schedules to make it all work out. And in the end, the crowd turned into a blur when you peaked your head behind the kitchen wall grinning wide at the handsome man at the door.

His girl. His one and only. Spoiling him with a surprise party. Mouthing “happy birthday baby,” from across the room with a warm smile that still was able to tinge his cheeks in the prettiest shade of bashful.

Backs were slapped and shoulders clapped as Eddie made his way around to the guests. His smile was wide and toothy, lighting up the room with his deep laugh and dimples.

He hugged friends like he hadn’t seen them in years, pressed cheek to cheek and apologizing later for grease smudges left on their shirts.

“Shit,” Wayne breathed, as he stepped into the doorway, finding you immediately and looking sympathetic, “sorry we’re late, the missus was wrappin’ a last minute gift.”

Nancy and Mike’s mom stood tucked beneath Wayne’s arm. Four gifts wrapped tight and pristine, held in her arms. The alimony from Ted was still treating her more than well.

“Wayne,” Karen giggles like a schoolgirl, a long manicured hand to his denim jacket, dismissing him with a wink, “here Tooty,” she gleams, walking towards you with her arms outstretched, embracing you in a hug, “it’s just a little something for the two of you, saw it at the mall and couldn’t resist!”

It was an adjustment for the youngest Wheeler when Karen left Ted. Nancy and Mike didn’t seem to care, having already been moved out of the house and living their own lives. But Holly took it hard, refusing to see her mother at all.

“It’s perfect thank you Karen,” Eddie said, sneaking around you, his fingers dragging along your lower back and down your hip, sending shivers to your core. A quick wink to you as he grabs the gifts from her and Wayne.

He was happy for them, he had never seen Wayne with someone who treated him so well before in his life, he gave his shoulder a squeeze, “next time put your glasses on so you can see while driving, might get here on time, old man.”

Wayne rolled his eyes and put Eddie in a headlock, “I ain’t here to see you anyhow, came to see my favorite daughter in law to be if you’d just marry her already, didn’t even know it was your birthday you little punk.”

“Yeah yeah,” Eddie scoffed, “that’s why it says ‘Ed’s birthday’ on the calendar in your office, right? Because you didn’t know?”

Wayne releases Eddie and gives him a side hug, “been celebratin’ this day for twenty-three years with y’ boy, I ain’t never forgettin’”

Karen was always like a mother to you. The Wheeler’s held such a special place in your heart, and you’d always be grateful for the kindness both her and Ted had shown you when you were growing up. Seeing her now with Wayne surprisingly wasn’t that odd. They balanced each other well.

Wayne pulls you into the other side of him, keeping you and Eddie under each arm, “looks real good in here darlin’” He says, looking down at you with icy blue eyes, “sure am glad y’ learned how to tame this wild li’l shit.”

you smile up at the Munson’s and Eddie sticks out his tongue at you.

“Now,” he says addressing only Eddie, “I swear on my mama and daddy’s graves, Ed, you better marry this girl someday or ‘m gonna hang y’ from your toes by that clothesline out back.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but before he can speak, Nancy waves at her mother and stands atop a metal chair.

“Alright everyone, let’s go out back and we can start eating.”

Once the room emptied it was just you and Eddie. The tension was always thick in every room you were in with him, electric in ways that buzzed between your legs and made your head feel fuzzy.

You waited your turn patiently.

Eddie coins a coy grin behind his plump lips, walking with his hands behind his back and moving his shoulder low, cocking his head.

Your hands, busy themselves with arranging presents, fingers slipping between the silky ribbons and plucking the ends to watch them curl. Warm arms surround your waist and you act surprised and let out a squeal.

He sets you down and pushes the collar of your shirt to the side, pressing his lips like angel’s wings to the skin on your shoulder, relishing in the way the goosebumps crawled across your flesh.

“Eddie,” you hum, working your fingers behind you to pull on the tendrils of sweaty hair tucked behind his neck.

“Hmm?” He breathes hot across your neck, working his way up to the dainty gold necklace, the same one brandishing the ring he gave you for Christmas in 1992, nothing compared to the one he was eyeballing at the jewelry store in the mall.

Rubbing the underside of your chin with the bulb of his nose, you shudder and feel his grin on your skin, “all of this for me?”

You nod and whine when a large hand dances across the waist of your jeans. And almost let out a moan when he nips at your earlobe.

Eddie’s work days were long but the nights spent between the sheets were longer, both of you never getting enough of each other. The passion and static was always there.

“Wanted to surprise my birthday boy,” you breathed as your head fell back into his shoulder, and he bucked his hips into you, pushing you into the rickety table and shaking the presents.

“You’re too good to me,” Eddie whispered into your ear, his fingers digging into your hips. “How am I ever going to thank my pretty gir—?”

“Hey you guys comin’ or what?” Steve asks, hands on his hips and a scorch mark on his apron, “Nancy’s making a fucking seating chart out there, and I really hope you have liability insurance because Argyle is trying to teach Dustin yoga.”

Eddie takes his lips from your neck and turns to face Steve, “I mean, we coulda been if you hadn’t barged in.”

“Eddie!” you laugh, slapping his chest lightly, and straightening your shirt, “we’ll be right out Steve, just going to give Eddie his birthday present.”

His eyes sparkle in mischievous wonder, “oooh you think we have time?” He says unbuttoning his work blues, “I like the way you think dirty sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes and tug him down the hallway to your bedroom.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters under his breath, shaking his head and making his way through the patio door, “nah don’t worry I’ll entertain the guests,” he says in annoyance, “maybe we can play parcheesi or hotdog Jenga.”

—

“Don’t peek!”

“Oh c’mon!”

“Eddie.”

“Ugh fine, but you better be naked or I’ll pout.”

“Such a brat...”

“Don’t act surprised babe.”

“Alright open, but I am very much still dressed, that part of your present is later tonight.”

Eddie had showered and was getting dressed shoving his feet into a worn pair of converse when you waltzed into the room, a small oblong box behind your back.

Dropping the carefully wrapped present into his awaiting hands, he holds the box like a carton of eggs. One eye peeked open, “well,” Eddie says rubbing the corners of the box with the calloused pads on his thumbs, “this doesn’t feel like a puppy.”

“You poor boy,” you tease with a shove to his shoulder, and a kiss to his cheek, “how will you ever live?”

Eddie tears the paper with a hook of his finger where the tape joins the pieces, wet tendrils of hair dripping water marks onto the wrapping, “it’ll be hard but I think I’ll manage.”

Biting your lip in anticipation you watch as Eddie tears the paper in boyish glee. And you aren’t sure who’s smile is wider when he finally opens the small rectangle shaped box.

It took awhile to save up for it. Cutting countless heads of hair in the renovated room above Master Mechanic’s, the auto shop Eddie co-owned with Wayne in Bridgeport, and earning a small wage by cleaning houses for a few hours on the weekends.

But every scrubbed toilet, every rolled perm rod was worth it when Eddie opened his present.

“It's about time you saw them live, yeah?”

Tickets to Metallica, the same gift. But this time with the promise of actually going and witnessing their magic.

“Oh baby,” Eddie nearly cried, running his fingers over the inked words carefully, he set the tickets down on the comforter and wrapped his hands around your waist pulling you into him, “why are you so good to me?”

And just like the first time he asked you, years ago, before you were his and he was yours. When you were just roommates exchanging gifts on Christmas. You told him what you should have then.

but you don’t fight to find the words anymore, or wonder if it’ll sound dumb. Everything you've been through with Eddie you could never imagine living life with anyone other than him.

The words come easy, and it’s one of the truest things you’ve ever said.

“Because you’re a good man. Because you’re the reason I wake up smiling every morning. Because I have never loved anyone the way that I love you, and I’ll always, always regret not telling you sooner.”

Eddie smiles with a quivering lip and you lean down to wipe the tears from his eyes, his arms wrap around you tight like a vice grip.

Looking into his eyes, he somehow looked better with every year passing, truly aging like fine wine, and you were drunk on him.

“Don’t cry on your birthday baby, it’s supposed to be a party,” you smile warmly at him, bringing his chin up a bit

so you can press a gentle kiss to his lips.

Pulling you into him so you’re straddling his hips, he whispers an I love you into your ear with your real name attached at the end, all satiny on his breath like a Hershey kiss.

You don’t hear your God given name very often, having hated it for as long as you remember. Stubbornly telling everyone at a young age that your name was Tooty. Even writing it on all of your school papers as early as kindergarten.

But when Eddie said it, it set your soul on fire. Like a secret kept finally being told. Like another wall breaking down with him holding the sledge hammer. Like the first bite of a warm brownie from the oven. It felt good.

He presses slow kisses into your neck and moves his large hands to rock your hips against him, “you’re never gonna get rid of me, you know that right?”

“Fuck I hope not,” you whisper as you nip at his bare shoulder, “I made your favorite cake for tonight and everything.”

“Mmm,” Eddie purrs against the column of your throat, “strawberry?”

Gathering skin between your teeth you suck a small bruise into his pale neck, tongue swirling soft then firm, his pretty noises filling the bedroom walls.

“Yep,” you breathe with swollen lips, and popping the ‘p’, “extra frosting.”

“Lady evil at it again,” Eddie teases, capturing your lips into a hungry kiss, his hands scoring down your back and bringing your hips impossibly closer to where you were both aching.

You giggle as he breaks away, and tickles your sides. He flips you onto the bed. The bulb of his nose wedging between your neck and shoulder as his hips hold you in place, his fingers dig into your armpits, and your ribs.

You laugh until your face is red and your neck is slick and painted with a stain of raspberry teeth marks and the lap of his tongue licking the bites better.

He gives you a wicked grin, out of breath and his lips swollen, his demeanor changes into something serious.

He holds his hand on your cheek, sweeping your skin delicately with the pad of his thumb, holding you so gently as if you were made of porcelain, “I’m gonna make you my wife.”

Your fingernails scratch lightly down his chest, skipping over the tattoo of little angel wings and a halo for the unborn child you didn’t get the luxury of holding, matching the one on your inner arm. The date etched below in Eddie’s own handwriting.

It wasn’t the only new tattoo he had gotten since that day.

He also had a mockup of a cartoon lady, devil horns on her head and a long black demon tail wagging behind her, that sat on his bicep. A pout identical to yours on her pretty little face, arms crossed in a fit. ‘my girl’ in old English font beneath her little stiletto heels.

Your fingertips trace the lines of blank ink on his chest. And you lift your eyes to his.

Opening your soul to him for the millionth time, spreading its wings and joining with his into that dream land he swore he’d take you to, dancing on the rings of Saturn, bathing in the springs of Jupiter.

He smiles softly and so do you, heart soaring and beating fast, “about damn time,” you whisper softly just before his lips close around yours.

Although your life would never be the same after that awful day, the one you were crafting and coloring outside the straight black lines with Eddie by your side, was pretty damn great.

And you wouldn’t change a thing.

🤧

🏷️

@bebe07011 @dashingdeb16 @hiscrimsonangel @luxaeterna13 @enam3l

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #fic recs #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #honey I’m home series

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runningquill-art · 10 days ago

Text

“The sun was setting. The stars glittered their lovely awakening.

As they had been in this very garden so many months ago, they were, once again, only a man and a woman amongst green boughs and a rustling breeze.

Only, this time, the violent polarities that had kept them apart drew them together. After all, fire loves her darkness. After all, the sinner loves his angel. Autumn, laughing, dances her leaves into the high skies of her winter. The moon spins in gyre after gyre, chasing his beloved sun.

Only, this time, the terrible incompatibilities had grown irrelevant – fallen away – mattered for naught. They were two souls who had come near enough to to feel the other’s glow, but now, at last, they met, touched, tangled.

He slipped the ring onto her finger. He had removed all of the thresholds. She would feel everything. The rings connected. He felt the surge of her heart and she, with a gasp, felt his.

He held her to him, lifted her, and spun her, laughing, amongst swirling nebulae of snowflakes catching the sun.

She was his and he was utterly hers.

In snow-felted twilight, under spilling skies and starshine and a sun standing still, they kissed, they promised, they loved. What cared they about universes colliding? Let them collide. Let their joined heartbeats cleave constellations and startle the eternal stars.” - Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love, Chapter 36: Journeys End in Lovers Meeting, by @isthisselfcare

DMATMOOBIL art 40/40

#dramione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #draco x hermione #dmatmoobil #my art #fanart #illustration #dhr #isthisselfcare #draco malfoy and the mortifying ordeal of being in love #dramione fanfiction

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impalaimagining · 2 months ago

Text

Does It Make A Sound?

Word Count: 2,413

Warnings: mentions of psych ward/unstable behavior

A/N: written for @jacklesversebingo and because of a random prompt they dropped in the discord this morning. Prompt at the bottom to avoid spoilers.

Square filled: small town setting

You’re seven years old, your mother kneels in the garden, a flowered foam board beneath her, failing at its job to protect her knees from the sharp rocks in the dirt. As you roam the flower beds beside her, a loud bumblebee catches your attention and you follow it into the open yard. It buzzes, winding its way around the grass and into the treeline at the back of the property. There should be a fence there, separating you from the densely wooded area, but the wooden pickets crumbled under the fallen branches of last winter’s storm. It’s impossible, almost, to see into the thick tangle of branches, even as far down as your eye level. The forest isn’t exactly scary - it’s just dark.

And… loud.

The only sound you heard in the yard was the bee, but standing next to the trees, it’s like another world coming alive within the leaves. The birds chirp, the bugs chitter and skirt across the cold ground, and there’s even a frog bellowing from the creek burbling nearby. But that’s not what really draws you in.

That day - the day you innocently wandered through the grass, following the path of an unknowing bumblebee - is the first day you hear the voices.

On your ninth birthday, you invite all of the friends from your class to come to your house. Your mother promises you a pink and purple cake, just like the one in the bakery’s catalog, and though she usually doesn’t come through on her promises, on this one, she delivers. A small, two-tiered pastry sits on your kitchen counter as your classmates filter through from the front door into the backyard.

Your father has repaired the fence since the day you meandered into the forest, your mother’s fearful scream at her realization of your absence prompting him to leave immediately for the hardware store in town.

Still, despite the barrier, you’re drawn to the woods. The voices beckon to you every time you enter the backyard. You want to dive into the thick boughs of the pine trees and follow the sounds of children guiding you to play with them. But you can’t; you’re confined to the safety of the yard. Quite literally, fenced in.

Your friends run and play behind you, delighted squeals coming from the girls while the boys chase them. But you don’t care. You don’t want that. You want the forest. The voices want you in the forest.

Sixteen. Your first time driving a car, your first love, your first heartbreak.

He kissed your best friend behind the snack stand at the Friday night football game while you were buying him fries.

You run, but not into the house, not through the house, around the house. Around the fence. You run past Mr. Walter Smith’s clothesline, past his shed full of landscaping equipment. You breach the treeline, and suddenly, your crying subsides. Your sobs turn into deep, calming breaths as you inhale and exhale the new air around you.

You’re in the forest.

The voices surround you. You feel them, like whispered words from a lover, ghosting across your skin. Goosebumps rise in the wake of the breeze caressing you. You’re alone, but despite the way your heart shattered at the sight of your ex-boyfriend and your best friend, you’re certainly not lonely inside the darkness of the woods.

You’re finally inside, and you’re silent, barely allowing yourself to breathe too loudly. The forest has a heartbeat, a pulse, breath flowing through it. You’ve never felt more alive. The forest is alive, though you see no signs of life. No birds flying, no bugs crawling, no deer or squirrels or mice. There’s nothing, but there’s everything.

Your mother’s voice permeates the dense foliage, but you barely hear it. You don’t care, don’t give even a second thought to her screams as she calls out for you. Closing your eyes, you let the forest overtake you. Your arms feel like branches, your legs press together and become a solid tree trunk, your hair bristles like the leaves.

Faintly, distantly, you’re aware of nails clawing at your arm, then your shoulders, and suddenly you’re shaking. Your mother’s shrill voice racks you, drawing you out of your daze. She raises her hand just as you come to, and you know if you hadn’t awoken when you did, her next move was to slap you across your face.

But deep in your heart, and maybe because of the whispers still ringing in your ears, you know that wouldn’t have happened. The forest sent you back to her before she had the chance. The forest protected you.

It’s the autumn after your twenty-eighth birthday, and you’re packing up boxes, taping across the seams at the top, and stacking them beside to your apartment door.

“Felix…” You warn your tuxedo cat. “Don’t even think about it.” The boxes are stacked precariously, and he’s known for his uncanny ability to find the weak spot in every piece of cardboard he’s ever met.

He’s a rescue, and a bit of an asshole, but he won you over with his big green eyes the minute you saw him at the pet shop. He heeds your warning, instead stalking toward you and climbing into the hole in your lap where your criss-cross-applesauce position leaves a void. You rest your palm on his head and let him nuzzle against your hand.

“You ready to go, buddy?” You coo at him, and he purrs, like he approves of the entire uprooting of your life. “That makes one of us.”

A shaky hand hovers above the doorknob; you’re hesitant to go inside. You’ve not been back since your father died and they sent your mother to her permanent inpatient stay at a psychiatric facility. Thankfully, you were eighteen at the time and no one had to be your keeper. So you picked up and moved halfway across the country under the guise of just being a normal high school graduate going to college.

It’s late, and you’re grateful that you thought to call and have the town’s handyman install a motion light on the front porch. Already fumbling with Felix’s carrier, you don’t have a spare hand to hold your phone for a flashlight along with finding the right key for the front door.

Once you reach the door and flip through four keys before settling on the correct one, you shove the old wood with your hip and it creaks open, like it’s reluctant to let you back inside. Tossing your keys onto the table beside the door, you run your hand along the wall for the light switch. When you find it, the yellow glow of the globe light on the ceiling illuminates the room. A shiver runs up your spine.

Nothing has changed.

The walls are still the same weird shade of pink, floral wallpaper trim wrapping around the entirety of the room along the top of every wall. The plaid couches, somehow also floral - what was with your mother and flowers? - sit dusty, in the same place they’ve been for two decades. You set down the cat carrier and puff out a breath as you look around.

