#the blood spilling towards the wine and the orange trees

[vashhanamichi]

the absolute angel @shelter-maki0 drew these beautiful masterpieces inspired by my fanfics Contrapasso and Mary Magdalene. I can't describe how touched I am. @shelter-maki0, to me, is probably the greatest Tomharrymort artist there is and her works, that always look haunting and fairy-tale like, inspire me endlessly. These are so beautiful and I can't stop looking at them. 私は光栄です。どうもありがとうございます！

[holykillercake]

Hazy Justice - 03

01 02 03

🇨‌🇴‌🇵‌!🇸‌🇲‌🇴‌🇰‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇽‌ 🇲‌🇮‌🇱‌🇮‌🇹‌🇦‌🇷‌🇾‌🇩‌🇴‌🇨‌🇹‌🇴‌🇷‌!🇷‌🇪‌🇦‌🇩‌🇪‌🇷‌

word count: 2.5k

summary: After eight years serving your country in a war, you returned to your hometown as the new head of Trauma Surgery in one of the best hospitals in the country. You were expecting a calmer life now, but suddenly you see yourself choosing between your brain and your heart, light and dark, justice and evil.

highlight: ¨You looked like millions of dollars, and you felt like millions of dollars.¨

warning:  Use sunglasses. Too bright.

notes: .Dear comrades, it has been a while but it's finally here! With new characters and lots and lots of threads.

🇱‌🇪‌🇦‌🇻‌🇪‌ 🇨‌🇴‌🇲‌🇲‌🇪‌🇳‌🇹‌🇸‌, 🇭‌🇪‌🇦‌🇷‌🇹‌🇸‌, 🇦‌🇳‌🇩‌ 🇱‌🇴‌🇻‌🇪‌!

¨Hello...¨ you were instantly greeted by the tingling doorbells that let the owner know whenever a client entered the establishment. 

Your eyes traveled to the half-moon bar where the slim and tall woman leaned casually, cigarette adorning her elegant fingers. Her eyebrows raised as she took in your figure, double-checking if you were not someone else.

¨Oh! Y/N-chan, is that you?¨

¨Shakky!¨ she made her way out of the bar to hug you ¨It´s so good to see you! You haven´t changed at all!¨

Her kind chuckle made you feel like a kid again, and you couldn´t stop yourself from tearing with the nostalgic feeling.

 ¨Thanks, Baby. Now you,¨ she put her hands on your shoulders and opened a distance, eyes examining you like a mother hawk ¨you look tired. Eight years in war made you no good.¨

You nodded and laughed ¨I guess we can put it that way.¨

¨Come, treat is on the house.¨ 

Clapping your hands, you followed the lady towards the bar. ¨So, where´s Rayleigh-san?¨ 

¨He just left, but it shouldn´t take long. He´ll be happy to see you, Y/N-chan.¨

The circumstances that connect you to Shakky and Rayleigh go way back to decades ago when your parents were still alive. By that time, all you knew was that they were friends, people you could trust. You were not allowed to ask more questions about their jobs, and you couldn´t find a suitable answer with the information you had. 

They were always on the road, visiting only once in a while. They would bring incredible gifts from various countries and discuss ¨adult matters¨ with your parents while Crocodile helped you with homework. 

Whenever you brought up your curiosities to your brother, he would say that they talked about the war, and you were too young to hear such things. Crocodile was also not allowed in the room, but he´d always peer into the conversation through the ventilation ducts. 

If he´s saying, it must be true.  

Since your dad was a Lieutenant Colonel, there was always the possibility of his unit being requested to offer back up or engage actively. You never minded it, though. He had already been sent to a lot of dangerous missions, and he came back every single time. He was strong and invincible. He would always return to his family. 

Well, that was true until the day you found your mother in the kitchen, breaking in tears, holding a smudged letter in her hands, together with your father´s dog tag. 

You stared at her and your brother, blinking in the hope of seeing what was wrong. The woman at the kitchen table did not look like your mother. She had no sparkle in her eyes or pride in her chest.

On the contrary, thick and dark tears fell from her eyes, blurred from the makeup that always accentuated her piercing gaze. Her lips were not curved in the tender smile she used to carry. Instead, she bit her lower lip so hard that you could almost see blood staining her pink lipstick.

¨Dad´s not coming home.¨ was all Crocodile said.

That was not the time when things got completely off track, but it was a significant change in your family's life. The government offered a military pension and a country flag for the services provided by your father. However, you had to be transferred to the Commercial District, where your mother worked as an archivist at the Ohara Institute of Historical Research. 

¨Y/N?¨ you heard a male voice call, making you turn. 

Your eyes shifted between the two male figures standing at the door. ¨Rayleigh-san!¨ you shouted like a kid seeing Santa Claus at the shopping mall ¨Smoker!?¨ this one came out more like a question. 

¨You have grown, little one!¨ he patted your head like old times. ¨Maybe my white hair makes sense. I´ve aged!¨ he laughed cheerfully, and Smoker tilted his head. 

¨Finer than wine!¨ you giggled, then turned to the other white-haired man, cheeks blushing ¨This is, uhm... I swear I´m not following you.¨ 

¨Oh, you two know each other?¨ Shakky asked, adding two more old-fashioned glasses on the counter. 

¨We´re neighbors!¨ 

¨That´s great! Come, we have a lot to talk! Today is on the house!¨ Rayleigh shouted similar words as his wife. You wondered if that was the synchronization of personalities or if the alcohol he had prior was impairing his judgment. 

Shakky decided to close for the day, wanting to spend as much time as possible in your company. The clock seemed to have stopped while you were drinking, eating snacks, and catching up on years of conversation. 

It was funny how sometimes it felt like a ping pong game between you and Rayleigh. Every so often, the conversation would turn into matches of him serving shots of military-wise improper questions and you backhanding with ¨That´s classified information, Rayleigh-san.¨.

Did he have a poor memory or all those years of scotch and cigars in your father´s office taught him nothing? Either way, you were having too good of a time at that table to worry about his faulty memory. 

¨Are you sure you´re neighbors?¨ Shakky asked with a playful grin ¨You seem to know nothing about each other.¨

¨I would say that´s a pretty sharp point.¨ you answered in the same lighted tone. 

¨Tight schedules, I´d say.¨ Smoker added, shifting on the couch.

¨But it looks like you´re free today. How about dinner? Four of us, our house, like old times Y/N.¨ Rayleigh seemed too keen on this, and you wondered if he was trying to set you up on a date. 

¨Well, as much as I would love that, I´ve got plans for tonight.¨ 

¨Let me guess,¨ Rayleigh created a tension ¨classified information?¨ 

You laughed loudly at his stupid joke. It was a predictable Ray-san ice breaker, but you couldn't help yourself. This man was a blissful delight. 

¨Much to your content, tonight´s plan I´ll be able to spill.¨ you teased him ¨I´m having dinner with Crocodile tonight!¨ 

What happened after you pronounced those words would have gone unnoticed by someone inattentive. It felt like a slight change in the air, like those quiet moments before a bomb exploded, when the clock stopped ticking. 

You didn´t have the chance to question before Shakky took the wheel. 

¨That´s great, Y/N!¨ her elegant hands embraced yours, affectionate and caring ¨Did you see how much he´s changed?¨ 

¨Uhm, actually,¨ you blinked, focusing back on the conversation ¨it´s the first I meet him in... eight years.¨ 

The tightness you felt in your chest almost made you tear, and the woman saw it. Her eyes carried a hint of compassion... or pity. 

¨You miss him a great deal, right, Baby?¨ 

¨Yeah...¨ you shrugged ¨he was out of town when I arrived, so I only got the chance now. But how´s he doing? Did he change a lot?¨

¨Oh, baby, it´s been a while since we met. He´s a busy man, you know.¨ 

Your brows raised, then furrowed, and you had a perplexed smile hanging on your lips. You would not have believed those words if they hadn´t come directly from them. 

¨Oh, wha- well, I´ll¨ a nervous laugh left your mouth ¨I´ll drag him by the hair, then! Busy man, bullshit! He used to bug mom and dad all the time, asking why you guys couldn´t live with us!¨

¨Don´t stress yourself over that, Y/N.¨ Rayleigh said with his gentle smile.  ¨He runs a lot of businesses, I´m sure he would drop by more if he could.¨ 

Shakky nodded¨And, it´s your first time in the Light District, right? Was that the only district you haven´t lived in yet?¨

¨That and the Noble District, obviously.¨ you rolled your eyes.

¨You lived in all other districts?¨ Smoker asked after a silent moment in the conversation.

¨Yeah, long story and not that interesting. You´d be bored, trust me.¨ 

¨It´s rather difficult to find someone who lived in more than two districts, so I´d like to hear that.¨ 

¨Alright, but don´t say I didn´t warn you.¨ 

You peeked at your wristwatch, running some basic math in your head and deciding that it was time to go if you didn´t want to be late for dinner. Your lips twisted in a pout, and your expression dropped a little for having to leave this fantastic moment.  

Surprisingly enough, leaving them was not as difficult as you imagined. Maybe because they reminded you that you could visit them anytime now, or because you did not want to act like a crybaby on Smoker´s car. 

He said it was also about time for him to leave and offered you a ride back home. You would not have to take the subway and would get the chance to know him better.

 A win-win situation. 

The first minutes were a bit silent, but after you asked him if he should be driving since he had quite a lot to drink, he responded with an awkward stuttering that was rather charming. The conversation that followed was smooth as you realized he was way easier to talk to than you imagined. 

Smoker was respectful, always making sure that it was ok for you to talk about your past while sharing some things about his life as well. Inside of that car, he almost seemed like a different person. His brows were not furrowed ad his voice sounded relaxed. 

The ride ended too fast for your liking, and you saw yourself waving goodbye when deep down you wanted to ask him to stay for a coffee. Unfortunately, you couldn´t, maybe some other day. Now you had to make yourself presentable to meet your other half, your brother. 

                                                            ...

The Light District was nothing like you had seen before. The entrance was marked by a gigantic golden arch, which carried an equally shining bell.

Tall palm trees swayed in the cool breeze, tinged with orange by the sunset. Luxurious establishments, whose signs began to be lit, occupied both sides of the clear sidewalk. 

From a distance, you could see the tip of the Ferris wheel of the Sora park. It did not spin due to the recess, but the lights remained on. The roller coaster that had been the cause of the accident was surrounded by tall metal poles, being repaired for the reopening of the place.

The driver Crocodile sent to pick you up lowered the window so you could enjoy the view to the fullest. Your hair started to fly in the wind, and a delicious smell of butter invaded your nose. The restaurants had already begun to heat up the pots to receive their customers.

The Light District was projected to offer convenience to the ones who were willing to pay the price. Therefore, all that was best was located in Eldorado Avenue, the main passage that extended for kilometers like a luxurious and soft red carpet. 

¨We are approaching the hotel, miss Y/N. Sir Crocodile awaits for you.¨

¨Uh...¨ you murmured, amazed by the view. 

You squinted when something reflected in your eyes, catching your attention, and a gasp got stuck in your throat when you spotted the famous Hotel Verde.

 Well, it was impossible not to notice it. 

First of all, it did not look like a hotel. It resembled more a small town. Even taller palm trees guided the way towards the entrance, both sides occupied by ponds and tropical plants. The building stood tall like a lighthouse and at the top rested an enormous golden statue of the reptile that represented its owner.  

You did not wait for Daz, the man your brother chose to escort you, to get out when the car stopped. You put yourself out as soon as the limo parked in front of the main stairway. After so many years without putting on a heel, maybe you would accept a hand to go up the stairs.

Your hands smoothed the dark green silk dress that dragged on a short tail, courtesy of Crocodile, along with shoes and jewelry. You looked like millions of dollars, and you felt like millions of dollars.

When the valet took the car somewhere else, Daz put himself beside you, offering you his arm. Your heart pounded like the Ox Bell at every step, and you breathed through your mouth, trying to keep your cool. 

You saw various types of people coming in and out of the hotel, all of them embellished with jewels and shiny tackles like Christmas trees. Each and every one exalted wealth and power, with their nonchalant glares and pointed noses. Your gut twisted, remembering Shakky and Rayleigh´s words, wishing Crocodile hadn´t turned into someone like them. 

The long stairway was divided in the middle by a golden rail, separating who went up from who went down. That might have been the reason why the man coming down your way caught your attention. Or perhaps it was the weight of his gaze, hidden by the reddish specs. His blonde hair and skin seemed like gold, the pink suit looked orange-ish due to the sunset, and his wide grin made you quiver. 

He walked with two men by his side, freeing the way for him. At some point, no one dared to come close to the stairs. It was only the five of you. 

¨Daz!¨ the man, who seemed more familiar now, exclaimed ¨I wonder who´s the person that would make you leave your boss´back.¨

He approached you, hungry gaze brimming on his tongue. He was tall and seemed even more as he closed the distance. 

¨Not even the luxury dolls get to be escorted.¨ he gently took your hand and kissed your knuckles with delicacy. 

You weren´t convinced by his gesture. If anything, you felt bothered to see him disrespecting the house´s rules, as if that disrespected you directly. ¨Tell me, dear, what is your name?¨

¨If you wish to know something from someone, it is more appropriate to introduce yourself first.¨ your voice came out indifferent and a vein popped on his forehead before breaking into laughter.

¨Fufufu I can´t say you are wrong!¨ he leaned back, large hand on his stomach. ¨I´m Donquixote Doflamingo. It surprised me that you couldn't put that together. Now tell me, doll, what do they call you?¨

You sighed and looked around, spotting a figure at the top of the stairs that lifted your mood and gave you all the strength and confidence you needed to end the conversation. A smile grew on your lips as you turned to Doflamingo, eyeing him with nothing but the will to leave. 

¨They call me Lieutenant-Colonel Y/N L/N, Division Surgeon of the Army. Or just LT Colonel L/N if you prefer.¨ you offered him a respectful nod before turning your attention to the man who waited for you with a smile on his face. ¨Now, if you excuse me, Mr. Donquixote.¨

[pleasantwizardphilosopher]

Just you and me

So, I finally gathered the courage to write something and went for a SuperCorp fanfic, because clearly I am supercorp trash. I haven’t decided whether to post it in AO3 or not but if I do I’ll let you know. English is not my first language so if you get any mistakes or some parts lack cohesion please let me know and I’ll try to fix it. This fic goes by the idea that Kara is a very good scientist, she deserves that much, Lena’s background is canon-like. There are no dialogs, only feelings and senses, hope you like it.

*********

Finding yourself stuck in time is hard, at least that’s what most people would feel like under such circumstances, but not for Lena, not right now, where every single piece of “normalcy” her life had is just beginning to crumble, like a piece of sun-dried bread, or the way eggshells crack after someone steps on them, painfully, noisily, in a million pieces, most of all and beyond everything, they shatter unrecognizably and irreparably. Maybe the cold that such pain leaves behind is what led her to run, maybe it was the sudden fear and tiredness that was left in her, like cold steel in her bones, maybe it was the emptiness that started consuming every truth she thought she knew. It did not matter, she fled, running as fast as she could in those 7-inch Louboutins. She never looked back, not even after her flight landed in National City, not even after setting foot for the first time in her new penthouse in the middle of the city. She never regretted it, at first it was rough, sure, like every bumpy road is, yet, after the first glance she ever took at that blonde hair that day in the park, all doubts were erased off her mind.

*********

It was the end of August, the chilly air that announced a cold winter ahead blew her hair, ruffling it in her face; filling the streets, waking scattered orange and brown-ish leaves that had fallen from nearby trees, whistling on its way through the now almost-bare branches. The wind left behind the soft aroma of wet dirt, freshly baked bread and upcoming rain, heartwarmingly, filling her lungs easily with every breath, puffing visible clouds when exhaling. It was certainly nostalgic, the kind that makes you feel warm and cozy and at the same time makes your eyes prickle with unshed tears. Kara felt that pull, as usual, for everything good her life has had, and everything it had taken from her. She stood on the sidewalk, towards National’s City Central Park, glancing around her, taking in her surroundings when her gaze landed on a particular someone, dragged to her as if her eyes were mere pieces of steel and that woman were a huge neodymium magnet; She found herself staring at a sight she’ll always remember, because at that moment, when she first saw her, she felt a different kind of pull at her heart, the kind that screamed “caution!”, but in the good way, hopefully.

Long before she knew her name, what made her laugh, what made fer fidget with her fingers nervously, but above all, long before she had met that woman with dark long silky hair, forest-green eyes and pearly skin. Long before that gorgeous human being, with such power emanating from her, yet such caring, hopeful eyes, crossed her path, long before she made her feel like flying without actually leaving the ground, mostly, who she would grow to love, maybe, maybe she was fantasizing too much, who could blame her, it surely was a sight to remember.

*********

When the double doors slide open, she’s expecting a no-nonsense, powerful, cold-blooded, cocky-demeanor CEO, what she’s definitely not expecting is for such CEO to be almost precisely all that shaped and carefully placed in a stunning, raven-haired woman, whose green eyes could pierce through your soul and would probably make you spill your darkest and deepest secrets, those that also hide so much fear, making her want to walk over there and pour all her support into a hug. Kara swallows. Nevertheless, there is also something else to this woman’s aura, her posture is perfect, clearly carved into her from a very young age, and her smile is polite but stiff, almost practiced, and still, Kara can feel kindness emanating from her, true deep kindness and care. Something brings her to the present again, her breath hitches, those beautiful eyes are staring intently into hers with curiosity and a hint of amusement. The woman in front of her has managed to steal her breath twice now, which is not something she, the founder and co-owner of a start-up company. Harvard graduate and Kryptonian, finds happening often, she has faced great threats, from grumpy bankers to out-of-space threats as Supergirl, yet, Lena Luthor has managed to make her heartbeat go erratic with a simple gaze. 