You eventually empty your hard-side cooler into the fridge, having packed the bare minimum to make it through the weekend before you have to travel into town and grocery shop. Heaving your bags up the steps, you haphazardly throw them into your childhood bedroom and shudder as the dolls in the corner catch your eye. Your mother allowed you to change a few things as you aged out of dolls, but according to her, they were a family heirloom, so you were required to keep them perched somewhere in your room. As if a seventeen-year-old girl cares about a family heirloom.

You decide the boxes of dishes, countertop appliances, pantry-type food, can wait until the daylight eases your mind tomorrow. You strip the old sheets off your twin-size bed and replace them with the new set you purchased at Target before civilization dwindled to practically nothing as you neared your hometown. Topping the bed off with your favorite throw blanket, you settle in for the night, Felix wrapped around himself in the crook of your knees. Your eyes find the window, illuminated by the light of the almost-full moon. Even from the comfort of your bed, you see the treetops silhouetted against the night sky. The forest is waiting for you.

You stand on the crumbling bricks just outside the door, closing your eyes as the morning sun threatens to take the chill from the air. Swallowing after a slow sip of coffee, you inhale deeply through your nose. There’s something about the smell, the trees and the fallen, dead leaves, the dirt you know is crawling with the same earthworms you used to dig up before going fishing with Mr. Walter Smith from next door. It all swirls and combines as you take your deep breath in, and all at once you’re hit with the smell of home.

You realize then that you’ve left the brick patio, like your feet have moved without your approval. You’re standing at the fence, two decades old and still standing just as strong as the day it was built, which has you giving silent kudos to your father’s craftsmanship. Clutching the porcelain mug between your palms, you glance up. The trees have grown, somehow now even more looming and paralyzing than they were when you yourself were two feet shorter.

After looking at the trees for what seems like an eternity, you gasp. You’re standing in the exact same spot you stood on that first day, where the sounds of the forest pulled you in and hooked their claws into you, keeping you addicted to knowing what truly lay beyond the boundaries of your yard.

That day, the voices swirled - the whispers, the quiet giggling, the gentle caress of someone beckoning you in, a soft “come here” lingering in your ear. Today, standing where your feet have stood countless times before, you’re nauseous. Something is very, very wrong.

It’s silent.

In the new, eerie quiet, you hear footsteps approach to your right, crunching against the dead, brown grass, littered with yellowed leaves. The hair on the back of your neck stand at attention, goosebumps prickling the skin of your arms. Letting out a shaky, almost silent breath, you shift your weight and spin on your heel, throwing a punch in the direction of the-

“Whoa, easy!” His voice booms with a chuckle as he catches your fist in his palm. “Okay, noted. Don’t sneak up on the new neighbor.”

His words hit you. New neighbor.

He has no idea the history of this house, these woods, you.

You wrench your hand out of his grasp and pull it back to your side.

“Who are you?” You narrow your eyes at him.

“Moved in a couple years ago. I thought they were talkin’ about tearing this place down.” He nods in the direction of the house - your house.

“They - they were.” You swallow hard at the thought of losing the only real home you’ve ever known. “That’s why I came back.”

He draws back, brows furrowed. “Came back?”

“This is my house.” You glance at the back door. “I grew up here.”

His eyes follow your gaze to the window on the second floor - your childhood bedroom. When he brings his stare back to meet yours, he finds your eyes filled with unshed tears. Clearing his throat, he brings you back to reality.

“Sorry.” You wipe hastily at your eyes and shake off your emotions. “Um, anyway, you said you moved in? Moved in where exactly?”

He points to the house next door, to the Smith’s house, which you only now realize has been repainted, the shutters now a sage green while the house itself is a dusty shade of gray, all the trim and accents painted dark green. It’s beautiful, and you take a second to let it sink in that the house almost perfectly matches the colors of the forest.

The silent forest.

“Have they been doing any construction around here?” You can’t help but ask. Maybe they’re cutting down trees, disturbing whatever - whoever - lives in the forest. Maybe the voices are hiding.

Your neighbor shakes his head and frowns. “Not that I know of, and in a town this small-”

“Everybody knows everything.” You both finish the sentence in unison.

“You must’ve met Marge.” You let yourself smile fondly at the memory of Marge Wilson.

“How do you live here without meeting Marge?” He laughs.

“Man, she’s gotta be… ninety now?” Your eyes widen.

“Eighty-seven last week, actually. And still at the diner every morning.” His smile seems warm as he thinks of the sweet old lady who can’t manage to keep her nose out of anyone’s business, and always knows everything going on in Milford.

Milford, where almost nothing has changed since you left a decade ago. Nothing except the brewery on Main Street, next door to a Starbucks. Nothing except the tattoo shops boasting fine line artwork instead of heavy-handed barbed wire tattoos. Nothing except the new neighbor mowing Mr. Walter Smith’s lawn. Nothing except everything about you. Nothing except the voices.

“Did it look like they were bringing machines in?” He breaks your train of thought, referring back to your question about construction.

“No, no. Nothing like that.” You shake your head. “Forget it.”

He shrugs. “Well, anyway. It was nice meeting you. Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay. I thought I heard glass break while I was on my way out.” His eyes fall to the shattered mug at your feet.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, I’m good.” Your gaze darts to the treeline.

“Something in there?” He quirks a brow and chills leach through your body.

“N- no.” You stammer.

“Not anymore.” His tone is stern, knowing, and you can physically feel the blood drain from your face. You turn to look at him. He gives you a single nod, finally extending his arm to shake your hand, and it washes over you that you’re about to get a lot more than you asked for by moving back here.

“I’ve got some coffee on, c’mon over.” He nods toward the green house. “I think you’ve got a bit to catch up on.” Your hand, again shaking, reaches out and finds purchase in his grasp. “Name’s Dean.”

Prompt - You’ve gotten used to the voices you hear in the forest near your house. You’ve grown up with them. One day, however, there is only silence.

Feedback?

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#jacklesversebingo24 #jacklesversebingo #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x you #dean winchester #reader insert #dean winchester x reader #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction

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devildomwriter · 11 months ago

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OBEY ME CHRISTMAS Masterlist

Headcanons

They Get a Puppy For Christmas | Brothers • Others

You Gift Them Christmas Shirts | Brothers • Others

You Make Them Matching Christmas Pajamas

Their Favorite Christmas Song

A Christmas Song They Hate

Wrapping Presents

They Get Tangled Up in Christmas Lights

They React to Elf of the Shelf

You Decorate Christmas Cookies

You Make Gingerbread Houses

You Make Them Matching Sweaters (But They’re Really Itchy)

Ugly Christmas Sweater Party

Hallmark Movie Marathon With Them

Building a Snowman

You Introduce Them to the 12 Days or Christmas Tradition

Drabbles

Secret Santa

Secret Santa the Sequel *coming soon*

Tubing With Diavolo

Christmas Photo Fiasco

Diavolo Wants to Play Santa

Christmas Shirt Mix-Up

Mephistopheles Christmas Interview

Omswd x Reader

Everyone

Under the Mistletoe

Children Listen to Hear Sleigh-bells in the Snow (Brothers)

Children Listen to Hear Sleigh-bells in the Snow (Others)

Lucifer

I’ll Have A Blue Christmas Without You

Mammon

One Little Thing, A Ring | Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V

Leviathan

Believe in What Your Heart is Saying

Satan

Keep it cookin in the pot, soon you got hot choc-o-lat

Asmodeus

To Sing a Love Song as We Stroll Along

Beelzebub

Heavenly Sleep

Bring Us Some Figgy Pudding

Belphegor

Heavenly Sleep

All Seem to Say, Throw Cares Away

Solomon

Baby It’s Cold Outside *coming soon*

Thirteen

City Sidewalks, Busy Sidewalks, Dressed in Holiday Style

Simeon

All Around Us, Frozen Halos

Hang Your Stockings and Say Your Prayers

Luke

Hang Your Stockings and Say Your Prayers

Raphael

All is Calm, All is Bright

O Hear the Angel Voices

Mephistopheles

Riding Through a Winter Wonderland

Barbatos

Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly

Good Tidings to You

Diavolo

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause

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thewulf · 8 months ago

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Veiled Allegiance || Aragorn

Summary: Request: I was wondering if I could request an Aragorn x reader where the fellowship is already on their quest and maybe the reader is a ranger or just a good fighter but maybe she saves Aragorn’s life and he asks her to join them... Read Rest Here

A/N: Ahhh loved writing this one! Thank you so much for the request. As always, please keep them coming!

Pairing: Legolas x Female Reader

Word Count: 2.5k +

TW: General LOTR triggers, anxiety, orcs, bows, knives, killing creatures

The forest whispered secrets to those who dared to listen, its ancient boughs swaying in a silent dance with the wind. Among the shadows, you moved with the grace of a predator, your cloak melding seamlessly with the darkness that coated the land. You were a Ranger of Ithilien, a ghost in the night, your past veiled in mystery and your purpose known only to yourself.

It was amidst the tangled undergrowth of the woods that you stumbled upon them; a ragtag group of travelers bound by a common purpose. The Fellowship, they called themselves, their faces etched with determination and the weight of their quest heavy upon their shoulders. And yet, amidst the weariness and uncertainty, there burned a flicker of hope, a flame that refused to be extinguished. You followed and listened to the nine males walking towards their sure death, so you learned. Who in their right mind would travel to the dark with such determination?

At first, you observed from the shadows, your keen eyes taking in every detail, every nuance of their interactions. You watched as they argued and laughed, their friendship a testament to the bonds that bound them together. And though you remained on the periphery, a silent observer in a world not your own, a part of you longed for the connection they shared.

It was on a fateful night, beneath the shadow of darkness, that your paths would intersect in unexpected ways. The Fellowship found themselves beset by enemies; their camp surrounded by creatures hungry for blood. With blades drawn and hearts pounding, they prepared to face their assailants, unaware of the silent watcher in their midst.

As arrows flew and steel clashed in the night, you swiftly engaged, a lethal force amidst the chaos. Closer to the heart of battle with each fallen foe, your presence epitomized death's fury. Amidst the aftermath, you stood amidst carnage, your cloak stained by enemy blood.

Silence fell heavy, punctuated only by fallen breaths, before the Fellowship turned to you, eyes filled with gratitude and wonder. Bonds formed, destinies entwined, as you found your place among them amidst the battle's ruins.

"You have proven yourself a true ally this night," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority and respect. "Will you join us on our journey?" For he knew the value of having another person skilled in battle would be for the Fellowship.

His words hung in the air, heavy with significance. You met his gaze, your own eyes searching his for any hint of deception or ulterior motive. But all you found was sincerity, a genuine desire for your companionship on their quest.

For a moment, the weight of his request bore down upon you, the magnitude of the decision looming large in your mind. You had spent so long walking the path of solitude, guarding your heart against the pain of betrayal and loss. To join the Fellowship was to forsake the shadows that had been your home for so long, to step into the light and embrace the bonds of friendship and camaraderie.

But as you looked upon the faces of your newfound acquaintances, their expressions filled with hope and trust, you knew that your journey lay not in solitude, but in the company of kindred spirits. With a nod, you accepted Aragorn's offer, your voice steady as you spoke your oath of allegiance.

"I will join you," you said, your words a solemn vow. "Together, we will face whatever trials lie ahead, united in purpose and bound by the ties that bind us."

And as the Fellowship gathered around you, their voices raised in a chorus of affirmation, you felt a sense of belonging wash over you, a feeling long forgotten amidst the shadows of the past. For in that moment, amidst the ruins of battle, you had found not just allies, but friends—companions on a journey that would test the limits of courage and compassion, and forge bonds stronger than steel.

As the days turned to nights and the Fellowship journeyed ever onward towards their destiny, you found yourself gradually forging connections with each member, your bond with them growing stronger with every shared hardship and triumph.

With Legolas, it was amidst the tranquil beauty of the forests that you found common ground. As fellow guardians of the natural world, you shared a deep appreciation for the wonders of the wilderness, your spirits entwined with the song of the trees and the whisper of the wind. Together, you roamed the woodlands, your laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves as you regaled each other with tales of your travels.

Gimli, though gruff and stubborn at first, soon warmed to your presence, his respect for your prowess in battle matched only by his loyalty to his companions. Through shared trials and triumphs, you earned his trust, your determination and courage earning his admiration. And though your banter was often filled with jests and barbs, beneath the surface lay a bond forged in the fires of battle, unbreakable and true.

With Frodo and Sam, it was a connection born of shared burdens and the weight of destiny. As guardians of the Ring, they bore a heavy burden, their hearts weighed down by the knowledge of the perilous quest that lay before them. Yet, despite the darkness that threatened to consume them, there burned a flicker of hope—a hope that you found yourself drawn to like a moth to a flame

The connection you forged with Gandalf was one steeped in wisdom and guidance. As the Fellowship's guide and mentor, he possessed a wealth of knowledge that proved invaluable on their perilous journey. From the depths of Moria to the towering peaks of Caradhras, Gandalf's wisdom and foresight guided the Fellowship through the darkest of times.

With Merry and Pippin, it was your kindness and compassion that endeared you to them, your willingness to lend a helping hand in times of need earning their undying gratitude. Together, you shared in their mischief and their merriment, your laughter echoing through the halls of Moria and the fields of Rohan alike. And though their innocence sometimes tested your patience, their unwavering loyalty and steadfast friendship were a constant source of comfort in the darkest of times.

Boromir, though burdened by the weight of his own fears and doubts, found solace in your steadfastness and determination. In your presence, he saw a kindred spirit—a warrior forged in the crucible of adversity, yet unbroken and unbowed. Together, you stood against the tide of darkness, your courage inspiring him to rise above his own limitations and fight for the greater good.

With Aragorn, the bond that blossomed between you was one of mutual respect and shared determination. From the moment you saved their lives in the heat of battle, a bond was forged, strengthened by the trials and tribulations of the journey ahead.

As a fellow Ranger, Aragorn understood the weight of duty and the burden of leadership, and in you, he found a kindred spirit—a warrior forged in the crucible of adversity, your resolve unyielding in the face of danger.

Together, you stood at the forefront of the Fellowship, your skills in battle complementing each other's strengths and weaknesses. In Aragorn's steadfast leadership and unwavering courage, you found inspiration, his presence a beacon of hope in the darkest of times.

But it was not just on the battlefield that your bond deepened. In the quiet moments shared around the campfire, you listened as Aragorn spoke of his past and his struggles, his voice tinged with the weight of responsibility that lay upon his shoulders. And in those moments, you offered words of wisdom and encouragement, your own experiences serving as a guiding light in the darkness.

Yet, it was not just Aragorn's strength that drew you to him, but also his compassion and empathy. In the face of adversity, he remained steadfast in his commitment to protecting those under his care, his heart a wellspring of kindness and understanding.

And as the Fellowship pressed on towards their destiny, you found solace in the quiet moments shared with Aragorn, his friendship a source of strength and inspiration. For in the heart of darkness, even the smallest gestures of kindness can illuminate the path forward, forging bonds that transcend the boundaries of time and space.

You and the Fellowship journeyed onward towards the treacherous lands of Mordor, each step a reminder of the perils that lay ahead. It was amidst this backdrop of uncertainty that the gnarled creature, a servant of the dark lord Sauron, lunged at Aragorn as he led the group, its claws poised to strike. In a heartbeat, you interceded, your instincts guiding your blade to block the blow meant for him. The impact sent shockwaves of pain coursing through your body as you staggered back, blood seeping from the wound at your side.

Aragorn's eyes widened in disbelief as he reached out to steady you, his voice laced with concern. "Are you alright?"

You offered him a grim smile, trying to downplay the severity of your injury. "Just a scratch."

But Aragorn would not be dissuaded, his gaze lingering on the blood staining your cloak. "You saved my life," he murmured, his gratitude evident. "I owe you a debt I cannot repay."

With a weary sigh, you shook your head, attempting to deflect his gratitude. "There is no debt between comrades in arms."

Legolas and Aragorn took it upon themselves to tend to your deep wound, their skilled hands gentle yet firm as they cleaned and dressed the injury you had sustained. In their care, you found a measure of solace, their presence a soothing balm to the ache that lingered in your body and soul.

But it was not just the physical wounds that they sought to heal. With each passing day, they offered words of encouragement and support, their unwavering faith in your abilities serving as a reminder of the strength that lay within you. And in their company, you found yourself opening up, sharing the trauma of your past and the burdens you carried with a vulnerability you had long thought lost.

It was during one such moment of vulnerability that Aragorn's gaze fell upon the myriad of scars that marred your skin, his eyes widening in silent horror at the evidence of the pain you had endured. "Who did this to you?" he whispered; his voice thick with emotion.

For a moment, you hesitated, the memories of past betrayals and heartache threatening to overwhelm you. But then, with a steadying breath, you met his gaze, your voice raw with emotion. "There are shadows in my past that I would sooner forget," you admitted. "But perhaps, with time, I can learn to trust again."

Aragorn's expression softened; his eyes filled with understanding as he listened to your words. He reached out, his hand gently tracing the outline of one of the scars, a silent gesture of empathy and solidarity. "I cannot undo the pain of your past," he began, his voice gentle yet resolute, "but I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to ensure that no harm befalls you under my watch."

His words were like a soothing balm to your wounded soul, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness that had long clouded your heart. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, there was still light to be found in this world.

In the days that followed, Aragorn remained true to his word, his steadfast presence a pillar of strength and support. He watched over you with a quiet protectiveness, his keen eyes ever vigilant for any sign of danger or distress.

And as the Fellowship pressed on towards the heart of Mordor, you found yourself drawing closer to Aragorn, your walls slowly crumbling in the face of his unwavering kindness and compassion. With each passing day, the bond between you deepened, built through adversity, and tempered by the trials of the journey.

One evening, as the campfire crackled merrily and the stars twinkled overhead, you found yourself sitting beside Aragorn, your shoulders touching as you stared into the dancing flames. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding that transcended words.

Finally, Aragorn broke the silence, his voice soft as he spoke. "You have faced much hardship in your life, haven't you?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the fire.