The soft scent of an expensive perfume fills the office, something akin cinnamon, vanilla and a little scotch (?). It is dizzying and a little distracting. She somehow manages to go through her proposal for the CEO without stumbling too much and, fortunately, without rambling. Lena seems fascinated by the proposal and agrees to the terms without major modifications to the contract. After both signing, they shake hands, and maybe, just maybe, they linger a little more than needed, both enraptured by the softness of the other’s hand. Lena pulls away first, fingers tingling, feeling the tips of her fingers warm and a lingering scent of something floral, it is electrifying, like a low current cursing through her veins, making her get goosebumps all over her arms, but she doesn’t mind, as her attention is captured by those ocean blue eyes that seemingly hold the weight of the world. She certainly is nowhere close to getting tired of them.

*********

When they signed this partnership, they did not expect it to turn this way, at least Kara didn't, or so she muses while sitting on the ledge of her rooftop. She truly just meant to get funding and maybe get to work a little up-close with the brilliant, certified genius of a woman. Sure, she is gorgeous and incredibly sharp-minded, as proven by so many magazines’ articles having bothered to analyze both qualities deeply and thoroughly; but after that first sight of her, with such strength and determination to her pose, with each powerful step, with every sway of her hips, albeit hiding so much hurt, sadness, and a great burden, brought to her by her last name; a burden that Kara has somehow come know so well, such need to be understood, because, the truth was, that no one had ever lived through loss the way they did. One lost her world, her culture and way of life, but found love and compassion, whereas Lena was denied both from a very short age, living a life without love, compassion, and affection, in a household where the outside cold wouldn’t enter, as the inside was icier. 

The cold nighty wind startles her, it brings to her mind memories of bight smiles, so hard that certain dimples showed, laughs so hard that some wine would be spat on a very white leader couch, sunny days filled with an assortment of foods and a wonderful voice, filling every corner of the room with its melody and a slight accent, becoming more evident when emotion takes a rightful place in her voice, one that comes from a very pale yet very compassionate woman. She has to tell her, it's been just over a year since they first met, but she knows it is time, with them growing closer, she has to tell her she is Supergirl. And yeah, she definitely did NOT expect things to turn this way. (Maybe she kinda did).

**********

When she asked Kara if she understood the quantum mechanics behind the surface plasmon resonance their platinum nanoparticles showed, she wanted to be shaken, mad even, because why wouldn't she, the to-be youngest member of the Science Guild on Krypton? Of course, they didn't have the same metals as they did on Earth, but they understood the physics behind the phenomena. Okay, Lena did do not know her identity, yet, hopefully, but she did have a Bachelor in Mechatronic Engineering and a Master Degree in Advanced Materials, she definitely may have crossed paths with the concept. But hell, how can she be mad when those bright, summer-trees green eyes look at her with such glint of excitement, with a twinkling sparkle or curiosity? Those eyes that were looking at her with a look you give someone you know gets you, beyond understanding your words, those who truly get a grasp of your language, of who you are, what makes you shake with the excitement of a new discovery, a greater challenge. It was then that Kara knew that she could read Lena the way no one had ever done for her, she could grasp what she needed in every moment, what she was thinking, but she also got her sciency stuff, the theoretical jargon, upcoming theories, the physics behind phenomena and she shared her love for technology that could make humans' lives better, longer, healthier. They shared, compassion, vision, passion and... Kara was now almost certain, love.

At least she thinks so, what else could those stolen glances be? She looks up, just to find those forest-green eyes glinting with determination and concentration while those agile slender fingers handle tools and twinkle their way around the solar panel’s circuitry. She is so enraptured by her skills that she mistakenly adds way too much platinum sulfide to the solution, turning it suddenly black and bringing her out of her stupor as the contents boil, violently spilling all over the place, filling the air with a slight scent of iron, evaporated water and burnt plastic. Green eyes break contact with the panel to look towards where strong hands work frantically to turn off the hot plate she was working on, dropping her tools she reaches a hand to help Kara, concerned green eyes looking for any kind of burn injury or spill that may need to be taken care of. After making sure everything is (mostly) okay and that it was just a failed reaction, Kara is suddenly aware of a soft hand pulling her away from the table, vanilla and cinnamon fill the air around her, like a soft embrace, that turns real when Lena pulls her into her arms, a soft bubble surrounding Kara, making her a little giddy and peaceful at the same time. Flowers, fresh-cut flowers is what Lena smells, while she hugs Kara tightly, it is normal to get worried for your best friend after a lab incident, no matter how small, she tells herself, and while it maybe is, it is definitely not normal the way her heart felt like stopping the moment she saw the hot contents of the Erlenmeyer flask spill all over the place, fearing for Kara, feeling it creep up her spine and settle like cold ice on her stomach and lungs, making it hard to breathe.

When strong arms surround her and pull her in tighter, she realizes she has started shaking and hyperventilating, embarrassed she hides her face in the crook of Kara’s neck, and everything fades outside this moment. It is just them, vanilla, and flowers, Kara murmuring sweet nothings into Lena’s ear, hearing her heartbeat even out, and her breathing become normal; and Lena trusting that this person, whose arms seem to be able to lift a bus, whose laugh makes her heart warm and fuzzy, whose smile lights her world and makes her feel safe, cared for and understood; will never let her fall. And perhaps she is right.

**********

Yup, it is definitely love. What else could it be? That snowy January, between hot cocoa and soft muffins, she knew. She is hovering outside her lab, on the outskirts of town, where it was less likely that someone caught her both personas; peeking through the windows, she sees her, Lena is coding the interface that would allow them to take the most efficiency and durability out of the technology they had designed, the mechanical and chemical part was almost done already. She is typing, eyes narrowed in concentration behind thick rimmed glasses, the tip of her tongue poking from a corner of her mouth. And Kara knows, she wants to caress those hands when they were trembling from the winter cold, but also kiss them after a long day working with her computer, she wants to rub her feet after a day filled with meetings and kiss her every time her brilliant mind comes up with a solution for an impossible problem. But above all that, she wants to hold her and whisper into her ear comforting and loving words when she has a nightmare regarding Lex, she knows it’s a common occurrence. She wants to see her crumble knowing that Kara would always hold her and support her, kissing her lovingly every time her insecurities get the best of her. She wants her to feel safe, protected and loved in a way she always deserved but never got.

She sighs, this is it and she knows it, there is not moving forward without coming clean about Supergirl, because, staring at Lena, she knows there is no going back either, looking the way her agile fingers dance around the keyboard as if she were writing a letter to a friend instead of a state-of-the-art software to power and control their recently developed solar panels. She thinks of how beautiful of a soul Lena is, she has such a big heart, she has a huge weight on her shoulders for being a Luthor, a burden which Kara would love to lift from her since it is not hers to carry, it shouldn’t be. Furthermore, she cares so much for the world and the people in it, even for the ones that are not human, unlike her family she is truly kind and compassionate.

Here goes nothing. Kara flies through the lab floor-to-ceiling windows towards the desk where Lena is working, placing beside her the paper bag containing hot cocoa and muffins for her. Due to the cold, the soft warm homey smell soon starts filling the room. Lena looks up smiling, expecting to find Kara behind the treats, but instead, bright green eyes lock with glassy baby blue eyes, trembling lips and fingers fidgeting. Lena stands. She is instantly shaking, whatever it is that could possibly turn the unyielding hero into a crying mess must be of great concern. She steadies herself by grabbing the edge of the table to keep her knees from buckling, knuckles turn white. Green never leaves blue. And just when she is about to ask the hero what brings her here, a strong hand comes to the small of her back to steady her and keep her upright. She has never been this close to Supergirl and at that moment when every sound seems to shut and the air stills, she knows.

She knows why those sky-blue eyes always inspired her such calm and confidence, why she always felt safe in those arms that could bend steel as butter. Because in that moment, when the warmth emanating from that hand starts filtering through her clothes, warming her, her senses are also filled with a smell of flowers, mixed with chocolate and bread, and a hint of mint; when a single tear escapes those ocean blue eyes, she crumbles. She crumbles under that gaze filled with pain and sorrow, filled with such regret that she could feel it creeping through herself, nestling in every corner of her body, making her feel slump and heavy. She also sees intelligence, compassion and strength, qualities she has come to be very familiar with under a blue setting. And so, she grabs the hero’s suit in her fist and buries her face in her chest, a single heart-wreaking cry filling the air. Kara shatters then, knowing how much pain this is causing to a soul that has been betrayed over and over again, who has been abused and pushed to her limits. She knows she is picking an open wound with a stick, and she hates herself for it, for using the same trust Lena gave her against her. They slide to the floor, never letting go of each other, tears falling freely through both their cheeks. Lena breaks into heartbreaking sobs and Kara holds her tighter, as if trying to keep her from falling into pieces, from breaking apart, rocking them both back and forth softly. Lena just cries, screaming from time to time, gripping the fabric so tightly that if it were regular fabric, it would be tearing down by now, but it isn’t, just as the woman holding her, the woman she most certainly is NOT in love with, is not a regular human. They stay there, holding onto each other, never breaking eye contact, the hot cocoa and muffins long forgotten.