You hesitated, the memories of past betrayals and heartache threatening to resurface. But then, with a sigh, you nodded. "Yes," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I have lived much of my life alone, guarding myself against the pain of letting others in."

Aragorn turned to look at you, his eyes filled with empathy and understanding. "I know what it is to carry the weight of past pain," he said, his voice tinged with sadness. "But I also know that true strength lies not in solitude, but in the bonds we build with others."

His words struck a chord deep within you, resonating with a truth you had long denied. And as you looked into his eyes, you saw something there that mirrored your own pain—a vulnerability that he had long kept hidden beneath a mask of stoicism.

Something shifted between you, a silent acknowledgment of the shared scars that bound you together. And as the night wore on, you found yourself opening up to Aragorn in a way you had never thought possible, sharing your fears and insecurities with a vulnerability you had long thought lost.

As the days turned into weeks, you found yourself gradually softening towards those around you, your heart thawing in the warmth of companionship and camaraderie. And though the road ahead was still fraught with danger and uncertainty, you knew that as long as Aragorn walked beside you, you would find the courage to face whatever challenges awaited you and emerge stronger in the end.

For in the heart of darkness, even the most jaded souls can find redemption in the light of love and friendship, their scars transformed into badges of honor by the steadfast kindness of those who refuse to give up on them.

LOTR: Permanent Taglist (If you'd like to be added to any or all works please fill out the form here (Taglist Sign Up): @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @guacam011y @illisea @il0vebeingdelulu @hiireadstuff

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veryberryjelly · 11 months ago

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ribbon cuffs

pairing : kate bishop x reader

prompt : wrapping presents

𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲

" y/n, can you help me a sec ? " you heard kate call from the living room.

she had been in there wrapping for around 25 minutes while you worked on making dinner and this was the first you'd heard anything from her since you parted ways.

you set down the knife you had been using to cook and turning down the stove to come to your heroes rescue.

" what's up ?" you questioned as you made your way into the living room.

your question was answered when you took in the scene infront of you.

lucky was sat on the arm chair, wrapped in three different colours of ribbon, fighting with a crumpled up piece of wrapping paper.

and then there was kate. sat on the floor infront of the coffee table, her hands tied together with the same ribbon wrapped around lucky.

" how did this happen ?" you asked incredulously, moving to crouch infront of your girlfriend and untie her hands.

" he was trying to eat the chocolates we bough for laura. but i ended up chasing him around the table, and the clever thing handcuffed me...somehow " she said with a soft laugh, her eyes focused on your hands as you undid the knots and twists that the labrador had created.

once you freed her hands, kate assisted you in unwrapping lucky from his colourful prison.

the two of you ended up with a pile of unwrapped ribbon that you would need to sort out, but for now, you could stuff the mess into a box and deal with it later.

after dinner, you helped kate finish wrapping the remaining presents.

and by 'help' you meant sit behind her as she wrapped them and hand her long strips of untangled ribbon to wrap around them.

the gifts were stacked onto the table before you went to bed, and when the three of you were curled up comfortably on the mattress, kate pulled out a piece of ribbon for lucky to play with, attached to her finger so that he couldnt get himself tangled up in that.

@rhayanm

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the-pen-pot · 9 days ago

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When Merlin and the others stumble across a grim discovery, it falls to Merlin to set things right. Can he undo the dark magic wrought upon this place, or will the price of the attempt be more than he can possibly afford to pay? (Merthur, 13k, Rated T)

******

Merlin had seen some strange things in the Darkling Woods. He'd stumbled across odd little shrines while hunting for herbs and skirted around the occasional ancient altar, still humming with spells and redolent with the smell of blood long since spilled. They were not malicious; they made his magic prickle and sing, but no sense of unease lingered around them. They were relics from a time when the land was steeped in power, moss-shrouded and worn by the years.

This – this was something else.

'Er...?'

Up ahead, Arthur gave a gusty sigh, reining in Hengroen before twisting in the saddle to give Merlin a Look. It deserved the capital letter. It was a single glance that carried with it a vast burden of meaning. There was impatience that Merlin was interrupting what had promised to be a peaceful ride back to Camelot. Yet right there alongside it was the acknowledgement that, normally, his warnings had merit. He could see the princely arrogance at war with Arthur's sense of duty. The latter won, thought probably only by a narrow margin.

'What is it?'

'A "funny feeling"?' Lancelot asked, his back ramrod straight in the saddle as he scanned their surroundings.

'Did you hear something?' Leon tilted his head as if trying to discern a threat from the air itself. Not that he'd find anything. The woods were silent. Even the birds had quelled their voices, despite the warmth of the sunshine that dappled the forest floor where it streamed through the canopy.

Mutely, Merlin pointed to what had caught his attention, sensing the moment when the men around him looked and then looked again. Realisation was a creeping chill, passing between each and every one of them.

'Is that human?' Gwaine sounded as if he would love someone to come up with an alternative explanation. It was easy to look at a scraggly branch and see something more sinister in its shape, but there was no denying the reality that was before them. The bones were green with age, draped along the bough of a tree. The hand looked like shattered pottery, all knuckles and shards, but there was no mistaking the fact that one finger was pointing deeper into the woods.

'Yeah.'

'We could ignore it?' Elyan sounded so hopeful, as if any of the knights would be able to turn their backs without investigating further.

'Leave it for some other fool to stumble across, you mean.' Arthur sighed, shaking his head as he turned Hengroen around, guiding him back to Merlin's side for a closer look. 'No, we'd best see what lies between the trees. That's been deliberately placed.' He tapped the back of his hand against Merlin's arm. 'Can you sense anything?'

Despite the macabre sight, a smile tilted the corners of Merlin's lips. It had been a hard few months after he'd confessed to being a sorcerer, but in the end, it had been worth it for this: Arthur asking his opinion without reproach and reaching for magic as a tool rather than seeing it as a weapon. The knights were the same, united in their resolve, and now each of them awaited his answer.

It was easy to bring his power into focus and send it questing through the trees. The skeletal arm was a splinter in his head, sharp and demanding, but beyond it the air felt twisted and strange, slipping in and out of his senses like smoke. It stirred an ache in his temples, and when he opened his eyes, the world wobbled and dipped before finding its footing once more.

'Careful!' Arthur reached out, grabbing him to steady his sway in the saddle. Gauntleted fingers tangled in Merlin's tunic. 'Are you all right?'

'Yeah, it's... I don't know what it is, but it's definitely something.' If pressed, he would have to say there was an oily feeling to the air: something slick and noisome that made him want to recoil. Honestly? Elyan's idea sounded good to him. There was something primal deep in his gut whispering that, whatever this was, it was best left alone.

Arthur tweaked Merlin's sleeve before swinging out of the saddle. His boots rustled in the leaf litter as he ran a hand along his gelding's nose. 'Well, whatever it is, the horses don't seem concerned, but we would be better off proceeding on foot. The last thing we need is them bolting in a panic because of whatever we find.'

Chainmail chimed as the knights did as they were bid, securing their mounts. Merlin patted Lilac's flank, noting that Arthur was right. His mare seemed perfectly content, her ears relaxed and her brown eyes placid. It was enough to make him question the thrumming urgency that had taken root beneath his skin. Maybe he was overreacting. Perhaps there was nothing more eerie between the trees than the remnants of some poor soul who'd lost their way and met their end in the forest depths: unfortunate, but not unusual.

His magic flared wide around him, wending between the boles and sending questing roots down into the ground. It ruffled through Gwaine's hair and toyed with the corner of Lancelot's cape, touching each of the knights before moving on. At his side, Arthur's next breath escaped him in a shivering rush, and he cleared his throat, his voice a touch hoarse as he called out orders.

'Stay together and keep your eyes open. We don't know what we might be dealing with.'

He drew his sword, and the soft chorus of unsheathed iron rose around them. The wind sighed in the branches, rattling the leaves, but beyond that there was no other sound but that of their footsteps as they inched their way deeper into the woods.

Merlin felt them – a weighted, clattering presence – mere moments before Gwaine's soft curse coloured the air. Three bones, increasing in size, hung from a branch, knocked softly against each other: gruesome tokens strung up as toys for the soft breeze. Nor were they the only ones. Every few paces, there were more, nestled in trunk hollows or strung in strange shapes. They picked out a path ever deeper, where the trees grew tall and thick and old, indifferent to the fleeting, human lives that crept beneath their bower.

'There's more than one person here,' Merlin pointed out, eyeing six bones that looked like they came from legs. 'More than one skeleton.'

'Not all full-grown either,' Percival added, sounding sick. He pointed one big finger at a delicate rib-cage, too small to belong to anything other than a young child. 'What is this?'

'I don't know.' Merlin pulled a face, huffing as Arthur held out an arm, steering him behind the breadth of his body as if to protect him. 'They're just bones, you prat,' he murmured. 'It's not like they're doing anything.'

'They're people bones.' Gwaine shifted forward, bumping shoulders with Leon before jabbing an elbow into his ribs and gesturing off to the right. 'Not buried. Not burned. Just strung up in the woods.'

'All mixed up and scattered about.' Elyan pulled a face like he'd smelled something rotten. 'It's not right.'

They carried on in silence, each step carefully placed and each man battle-ready. Every time Merlin tried to step out from behind Arthur's frame, he was ushered back. The knights had drawn closer to one another, huddling around Arthur in a loose circle as they made their reluctant way forward. This was nothing they could fight. There was no monster stalking the land to be brought down by sweat and blade. No villains lurked within the trees. This, Merlin suspected, was not something that could be solved with a sword.

He should be the one protecting them.

'Have you noticed what's missing?' Lancelot asked, turning to look behind them before squinting up ahead.

'The skulls.' Merlin met Lancelot's eye, sharing a warning look. They had come across every kind of bone there was to be found in a human body: limbs and ribs, fingers, toes and everything in between, but there were no skulls staring down at them, nor had he noticed any teeth. 'Where are their heads?'

Merlin wondered if he was the only one thinking of the swift fall of the axe in Camelot. How many so-called sorcerers had been beheaded in that courtyard? If something went wrong – if one day his secret got out beyond the tight circle of his friends – such a fate could still be his. Yet he had never asked what happened to the bodies of the executed.

There were bones all around them now, festooned from every branch. Merlin didn't know how many people were here, their remains left to dance in the light of day: dozens, maybe even scores. Here, in the thick of it, he could feel how the air hummed, but it was a power unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was not the crisp, fresh rainfall of Nimueh's sorcery nor the earthy, dusty flavour of Sigan's magic, so briefly experienced.

This felt like something no mortal was ever meant to wield, and he shuddered in his too-thin tunic.

A noise from Percival made him glance his way, alarmed by the sweat beading the big man's brow. His face carried a ghastly pallor, and his eyes were huge. Those broad hands clenched tight around the hilt of his claymore, and each breath whistled between his lips. Fear wrote its story large upon him, and he was not the only one.

Everyone looked the same, not merely uneasy, but terrified. Elyan's dark skin carried a blue-grey tinge to it, and Leon looked as if he might swoon dead away. Lancelot's shoulders were hitched up to his ears, his body trying to cower even as he fought against it, and Gwaine was swearing a litany beneath his breath.

Then there was Arthur.

It was not that Camelot's golden prince never felt fear, though perhaps he would like others to believe such. It was just that Merlin knew how hard he worked to never let it master him. Now, all those efforts had fallen to naught. Arthur looked bloodless, his eyes startling blue in a face the colour of milk. Even his lips were pale, and his pauldron rattled, belying the shudder of his frame.

Gods, they all looked scared out of their wits.

'Don't think I can move my legs,' Gwaine managed, each word escaping him in on a punched-out breath. His hair stuck to his brow, clinging to the nervous sweat that glossed his skin. 'Not forwards, anyway.'

'Maybe you should go back to the horses,' Merlin suggested, ducking out from the centre of the makeshift circle. 'Whatever it is clearly doesn't want you here. I'll go and –'

'No!' The denial fled from more than one pair of lips. It would have been funny if it didn't look like the knights were about to perish of fright on the spot.

'You're not going anywhere,' Arthur managed. 'Just – can't you protect us from it? Shields or wards or whatever?'

Merlin bit his lip, glancing over his shoulder. He could feel the pulse of the magic now. The strangeness of it beat at his temples like bronze wings, threatening to fill his world with their clamour. 'I can try, but there's something off about this. I don't know if it will work.'

'Do it.'

Wetting his lips, Merlin did as he was bid, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't block out the influence the strange power had on the knights. It drifted through his efforts like smoke, able to pass through shields that would have stopped any other sorcerer in their tracks.

'It's not working.' He shook his head, turning away. 'I'll be right back. Something's not right. I'm just going to see what it is.'

'Merlin, wait!'

Arthur's protests fell on deaf ears as he turned away. He slipped between the dense trunks, following the beckoning sensation. Here, the trees were spindly, tightly packed as they struggled towards the light. Undergrowth plucked at his breeches and tried to tangle around his ankles, urging him to turn back. He did not fall victim to the same terror that had pinned the knights in place, but nor could he ignore the warning chills that marched up and down his spine. It slowed his steps, forcing him to duck low and creep forward as, up ahead, the forest fell away, revealing a gruesome sight.

The clearing was perfectly round, but no grass or wildflowers filled its space. A sheet of black, shiny stone stretched from one side to the other, etched with concentric circles and spiky runes. They were lit from within with a ruddy glow, like embers sparking, sullen, in a neglected hearth. Even the daylight seemed to dim, leaving him to hover on a gloomy periphery and stare at the centrepiece with revulsion.

In the middle was a pile of skulls. Teeth were scattered about like chips of ice surrounding the lopsided pyramid. It was about as high as his hip, and Merlin tried not to think about how many heads had been severed to form its foundation. Yet even that sight, disturbing as it was, did not trouble him as much as what hovered at their peak.

The last skull was black and shiny. Light glowed in its empty sockets and trails of power, clotted and bloody, crowned its brow. Its power hammered at him, demanding, and Merlin shook his head.

'No way I'm touching that,' he muttered to himself, glancing this way and that as he tried to understand what lay before him. He had a sense of magic upon magic, as if this place was something profane built on the foundations of the holy. Whoever had made it was dead. If he shut his eyes, he could taste grave-dirt, and his next breath felt airless. It was a relic of hate long-ago extinguished. How had no one stumbled upon it before now?

Perhaps, like Arthur and the others, they had been held at bay by their horror: forced into retreat. Yet if that was the case, why had it allowed Merlin through? Was it just because he had magic? Or was there more to it than that?

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, watching spots dance in the darkness. Maybe he could leave it – turn around and head back to the others; say it was nothing and mount up for Camelot. Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt the air change. It was a sensation like a door closing at his back. Instinct told him that there was no way he could make his retreat. He was stuck in the clearing as surely as the knights were held at bay from it.

Words escaped him, every swear he knew and a few Gwaine had taught him, not that they did any good. The world seemed indifferent to his insults, and the magic still rattled against him, insistent.

'What do you want?' He threw his hands in the air before burying his fingers in his hair, turning in place. Nothing answered his query, for which he was grateful, and he blew out a breath. Maybe if he were a learned mage, he would know what this all meant. He would be able to understand the subtle nuances that plucked at the corners of his mind. Instead, he felt stupid: like the answer was staring him in the face and he was too blind to see it.

He paced around the edge of the circle of stone, noting how it dug into the earth like a scab over a wound. The trees did not quail beneath his glare, though they were sickly to the eye, as if whatever made its home here had poisoned them with its touch. Everything about it felt wrong, unnatural and chafing. It called to him even as it tried to push him away, and his head ached from fighting a constant battle with himself.

At last, he stopped, folding his arms across his chest and closing his eyes, looking at the scene not with his senses, but with the power that was his to command. He might not be knowledgeable, but if the druids were to be believed, he was powerful. Maybe there was more to learn from the aura of this place: something that could give him a hint about how to proceed.

The flavour of metal exploded across his tongue, rusted and rank. It was as if someone had blinkered him, cutting his awareness off from the world and plunging all his attention down into the earth at his feet. He could taste the magic that had gone into its construction: old and violent, exactly the kind of thing Uther saw in every spell. It was an abomination – a canker to the Old Religion. Something that should never have been placed.

He could feel the power that lay beneath, confined to an earthy tomb, yet it was not something monstrous as he had first feared. This was not a cage for something best left forever chained. Instead, the stone was a parasite, feeding off the lightning storm of energy beneath his feet: a magical nexus, where channels of power deep in the earth's heart intersected.

It had been built years ago: long before the Purge. Yet whoever had stained themselves with the vile methods of its construction had never returned to put it to use. It had harvested power for them and had been doing so for decades.

The cap of rock needed to be broken. That certainty settled over him like armour, dragging at his shoulders and bowing his head. If he left it here untouched, it would eventually explode, and who knew what all that magic might do, discharged so suddenly? What if it twisted neutral power into something malignant, unleashing something monstrous onto the world?

No, it needed a conduit. A mage to ease the power free from its chains, and Merlin sensed how he could unravel it. Before him stood a sort of magical lock, and whether he liked it or not, he was the key.

He opened his eyes, looking back over his shoulder. He could not see the knights from here. They remained caught like flies within the magic's web of terror. If he focussed, he could feel them struggling against their own horror; fighting on as all good warriors did, despite the odds against them.

There was no way to get back to them and explain, not with whatever rank power that inhabited this place trapping him here. Regret was a fragile feeling, underscored by guilty relief. While his friends knew about his magic, they'd not yet seen him do anything more remarkable than trip a few bandits and light a fire without flint and steel. He'd rather not have any witnesses to this. At least the magic took the matter out of his hands.

Taking a deep breath, he spread his feet, bracing himself at the edge of the circle of black stone. The skull leered at him in challenge, but he ignored it, refusing to be cowed by the death that seeped into every cranny of this place. He chafed his dry palms together, a quick, nervous gesture, before reaching down into the earth with his magic.

The twisting vortex of potential plucked at him, threatening to whisk him away. His mind slipped deeper into the darkness, darting this way and that: a fish caught up in powerful currents. The sensation of his body faded away to a mere hint of flesh. His bones hummed, as if the grisly foundations of this place clutched at them, eager to add him to their collection. The feeling of strong fingers prising at his jaw made him shudder, and the smell of meaty, sweaty rot coated every shattered breath.

He needed to be quick, or he wouldn't emerge from this triumphant.

In Gaius' spell-book, penned in a hand so old that the ink had faded to a mere whisper of its former self, he remembered accounts of ritual purification. Lustrations, the druids called them: magic to cleanse the places of the world that had gone sour or ease the wounds uncaring mages had inflicted upon its holiest places. It had been many years since the druids held that kind of power, and all Merlin had to guide him were the faint words of long dead men and women, read and half-remembered.

No magic could be broken down from its edges. He recalled that much. To cleanse a place such as this was to offer faith in the face of doubt. In the past, they had not worked alone but in groups: three druids surrounding a central fourth. However, there was only one of him, and his place was clear.

He did not need to open his eyes. He could feel where the centre of the dark magic throbbed like a failing heart. His boots scuffed over the glassy stone, making it hum, and he drew a breath, reaching out to clasp the sharp cheekbones of the hovering, leering skull.

Blood and battle. Death and hatred. It crashed over him like an ocean wave, threatening to drown him in its depths. It was the rancid stench of a butcher in high-summer, swarming flies and broken bones. It was a healing room succumbed to plague, bile and stench. Banners hung slack in the still air over a battlefield, the earth itself rendered putrid by the slaughter that soaked it.

The urge to recoil blazed beneath his skin. It screamed at him to run, to flee, to live, but Merlin pushed his way past it, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth creaked as he spread his feet, bracing himself. It was human nature, he knew, to run from death, but whether anyone liked it or not, there could be no beginning without an end. The world thrived when all things were held in balance. Here, that equilibrium had been usurped, and all had come tumbling down in its wake.

Slowly, he pushed his magic forward, feeling its heat wash down his hands and outwards, weaving its way between the power rooted in this place like golden thread through black cloth. It spun away into the darkness, but it had not fled from him. Instead, it was a net of his own spread wide, darting through the ailing trees and brushing against where his friends still struggled against their fear.

He knew these men, their kindness and their courage. They gleamed like a harvest moon, bountiful and benevolent, but it was Arthur who drew him in, the same as always.

He shone gold: a guiding light to show him the way home, no matter how far he wandered. The sword in his grasp was a spar of sunlight, and the shimmer of his presence was like stars reflecting upon the water: ethereal and exquisite.

Merlin had always known Arthur was beautiful. He'd been spent years pretending he hadn't noticed, with limited success. Now, it was not merely that he looked regal, every inch the promised king of Albion. That was just his destiny. No, it was Arthur's determination that quickened Merlin's heart and left him breathless, because even now, he still fought against the fear that bound him, not for his own sake, but for Merlin's.

Arthur battled to return to his side, and inch by delicate, imperceptible inch, he was vanquishing that which tried to keep them apart.

His magic flickered in his awareness, its dip and flutter like the tremor of a bird's wing. It had reached the edge of the dark ritual's influence, curving among the bones that hung from the trees and seeking them out in the hollow bowls of the waiting earth. Now, all that remained was to cleanse it.

Such simple words for what was to come.

It could not be delicate: that was not how it would work. Merlin knew that to wipe this power's influence away, his own would need to scour it, scraping away its creeping touch until not even a fragment remained. He could do it; that certainty hummed within him, but it would take almost all his strength to see it through.

Bracing himself, he grabbed the edges of his far-flung power and yanked them inwards.

Out in the forest, the bones turned to dust, set free to be carried to their final resting place on the breeze. It washed around the knights, stripping away the cocoon of terror, ripping it up by its roots and leaving them able to take one, clear breath: courageous once more. The ailing trees cracked and splintered, their trunks swelling with sap and their skeletal branches bursting into bud and leaf as the inky taint of the ritual's influence fell to tatters, sucked ever inwards to where Merlin stood.

He flinched as a scream echoed around him, his eyes flying open to stare at the skull in his hands. Its jaw was open, the voice within it not the cry of one soul, but many, all shrieking their despair. The light in its eye sockets blazed. The clotted magic that encircled its brow clawed at Merlin's hands, desperately seeking its escape, but it was too late for that. The storm had built to its crescendo. Merlin's magic rained down like a hammer blow to shatter the lens of black rock, obliterating it in one, bitter strike of retribution.

All the power that had been building up for decades had to go somewhere, and Merlin was its conduit.

He would remember, for the rest of his days, how much it hurt. The benevolent energy, trapped for so long beneath the ritual's capstone, surged upwards – lightning bright. It set his bones aflame, and it took all his will to ride out the wave rather than resist it. In his hands, the glassy skull shattered, pieces knifing outwards to draw blood wherever they touched. The rock beneath his boots became sand, whipped away on the ravages of a howling gale. Beneath it, bare earth greeted him as he collapsed, bruising his knees and dirtying his palms with dark, loamy earth.

His vision tilted sideways, the world lurching in a dizzy spin. Just before he lost consciousness, he thought he heard someone screaming his name.

******

Arthur was no stranger to fear. It had walked by his side, stalking battlefields and creeping through the castle halls, but he had never known it be like this. It went beyond terror, digging its roots deep until he was a man wrought to nothing but the race of his own heart and the strain of his breathing. Every ounce of him demanded that he follow his foolish, unarmed, unarmoured manservant, but he could not bring himself to move. His entire being rebelled at the thought, his guts churning and his throat dry.

The only faint consolation was that he was not alone in this feeling. Of all his knights, only Merlin had been spared, and a keening, panicked sound gilded the edge of his next breath. Merlin, who had darted out of sight, rushing off to face whatever lay up ahead. Merlin, who might have magic, but it was as soft and tender as the man himself: a loving caress rather than the stroke of a sword. Merlin's power was helpful, but he did not see what it could do in the face of whatever rank enchantments lay upon the woods.

Lancelot groaned, dropping to one knee. He panted at the ground, so frightened he looked ill with it. Arthur glanced back, able to see the whites all around those dark eyes.

'We cannot let him face it alone,' Lancelot managed, each work hacked out of him as if he were vomiting them up. 'We cannot –' He shuddered all over, a head-to-toe rattle that made his armour chime. All of them were the same, fighting against their most base instincts – impulses that told them they should turn back if they wanted to live.

'How?' Arthur snapped, his voice raw. 'How do we help him when none of us can even move?' It was not for want of trying. Every muscle ached as he shoved against the invisible restraints that rooted his feet to the ground. He fought because to stop was unthinkable, but it was painfully obvious he could gain not even an inch of ground. Whatever lay up ahead, it didn't want them here, and it was using their own uncertainties against them.

Gwaine's voice uttered a steady stream of vitriolic curses, but Arthur did not miss the sob hitching beneath the words. He feared the worst; they all did. What did Merlin face, wherever he was? What could he possibly do against it? Would they ever know, or would they be blocked from him forever, only able to retreat?

Was Merlin's worried frown and the flash of an uncertain, reassuring grin the last that Arthur would ever see of him?

The fear in his chest coiled and flourished, sprouting new, sinister blooms. It was as if a heavy hand weighed on his shoulder, pressing him to one knee, and Arthur reeled beneath its burden. All around them, the woods were eerily still: the only sounds their futile struggles. No birds called out their song. Even the wind had fallen still. It was if the world were waiting.

It did not need much patience.

Arthur felt it like a sunbeam gathering its strength, the clouds parting to let through a sliver of familiar warmth. At first, it was just a whisper against his cheek: that same subtle caress that stole his breath away every time he sensed it. The touches he shared with his knights and even Merlin were normally couched in affectionate violence. This gesture held none of that. The only suitable word was loving. Merlin's magic brushed against him as if he were something both worthy and precious, and his heart never failed to tremble in response.

Before he could even blink, the surge of power crested, slamming into whatever held them trapped in its invisible restraints. He felt them strain and snap, his horror washed away by a dazzling tide that swept ever outwards. It darted between the trees and flared up into the sky above their heads, driving back the clouds and unsheathing the sun from their veils.

A breath shuddered between his lips, and Arthur lunged to his feet, scrabbling forward as he dashed off in Merlin's footsteps. He heard the calls of the knights, but he paid them no mind. He knew his men. They would be no more than a dozen steps behind, as eager as he was to make sure that Merlin was all right.

The scream came suddenly, rising from the ground and shivering down from the sky, striking at him like a battering ram. It threatened to drive him back to his knees. If not for his training to never, ever let go of his sword, Arthur would have dropped it to cover his ears. Instead, he hunched his shoulders, staggering back beneath the onslaught. It was a tormented wail, carried not by one voice but by many. Was Merlin among them, crying out his agony? Or was he the instigator of their pain?

Was it a battle cry, or a death knell?

A shockwave of bright white light seethed around him, sweeping past Arthur as if it were no more substantial than mist. Though it seemed to touch nothing, it changed everything. The woods groaned in protest, the spindly trunks thickening before his very eyes. A straggly canopy overhead thickened to something lush and verdant, and the lingering shadows lost their density, becoming no more threatening than natural woodland shade.

Far above, a hawk cried out as the forest stirred back to life. Not just the trees, but the creatures who made their home in bole and branch. A squirrel raced up the trunk closest to him, making him twitch, and a pair of rabbits dashed away amidst the flourishing undergrowth. It was as if the entire forest had lurched into full bloom, throwing off the chains that had bound it in darkness.

Shaking his head, Arthur shoved aside the questions that whirled through his mind. The details could wait. Right now, the only thing that mattered was Merlin.

He jumped over roots and raced along the narrow, twisting pathway that seemed to open up for him, as surely as if the woods themselves were shifting to make room. He expected the fear to return, pushing him back, but nothing impeded his progress as he burst into a lush, green clearing, almost as big across as Camelot's courtyard. He did not have eyes for the flowers nor the huge tree, laden with blossom, that towered over him.

He only saw Merlin, sat back on his heels as if he had folded where he stood, his face tipped up to the sky above him.

'Merlin?' Arthur skidded to a halt amidst the long grass, releasing a fresh, verdant scent from the stems, but he paid it no mind. His sword leaned drunkenly where he sheathed it in the ground. The weapons-master would have his head for mistreating his blade, but he had no space for such concerns. His gauntlets had fallen somewhere in his wake, ripped clumsily from his hands so he could reach out, his fingers clasping one bony shoulder. 'Merlin? Can you hear me?'

He received no response, and Arthur tried to master the stutter of his breathing, its rhythm lost in his growing panic as he took in the sight before him.

Merlin's skin was like moonlight, translucent, and the veins beneath etched like inky lightning across his face. There was no golden gleam between his lashes. Instead, his eyes were the colour of pitch, black from one edge to the other, dark and drowning: inhuman.

'What did you to yourself, you idiot?' Arthur's cry broke free of him, a wounded, wild sort of noise. His hands pressed up and down Merlin's arms, his back, his ribs, searching for a wound, but there was none to be found. Only a few cuts lingered on his finger. Yet even as he watched, those ebbed from sight, the blood drying to scabs before peeling away, revealing new, pink skin beneath. Merlin felt clammy to the touch, and his pulse, when Arthur finally found it, was thready and subtle.

Yet by far the worst of it was the vacant expression and the black, staring gaze, like holes onto some distant, unforgiving abyss.

'Arthur! Is he...?' Gwaine's voice choked to nothing, as if he couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence. Lancelot knelt on the opposite side of Merlin's body, going through the same motions as Arthur, his frown deepening with every moment. He waved a hand in front of Merlin's fixed gaze, but even that didn't stir him. It was as if he was physically present but mentally gone: a void given form.

'He's alive,' Arthur managed, shaking his head in confusion. 'But I don't know what's wrong with him.' He tapped Merlin's cheek, hoping to rouse him. He considered drawing his hand back and delivering a ringing slap in his panic, but some prickling sense of warning restrained him. There was a thread of danger in the air: a hint that all was not as it seemed. 'What do you make of this?'

Lancelot looked at him with wide eyes, his shoulders shifting in a shrug. He had known of Merlin's magic far longer than the rest of them, but he had not been privy to any of the details. Merlin thought it was better that way. Even now, he rarely shared what he could do. They only found out he'd used spells to turn the tide of events in their favour in the aftermath.

'I don't know, Sire.' Apology riddled Lancelot's expression. He looked as if he had been punched in the gut, pale and shaken, gasping for breath. 'Something's not right.' He waved a hand, gesturing to the glade around him. 'I can feel Merlin's magic all around us, but I'm not sure what that means.'

Arthur forced himself to take a deep breath and focus, considering Lancelot's words. There would be time, later, to berate himself for losing his head so thoroughly, but now he sought to retrieve the mantle of his command.

He had paid almost no heed to anything but Merlin's motionless form. For the first time, he took in their surroundings, noticing the flowers that decked the meadow. They were an explosion of colour: long grasses and hollyhocks, foxgloves and bluebells. Plants that should never grow in the same season thrived side by side. Butterflies danced and basked, their wings painted in improbable hues. The whole place seemed both brand new and unspeakably ancient. It fit into the world like a puzzle piece, and yet the years did not touch it.

Then there was the tree which cradled the meadow beneath its bower.

It was the size of one of the ancient oaks that towered in the Darkling Woods, its leaves long and slender. At first, Arthur thought they were unusual, gleaming in colours of silver and pearl, but when he looked again, he realised they glowed from within. Blossoms grew in clusters of dazzling white, but though petals danced like falling snow, the blooms never seemed to fade or wither.

And through it all, playing on the breeze and plunging into the soil, he could feel the heady thrum of Merlin's power. It settled over him like a cloak, warm and soft: full of promise and a warning both. It curled through Arthur's hair at the nape of his neck and brushed against his cheek. It rimed his armour in brief pulses of gold and curled around his fingertips, plucking at him, as if there were something that he needed to do.

As he watched, a murky tear welled in Merlin's left eye. It charted a black line down his face, and when it fell onto the ground at his knees, it smoked: venomous and toxic.

'That doesn't look good,' Elyan whispered, shaking his head. He stood off to one side, looking torn between rushing to Merlin's side and recoiling in horror. 'I don't know what he's done, but this isn't right.'

'The druids...'

Arthur looked up sharply at Leon's words, blinking to see the grim certainty on that bearded face. 'What about them?'

Leon shifted where he stood, but before long, he seemed to find his courage. 'As you know, Sire, I have spent time in one of their camps. They healed me after my patrol was attacked and lost.'

Arthur nodded. He had always believed Leon would be the staunchest of his knights – the one most resistant to accepting magic. Instead, Leon had been one of the first to offer his friendship and allegiance when Merlin confessed to his secret. It turned out that even a man raised in the furore of Uther's Purge could hold an open mind. That, in part, was thanks to the druids, who had mended Leon's hurts with more than ointments and unguents. He had experienced magic first hand, and he had seen for himself there was more nuance to it than Uther ever acknowledged.

'I remember. What's that got to do with –' He gestured to Merlin helplessly.

'I was with them for three days as I healed. They were wary at first, but before long they began to speak to me of how things used to be. I do not know if they hoped to convince me they meant no harm, but I learned a great many things. Before the Purge, the druids were the guardians of the land. They helped curb the excesses of magic and keep the realm in balance. They mentioned rituals to cleanse both places and people. Sometimes, the latter was necessary after they had purified the former, because the druids took the poisoned power into themselves.'

Arthur wet his lips. 'Merlin is not a druid,' he pointed out, feeling it had to be said. He wanted to continue – to remind them he was not even that much of a sorcerer, capable of a few handy parlour tricks and little more, but he could not. That was a lie he had told himself for months – something to help him justify turning his back on his father's laws. He had taken comfort in the easy fiction that Merlin was harmless, helpless: a man of insignificant power.

Never mind that he had plenty of evidence to the contrary.

He looked back into that pale face and the creeping stain that lingered beneath his skin. He cringed from the dark, staring eyes. Merlin had not so much as blinked since they found him. He was utterly lifeless, and Arthur swore under his breath. He did not know what Merlin had stumbled across in the clearing, but he doubted it had looked like this. It was obvious he had done something, and Leon's insights were all they had to guide them.

Not for the first time, he cursed his own ignorance. There was so much about magic that he did not know, and thanks to his father's Purge, no one remained in Camelot's boundaries to offer their knowledge. No one but Merlin himself, who seemed unaware of his limits and was only too happy to push himself to breaking point.

'All right,' he conceded, ducking his head and turning to Leon. 'How, exactly, do we wash him clean of whatever this is?'

Before the last word left his lips, the sound of flowing water reached his ears. Arthur blinked as it rose from between the tree's roots, glistening and silver. It pooled in the grass before racing down and away, the loamy earth becoming a rocky riverbed beneath its touch.

A trickle soon became a torrent: a laughing, chattering brook that cascaded down dips in the land that Arthur could have sworn were not there a moment ago. It was as if the earth were a living, breathing thing, changing its shape to suit their needs.

And Merlin's magic was like sunlight across his skin: a familiar, imploring touch.

'That'll do,' Gwaine managed, his voice getting stuck on a hysterical little laugh. 'Something tells me that's no ordinary water.'

Arthur could see that. The pool was cradled in a rocky hollow, the colour changing from crystal clear at its edges to impossible azure in the centre. The honey-golden glow of the dying day reflected strangely off the ripples that danced across its surface, and it looked simultaneously shallow and endless, as if it plunged down deep into the earth's beating heart.

'Help me out of my armour?' Arthur rapped his knuckles on his pauldron, already trying to pluck apart the buckles by himself. Normally, Merlin would be right there, his touch graceful and perfect. Now, it was Lancelot and Gwaine who stepped forward, the pair of them liberating him from the iron's weight.

He did not think he imagined the way the breeze whispered around him: a subtle sigh of relief as he stripped down to his tunic and breeches before toeing off his boots and peeling off his socks.