**********

She really isn’t mad. She isn’t. So maybe she has been slightly avoiding Kara, but she isn’t mad. Despite her first-instance outburst of emotions, she realized she really isn’t angry at Kara from keeping the Supergirl thing a secret from her, yes, she was deeply hurt and upset but she understands the reasoning behind it, albeit she wishes Kara had told her earlier in their relationship it also makes perfect sense for her to hide it until making sure their relationship was well-founded and strong.

She is quite lost though, there is a small hint of emptiness inside her chest from that day which smelled like chocolate and bread, at first Lena thought she might actually and finally be broken, her heart having taken so many hits already. But the pain eventually faded, and that emptiness never left, on the contrary, it became more present, so much that she was now almost used to it. Like a lingering rock in the bottom of her stomach, or a ball of cotton in her throat, constant, bearable but persistent. And now, as the snow starts melting outside her office she wonders why. She knows why though; she just likes to pretend like she can fool herself.

The morning sun is hitting her office’s windows, warmer than it has been for the past few months and as the first drops of melted snow start to fall from the rooftop to her balcony, the pretense falls to pieces, and she falls along with it. She fumbles with her balcony door and stumbles outside, not even bothering to grab her coat, as soon as she steps outside, she is hit with cold, humid air and slippery floors. Taking huge gasps of cold air to fill lungs that seemingly do not want to be filled.

Maybe this is all she needed, standing on her balcony and glancing at the city, the morning sun casting a bright yellow light over her face, warming her skin softly, while her side in the shadows gets colder every passing second. It is enough, hot and cold, day and night, light and darkness, she always wondered to which side of the scale she tipped the most, she used to believe she was all shadows, a Luthor, and Kara was light, all goodness, she smiles at the irony, a Super. However, while she is taking in the city, calm and almost quiet since it is so early, bright light hitting the buildings and cold, contrasting shadows hiding smaller streets, cars, and people, she gets it. Kara was never all light, and will never be, she has on her shoulders an unbearable pain that will never go away and with her powers come hard choices that no one should ever have to make. And she, she is not darkness, she is both, and she can choose which side to feed, and she wants to choose light, just not any light, one that is personified by blonde hair and ocean-deep blue eyes that she could, and does, get lost into. Maybe, she can bring a certain light to Kara as well, maybe they both deserve it, they deserve each other. Letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding she turned on her heels towards her office and out of it, directly to a certain warehouse on the outskirts of town. The balcony door left open, melted snow glowing gold from the morning sun, dripping into Lena’s office.

**********

Disappointment is that what she feels, no, sadness, for sure, she knew things could go sideways with the whole reveal show and yet, the clench in her heart won’t go away easily, and she knows she absolutely has no right to feel that way, she made that choice, just as she has made every other choice before it. She is tempering with her suit, waiting for her cell culture to finish growing so she can properly test their absorption properties. Soft pop music plays in the background, filling the warehouse with soft notes with a cheesy vibe, the mid-morning sun streams from the windows, lighting the space with an orange-ish golden glow. She finishes her upgrades with a tired huff, never one to hate working on something she surprises herself with such reaction. Groaning with frustration that has nothing to do with her projects and a lot to do with a certain pale powerful, wonderful, CEO.

She walks towards the windows, letting herself bask in the mid-morning light, feeling her powers recharge and her body start buzzing with energy. She clenches her fists, as the warmth caress of the sun on her skin makes her heart ache, missing another entirely different kind of warmth. She leans against a wall and lets her body slide to the ground, bringing her knees to her chest, she closes her eyes, letting herself get lost in the feeling of the sun kissing her skin, softly, almost hesitantly, she can almost picture a certain brunette, softly stroking her cheek, a sweet lovingly caress. A single tear rolls down her cheek from her closed eyes, knowing that such caresses may never be from her, a faith written by her own hand, resulting from her choices, as hard as it is. Letting her straining superhearing and expanding its reach she hears the hustle and bustle from downtown a few kilometers away, she hears the honks of the cars and the heavy panting from people running late for their work, such mundane thing that she may never truly get to live and experience. As her hearing expands, she finds herself focusing in a very well-known heartbeat, one she can distinguish above the sea of heartbeats that flood the city; it is beating absurdly fast, and her first reaction is to focus on her surroundings to find out whether she is in danger or not.

She hears heavy puffs of air, heels clicking steadily and determinately on the pavement, closer with every step, and is she running? Her breath hitches when realization dawns on her, she IS running, towards her. While her mind screams for her to move, to do something, her body is frozen, unresponsive, breath caught in her throat, she absolutely does not understand what is happening and doesn’t know what to expect from the woman that is now reaching her. Before she can dwell on it further, a feminine soft hand with slender cold fingers is touching her knee softly. She is panting from the effort, her breath smells like back coffee and mint, hitting Kara’s face warmly, making her head spin; a slight scent of grounded coffee beams mixed with Lena’s favorite scotch emanates from her clothes, she smells strangely like home; her red lipstick matching her flushed cheeks from running, and Kara cannot help but let her jaw fall open in awe at the sight.

She grabs Lena’s wrists softly and stands up bringing her along. Kara finally gathers her courage and looks at her eyes. She feels like sinking under her gaze, not out of fear, it’s nothing but love and warmth what she sees in those jade-green eyes, feelings she doesn’t feel worthy of, specially not when coming from the Irish goddess. Just when she’s about to close her eyes again, uncapable of keeping her gaze, Lena hooks a finger under her chin and makes her raise her eyes up to hers again. Insecure, scared-like blue puppy eyes find soft-looking bright emerald eyes. It’s understanding what she sees now in those deep green eyes, the same ones that seem capable of reading her like an open book. She lets out a sob, and Lena lets go of her chin, going to grab her hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing her palm tenderly.

The breeze brings to Kara’s nose the scent of Lena’s shampoo, smells like rainy days and autumn leaves, and, as usual, no words are needed when Kara moves her hand from Lena’s lips to cup her cheeks, bringing her other hand up. And, what else can she do other than lean forward? So, she does, she leans forward and kisses her forehead, its soft, tender, like a butterflies’ kiss, just barely brushing her skin, trying to convey her love for her beautiful Genius™ mind, for her brilliance, stubbornness and compassionate selfless soul. She then brushes her lips softly on both her eyelids, trying to convey all the love and regret she feels regarding the way she did Supergirl secret-related things. She parts slowly and watches as Lena opens her eyes fluttering open slowly, bringing her hands up to grab the wrists of the Kara’s hands that are still cupping her face, thumbs softly stroking the inside of the kryptonian’s wrists, she lets out a shaky breath, blue eyes looking at her so lovingly tenderly, with such determination and strength, unyielding as sapphires, she feels no questioning in her heart, this is where she is meant to be, she turns into a mushy puddle and lets herself be drawn into the Girl of Steel.

Kara leans forward and kisses her nose, giggling quietly, Lena simply melts into it feeling a soft warm breath that smells like chocolate and honey, suddenly, the emptiness in her chest melts like ice cream on a hot summer day, leaving nothing but love and warmth, like the one from a fireplace on Christmas Eve. She lets out a shuddering breath, relieved. They lock eyes again, and finally all those unspoken questions find an answer. They lean forward at the same time, their lips meeting in the middle, fitting perfectly against each other. It is warm, tender, loving, and everything it should be, the way every cheesy romantic comedy says it’s like. They pour all their love into that moment, lips moving against each other, chocolate-honey and black coffee.

When they finally part, it’s like breathing for the first time, lungs grasping for oxygen, freshly cut grass, concrete and sun-provided warmth, and it is perfect. Like taking a breath after holding it underwater for a long time, except you never truly knew what breathing was like, until that life-altering breath. They breathe in sync, foreheads touching, Kara’s hands go down to wrap around Lena’s waist, pulling her closer, Lena rests her head softly on Kara’s chest, nuzzling into her neck and closing her eyes, letting herself fall into that fierce love, like an all-consuming fire, she’s been too afraid to open herself to, to be vulnerable. They stay there, enjoying each other’s embrace, the hustle and bustle of the city blind to a beautifully blooming love.

**********

Kara is very clumsy, it does help her keep up her façade, albeit it is also a personal trait of hers. And right now, as she trips on nothing, while standing nonetheless, she makes it extremely evident. Forest green eyes look at her amused from the other side of the door. How does Lena expect Kara not to fall face first to the ground when she is dressed looking like THAT. Wearing a deep red drees that falls softly just below her knees, strapless, leaving her back and cleavage on display, her hair up in a neat bun and her signature 7-inch black heels, Kara definitely stopped breathing, not that she needs to anyway. She stands up awkwardly, taking the dust off her khaki pants and dark blue blazer. Lena cannot hide a smirk after pulling such reaction from no other than Supergirl.

The CEO pulls Kara into her apartment, it smells like vanilla and apples, probably resulting from the many scented candles that Lena likes to light around her apartment. The only light comes from said candles and several Christmas-like light strings that are hanging from the ceiling, giving the place a warm cozy glow. Kara smiles lazily as she leans down to kiss Lena, catching a glimpse of bright emerald eyes melting glimmery before falling shut. She smiles into the kiss. She pulls apart slightly and kisses the tip of Lena’s nose, the raven-haired woman lets out a soft chuckle. Kara grabs her hand, intertwining their fingers, and leads her to the door. Today it’s dinner date day, they are celebrating the successful launch of their joint solar panels project, the best performance ever achieved thanks to a certain Kryptonian’s platinum oxide nanoparticles; and 10 months of full-on dating. As Kara closes the door of Lena’s apartment behind them, the warm smell of the candles fills the hallway and follows them into the elevator, a fluffy plush blanket, a protective mantle surrounding them.

**********

drip…drip… the constant crash of raindrops against the windows surrounding them, rain pouring heavily around them, drowning the usually loud noises of the city’s rush hour, washing away the strong smell of smog. They are tucked under a bus station stop, at least Lena is, Kara is already dripping, since she stubbornly stood outside the small protection the roof offers so Lena and other humas could take cover, she doesn’t get sick anyway. Lena is shivering, although it has been a remarkably hot summer, today was quite a cloudy day and it rained for the most part, resulting in a temperature drop of several degrees. The brunette leans into Kara seeking for her abnormally high body temperature to warm herself up, but the Girl of Steel has other plans, since she cannot fly Lena to their apartment, she might as well take the best out of the situation.

Just as Lena is dropping her full body weight into her, she slides away, pulling Lena’s hand with her, directly into the downpour. Lena gasps when the first heavy drops of the cold water hit her, feeling her clothes get soaked almost instantly, she feels the raindrops roll down her skin and further dampening her clothes, the smell of the rain fully hits her now and when she lifts her eyes from where they were looking at the floor not to trip, she sees Kara smiling her signature megawatt smile at her, completely soaked and intertwining their fingers playfully, so Lena smiles, smiles so hard her dimples show. She lets herself be dragged by Kara, running under the rain, feeling the cold sweeping into her bones, and feeling more whole and filled with happiness than she has in a very long time, if ever.

Kara jumps over a puddle with all the grace of a gazelle, letting go of the CEO’s hand, such displays of her true nature still wonder Lena, just when she is about to make the jump herself, Kara stops and abruptly turns towards her. The world stops. Or maybe she is the one that freezes, the only thing she can hear is the rain pouring heavily around them, and her heart beating erratically in her chest, ringing in her ears, the smell of rain mixes with Kara’s floral perfume, she is getting closer now. The brunette starts shaking, and it has nothing to do with the cold water still running down her body. Kara stands in front of her, soaking wet, dirt all over her jeans from playing in the rain, her hair falls in wet dirty blonde strands around her face, her eyes as baby blue as always are dim because of the raindrops that coat her glasses, and in her soaking hands she’s holding an astonishingly made silver ring, two intertwined silver strings hold one small bright emerald in the middle, the inside of one of the string, in almost unreadably tiny letters reads “You are my hero”. The simplicity of the stone in contrast with the intricate design of the ring.

Lena forgets how to breathe, but Kara understands, so she just waits there, with the most loving smile ever seen stamped on her face. When Lena’s out of body experience ends, she simply nods enthusiastically. And so, the world starts spinning again, the honks of the cars return, engines roaring and muffled conversations, all muted by the rain, washing over them as reality sinks in, they are choosing each other, even when the world has tried to pull them apart repeatedly, furthermore, against each other, for them, none of it matters, just them, here and now, kissing for the first time in hopefully many years to come. Lena lets her hands drape loosely around Kara’s neck, feeling the grounding weight of the ring on her left ring finger, hot against her cold skin, the same way Kara’s hands, which hold her together.

[yourpaceangel]

divine by loving

[Read on AO3]

It begins, on some sunny morning just weeks after the world was supposed to end, with a vase of flowers and a note. The lilacs are stunning, surrounded by baby’s breath and something green Aziraphale doesn’t remember the name of but looks lovely nonetheless. They’re the one bright spot amongst the dust motes and lazy spill of sunlight through half slotted blinds. A folded piece of paper, sealed with wax, sits beneath the vase and Aziraphale opens it as carefully as he can. Inside Crowley’s sprawling, carefully messy handwriting takes up only a small portion of the thick paper. 

“My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you--“

He’s smudged the ink over the word ‘love’ like he couldn’t resist running a thumb over the word before the ink had dried. Aziraphale’s finger brushes over it and his lips pull into a smile. He puts the note down and has the phone cradled in his hand before he’s thought about what he’s doing.

Crowley, remarkably, picks up on the second ring.

“Hello dear,” Aziraphale says, looking at the lilacs, “I was wondering if you might want to get some lunch?”

*

Summer nudges its way into fall the way it has a tendency to do. The mornings grow crisp, sun coming into the sky later and leaving it earlier. The trees in St. James’ Park turn a multitude of spectacular colors. Vibrant purples, striking orange, muted gold. Aziraphale likes taking their walks in the early evening, before the sun has had time to set, after the heat of the day has already been bundled off and sent to bed. They walk, hand clasped in hand, down set paths with no real intention of going anywhere.

It’s nice. To finally be allowed this, to finally have the time.

“Robin,” Aziraphale says, pointing up at the sweet little redbreast hiding amongst the leaves. He’s always liked bird watching, and Crowley does too, though he sometimes complains that it leaves him feeling a little hungry afterward.

“Goldfinch,” Crowley echoes, gesturing with his head toward a bush.

They wind around the duck pond, stopping momentarily so Aziraphale can toss a handful of birdseed in their direction before starting off again. Overhead the sky turns a brilliant orange, clouds a cotton candy sugar pink spun thin and high above the trees. A bird arcs overhead, striking dark against the light. 

“Blackbird.” Aziraphale says and Crowley looks up.

“Wonder if there are enough to make a pie.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

Crowley’s thumb dances over the back of Aziraphale’s hand, rubbing absently at the skin there. “Dove,” Crowley says after a long silence.

“Yes, my dear?”

Crowley’s thumb stops rubbing and he pauses, thrown for a moment, before bursting into laughter. He points up into a tree at two doves, pressed close together. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, feeling his cheeks heat.

Crowley tugs him toward a bench, under the nearby tree. “Would you like that?” He asks, “Names like that?”

“Crowley, don’t make fun--”

“I’m not!” He sits down, taking up half of the bench by himself. “I’m not, angel, I swear.” He takes both of Aziraphale’s hands with his own. “I just...I didn’t know you’d go for that, really.”

“I wouldn’t normally,” Aziraphale says, shuffling his feet, still standing, “it’s different when it’s you.”

Crowley’s lips form a little ‘o’, his eyebrows scrunching together like he’s thinking. “Angel,” He says, and this time it sounds deliberate. “Dove.” He kisses the back of one hand-- “Sunshine.” --and then the other. “My everything.” He tugs, so Aziraphale will bend down to kiss him and Aziraphale does, their noses bumping together briefly. He tugs again and Aziraphale falls willingly, resting his weight on Crowley’s lap, hands entwined. Crowley’s mouth tastes faintly like a burnt match might, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind it in the slightest. He opens his lips to let Crowley’s tongue touch his, a spark of heat at his core. “My one,” Crowley says against his mouth, breathless, “my only, my l--” He makes a sound like it hurts, like he’s bitten the inside of his mouth.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, “dearest, starshine, my heart, my love.”

“Oh,” Crowley says and squeezes his hands, “Yes. Yes.”

They’re pressed so close now, cheek to cheek and chest to chest. It takes an age to separate themselves from one another. Long after the moon makes its way warm and full over the treeline, long after the stars began to show themselves, hazy balls of light so very far away.

*

Crowley makes himself comfy in Aziraphale’s reading chair, long limbs sprawled in odd directions in a way that shouldn’t be comfortable and certainly doesn’t look to be. He holds a glass of wine delicately in one hand, cradling the bottom of it like one would a newborn child. He looks good, pleasantly buzzed already, the tips of his ears a charming pink and his cheeks flushed. “I’m just saying,” Crowley says, gesturing with his other hand, his foot bouncing in the air, “I’m just-- what was I saying?”

Aziraphale laughs. He’s pleasantly drunk himself, his cheeks and the tip of his nose hot. “Roses?”