Arthur cupped a hand beneath Merlin's elbow, urging him to his feet. At first, he did not stir so much as an inch, but slowly, something in him shifted. It was eerie to witness. Merlin moved like someone sleepwalking, every gesture slow and ungainly: mindless. Still, he seemed to respond to Arthur's orders. Soft and cajoling didn't work, but brisk commands seemed to reach past whatever held him in its thrall.

'Up you get, Merlin. Come on.'

Perceval caught his other arm as he listed to the right, helping support him as he met Arthur's gaze. 'What's the plan, Sire?'

Arthur allowed himself one brief flicker of pride and relief at how easily the knights appeared to be taking whatever had happened in their stride. They didn't flutter and fret. Instead, they stepped up, each of them eager to help in whatever way they could.

'I'll go into the water with him. I don't trust him not to drown, considering the state he's in.'

'Is that wise?' Elyan winced, ducking his head when Arthur raised an eyebrow in his direction. 'I just mean, we don't know what might happen. If there's something in him, something dangerous, then how can we be sure it won't hurt whoever is with him?'

'We don't.' Arthur let out a breath. 'In truth, we know nothing about this, but there is no one else we can ask for help, and this –' He paused, his words tangling on his tongue as his heart surged and ached. He wanted to claim that Merlin was his manservant and it was his duty to help him out of whatever mess he'd got into this time, and yet the sentiment rang false. All he knew was that this was his place, helping Merlin with his burdens as surely as Merlin helped Arthur with his own.

'This task falls to me,' he managed at last, not meeting anyone's eye. He did not wish to give any of them an opening in which to make their arguments known. Perhaps the knights knew there would be no shifting him from his choice, because they saved their breath, all of them approaching the water in a slow, steady procession.

'We should at least get his boots off,' Lancelot decided. 'You know what he's like.'

Arthur stifled a wry little laugh. Merlin was bizarrely attached to his scuffed, tatty footwear. He could almost imagine his cry of outrage if he came back to himself and found the well-worn leather drenched and ruined.

'What about clothes?' Gwaine looked them both over with a puzzled frown. For once, he didn't make any ribald comments, though it looked as if he were tempted. 'On or off?'

In truth, Arthur had no idea, and it seemed none of the knights had any insight to offer. Instead, he spoke more the benefit of his own composure. He did not think he could remain impassive if he had Merlin naked in his arms. Not when that fantasy had been haunting his dreams for months.

'Leave them on. We'll build a fire to dry out if necessary.' He looked into Merlin's face, wishing he could see some sort of awareness in those features, but there was nothing. He did not so much as twitch, not even when they divested him of his boots and socks.

Arthur took those nimble hands in his own and urged him towards the water's edge. He followed as meek as a lamb, not caring about the unforgiving pressure of the smooth, worn pebbles beneath his soles, nor the cool touch of the water as it rose up their legs. Sparkles gleamed across its surface. They coalesced around Arthur's knees, then his thighs, climbing up him as he went deeper until he stood on a rocky underwater ledge: a precipice over impossible depths.

'Just a bit further,' he told Merlin, ignoring the knights where they watched anxiously from the shore. He was too focussed on the man in front of him: his pallor and his staring gaze, his fingers cold in Arthur's palms and his full lips parted. Yet as the ripples lapped the bottom of Merlin's ribs, Arthur saw the shadows. They moved around him like darting fish, tatters of inky shade darting away to dissipate. A bubble of relief popped in his chest as he watched one of the dark lines sketching Merlin's cheek fade and vanish. Whatever the water did, it was working.

Something plucked at him: an invisible, beckoning presence. It tugged at his damp breeches and pushed at his shoulders, urging him to keep going. The gleaming motes began to plunge beneath the surface, leading the way downwards, and Arthur was no fool. Merlin needed to be submerged or he would never be fully free of whatever darkness had claimed him. He would waste away from its touch until he was a fragment of his former self, consumed day-by-day until there was nothing left.

'You fool,' Arthur breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. Of course Merlin had stepped up to remove some terrible disease upon the land, and he had done so without a thought for himself. What would have happened if he were alone? What if Arthur had never found him?

He swallowed hard, shaking away his fears. Now was not the time or the place. Merlin needed his help, and he would not be found wanting.

Arthur waited until Merlin was standing before him, close enough to reach out and curl into his embrace, chest-to-chest. It mattered, and not just because he feared losing Merlin in the expectant fathoms below. Something sparked in the back of his head: a gleaming little whisper that told him his presence was as much a part of this strange, unknown ritual as the water itself. He did not understand it, not really, but nor did he dare argue or dismiss the realisation. Instead, he tightened his arm around Merlin's waist and took a single step back into the open, waiting water.

Magic swelled around him as the surface closed over his head. Shafts of sunlight lanced into the bottomless blue beneath them: dreaming indigo. Once, he might have panicked. Instead, Arthur opened himself to what he could feel: a benevolent, ancient blessing, as soft as the finest silks. It wrapped them both in a cocoon, invisible to every sense and yet undeniably real. There was no urgency. His breath did not strain in his lungs. He felt as if he could stay where he was forever, weightless and waiting with Merlin in his arms.

The black marks upon his face faded more swiftly now, and Arthur reached up, his hand moving slowly in the temperate waters as he traced the fading line from Merlin's temple to his jaw. He felt cool skin and the rasp of stubble against his palm, and he saw the first star of gold erupt in the endless black of those eyes.

It was no more than a glimmer at first, but the dawn was a swift one. Arthur watched as Merlin emerged to life once more, the last of the darkness driven out to disperse in the nurturing pool around them: utterly harmless.

And in its wake it left Merlin, vibrant and alive, glowing from within with the force of his magic. Dark lashes fluttered, blinking twice in quick succession. There should have been flailing as he sought the surface. Instead, he floated there, staring at Arthur, his blue eyes decked with stars of gold and his head tilted a fraction, inquisitive and agonisingly familiar.

A hand tightened in Arthur's tunic over his heart, and Arthur's thumb skimmed softly over Merlin's bottom lip. Everything felt dreamlike, as if the worries of the world had been sliced away to leave them in a bubble of tranquillity. Nothing existed beyond the two of them, and the tight strings of his worry frayed and snapped as relief swept through his frame.

Perhaps it was the push of the water's current, or maybe it was an urge within himself, rising up, undeniable. Looking back, Arthur would never know what closed the last, fractional distance between them. He would only recall the brush of his mouth against Merlin's, chaste by any standards even as it scorched him down to his bones.

It was a blessing and a benediction, gratitude and welcome, as if they had both finally found their way home.

A sudden rush of power left them both gasping as cool, clear air ghosted around them. Arthur blinked, stupefied, shaking his head in disbelief. He was sitting in a pool of shallow water, no deeper than his ankles. His clothes stuck to him and his hair dripped down the nape of his neck. Merlin sat beside him looking like a drowned rat.

For one, wild moment, he wondered if he had imagined the kiss, except he could still feel the pressure of it against his mouth. Nor was he the only one, judging by the way Merlin reached his fingertips up to his lips as if chasing the sensation.

'What –?' he managed, sounding baffled and lost. 'What just happened?'

Arthur blew out a breath, falling back on the familiar territory of bickering even as the knights surged forward, heedless of the water around their boots as they ploughed into the pool.

'I saved your hide, as usual.'

Merlin managed a faint squeak of protest at that, his fingers tangling in Arthur's wet sleeve. He looked like he was going to retort, his lips parted around some kind of rejoinder, but it never came. Instead, he groaned, pressing his other hand to his temple and screwing his eyes up tight. 'Ugh.'

'All right?' Elyan asked, bending down to clasp Merlin's shoulder as Leon hauled Arthur to his feet and gave him a hard glare, as if chastising him for giving them all a fright. 'What happened? Did it work?'

'It did, I think.' Arthur glanced over his shoulder at Merlin, who managed a faint groan that he decided to take as confirmation. 'He's himself again, which I suppose is a blessing.'

'We lost sight of you,' Leon ground out. 'One moment you were in the water, the next you were gone –'

'–And the whole clearing lit up like a sunrise.' Gwaine jerked his thumb over his shoulder, where Arthur could see the tree was dimming from a golden hue back to ethereal silver.

'We're fine,' he promised, trying to force some confidence into his voice.

'Speak for yourself,' Merlin managed, opening his eyes to squint as if the soft gloaming twilight pained him. 'How did you all get here?'

'We ran,' Lancelot replied, reaching down and pulling Merlin upright, only to curse in surprise when he reeled. Arthur reached out, braced to catch him if he went into a swoon. He managed to keep his feet, but it was obvious Merlin still suffered the lingering effects of what had happened to him. His colour had not yet returned, except for two flags of red on his cheeks. His next breath shattered between his teeth as he shuddered hard, and Arthur stepped closer, already giving out orders.

'Lancelot, try and find some kindling while Perceval digs a fire-pit. Gwaine, Leon, get the horses, we'll need –'

A breathless rush passed over the clearing, as if the world had twisted to reveal a new facet of itself, and Perceval whispered a curse as they all turned around to take in the scene.

Flames blazed cheerfully in a stone-lined hearth, and clay pots sat at its edged. Steam rose from them, and Arthur caught the fragrance of succulent rabbit stew, rich with herbs the way Merlin always made it. Nearby, the horses whinnied, nosing in delight at the lush grass. None of them seemed the worse for wear for whatever magic had brought them here, and nor had they lost any of the provisions or bed-rolls on the unexpected journey.

Not that they needed to worry about sleeping arrangements. To call the structures that had appeared mere tents was doing them a disservice. There were three pavilions in total, each of a decent size, and Arthur could just make out what looked like actual beds nestled in their confines, draped in heavy furs.

Slowly, moving as one, he and the knights turned to look at Merlin.

'Did you do that?' It was hard to read Lancelot's tone, lingering as it did somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

'Not... deliberately.' Merlin grimaced, seeming to find enough strength to inch free of the water. Arthur stuck to his side, ready to catch him if he stumbled.

The moment Arthur's bare feet touched the shore, another whirl of magic danced around him. The moisture vanished from his clothes, and he managed a choked off gasp of shock. Not a single inch of him had been left untouched, and he swallowed hard as arousal burst in his stomach, all heat and temptation.

Because while he knew it had been Merlin's magic, it had felt like the warm, steady sweep of his hands, instead: a lover's caress.

Arthur couldn't tell if the blush on Merlin's face was embarrassment or something else. His eyes looked fever-bright, and the frailty outlining that slender frame seemed to intensify with every step. They inched towards the fire together, and Merlin practically collapsed onto the ground as if his strength was spent.

Arthur lowered himself down at his side, jabbing his elbow into Merlin's ribs. 'What happened?' he demanded. 'Start at the beginning.'

He pursed his lips as Merlin shivered again. The evening air was warm, unseasonably so for the time of year. He wondered if that was because of the tree and the power all around them. Yet it seemed it brought Merlin no comfort. He was not the only one concerned, because Leon emerged from the nearest tent with one of the furs. It was large enough to cover Arthur's bed back in Camelot, which meant there was plenty to bundle around Merlin in a vain effort to warm him up once more.

'Thanks,' he managed, sounding exhausted. He listed a little to one side, and Arthur braced his shoulder against him without question, offering support as he listened to Merlin's halting explanation. He spoke of the clearing covered in dark stone and the gruesome pyramid of skulls; the sacrilegious magic and how it had reached some sort of breaking point – one where Merlin was the only solution.

'I think it's been driving other people away. The fear you felt... I bet anything that anyone without the right kind of magic would have been trapped just the same.'

'And your power suited its needs?' Arthur watched Merlin's profile, seeing those narrow shoulders jerk into a quick shrug. He murmured his thanks as Elyan pressed a bowl of stew into his palms, waiting for Merlin to clasp it in his stiff fingers before stepping back.

'I don't know if it was the ritual calling to me or the place stuck underneath. The tree was always there, or the idea of the tree...' He looked up, blinking at the branches above their heads. Those blue eyes caught the reflection of the leaves in their depths, the silver striking highlights on Merlin's cheekbones and catching in his hair. 'Whoever put the ritual there was long-dead. It had been building power for decades. It needed somewhere to go, and it had me.' He fiddled with his spoon before taking a mouthful of stew, chewing and swallowing before adding, 'It was harder than I expected, that's all.'

Arthur let out a breath, gripping his bowl tight. 'What if we hadn't been able to help you? What if you'd been stuck like that forever, all...?' He trailed off, waving a hand to try and encapsulate the darkness beneath Merlin's skin and the motionless indifference of his body.

Realisation struck him like a sword blow. He could have lost Merlin today. He could have slipped beyond their reach, never to be reclaimed. If not for what Leon had learned from the druids...

Even now, he was not convinced that Merlin was well. There was something fragile about him, as if he might shatter at the slightest touch.

'I'm okay,' Merlin promised, his spoon scraping the bottom of the dish. For all that his movements were slow, he'd packed away the food as if he were ravenous. 'Or I will be. I'm just tired.' He blinked, looking bleary. 'And I feel a bit like I've been struck by lightning.'

Arthur shared a quick, sharp glance with Perceval at that strange description, though he supposed he could understand what Merlin meant. All that power, perhaps he meant that he felt burnt out and frazzled, as if he had been filled to the brim and then left achingly empty.

'Maybe some rest?' Lancelot suggested. The knights had eaten as well, leaving their bowls smeared in gravy but otherwise bare. Even as Arthur watched, the wood wiped itself clean, a few glimmering motes of light the only hint about the forces responsible. 'Perhaps you'll feel better in the morning. You and your magic both?'

Merlin's shoulders slumped beneath the fur, and he curled in on himself, drawing his knees up to his chest. 'Sorry.' He gestured weakly at their surroundings. 'It likes to be helpful.'

Around the fire, the knights glanced at one another, and Arthur could see the world of meaning held in every gaze. There was concern there, true enough, but awe was its foundation. Not that he could blame them. It was obvious that Merlin was using his magic without even trying, almost as if it were leaking out of him. Perhaps none of them truly understood sorcery, but it was clear they had all reached the same conclusion. Merlin, it seemed, was more powerful than any of them had imagined. Whatever he had done today had been a feat worthy of legend, for all that it had passed unseen.

Opposite him, Gwaine caught his eye and tilted his head towards one of the pavilions, his message clear. As it was, Arthur could feel Merlin growing heavier, pressing into his side as he fought off the clutching hands of sleep. He was like a knight at the end of a battle, glassy with shock and exhausted all the way down to his bones. That, at least, he knew how to deal with, even if he didn't understand what Merlin had done to leave himself in such a state.

'Come on,' he urged, nudging the fur-wrapped bundle at his side back towards some semblance of wakefulness. 'Your magic conjured us tents and beds; we might as well make use of them.'

'I'll see to the horses,' Lancelot promised, stepping forward to rest a hand on Arthur's shoulder. 'Call us if you have need of us, Sire.'

'I will.'

The others watched him guide Merlin towards the closest tent, their worry like a cloak across Arthur's shoulders. None of them, he suspected, would be happy until Merlin was his old self again. He only hoped that his recovery came sooner rather than later.

Ushering him through the flap, Arthur raised his eyebrows at the sumptuous interior, taking in the rugs and a low table, with fresh fruit in an azure bowl. Shielded candles lit the corners, making the golden thread in the pavilion's canvas gleam. There was a stunning splendour to what Merlin had conjured, and Arthur almost laughed in disbelief.

'All this time we've been sleeping on the ground while on patrol, and you could have done this?' he chided, easing Merlin down to the bed. There was only one, as big as Arthur's monstrosity back in Camelot, its mattress stuffed with feathers and wool, from the looks of it.

'It's not exactly subtle,' Merlin pointed out, giving Arthur a fond, exhausted look. His words were enough to press home the truth of the matter: a potent reminder that just because Arthur and the knights knew about his magic, it did not mean such sorcery would be accepted by others. Every spell Merlin uttered was treason against Camelot and her king. It was surprisingly easy to forget that simple fact, when faced with such luxurious comforts.

'Lie down,' he urged, looking up when a noise by the tent flap caught his attention. 'Climb under those blankets and get some rest, Merlin. I'll be right back.'

Leon hovered politely at the threshold, his gauntlets stripped from his hands and held in his grasp. His posture was as immaculate as ever, but when Arthur approached, he shifted, bending his head conspiratorially. 'I have not ordered the knights to stand watch. It seems there is no need. There's a strong boundary ward all around the clearing. We are safe, here.'

Once, Arthur might have questioned his claim and ordered someone to stand sentry anyway, but there was no point. He could feel the power surrounding them, a stout wall that could turn aside any blow. It felt as if the world could end and they would remain, cradled amidst Merlin's magic and the mysterious influence of this place.

'Very well. A decent night's sleep would do us all some good. Was there anything else?'

Leon glanced into the shadows of the tent, his gaze resting on Merlin where he was curled within the furs. 'Only that, when I was with the druids, they mentioned rituals such as this. They were not conducted by one man alone. They would work in groups; sharing the burden. The implication was that one sorcerer would not be strong enough to bear the weight.'

'Yet that's exactly what Merlin did.'

Leon raised his eyebrow and nodded, just once: mute acknowledgement. 'It is perhaps time to reconsider what we have all believed of Merlin's magic. Not to see him as a threat, but to better appreciate his abilities. There is clearly far more within his power than any of us realised.'

The words were softly said, and Arthur would thank any and all gods that might be listening for the kindness that saturated Leon's words. He did not speak as a knight of Camelot but as a friend to them both. One eager to see that no one was underestimated.

The knights worked well together because they knew each other. Arthur knew that Lancelot could strike snake-quick but had a tendency to leave his flank open, the same as he had learned that Gwaine used fancy flourishes to distract his opponent and then punched them in the face. They had familiarised themselves with each other's strengths and weaknesses, and that meant they worked together seamlessly.

Knowing Merlin – not just his secret, but his full abilities and his limits – would only bring them all closer.

'You're assuming he knows them himself,' Arthur pointed out, glancing over his shoulder and trying to ignore the surge of fondness that threatened to well up in his chest. 'But I appreciate your advice, old friend. Now go. Get some sleep. I want to head back to Camelot no more than a candle-mark after daybreak.'

'Of course, Sire.'