Crowley snaps his fingers and points at him. “Roses!” He declares, “Rotten for romance. Smell atrocious, all covered in thorns. Now the orchid, that’s-- that’s a fine flower.”

“Mm.”

“No bloody thorns on--” he takes a sip of his wine, nearly spilling it over his chin in his haste to continue talking, “No thorns on a good orchid. That’s all I’m saying.” 

Aziraphale is tickled just watching him. The over exaggerated swing of his leg, the slump of his shoulders, the gentle flush of his face. Crowley puts down his wine glass, like he’s made a statement, crossing his arms over his lithe chest. Aziraphale doesn’t try to fight the smile that blooms across his mouth. “So you wouldn’t get me any?”

“Any what?”

“Roses,” Aziraphale says, teasing, “You wouldn’t get me any roses? Even if I asked?” 

Crowley’s wild foot smashes into the end table and nearly sends his glasses and wine glass flying in his haste to sit up straight. “If you asked?” His eyes go wide, luminous. “Angel, I would get you the moon if you asked. Don’t you know?”

“Hm?”

Crowley opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He furrows his brows, looking bewildered. He opens his mouth again and then shuts it. “Come here,” He growls, reaching out a hand. 

Aziraphale sets down his wine and goes.

The next morning there are orchids on his vanity, pale blue, like they’ve always been there.

*

Crowley opens the door of the Bentley for him. He looks dashing in a smart black suit, deep blood red shirt and black tie. His boots are so red they almost look black and Aziraphale wonders for a moment if they just look like snake skin or if Crowley has just taken to forming his feet to look like shoes. “Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale says, kissing Crowley’s cheek as he gets into the car. He smooths a hand over his own grey suit, fiddling with the snake eye cufflinks as Crowley slides on the other side.

The Bentley roars to life, music spilling from its speakers almost immediately. Something soft and so sweet it makes Aziraphale rest his hand on Crowley’s knee and squeeze. “But touch my tears with your lips, touch my world with your fingertips, and we can have forever, and we can love forever.” Crowley peels out, cutting off two cars and scaring a flock of pigeons into flight, but his hand when he rests it atop Aziraphale’s is gentle.

“You have the tickets, of course?” Aziraphale asks, closing his eyes when Crowley drives over a curb to skip a roundabout and several cars blare their horns in fear and confusion.

“Course I do,” Crowley says happily, swinging wildly around a curve.

Aziraphale inhales sharply, digging his nails into Crowley’s knee, hearing Crowley’s answering laugh. “You could at least pretend to care about traffic laws.”

“What would I want to do that for?”

“Crowley--” 

The Bentley slows considerably and Aziraphale feels Crowley pat the top of his hand. “You can open your eyes.” He sounds too amused for his own good. 

Aziraphale peels one eye open and then the other, breathing out a relieved sigh. “Really, my love, it’s like you enjoy nearly giving me a heart attack every time we go somewhere.” 

“Now you’re getting it,” Crowley says brightly. He pulls up outside the Royal Opera House. Cars aren’t meant to be parked here, but Aziraphale knows when they leave later there won’t be a parking ticket in sight. Crowley gives his hand a little squeeze and gets out first to open the door for him, offering his hand.

Aziraphale finds himself a little short of breath, if he’s honest. The light flashes off of Crowley’s feather cufflinks and Aziraphale smiles, taking his hand, letting himself be pulled up. Crowley guides him inside with a steady hand at the small of his back. He takes their tickets from his suit jacket, and Aziraphale barely makes out Orph…& Eur… from under Crowley’s thumb.

“Orpheus & Eurydice?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley hums the affirmative. “Something new,” He explains and then frowns, “Unless you’d prefer--?”

“No, no. New is-- new can be good.”

“It’s not too late,” Crowley stops, letting people walk around them, “There’s a showing of Carmen tonight as well, and there’s always Tosca.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale reaches up to cup his face, fingers tracing briefly over the edge of his glasses, “It will be lovely, I’m sure.”

Crowley leans into him, blowing out a breath. “Just want to treat you right, angel.”

“You spoil me darling,” Aziraphale assures, pressing a delicate kiss to the corner of his mouth, his heart swelling in his chest, “You really do.”

“Deserve to be spoiled,” Crowley mumbles, clearing his throat and straightening back up, “Well, shall we?”

Aziraphale links their arms together, patting Crowley’s bicep. “After you.”

*

It’s a bad day. Winter has creeped its way into the bones of the bookshop and the little flat upstairs, shiny blades of ice clinging to the streets and windows. The cold makes Aziraphale’s leg ache, an ancient wound that shouldn’t bother him in his corporeal form but does nonetheless when the wind outside turns biting and brittle and brutal in it’s coldness. He lights the fireplace and leaves the space heater on but nothing seems to be able to chase the chill from the rooms. 

Crowley is insufferable like this. He whines, he snaps, he sneers. He’s a snake through and through and nothing Aziraphale does is good enough.

“Let’s go away,” Crowley mutters, stomping around the bedroom in his silk pajamas and bundled in a thick wool blanket. “Let’s just go away.”

“Where?” Aziraphale snaps. He’s cold enough, sore enough, irritated enough that he can’t stop himself. “Alpha Centauri?” The way he says it does not come out nice.

Crowley freezes, shooting him a withering look. It’s enough of a sore spot that he goes back to bed, pulling the blankets back over himself. 

“Really now,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley is blessedly, dreadfully silent.

“You’re being childish, Crowley.”

The blanket lump does not move.

“I’m going down to the shop,” Aziraphale sniffs. He does not slam the door shut behind himself, but only just barely. 

The shop is colder than the flat and if anything it worsens his mood. He makes himself tea from the electric kettle in the back room and then promptly forgets about it, finding stacks of books to straighten and reshelve. He opens the blinds in the shop and then closes them again upon seeing the dismal, dreary gray streaked streets outside. He flops into his reading chair and massages his leg.

Upstairs he can hear the bump and thump of Crowley moving around, and then the shuffle of his feet on the stairs as he comes down into the shop. He’s still bundled in that blanket, cranky eyed and frowning, but he makes his way over to Aziraphale and settles himself into his lap.

Aziraphale starts at the feeling of ice cold fingers dipping under his jumper and he grabs them, bringing the hands up to his face. He breathes warm air over cool skin, rubs life into the fingers with his palms. Crowley sags against him, the fight draining out of the both of them at once. Crowley wiggles his hands free so he can knead Aziraphale’s leg, gently working the muscles around the sore spot. Aziraphale sighs against his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, hands digging into the blanket around Crowley’s shoulders to wrap around them both. “I’m having a bad day.”

“Me too.” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s face in his hands, brushing his nose over his temple before kissing his forehead.

Crowley’s hands dig a little harder into his leg. “Angel, I--” He takes a shaking breath and then shakes his head a little, “Nothing.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, running a thumb over Crowley’s cheekbone. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, his eyes a little wet, “that.”

*

“ I couldn’t utter my love when it counted. Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now. And I couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted. Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now.”

Aziraphale follows the music to his kitchen. Crowley humming along in the early morning light filtering in through gossamer white curtains, his hands steady and sure as he chops vegetables and moves them into the pan. He’s bare except for a pair of boxers slung low on his hips. Aziraphale almost wants to lecture him on the dangers of cooking without proper clothes but instead has to  lean against the doorframe to steady himself. There’s a gathering of scales at the small of Crowley’s back that glimmer like an oil slick in the soft sunlight, another little patch trailing up his neck and behind his ear. Aziraphale knows if he got a good look at the soles of Crowley’s feet he would have a delightful little patch of scales there as well. He’s enamored with the edges where pale skin meets smooth dark scale and has to hold onto his own hands to stop himself from touching.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley starts, turning around. “I didn’t know you were up,” He says, cheeks pink, scratching at the back of his head. “I was going to bring you breakfast.”

“I heard music,” Aziraphale smiles, “I heard you singing.”

“Ah,” Crowley’s cheeks darken and he clears his throat, turning back around to add eggs to the pan. “That.”

Aziraphale can’t stand not touching him. He presses his chest to Crowley’s back and hugs his waist, tucking his chin over his shoulder. “Yes,” he agrees, kissing Crowley’s shoulder, “that.”

Crowley is quiet for a time. The kind of peaceful, relaxed quiet that means he’s just enjoying being in the moment. Aziraphale kisses those glittering scales behind his ears and smiles when Crowley shivers. “Pest,” Crowley hisses with no real bite. He smacks Aziraphale’s hand with his spatula. “If you’re going to be in here you might as well be useful. Set the table?”

“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale squeezes his waist, places a kiss to his bare shoulder, and goes.

*

The moonlight dripping in from the frost covered windows is gossamer soft, kissing sweetly over pale skin and dark scales, whispering across dark hair and eyelashes. Aziraphale watches him from across the room, propped against the doorframe as he is, reading glasses slipping down his nose and book in hand. Crowley sleeps rather a lot in the winter, and Aziraphale likes to watch him sleep. 

There’s something vulnerable about Crowley in sleep. Awake he’s all coiled muscle and perpetual movement. Drumming fingers, thumping foot, taps of pens against the table. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. He is confident and cocky, headstrong, headsure, steadfast. He’s a barely concealed grin, a bubble of laughter, the wink of an eye. Asleep he is none of those things. Crowley asleep is something heartbreaking, heartbroken; fragile like the hollow bones of his wings. And trusting. Aziraphale knows he’s the only being alive that’s ever seen Crowley like this, fidgety hands finally still against the pillowcase, face unlined and unworried. 

Aziraphale crosses the room and sits by him, smoothes the fringe back from his forehead with a gentle touch. Crowley rouses beneath him, just a little. “‘Ziraphale?” He mumbles, barely opens his eyes before he’s closing them again. Trusting and so very sweet.

“Yes, starshine,” Aziraphale says, “Just me. You can stay there.”

Crowley curves toward him like he’s magnetized, the way he has done every night since their first together. He feels a barely there kiss to his hip, Crowley’s face pressed against his leg and arm sliding up over his lap. “Like it here.” He mumbles, “Warm.”

Aziraphale hums and scratches at his scalp, drawing a hoarse groan from his love’s throat. Smiling, forgetting his book temporarily, he slips down until their nose to nose, sharing breath. Crowley cracks an eye at him. Smothers his own fond smile by pressing his mouth against Aziraphale’s.

Privately, Aziraphale thinks Crowley’s sleep soaked kisses are the sweetest ones. Not that he’d ever tell him that. 

“Darling?” Aziraphale asks, breaking away. 

Crowley hums in question, nosing along his jaw, his neck, finding where his pulse beats a wild rabbit pace against his skin and applies his lips and tongue. 

Aziraphale shudders and tightens his hand in Crowley’s hair. “Focus, please.”

Crowley makes a rather fetching noise at that but obeys, picking his head back up to look at Aziraphale. He’s lovely like this too. Cheeks pink, eyes hazy with sleep and a little something more, lips red from kissing and sucking and biting. 

“I brought a book with me,” Aziraphale says, “thought you might like to read it?”

“To you?” Crowley asks, sleepy soft and kiss dazed. “Give it here.”

Aziraphale passes him the book and they curl together, Crowley’s head on Aziraphale’s chest. 

Voice soft, honey soaked with warmth and grand affection, Crowley began to read. “The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden...”

*

Spring comes in a bloom of flowers and sun scented air. There’s a carpet of wildflowers rolling past as Crowley drives them further into the countryside. They have no real destination planned, just the two of them and all the time in the world. The radio plays soft and sweet in the background. “You’ve captured my love, stolen my heart…” Aziraphale turns his head to watch Crowley. His face is relaxed, lax, a gentle smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

Crowley looks good like this, soft in the mid-morning light streaming in through the window as they pass fields of rolling green. Crowley brings their combined hands up and kisses the back of Aziraphale’s, his lips soft and warm against the back of his hand. 

Aziraphale scoots as close as his safety belt will allow. 

“We should stop to see Anathema and Newton,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley hums in acknowledgement, kissing Aziraphale’s hand once more before setting it back down. They’d already been heading in the direction of  Lower Tadsfield. Crowley points the Bentley in the direction of Anathema’s cottage.

“It might be nice to bring them something, as well,” Aziraphale says, “that’s the thing to do, isn’t it? Bring someone a gift when you visit.”

“There’s a bottle of wine in the backseat.” 

“Oh! Yes, that will be lovely.”

Crowley nods, his thumb rubbing circles against Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale leans over to kiss his shoulder, lips against dark linen. “Then maybe we can go see the children. Wouldn’t that be nice, Crowley?” 

“Whatever you want, angel,” Crowley says, a little strained, a little breathless, “We can do whatever you want.” 

*

Sunlight filters through the new leaves of young spring trees, breaking across the red tartan blanket that Crowley had rolled his eyes at but packed fondly along with the tan wicker basket. Aziraphale isn’t ashamed to admit he took his time planning this picnic. Deviled eggs, finger sandwiches, a lovely little charcuterie board from the darling Italian deli in Soho, fresh bread from Flor, jam from the market in Tadfield, scotch eggs and wine and tea in a thermos that matched the blanket. And lastly a beautiful angel food cake that Crowley had made a cheery noise at and tried to keep for himself. 

Crowley is spread out flat in the grass just a little bit away, soaking up the sun like, well, something cold blooded basking upon a rock. Music drifts between the two of them from Crowley’s phone, something smooth and slow and earthy. It’s all a bit romantic really. Aziraphale pops the last deviled egg in his mouth and hums, sucking the remains off his thumb. 

“Crowley?”

Crowley turns toward him, smiles. 

Two days ago Crowley had left a bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in butcher paper on the counter of his bookshop and a scribbled note about how beautiful the weather was to be over the weekend and they really ought to travel to the country more. Crowley frankly had all the subtlety of a fox in a hen house. 

“Need something, angel?” Crowley asks. 

An errant ant makes away with a crumb left over from the cake, empty plate glinting in the late afternoon sun. The wind curls along the grass and through Crowley’s hair like fingers. Aziraphale almost loathes to ask it, Crowley looks so comfortable; but he is weak and a little selfish. 

“Come here?” 

Crowley’s smile shifts into something soft, softer. “‘Course.” He falls into Aziraphale’s waiting arms and tugs him in close until Aziraphale is half laying on him on top of the picnic blanket. “Close enough?”

No, Aziraphale thinks, lips pressed to Crowley’s throat, never. If they shared a body maybe, maybe, but maybe not even then. “Yes,” Aziraphale says instead, “thank you, dear.”

“Don’t have to thank me,” Crowley mumbles, face buried in Aziraphale’s hair, “not for this.”

The wind ripples past, tickling the edge of his trousers, the edge of his coat catching and flapping. The grassy hill smells sweet but Crowley’s skin is sweeter pressed as it is under Aziraphale’s nose. He tangles his hand in Crowley’s waistcoat, just holding. 

Crowley hums, boneless and lax beneath him, hands skimming and skipping over clothed skin and nothing at all. Wandering, wondering. Aziraphale catches a hand as it flies past and brings it to his mouth, pressing fleeting kisses to lily white knuckles and a calloused palm. 

Music drifts over them sweetly, soft and cosy as a blanket. Aziraphale can’t remember the artists name but he likes it, ethereal and earthy and heady. Crowley makes a soft noise and nudges at him. 

“Dance with me, I like this song.” 

Hardly a request Aziraphale could ever turn down. Aziraphale pulls them both up to standing, Crowley keeping their hands tangled as they sway together. 

“Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathes. 

Crowley shivers against him. “Yeah,” he mumbles, and tilts his head down for a kiss. 

*

There��s a note stuck to the mirror of his vanity, as there has been every morning since Crowley started staying the night. 

Manila yellow with a painstakingly inaccurate little rose on the bottom it reads “But here we are and something about it doesn’t feel like an accident. /  We’re all looking for something to adore / and how to survive the bending and breaking.” 

Aziraphale takes it down with dove-light fingers, mouth a wobbly thing as he cradles the note in his hands. 

In the top drawer of his vanity sits a box, an engraved silver case older than even his bookshop. Aziraphale opens it and places the note inside, atop the other notes, the many dried flowers, his ring from the sixteenth century, the pearls from the necklace he’d worn to Queen Elizabeth I’s coronation. A box much bigger on the inside than it seemed from the outside. 

He runs his finger over a molted black feather before shutting the case and locking the drawer, his heart too big for his chest. 

*

Aziraphale wakes up in his reading chair to Crowley tugging gently at his ear. “You’re getting old,” Crowley teases, grinning. 

“‘M not.” Aziraphale grumbles, batting Crowley’s hand away. 

“You are.” Crowley’s hand brushes his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “Sleeping in your reading chair like an old man.”

“Quiet, you.” Aziraphale says. He grabs Crowley’s dancing hands out of the air and tugs until he has the demon fully seated in his lap. Aziraphale noses at Crowley’s exposed neck, pressing a line of sharp kisses along the skin from jaw to collar bone. Crowley really does have lovely collar bones. 

Crowley squirms. “No, angel, come on I have a surprise.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale bites down on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Ah- angel.” Crowley protests, trying and failing to sound cross. 

“Oh alright,” Aziraphale says, soothing the bite with a kiss, “show me your surprise then.”

Crowley clambers out of Aziraphale’s lap and tugs until they’re both standing. He leads him upstairs, hands tangled, nudging open the door to Aziraphale’s flat with his foot. In the middle of the room is a claw foot tub, steam curling up in ribbons from the water. A low table nearby has a glass and bottle of wine and a box of chocolates. Sinatra is playing from the record table in the corner, “Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more. You are all I long for all I worship and adore. In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, his eyes wide. 