Leon's bow was fleeting, more habitual than anything else, and Arthur smothered a smile as he turned away. His father might be appalled at the lack of respect his knights showed to him, but Arthur would far rather have their friendship than their lip-service loyalty. He needed men he could trust without question.

Men like Merlin.

Once, the revelation of his sorcery had threatened to tear all that apart, but now Arthur wondered how he could ever have missed what was right in front of him. In hindsight, Merlin's power was obvious, and his efforts at subtlety had been hit and miss at best. He should have seen the truth far sooner. He should have realised just how remarkable Merlin was. Instead, he had seen only what Merlin wanted him to see.

Well, not anymore.

Merlin watched him through lowered lashes, almost asleep, but not quite. His eyes glittered in the candlelight, and he pulled the fur back in mute invitation. The bed was more than big enough for them both, and yet Arthur still dithered. If Merlin were well, he might have been tempted to be a prat and demand he slept on the floor while Arthur enjoyed the comforts of his magic. The temptation to bluster stained the back of his tongue with its flavour, but that was an old habit. Besides, Merlin, more than any of them, needed a good night's rest, and Arthur would not rob him of it.

Perhaps, for his own sanity at least, he should have been the one to make a nest upon the ground, but his aching body decried the notion. It was not just that his muscles still panged from their desperate battle to fight off the shackles of fear from earlier that day. For all its tenderness, something about the ritual had left him spent, as if he had thrown his all at something. It was a strain in the cage of his ribs and the hollow of his head, and one that robbed him of the strength for anything but surrender.

He tried to tell himself it was no different from sleeping at Merlin's side on patrol, but he didn't believe his own reassurance. How could he, when the memory of that soft kiss still warmed his lips? No, whether he liked it or not, there was an extra edge of intimacy to lying beside Merlin now. It was not that what they were to each other had been wrought anew. Rather it was as if it had revealed its true nature, quietly and without fanfare: a foundation stone unearthed.

It was instinct to reach for Merlin as the furs settled over them, curling his fingertips in the fabric of his tunic. Logically, he knew Merlin wasn't going anywhere, but the fear lingered. It brought back to mind the terror of earlier that day and how it had risen to choke him when Merlin darted away, leaving them all behind.

'Idiot,' he whispered, not sure if he was talking to Merlin or himself. Perhaps it applied to them both. Merlin for haring off to face danger alone, the same as always, and Arthur for not realising just how much he stood to lose.

Merlin grumbled a protest at him, but he was too far gone to do more than burrow in at Arthur's side, seeking out his warmth. It made him feel a bit less like a thief stealing slivers of affection. Once, he would have pulled away, denying he had any need for basic, human comfort. Now, he did not bother with his own lies. He draped his hand over Merlin's waist and curled him close, tucking them both together with barely a sliver of space between them.

Perhaps he would regret it tomorrow, but for now, he let himself have this: Merlin's weight, solid and sure, against him.

He did not expect to fall into slumber so quickly, nor to stay lost to oblivion. Nightmares would have been no surprise after the day he had suffered, and yet when Arthur came to once more, he realised he must have been exhausted. The furs lay unruffled around him, and he had not so much as shifted his weight. Merlin was still pressed against him, sharing the same pillow. His brow nudged against Arthur's, and each breath flowed, steady and sure.

The candles had long since wallowed in their wax, but the glow of the tree seeped through the pavilion's fabric, gilding them in silver. It struck itself to starlight on Merlin's cheekbones, and Arthur saw the way his lashes dipped and fluttered over a blink.

He had no idea how long Merlin had been awake, but he quietly delighted in the fact that he had not pulled away or sought his distance. Instead, one hand rested over the thud of Arthur's heart, the pressure unapologetic – as if he had every right to touch.

'Are you all right?' he whispered. He had half thought they would struggle to rouse Merlin come the dawn. He had been so drained the previous day, battered by whatever miracle he had managed. Even as he spoke, he reached up to cover Merlin's hand with his own, relieved to find that he was no longer clammy and pale. The silvery light of the tree gave everything a monotone hue, but no feverish flush lingered on Merlin's face, and when he met Arthur's gaze, his eyes were gleaming and alert.

'Yeah. I'm all right, thanks to you.'

Arthur tried not to flush at Merlin's unapologetic words. Most men would not be so open in their gratitude, but of course, Merlin had never been one to be anything other than earnest. He sounded the same as he did when he said that Arthur would be the best king Camelot had ever known. It was not sycophantic praise or mere opinion. Instead, it was as if Merlin simply spoke some unheeded truth into fact. He had needed help, and Arthur had stepped up without even a second's hesitation.

'And what would have happened if I was not there?' He meant it to sound fierce, but the words that escaped his lips sounded far too desperate for that. 'What if I hadn't been able to save you?'

For once, Merlin didn't try and shrug off the danger in which he'd placed himself. That, more than anything else, gave Arthur his answer. What Merlin had done would have been the end of him if not for Arthur's intervention.

'It was already unstable, and I don't know what all that dark magic might have done to Camelot if it had been unleashed. It needed fixing.'

'By you?'

'Who else is there?' Merlin winced, as if he hated to remind Arthur of the reality that the kingdom now faced: one where Uther's Purge had whittled it down to a shadow of its former self and left it vulnerable to magical attack. His father still sat upon the throne, though Arthur saw him weakening day-by-day. 'The druids aren't strong enough, and most of the other sorcerers of note are either dead, mad, or too angry to consider helping Camelot should we need it.' He shrugged, but he did not look away.

Arthur closed his eyes, ducking his head in acknowledgement of a point well-made. 'I wish...' He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. He hated that Merlin had struggled, burdened by his secret for so long. He loathed how, even now it was known and shared among their most trusted friends, Merlin remained essentially alone: their only defence against the legacy of Uther's Purge. He shook his head, dismissing his words before saying what he really meant.

'Thank you for doing what needed to be done, despite the personal cost. It cannot have been easy.'

Merlin looked away, and now Arthur could just make out the delicate flush that dusted his cheekbones: embarrassment or pleasure, maybe both. 'Thanks for making sure it wasn't the last act of magic I ever performed.'

Arthur's arm tightened reflexively at the thought, giving Merlin a quick squeeze. Their almost-embrace made him think of the cool blessing of the water and how Merlin had steadily stirred back to life at its touch. He recalled the gold blooming in his eyes and the animation coming returning his body; the trust in his expression and the fleeting, gentle warmth of the kiss they had shared.

Merlin's hand shifted, drifting up to rest against Arthur's jaw, cupping his face. His thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, and Arthur tried to push down the tremulous, frightened want that fluttered in his belly. He had taken lovers before, of course, but that had been about a meeting of needs, nothing more. His heart had never troubled itself with getting involved. This, with Merlin, felt like the culmination of something that had been growing between them for years – something that could be the making of him, if he only had the courage to accept it.

'Why did you kiss me?'

Perhaps if it had been a rough challenge, Arthur would have been able to summon up some indifferent excuse. He could have been poised and dismissive, and the potential between them would have withered before it even began. Yet Merlin spoke so softly, his whisper honed with such naked hope that Arthur could not bring himself to ignore it. It was a gentle plea, one that demanded honesty, and he had only one answer to give.

'Because I wanted to.'

He heard the shocked little sip of Merlin's startled breath. He felt the hand against his face tremble, just a touch, but there was nothing like uncertainty in Merlin's expression. His eyes were dark in the soft light, and when his tongue darted out to wet his lips, Arthur followed the movement with his gaze.

The air felt thick and heavy, like honey, and the world beyond the walls of the tent was nothing of any real consequence. There was no waiting kingdom and disapproving father, no throne that would one day be his. There was just the two of them, there in each other's arms, standing on a precipice and eager to fall.

'And now?' Merlin's chest pushed into his as he breathed in, sounding almost wrecked by his own daring. 'Do you still want to?'

It was as easy as it was thrilling. He did not need words, not when Merlin's eyes gleamed in the darkness, those dark lashes fluttering shut in surrender as Arthur closed the scant distance between them. He took what Merlin offered: warm, firm lips against his own, angled just-so, sweet and perfect, yielding and bold. There was no magic rising to its crescendo around them, and no water to cool their skin. It was just the two of them, their lips parting and their breathless little moans stirring the air.

And it was there, beneath the benevolent light of an ancient, magical tree, that he and Merlin found each other anew. They redefined the boundaries of their friendship with shaking hands and racing hearts, acknowledging a love that would survive not only their return to Camelot, but all the many years yet to come.

******

Four Years Later

The great hall brimmed with music and laughter as the court revelled in the celebration of their new king. Not Arthur, who had ascended the throne ten months ago, but Merlin: his husband and his consort.

Nor was it just the courtiers who filled the air with their delight. It was as if the people of all the lands of Camelot had come together, united in their desire to see the promised golden age truly dawn. No longer were the druid's robes drab browns and greens. Instead, they wore stunning blues and dazzling emeralds, bright silver and shocking white. It was as if the shadows of obscurity they had shaken off were a literal thing, and they were left glowing as they stepped into the light.

Magic had returned to Camelot, and not merely in the written word of the law. It had taken time, but bit by bit, those Uther had persecuted for years had realised that the darkest days were over.

'I congratulate you, King Arthur, on this happy occasion.' Aglain's deep voice curled with delight, his grin wide and unapologetic as he offered a bow, which Arthur returned in equal measure. It was a respect not born of rank but of common friendship and understanding. One he treasured. 'It does my heart good to see this.' He swept his hand out to the side, his golden robes gleaming as he indicated the revelry around them. 'Though it is perhaps no surprise, considering what came to pass at the Aldorbeam.'

It had taken years to discover what, exactly, Merlin had freed from the dark magic on that fateful day. The best he had been able to tell Arthur was that it was something old and sacred. It had been the druids themselves, with tears in their eyes, who had spoken of the Life-Tree: a holy place for many that had been lost long ago and bound forever beyond their reach thanks to the Purge. At least until the day Merlin came along.

'It was Merlin's pleasure to cleanse it,' Arthur murmured, repeating the same thing Merlin said every time one of the druids mentioned it, hoping to curtail their rapturous praise. After all, he had not reached out to save it in the hopes of receiving recognition. He had felt the need and answered, healing a wound within Arthur's kingdom that he had never known existed.

'Yet he did not do it alone. You were there.'

Arthur paused, turning to look at Aglain more fully, his curiosity piqued. 'I played no part in the magic.'

'Did you not?'

Arthur restrained a sigh. One of the things he had grown used to, since the druids returned to Camelot, was their sometimes-enigmatic advice. It seemed, however, he did not quite hide his irritation from view, because Aglain waved his hand, hastening to explain with a smile upon his lips.

'He cleansed the site, but you freed him from the power that would have otherwise destroyed him. You, Your Majesty, acted as his anchor. It is not a role merely anyone could fulfil. It speaks of connection.'

'Two sides of the same coin,' he murmured, remembering the words of the prophecy all too well. Both he and Merlin were determined to walk their own path, but sometimes it was hard to deny the fates. That turn of phrase, especially, had always felt apt. Neither one of them was broken without the other, but nor could they reach their fullest potential.

'Exactly.' Aglain pressed his hand over his heart, inclining his head once more. 'I am glad that you have found happiness, King Arthur. Long may it continue.'

He gave his thanks, letting out a quiet breath as he watched Aglain weave his way through the crowd. The druids believed that this marriage was a matter of destiny and his council claimed it to be one of diplomacy. After all, a wedding bond was a traditional way to mend the rift between two nations. Perhaps magic itself had no borders, but there were reparations to be made all the same. They were wrong, all of them, but Arthur was happy to let them cling to their beliefs.

'I said no crown.'

Merlin's elbow dug into Arthur's side, making him laugh. He turned to face his husband, attempting to smother the delighted thrill at the notion that he was now allowed to call him such. He looked resplendent in a shade of blue that matched his eyes, embellished with silver that gleamed in the candlelight. Yet the thread could not shine as brightly as the circlet that nestled in Merlin's curls. Arthur's was commissioned to match, neither crown bigger than the other. The only difference was the colour, and even then, that was only because Merlin insisted Arthur's be gold instead.

'You should know by now I don't listen to you,' he teased, stepping closer and lowering his voice. 'You'll get used to it.'

'I'm taking it off the moment we get out of here.'

'Really?' Arthur grinned, feeling wicked. 'I had rather thought I'd like you to wear it to bed.'

He would never tire of the way Merlin flushed, his cheeks pink and his eyes bright with laughter. He could not kiss him here in front of all the court. He certainly couldn't ravage him as he wanted to. That would come later; he'd make sure of it.

'Prat,' Merlin chided, giving Arthur the kind of look that made delicious promises.

'You love me.'

Merlin's grin softened, one eyebrow lifting as he looked into Arthur's eyes. 'Yeah,' he admitted, 'I really do.'

Arthur grinned as his heart glowed, far too bright to be contained. Let the druids believe that this was a matter of fate and the council claim it was all for political expediency. He did not care what any of them thought, not when he knew the truth.

Today was not about the crowns they wore or the thrones that awaited them. It was not the demesne of kingdoms and courts. It was about the love they shared for one another, plain and unadorned, unfaltering and eternal.

And that would never change.

#Merlin #Merthur #My Fanfic

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rotworld · 13 days ago

Text

26: Swan Song

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

the sorcerer-king of the fallows is neither alive nor dead. he's the only one who can help you now. you just hope he isn't holding a grudge from the last time you saw each other.

->original work. contains graphic descriptions of gore and decay, forced/political marriage, mass murder, memory loss.

No one would believe you if you told them that the Fallows were once the gem of Tiralossa. They would question if this twisted, sickly swampland is really known by such a pastoral name.

But it was, and it is. The trees were not always jagged, malformed things, pale like bone. The grasses were green and gold and swayed gently in the wind, unlike this sparse gray prickliness jutting from the mud. Where there is now turbid water and soggy peat, there was once a small kingdom in its budding springtime youth. The boughs of orchard trees grew heavy with succulent fruit and petals danced in the Meadowlands on sweet-smelling breezes.

There are few who remember it and many who are eager to forget. A curse lingers here. You can feel it the moment your shoes sink into the damp, clinging muck and the chilly fog curls around your skin. The wind carries the sound of distant screams and the scent of blood. No birds sing and no beasts graze. The Fallows hunger for anything that dares to live with a lover’s eagerness. Bodies claimed by the mire remain where they fell years after, preserved in grim, gaunt-faced stillness by the murky waters of the bog.

It wants you, too. The land fights you for every step. The mud suckles at your shoes and sloshes around the ends of your cloak, trying to drag you into the embrace of the swamp. The trees sway towards you with their twisted, grasping limbs. You trudge through fog that sticks like cobwebs. The wind is cold breath on the back of your neck and a ceaseless, seductive whisper.

“Rest your head, lovely one,” it purrs purrs. “Come back into my arms.” Several times, your feet are caught in a snare of tangled, waterlogged grasses that feel like hands wrapped around your ankles. But you move slowly and calmly, trudging onward through the gloom. The Fallows coos and sighs your name. It will not try to trap you in earnest yet, not while you walk deeper into its forever decaying heart.

You walk until you find the ruins. Only the strongest stonework has survived the ravages of time, crumbling pillars and lone, lichen-speckled arches half-sunken in the mud. There is a circular patch of rough, weatherbeaten flooring that was once fine terrazzo marble, the colorful speckles dulled and covered in moss. The air feels different here. You stand in the center and you think you can hear the clink of crystal goblets and the distant laughter. With a deep breath and great reluctance, you lift your hand and cast the sigils of beckoning.

“I seek an audience with Erazem, Sorcerer-King of the Fallows,” you declare. Your magic is a weak, strangled trickle, barely enough to conjure a sprout to bloom, but it doesn’t matter. Your call doesn’t have to reach the far side of the Veil.

The air shifts when you speak the words. You hear music and clattering footsteps, the sounds of a ballroom. Stone scrapes stone and walls rebuild. The old palace does not appear in its former glory but as a decrepit phantom. Torches burn with eerie blue flame and climbing vines snake through the spaces in the walls and floor.

You see silhouettes, the layered gowns and puffed doublets of courtiers slipping past the corner of your vision. They slink just beyond the grasp of shadows but you glimpse them in those fleeting moments when they dance close. Glassy eyes and blue lips. Ragged silks and water-stained cloaks. Desiccation and decay. Their steps are squelching, leaving muddy footprints behind. Some are missing hands, or eyes, or lower jaws. Are they ghosts or restless corpses? They watch you and whisper.

“Do my eyes deceive me?”

The darkness churns. A shadow slips free, inky tendrils falling away to reveal a tall figure in a trailing robe of black and indigo. It was a beautiful garment once, each draping layer glimmering softly as if woven from the night sky, but its luster has faded. The long sleeves hang limp and tattered. The cinching sash at the waist is gone and it hangs open, revealing not flesh but the pale line of a sternum and the delicate curl of a ribcage. Behind bars of bone, a still heart emanates a sickly green glow.

The Sorcerer-King steps forward gracefully, the ragged black train of his robe crusted and dragging with moss and filth. Glowing emerald eyes peer at you from behind a curtain of long, unkempt hair, black as ink and flat with dampness as if he just crawled out of a watery grave. He draws closer, stopping on the other side of a circular tile in the center of the floor with the floral crest of his fallen kingdom adorning the stone. Close enough to reach out and touch. You watch each other carefully.

“Erazem,” you greet him.

He nods. “Consort.” His lips don’t move when he speaks and his voice is an echo, a sound that fills your head.

“I’m not your consort.”

“You would have been,” he says wistfully. “You nearly were. And here, where time does not truly pass, you nearly are forevermore. The anticipation grows unbearable at times.” He glances down and presses a hand to his ribs, the ghostly light of his frozen heart glimmering between his slender fingers.

“I need your help,” you admit.

Erazem’s gaze meets yours. His lips, dry, cracked and bloodlessly pale, stretch into a smile. “My help?” he echoes, savoring the word. “How curious. Do tell. Would you like to sit?”

He gestures to an armchair that wasn’t there before, shiny red velvet on a wooden frame. It’s situated beside a tall arched window. Beyond the glass, a raging inferno runs wild across the Fallows. It’s not a natural fire but a magical one, vivid green and moving with predatory intent. It races across the hills and tears through the orchards, snatching birds from the air and slithering up the walls of half-timbered houses to crawl through the windows.

It does not burn what it catches. It rots them. Skin turns loose and sloughing, spotted with mold and festering necrosis. Joints soften, hands falling apart one finger at a time. Eyes dribble liquid from drooping sockets and hair falls out in scalp-sticky clumps. And they won’t die. The fire won’t let them. They will rot, they will fall apart, they will writhe in the mud and scream until their lungs are shriveled, but they will not die.

One cannot risk a killing curse against a conjurer, for every conjurer is capable of retaliating with a curse of their own at the moment of their death. And so the fire binds but does not burn, rots but does not kill, and the Fallows becomes both alive and dead, kingdom and prison, for all of time.

Your stomach churns and you turn away from the window. The haunting glow of the curse-fire flickers against Erazem’s face.

“We are a fickle people, are we not?” he muses. “One day, I am the true king and chosen one. The next, I am a tyrant deserving of an execution that never ends.”

“You’re missing several steps in the middle,” you tell him.

His shoulders shake with soft laughter. “There is that blistering honesty I have missed so terribly. Tell me, what became of the one who destroyed my fledgling kingdom?”

You swallow hard. “He was pardoned.”

“Perhaps I should be flattered,” Erazem says. “To be hated so terribly that the Conclave could excuse the undeath of everyone unfortunate to live under my rule—”

“He wants to marry me.”

Erazem says nothing for a moment. Eerie, unnatural silence fills the air. His court is motionless and speechless, even the softest scandalized whisper suddenly gone, the dark droplets hanging from the tips of their hair refusing to fall. The air is frigid. The oppressive damp stench of the swamp fills your lungs. He reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek no more firmly than spider’s silk. Curtains peel back and a new window opens on your other side, the light pouring through it almost blindingly bright. You don’t look because you don’t have to. You know what he sees.

That’s the rosy glow of a castle dining hall you know all too well. You’ve served there for several years now, a royal conjurer in the court of its king. You owe him. You have ever since you fled the Fallows years ago, stealing away in the night to escape a king who grew ever more covetous and an engagement you did not want. Most would not have accepted you upon hearing where you’d come from. Most would have turned you away, not willing to risk the ire of the Sorcerer-King. But there was great need for a conjurer and you would do anything asked of you. Anything at all.

Anything but this.

“A political marriage.” Erazem’s gaze as he looked through the window frightens you. He could be warm and kind and endlessly charming, but he could also be unfathomably cold and cruel. He liked to hold you when he returned from the dungeons, still drenched in the blood and viscera of those who displeased him. “Ironic. What drove you to him now drives you back to me. And your groom-to-be, skilled cursewielder that he is…” He pauses, turning his cold gaze upon you. Before you can shrink away, he rips at your cloak and the robes underneath. He clicks his tongue when you fight and struggle against him and flicks his fingers, his magic sapping away your strength.

He is your opposite, as always. Your magic is beckoning and growth, the swell of life.

His is banishment and withering, the void of death.

You sag in his arms and he wraps an arm around you as though to dip you in a waltz. He leans in, his hair falling in a black curtain that blocks out everything but the curse-fire green of his eyes. His other hand tugs at the neckline of your clothes until he finds what he was looking for—a mark of binding, raised and discolored like a scar, seared into your chest. “I wondered why your call to me was such a faint whisper. Your magic is trapped.” He traces the mark with his thumb, smiling bitterly. “Why did I never think of that?”

You fight not to shiver when his eyes flick up to your face. You knew the risks when you came here. If you had any other choice, you would’ve taken it. But the binding is unbreakable, as absolute and endless as the fire that claimed the Fallows. You would rather lose your magic entirely than have to coax it from the whims of a mercurial, kingdom-annihilating husband.

Erazem chuckles. “I jest,” he says. He covers the mark and lets you go, watching with faint amusement as you stagger and fight to stay on your feet. “Such a thing is beneath me. I would have had your heart in time.” He paces, his hands clasped behind his back, circling you slowly. “You were right to come to me. No other can aid you. Even in life, I may have lacked the power to fully remove such a curse. But now…” He shuts the window to your loathsome past with the flick of his rest. Green light sizzles around his fingers and his skin grows translucent.

You watch him warily, clutching your torn clothes together to shield your skin from the chilly air. “And in return?” you ask.

He chuckles and the sound echoes in your head. “What do you think I might ask for in return, my consort?”

“Isn’t there anything else I can give you? Anything else you want?”

He turns towards the other window, watching the Fallows die and live and die again. “I have my kingdom. I have my courtiers and my subjects. I have power unlike anything I could even imagine before. I have life everlasting, such as it is. There is only one thing I yearn for.” He looks back at you and your heart skips a beat.

There he is, just as you remember him. That’s the kind face that greeted you when you first arrived, trembling and afraid in the back of a carriage. Those are the lips that kissed the back of your hand and spoke an oath that you would be free here, unbound by any obligation. He was a conjurer, too. He understood what hardship you had faced, how you had been used and traded and sent into battle. It would not happen again.

“We are fallow,” said the Sorcerer-King, your husband to be, as he tucked a flower plucked from the Meadowlands behind your ear. “We have been pruned and prodded and beaten down to give them what they desire. This is our season of rest, my treasure. You will bloom when you are ready, not before.”

Tears sting your eyes. You love him almost as much as you fear him. “Will it hurt?” you ask hoarsely.

Erazem smiles softly. “It will sting for a moment. A prick to the skin, over the mark. You will not feel the rest.” He holds out his hand, flames swirling around his fingers and dancing in his palm. “I will be gentle. I always am, with you.”

Your hand is shaking. The air above his palm is frigid and frost kisses your skin. When you touch him, he closes his fingers gently around yours and pulls you into his arms. You squeeze your eyes shut but the pain never comes. For a time, he just holds you. He buries his face against your neck, breathing in your scent. One of his hands drifts down to your back and he starts to move slowly, his other hand still clasping yours. He encourages you to move with him. To come forward when he steps back. To follow his gentle swaying.

He’s dancing, you realize. Leading you in the smooth, romantic steps he taught you years ago, a waltz unique to the Fallows. His smile brightens when you meet his gaze almost shyly, self-conscious just like you were the first time he brought you to the ballroom for a private lesson. You press close together, chest to chest. You close your eyes and breathe deeply.

You smell flowers.

Startled, you open your eyes to the silvery glint of starlight. Erazem spins you and your steps click smoothly over a smooth, polished stone floor. You’re surrounded by the revelry and excitement of a grand ball, colorful tapestries hanging on the walls. A star-conjurer has lit the tall, muraled ceiling with constellations and a false moon and everything is deep, midnight blue. Through the stone-framed rounded windows, you see the Fallows—rolling hills and lush, verdant trees, sparkling lakes and thatch-roof houses.

“Love?”

You look up into soft hazel eyes. He’s wearing his finest robes, the starry ones that fold across his body with elegant, billowing sleeves and a sash at his waist with silver embroidery, but his hair is unruly as always. It’s coming loose from the single long braid he tied it in earlier, unraveling on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Your face feels unbearably hot and your eyes are stinging like you’re about to cry. You look around the ballroom, trying to get your bearings. When did you get here? “I don’t know,” you say, your throat constricted and your voice thin. “I…I feel like I just woke up. Like I was having a nightmare.”

His expression softens. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No.” You hold onto him tightly. “Please. Just hold onto me.”

“Of course.” He sways gently, keeping you close. “Is there something on your mind?” he asks, his voice quiet and gentle. Your heart is racing and your palms are slick with sweat. “You can tell me. I will listen, I promise. I would do anything to put your mind at ease.”

“Would you wait?” you whisper.

Erazem tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. “Wait?”

“Would you…” You look around nervously. At the tapestries with the royal crest, and the false moonlight, and the courtiers gathered with smiles and congratulations on their lips. “Would you postpone the wedding?” Erazem doesn’t answer and your fear builds to shivering panic. “I always knew this would happen to me,” you admit, the words coming quick and quivering with fresh tears. “I’m a conjurer. Of course I knew. This is what happens to us, we get traded around and married off and whatever else we have to do. And this is the best thing I could ever hope for, marrying a king who’s like me. But I’m still sad, and I’m still afraid. You scare me sometimes. I don’t think you mean to, but you do. And I just, I don’t—”

“Love.” Erazem cradles your face in his hands, his thumb swiping away a tear just as it starts to fall. His eyes are shining like he’s about to cry, too. “Of course I can wait.”

You inhale shakily. Your heart feels lighter. Why were you so sure he would refuse? You had the strangest feeling of deja vu until just a moment ago. “Really?” you ask sheepishly.

“Yes,” he says. He really is crying. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him do that before. His tears keep coming, sliding down his cheeks and gathering on his chin. “Darling, I will wait as long as you want me to. We…” He stops, swallows, and wipes his face with his hand. “We have all the time in the world.”

No one would have believed you if you told them that the Fallows was once the gem of Tiralossa before, but for just one night, they would. Tonight, for just a moment, they say the fog cleared and the gloom lifted. The thin, crooked trees were great giants with fruit so plentiful it weighed down their leafy branches. The grass was golden and green and pillow-soft, and the green hills seemed to stretch on forever. They say the Meadowlands bloomed beneath the full moon in such joyous splendor that it smelled like spring for miles.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #original

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cyberwhumper · 20 days ago

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“You can sell the guns.” The words are so quiet, murmured through the kid’s blue-tinged lips, Rex almost doesn’t hear them. “Keep…keep the horse. She’s good…be real good f’r you…”

Rex growls low in his chest. “Quit talkin’ like that. Ain’t ever known you to give up so easy.”

The ghost of a smile crosses Montez’s face. “You ain’t ever…known me…at all, lobo.” He’s leaning heavy on Rex, head bowed under the weight of lost blood and cold in his bones, and Rex curses under his breath. The kid’s not dying on him here. Not now.

“You ain’t allowed to bite it. I don’t get paid so much if I show up with a corpse.”

“Yo…se. M’sorry. That’s why I said…sell the guns…”

Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. Rex feels like he’s gone half-mad himself. He shouldn’t give a rat’s ass if Montez lives or dies. He’ll still get half the bounty, and the ride back will be a hell of a lot quieter without the kid yapping beside him. And Montez’s black mare is a real beauty.

He could sell the guns.

“...God damn you to hell, kid.”

The pass is thigh-deep in drifting snow. Rex tugs his hat way down low over his brow, squinting against the wind, and spurs the horses on towards a tangled copse of pines. There’s a scanty little lean-to among them, he can just spy, somebody’s abandoned hunting blind, and it ain’t much, but it’s something.

Montez is in and out of consciousness, drifting just as much as the snow is. He’s got barely any weight to him as Rex gathers him into his arms, like some stupid parody of a man carrying his bride. Christ knows neither of them are ever gonna get to do that for real. He blinks heavy lids up at Rex as the bounty hunter lays him down, eyes unfocused, big and dark and wet as a calf’s.

“Easy, boy.”

The pines are dense enough that there’s still some pockets of dry wood in the boughs, and the pitch makes it catch the sparks off Rex’s steel real hungrily. He pulls Montez into his lap, as close to the fire as he possibly can, and yanks the kid’s shirt open, none too gentle.

“Mmn…que…haces…”

“I said easy.” Rex growls again. Montez took the shot right in the fucking gut, just down left of the navel. A hit like that is almost as much of a death sentence as the price on his head is.

Almost.

Rex drags his hunting pack over, cradling Montez in the crook of one arm as he digs out his knife and the last of the whiskey.

“Drink,” he orders, coaxing the kid’s pale lips apart with a knuckle. “This is gonna hurt.”

“Ahh…Dios…te salve…María…llena eres…”

“Shut up, kid.” He gets a slug of whiskey down Montez’s throat for the pain, one into himself for courage, and the last of it splashed onto the bullet hole, making Montez whine and buck weakly against Rex’s hold. “I know. I know. Here.” He unsheathes the knife and rests the blade in the fire, slipping the leather belt between Montez’s chattering teeth. “Bite.”

The leather isn’t enough to fully silence the howl that tears out of the kid’s throat when Rex sinks the red-hot point of the knife into him. The sound makes Rex’s stomach clench a little, to say nothing of the smell, but he digs the bullet out quick as a snake, and lucky for the both of them, Montez is fully unconscious before Rex has the knife reheated to press the flat of it to the wound.

Rex lets out a breath he didn’t fully realize he was holding, sending a white plume of fog in the air. He gently pulls the belt free of Montez’s slackened jaws and bundles the kid’s limp body close against his chest, as far inside of Rex’s big leather duster as he can get him, resting his head against his own broad shoulder.

He really does have the eyelashes of a baby cow, Rex thinks. He finds himself staring at Montez’s face openly. Softly. The curve of his nose, the hollowness beneath his eyes, the line of his throat down to his bared chest, the slightest ragged rise and fall of it. He’s so goddamn cold. Rex brings hesitant fingertips up to trace the rosary around his neck, letting the turquoise beads slip between his fingers the way he’s seen Montez do a hundred times, rolling the crucifix between his knuckles.

The Lone Wolf never learned how to pray, but. He thinks you get credit for trying.

“Dios te salva…Maria…weyva…fuck. Please. God. Whoever. Please, just let him…let him make it through the night. Just through the night, kid. Please…”

[Fic by the exceptionally talented @bxtterflystxtches , who I have the honor of collaborating with for this event. Please show him some love!]

[OC INDEX]

COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN!

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#whumptober2024 #no.19 #One Way Out #OC #art #blood #whump #whumpblr #whumpee #multiple whumpees #cowboy whump #whump art #original character #original story #Rex Engelhart #Victory Montez #tokimeki art #AU #vaquero au

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judeswhore · 1 year ago

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I've had this idea about the fireplace :(

imagine the beginning of your relationship and the first night sleeping in his home. you'd lay with your head on his chest, your legs tangled up together. the fireplace and the candle that would smell so homely would be the only sources of the light in his room :( and he'd tell you stories from when he was a baby and some silly little jokes, so that you'll feel more comfortable. you'd just cuddle and share some kisses and it'd be the most special night :(

when the weather is really cold too so he’s given u one of his hoodies to wear for extra warmth when really his body heat is enough but it smells like him and it’s so comfy u couldn’t say no. he’s lit the candles he bough specifically for u bc he’s seen them in ur room and literally went on a hunt for them bc he wants u to feel at home :(( laying tucked against his side w ur head on his chest and his hand is under the hoodie, fingers tracing so softly over ur skin and it has both of u almost falling asleep. kissing so softly between conversations abt ur days and ur plans for the next day since ur both free and jude’s talking abt how u have to come to his next match and that u can sit w his mam and meet his teammates and ur trying not to grin so big bc he sounds so excited abt that

#hey jude :)

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lambtotheslaughterr · 1 year ago

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When The Bough Breaks : Part Five

A Rafe Cameron Mini Series

[THIS STORY WILL CONTAIN THEMES OF NON-CON/DUB-CON, MENTAL-EMOTIONAL-PHYSICAL ABUSE, ETC. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. 18+. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT]

WC: 4.5k

Dividers provided by @firefly-graphics

PART FOUR | MASTERLIST | PART SIX

There was an evident tan line on your ring finger from your wedding band. You rubbed your thumb over it, rubbing your skin raw until it hurt. A shudder passed through your lips. Your hands shook. You couldn’t believe what you had done…

A hot, wet heat woke you up. You moaned, forcing your bleary eyed open. Instantly, your hands reached for the source of pleasure, your fingers finding a head & handful of hair between your thighs.

“What…?” You attempted to sit up, but a hand snaked up the center of your body, palm pressed flat between your breasts pushing you back down. You didn’t resist.

“Oh, god…” You bit your lip. A tongue swiped along your folds. Your pussy pooled with your juices below the wicked mouth that had its way with you.

You hadn’t felt this good in so so long. The tongue delved into your pussy, fanning the flames of your growing desire. On instinct, you bucked your hips, wanting the sensation deeper, harder. You could feel a smile against your sensitive nub. A choked gasp parted your lips as the mouth hungrily ate you out.

The room spun around you. The mattress you lied on felt like you were being carried miles above the earth. All you could feel, see, be was the sensations that he was providing for you.

His hands gripped your hips, burying his face deeper, taking you all in. Your hands desperately tangled themselves in the sheets & pillow cases. The coil in your stomach grew tighter with every delve & swipe of a tongue. A growl surfaced from between your legs & the vibrations reached your swollen clit.

You cried out, begging for completion. Again, your hips bucked, aching for that sweet release. Disappointment flooded you when the pressure suddenly disappeared. But it was quickly extinguished when two fingers slid into you. Another wonton mewl passed your lips.

“Just like that, baby.” The voice that came from between your legs made you frown but you didn’t have the capacity to think about it when the fingers curled & sped up.

“Oh, fuck.” You cried, feeling your legs fall open wider to take as much as you could get.

Your nipples tightened, your muscles burned with icy fire, the noises choked deep in your throat. You rode the fingers fucking your pussy until you threw your head back, crying out. The coil snapped & singed. Gyrating with the flood of pressure, you reached down, your nails digging into the wrist that had two fingers deep inside you. You held it, your nails digging into the skin, fucking yourself on the hand until your orgasm completed.

A light layer of sweat coated your whole body as you fell back to earth. You licked your lips lazily, coating your dry mouth. The body between your legs chuckled lightly to itself, crawling out from under the sheets. His lips & chin were glistening from your cum, but he was grinning wildly.

Then, through the post-orgasm haze, your eyes adjusted exactly to who it was in your bed.

Moses had always been a generous lover, caring more about your pleasure than his own. But even you knew during that wake-up call that it wasn’t him. Still, you desperately hoped it was just some insane sex dream you were having.

But it wasn’t. Rafe Cameron was lying next to you, his hand gently massaging the skin around your stomach, his eyes drinking your nude form in. You didn’t need to mirror his action to know he was naked, too.

Fuck. You groaned inwardly, sitting up. What had you done?

“Did we…?” Of course you did. You knew that. Slowly but all at once did the memories from last night come racing back to you.

Rafe’s unexpected arrival, the heavy drinking, the deep talks, the laughter, the looks. Then his hands. His mouth. His voice in your ear, his fingers at the apex between your legs.

You had slept with Rafe Cameron. More so, you had cheated on Moses.

Who were you becoming?

Sliding out from under Rafe’s touch, you hurriedly covered yourself with a sheet, leaving him completely bare on your bed. As you searched for his discarded clothes, you felt the burn of his eyes. You couldn’t look at him. Moses had been right; your drinking had pushed you to limits you thought you’d never reach.

“_____.” The sound of your name coming from the young man’s mouth made you cringe. Bile rose in your throat. Shaking off the temporary nausea, you found his jeans & tossed them towards him, “You need to leave.”

A scoff sounded behind you but you dismissed it. Not waiting for him to dress, you made a break for the bathroom, wanting to escape the suffocating bedroom. But you barely made it cross the threshold when a viselike grip snatched your wrist, stopping you.

“Don’t.” You muttered firmly, closing your eyes, “We shouldn’t of…”

You couldn’t even say it.

“I don’t regret it.” His voice was low, seductive, persuasive… “Neither do you.”

“I’m married!” You hissed, finally turning to face him.

God, even as you looked at him then he wasn’t the abrasive, invasive, annoying neighbor of yours but a handsome young man with a charm about him whose hands, & mouth, made you feel things you had never quite felt before.

“Barely.” He pressed his face into your neck, his lips finding the skin there. You gripped the doorframe, unsure if you should tear yourself away from him or bring him closer. You couldn’t trust yourself with the decision.

“Besides,” Rafe continued, his lips leaving a trail of soft kisses along your jawline, “I don’t care that you’re married. It didn’t stop me last night. It’s not going to stop me tomorrow. Or the day after that.” His mouth captured yours, “Or the day after that…”

You moaned regretfully into his mouth. His body pressed against yours. The thin sheet wrapped around your body was tugged from your hands, leaving you entirely exposed to the 20 year old before you. Though his touch made you feel like you were eighteen again, you imagined he couldn’t be attracted to your body. It wasn’t tight, supple, soft.

Gently you pulled away from him, preparing to reach for the sheet a second time. It didn’t matter how open you were last night. The woman you were when you drank was the polar opposite of who you were sober. Rafe would have to be disappointed.

But before you could finger the fabric, he kicked it away. A hand found itself gently grasping your neck as he angled your head to look up at him. His eyes never left your own, “You are the sexiest fucking woman I have ever seen.”

He didn’t even close his eyes as he kissed you hotly. His hands gripped the globes of your ass, lifting until you were forced to wrap your legs around him. The hard heat pressed against your center made it clear what was going to occur next.

Rafe pushed you into the shower, kissing away any doubts you had & fucking the fight out of you.

You couldn’t believe what you had done…

“You are a horrible, horrible person.” You said quietly to no one but yourself.

Rafe Cameron ended up fucking you at least three more times before he left early the following evening from your night together. You couldn’t deny the chemistry that was there. The sexual tension could set the world on fire. Even thoughts about Moses died. With Rafe, you were anything but an alcohol-dependent, depressed, childless woman. Rafe made you feel alive again.

But all of that came crashing down when you closed the door behind him, being left alone with the actions you had consensually allowed to happen.

Moses didn’t deserve to be cheated on, on top of everything else.

You held your head in your hands, grueling over the last 48 hours.

The adoption papers that you mistook for divorce papers. The fight with Moses. Crying & sleeping most of the day away. Getting intentionally recklessly drunk. Allowing Rafe into your home. Allowing him into your body. Sleeping with him more than once. Enjoying it. Not thinking about Moses, just how Rafe made you feel.

Maybe divorce is the way… You thought to yourself, but the thought alone made your heart break. You loved Moses. He was your person.

But if you loved him, how could you have an affair? Your inner thoughts challenged you, making you feel more guilty.

He wanted to adopt! You argued to yourself. Adopt?! What could he have been thinking? Had you been the patient type, you’re sure you would’ve learned what he was thinking when he brought those papers to you, but you never claimed to be patient. Regardless, you couldn’t do it. Even if you were sober, no longer in pain, happy, smiling. You couldn’t adopt. Though you understood enough that Moses had the best intentions by providing a loving home & stable family to an orphaned child, you could only be a mother to one.

And he was gone.

You shook away the thoughts, tucking your wedding ring in a miscellaneous drawer in the kitchen before brewing yourself some coffee. It was late evening, almost eight. Rafe left only a couple hours ago.

He had taken your phone, convincing you to take his number, & his yours.

But you had not heard a word from him.

You couldn’t let yourself be surprised. But you were surprised by the fact that you were feeling a little let down by it. Of course, you reminded yourself that Rafe was young. He was college aged, he was doing coke in bathrooms, having parties with other people his age. Rafe was doing & being what he should be doing & being. You on the other hand, you were a fantasy to him, a successful experience. You couldn’t expect him to be completely infatuated by you. The night with him was nice. You cherished it as much as you could without feeling guilty.

The coffee mug announced its completion & you were preparing to pour yourself a mug when your phone pinged.

Your heart clambered. With a concerning amount of speed, you unlocked your phone, a smile already on your face before you read the text. But the smile soon fell.

It was Sarah.

Hey _____. Sorry I missed your call. Went out on the water for a couple days with my boyfriend. I’m back on the island now. I’m really glad you called though. I wanted to apologize again for what happened a few days ago. Rafe left me a ton of messages, said he was at your place all night waiting for a call back, so I’m sorry again that you had to be around him.

You winced. Not only had you slept with your dangerously attractive younger neighbor, but you had slept with the brother of one of the only people on the island whose friendship mattered to you.

Everyone is going to be gone tomorrow. Rose and dad are gone for the weekend, Wheezie is spending the weekend at our cousins, and Rafe said he had plans so if you have the time and are interested I would like for you to come over in the morning so I can make up to you the breakfast I attempted earlier this week. If not, that’s okay, and I understand. Please just let me know.

I hope you’re doing well. I look forward to seeing you.

Your fingers hovered over the message, rereading it over & over again. Your stomach flipped at the prospect of being inside the Cameron hell house again. Though Sarah claimed it’d be just her, you couldn’t even trust her promise. What little you knew about the Cameron’s, you knew enough that they were unpredictable. And without Moses there to back you up, you weren’t sure you could stand on your own two feet in that mansion.

But before you knew it, you found yourself typing a response & hitting send.

I’ll be there at 10.

You placed your phone face-down, already regretting agreeing to the breakfast date.

You had already fucked up though. An affair, divorce on your mind.

What worse could happen?

The walk of the Cameron’s driveway proved to be difficult & dreadful. There were no cars in the driveway, but there hadn’t been last time either that you could recall. You truly weren’t sure if you’d be walking into a full house again or not. But since Sarah had claimed it would just be her, you dressed simply, not putting a lot of effort into your appearance. She was someone who made you feel comfortable doing that.

You had slept restlessly all night, though. Fortunately, your anxiety for the following morning made you forget all about your sexual tryst with Rafe. However, as your steps found you closer & closer to the mansion, your eyes danced around the many windows of the house, expecting to see him in any one of them.

You knocked three times on the door before waiting for a minute for it to answer. You hadn’t bothered telling Sarah you were on your way, or that you were even going to be early. Because you couldn’t fully trust the situation you were about to put yourself in, you wanted to gain some sort of upper hand by showing up unannounced. Thankfully though, it was Sarah & Sarah alone who answered the door.

She looked radiant. Her tan skin was glowing, her blonde hair was thick & wavy. She smiled brightly at you, & unlike Rose’s smile, you didn’t feel blinded by hers.

“_____.” You could tell she felt unsure if she could hug you or not so you offered it first, stepping forward with your arms out. Sarah hugged you shortly before you pulling you gently inside.

Sarah was talking about the spread for breakfast but you were too busy not listening. Instead, your eyes were peeking around corners looking for people who shouldn’t be there. But in a separate dining nook different from the one you had dined in previously, Sarah still proved to be the only person in the house. There weren’t even any kitchen staff.

Sure enough though, the spread on the kitchen island was impressive. It was hard to believe she put it all together herself.

“Send the staff home early?” You questioned jokingly, but seriously.

Sarah laughed softly but shook her head, “I prefer making my own food.”

On the island, your eyes danced from dish to dish. Hot oatmeal with fruit, a plate of steamed croissants, every variety of egg possible. You couldn’t help your jaw falling.

“Sarah…” You began, smiling, “You really didn’t have to do all this. It’s just breakfast.”

“I know, I know.” She nodded, grabbing two plates from a cabinet, “But I really do feel bad about what happened. And besides, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

You ignored the growing guilty feeling in your chest.

She offered you a plate & you took it, more than happy to dish yourself up a hearty meal. You were also relieved to get straight to breakfast & not do the small talk first. Eating always made uncomfortable situations less uncomfortable.

The two of you sat a table in the corner that was surrounded by windows over-looking the backyard lawn you conversed with Rafe Cameron on for the first time. The memory caused a stir in your stomach.

“Are you okay?” Sarah’s questioned surprised you. You must’ve been making a face.

You rolled your eyes, “Haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Are you okay?” She asked again, though this time with more concern.

You wanted to tell her no, to be honest, to spill everything as if she was one of your closest girlfriends back in the city. But she wasn’t. She was Sarah Cameron, an 18-year old girl in the midst of her own womanhood & independence.

She was also the sister of the man you had a full day of sex with but that you really tried to ignore.

“I’m okay.” You peeled a piece of croissant off, bringing it to your mouth. It melted wonderfully, making you moan. “This is amazing, Sarah, thank you.”

“Of course!” She beamed.

The two of you ate with some talk here & there, but it wasn’t until you helped her clean up & sat down at the back patio table with some tea that the conversation grew more serious.

“About what happened…” Sarah began, “I can’t say it enough, _____, I really am sorry. I thought a lot about what you said & you were right. What I did wasn’t okay. No matter what my intentions were. I totally invaded your privacy.”

You nodded in agreement but couldn’t find it in yourself the same anger & betrayal you felt that morning. You surmised that was due to the fact that her brother had made you cum multiple times with his hands, mouth, & cock.

“Thank you.” You told her, offering a reassuring smile, “It means a lot to me that you care enough to apologize.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking, honestly.” Sarah continued, but you really wish she wouldn’t. You couldn’t stop her though. “I should’ve known Rafe was up to no good.”

A deep frown formed between your brows. What was she talking about?

“I’m sorry?”

Sarah blinked at you innocently, then confused, “He said he told you…”

Then it was your turn to blink. Had he said something the other night? If he had were you not able to remember it beyond the drunken haze? What was Rafe up to? But when you couldn’t conjure up anything that he may have said, you stared back at her. Blank.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry, _____.” Sarah ran a hand through her hair, her expression saddening.

“What are you talking about?”

“Rafe, uh. Rafe was trying to get his hands on some pills. Considering what your husband does & all, he assumed there would a pharmacy somewhere in your house. He was planning on stealing some & making money off them.”

Oh, my god… Your lips parted in shock. An accusation like that would cost your husband his career. And you had let him right into your home.

“Sarah, I have to go.” You rushed to stand up, the tea cups jiggling with your sudden movement.

“_____! I really am sorry! He said he told you!”

You would’ve remembered that, no matter how much you had to drink. You would’ve kicked his ass out. You wouldn’t have let him into your bed, letting him stay in your house all day.

Rafe had been right about assuming there would be a lot of pills in the house. There were. Moses worked close with pharmaceutical companies, accepting a new drug test on consensual patients if he decided the drugs met his standards. If Rafe Cameron got his hands on those before they were even FDA approved. The possibilities were scary.

Rushing out the door, throwing a thanks to Sarah over your shoulder, you began to run home. Thankfully you only lived three houses down. Hauling up the stairs from your driveway to the second floor, you let yourself in, sure to lock it behind you before heading to Moses’s office on the third floor.

Inside his office was a six foot tall metal cabinet with a locking mechanism. There was only one key for it & Moses kept it on him at all times. You inspected the lock, trying to make out if it had been messed with or not. But this was not a specialty of yours whatsoever. You wouldn’t even begin to know what to look for. Could Rafe have gotten into it?

Regardless of the answer, what medication lied on the other side of it would also be unknown to you. You wouldn��t know what was missing or tampered with. Only Moses would be able to tell.

You collapsed into his office chair, staring hard-eyed at the cabinet.

You couldn’t call him, not yet. He said he would call once he calmed down & it had been over two days. But this was more important! You had to call him, tell him what you were concerned about. Then he’d come back home & either relieve your fears or confirm them.

As you sat there, wrestling with the idea, you heard a shuffling sound down the hallway.

Hesitantly you rose from where you sat, your head poking out of the door. You could barely see around the corner but you paused to listen. Just silence. Stepping out of his office, you tip-toed to your bedroom, peeking in there. Still nothing.

Perhaps you were hearing things. Your anxiety was through the roof after all. You hadn’t had a drink in over 24 hours, & you hadn’t even touched your medication all weekend so far. There was a lot your body was going through currently. You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply & exhaling slowly.

But then the sound came again.

Your heart froze.

What was that?

Slipping out of your shoes, you quietly & nimbly carried yourself down the hallway. Approaching the living room, the sound grew louder, more clear. It was coming from the kitchen.

You were almost in the kitchen when you stopped abruptly. There were flowers on the island. Your favorites. Almost the exact same ones Moses had brought you days previously. But Moses would’ve called if he was coming home…

Then your eyes shifted from the flowers to the sunroom door, which was open. The wind coming in from the North Carolina coast was making the wrapping around the bouquet of flowers tussle & fuss. Your heart began to race.

Those weren’t there before you left, & the door was most certainly not open.

Just as you were about to race down the stairs & out the door, prepared to call the cops, you suddenly felt something warm but tough wrap around your middle. Panic flooded you. But before you could escape, the arms holding you tightened.

“Where ya going?”

Rafe.

Relief & loathing surged through you all at once.

At least it was someone you knew, you told yourself, but it was also someone who could put your husband in prison.

Ripping yourself out of Rafe’s arms, you spun around, glaring heatedly at him. Much to your surprise, he looked surprised at your reaction.

“Get out of my home, right now!” You commanded, pointing at the stairs.

“Whoa, whoa, babe, what the fuck?” He held his hands up innocently but returned your glare.

“I am not your babe.” You spit, taking another step away from him, “I will call the cops right fucking now & have you arrested, Rafe.”

Rafe glowered at the threat, his eyes darkening, “Will you tell me what the fuck is going on?”

You ignored him, shaking your head, “Fine, cops it is.”

Turning away from him, you pulled out your phone from your back pocket, unlocking it to the call log. Your thumb barely traced the 9 on your dial before the phone was ripped out of your hands.

“Hey!” Rafe yelled, holding your phone away from you, behind him, “Talk to me! What the hell are you doing?”

“What are you doing!?” You screamed, “You stole from me? From my husband?”

Rafe seemed to appear confused for a moment before he rolled his eyes, “Oh, what the fuck, no.”

Rafe lowered his arm with your phone in it but did not return it to you. You crossed your arms, sneering at him, “That’s not what Sarah said.”

“Yeah, I know that’s not what Sarah said. I’m the one who told her.”

“Exactly!” You pointed your finger at him to continue but he quieted you with his own raised voice, “Yeah, exactly, _____! I told her that. You really think I would’ve told her that without knowing it’d come back to you?”

“I don’t think you care that it came back to me. You have your dad to protect you & keep you out of jail.”

“Oh, my god.” He sighed exasperated, “Would you shut the fuck up & just listen? I’m not stealing from you! I haven’t stolen from you!”

“Then why did you say that?”

“Okay, would you rather I told her that I was here to fuck your brains out then?”

The abrupt & vulgar question shocked you. It’s not what you were expecting. But you shook your head anyway.

“No. No” You held your ground, “Sarah said that’s why you came over that morning to make food with her. To steal from my husband. That was long before you… came over here the other night.”

“Yeah, but she asked me why I stayed the night here & that’s the bullshit I fed her. I told her I stayed here that night ‘cause I didn’t have a chance to grab the goods that morning.”

You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him. You couldn’t trust him, couldn’t believe a damn word out of his mouth.

Rafe stepped forward, grabbing your arms gently, “I promise, _____. I wasn’t planning on stealing from you. Ever.”

Part of you calmed, but most of you raged on. It couldn’t be that simply put, it couldn’t.

“I opened up to you out there,” Rafe began, catching your eyes as he gestured to the back patio, “And you opened up to me. That was real, babe. I saw you just as much as you saw me.”

A hand found itself cradling the back of your neck, the fingers weaving through your hair. It felt so good, & you hated it. But you didn’t push back.

“I didn’t want her to get suspicious. That’s all.”

You felt yourself soften in his hold, peering deeply into his baby blues.

Rafe felt the change in your body & pulled you closer, bringing his mouth down on yours. The kiss was heated, hard, all teeth & no stopping.

This man, this young man, had a way with his words, eyes, mouth, hands that made you absolute putty for him.

But still, no matter how good it felt when he slipped your shirt off & tore your pants down to your ankles. No matter how divine it felt when he pressed your front to the kitchen island & slipped his leaking cock into your welcoming walls. And no matter how fucking euphoric it was to hear his groans & growls in your ear as you came around him, you wouldn’t let it continue. You couldn’t.

Because you knew Rafe Cameron couldn’t be trusted, no matter how pure he claimed his intentions to be. This man would only bring ruin to yourself, your home, & your marriage. As he fucked you mercilessly in your kitchen, your moans & cries rampant, you swore to yourself that this would be the last time Rafe Cameron would make you come undone. Because if you didn’t, you were worried you wouldn’t be able to put the pieces back together.

a filler chapter but with a lot of build-up. don't worry though, rafe will be getting dark in no time. just be patient & stay tuned.

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