“Surprise,” Crowley teases, squeezing his hand. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, “This is- you-“ 

There are times when Crowley smiles that Aziraphale thinks ‘I could not love you any more than I do now or I would overflow with it.’ This is one of those times. Crowley, smiling, soft and fond and teasing. The kind of smile you give someone you’ve loved your whole life. The kind of smile that comes from knowing and being known. 

Aziraphale blinks, a little misty eyed, and draws Crowley against him for a kiss. Tastes all the love curled up there at the corners of Crowley’s mouth greedily, his hands caressing and touching where he can. He doesn’t pull away until Crowley is sufficiently weak kneed and pink cheeked, and even then he only draws back enough to knock their foreheads together. 

“Marry me,” Aziraphale breathes. 

Crowley breathes in sharply, eyes impossibly wide, and Aziraphale fears for a moment he might have made a mistake. Then Crowley clings to him,  hands digging sharply into his waistcoat, and says, “Yes.” He sounds hoarse, like the thought has robbed him of all his air. “Yes.”

And that smile. There is nothing, not in Heaven or Hell or on Earth, as dear to Aziraphale as that smile. And he falls in love all over again.

[barnesandco]

The Greater Good

Carrying the shield isn’t an easy job; it often requires a great deal of sacrifice, and that can be difficult for Bucky to come to terms with. 

Based on the “Where’s my supersuit?” scene from The Incredibles.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo​​ 2020. Word count: 2044. Square filled: “Free Space”

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Mentions of injury, wounds, blood. Mentions of drinking alcohol. Mild angst, slight separation anxiety.

A/N: Idk what to say, y’all. I wish I had the decency to apologize for writing a fic I’ll probably regret posting instead of working on my WIPs, one of which is on hiatus bc I’m a lazy jerk, but such is life. Blame The Incredibles (which I’ve never seen -- I’m not sorry) and @samingtonwilson 's anon. Also, while you're there, go check out Taal's masterlist because she's an incredibly (pun intended) talented, amazing, fantastic writer and every. single. one. of her stories is a must-read.

Honeysuckle and mango, the scented candles on each bedside table flicker in the light breeze drifting through the open window, a sea of dark ink dotted with stars visible beyond. Late summer is cooling into autumn, and the leaves of the tree that shades their bedroom on hot days is slowly turning into an early shade of yellow-orange, that glints in the glow of streetlights to remind Bucky of the specks of gold that set Sam’s eyes alight like a September sunset. It’s been two weeks since Bucky’s seen those eyes, two weeks he's been awake before dawn with more worry than he knows how to run off.

He’s due back today, his husband, after a fortnight of radio silence thanks to a stake-out in the Canadian wilderness, in wait for a lucrative arms deal to occur, and for the team of Avengers to prevent. The mission had been called a day after Bucky broke -- no, shattered -- his arm during a drug bust in California, thereby disqualifying him from participation, and sentencing him to this torturous wait. A wait that has now, finally, come to an end. Almost. 

Bucky lets out a quiet sigh on his way back to the kitchen. Placing a second plate of homemade ravioli and the necessary utensils on a tray table, he returns to the bedroom, putting his food next to where Sam’s waits patiently. Wrings both hands, one made of metal, and the other with a cast on it. Any minute now, he thinks, pulling out the first aid kit from under the bed and putting it on the dresser, ready to use under the bright glow of the lamp next to it. The room is filled with soft light, the smell of pasta, and the ache of Bucky’s heart as he tries to quell the unreasonable nerves that tug at his diaphragm.

Nearly a year of falling asleep with the feel of Sam’s wedding band under the stroking of his thumb, nearly two of being intimately familiar with the texture of his lips, and nearly three of being perfect partners in combat and good friends out of it, yet Sam still makes him nervous. A good nervous, the flutter of nerves in his belly, Bucky determines as he paces the hallway, stopping in front of the mirror to push his hair back. Maybe he’ll ask Sam to cut it tomorrow, once he’s recovered. From his wounds and Bucky’s... affections.

The thought has only just crossed Bucky’s mind when the tap of boots alerts him to someone’s presence at the door. Keys jingle, but he’s too quick, already unlocking the door and throwing it open as Sam lifts his hand to the lock, where it, and the rest of him, freezes at the sight of Bucky, cheeks dusted with a rosy pink already. 

Words stay unspoken, and the sentiment of longing, of unimaginable relief is transferred directly from Bucky’s mouth to Sam’s. His metal arm rises to grip Sam’s suit-clad waist, and Sam’s gloved hands cradle Bucky’s head gently, so at odds with the pressure with which he seeks to draw forth pleasure. Soon, the kiss turns to open mouths, just resting over each other, elevated breaths colliding in the margin of air between them. Bucky breaks away with a sigh, arms around Sam, and forehead against his, eyes closed.

“I missed you, too, Bucky.” Sam smiles, split lip rasping over over Bucky’s, and he pulls back to look at him. Keeps ahold of his hand as he leads him to their room -- taking note of his limp -- and silently begins to peel the suit off his husband’s tired, burdened shoulders. Sam’s sees the trays on the bed and raises an eyebrow at him in question, but Bucky’s spotted the gauze covering the lower left side of his ribs.

“You were shot,” Bucky says lowly, kneeling, and bringing the first aid kit with him to the floor, unfortunately too used to this sort of thing to really be fazed by it. Besides, he doesn’t want to waste any time chewing Sam out for getting hurt, not when he can be sitting next to him with good food and even better laughter, something sorely needed after ages of quiet. He’ll allow the delay in those plans for their evening just enough to redress the wound that has started to bleed through the bandages.

Sam shrugs with the confident nonchalance of someone who knows he isn’t getting told off. “It happens,” he says with a grin. “What’s with dinner in bed?”

“Thought you’d be more comfortable,” Bucky answers. “And we can get down to business quicker,” he quips, ignoring the scoff elicited, as they’re both well aware that Sam’s in no condition for such at the moment.

While Bucky starts cleaning the blood that has seeped out through his staples, Sam takes off the light chain that carries his wedding band, and puts the ring back in its rightful place, on his fourth finger. By the time he’s reached for a shirt in the dresser next to him, Bucky’s done, and he stands so Sam can lean on him while he puts on his favorite pair of sweatpants.

“Hurry up, old man, the food’s goin’ cold and I worked real hard on it,” Bucky says, getting Sam settled in so he’s leaning on the pillows against the headboard, and pours him wine. 

Sam’s eyes widen, shocked. “Old? You’re one to talk.”

“At least I can walk straight,” Bucky retorts, and Sam gestures towards his stomach.

“I was shot.”

“And whose fault is that?” Bucky jokes, and Sam’s mouth snaps shut, his shoulders shudder to contain the building amusement, until they both burst into laughter. Bucky watches Sam’s eyes scrunch tightly shut as he laughs, and he lets the sound spill into his soul like an essence of life. It’s been a while since he heard it, and it sounds just as sweet, as effulgent, as he recalls. 

Recovering from the outburst, Sam breathes slowly, trying not to laugh again. “Okay, alright, I’m sorry. You’re not old, you’re just--” he bites his lip, and Bucky tries not to wince in anticipation of the wound on his lip reopening. “-- mature.” He smirks at him, and Bucky rolls his eyes, putting another piece of ravioli in his mouth. The room goes quiet, and they relish the food and each other’s company. Bucky drinks in the content, relaxed features of Sam’s face. He’s radiating goodness, and that energy that can only be described as unapologetically Sam. 

The golden, shining bubble of a moment is burst by Sam’s phone ringing outside, from the chest of drawers in the entrance, and Sam gives him a look, before going to retrieve it. Bucky recognizes the Captain-voice Sam’s using on the phone, making the gears start to turn in his head, a process that results in him going to pick up the shield lying next to the bed, and hiding it behind their tuxedos, the ones they wore to their wedding, in the closet. Luckily for him, Sam’s call ends just as he’s gotten back to bed, half-eaten plate of pasta in front of him like he never moved.

Bucky’s gut instinct was right. Nobody could have any reason for calling Sam at this hour with the exception of Nick Fury. “Robbery on 9th ave. They’re using Chitauri energy cores,” he says, pulling off the loungewear and putting the suit back on. Zip, boots, gloves, and then--

“Where’s my shield?” He asks, turning to look around the room. “I put it right here.” Sam looks at Bucky and he averts his gaze.

“I don’t know,” he says, entirely unconvincingly, and Sam clenches his jaw in understanding, putting his hands on his hips in wait.

“Bucky.”

Bucky traces the gold veins running along his metal arm. “What?”

“I need my shield,” Sam says softly, stepping forward.

“Why?” It’s Bucky’s turn to put his hands on his hips, and Sam throws his in the air in frustration. Bucky tries to avoid thinking about the veins that protrude along his neck at the movement. This is not the time, Barnes, focus. 

“Why? What do you mean, why?”

“Ask them to send someone else! I've been waiting to see you for two weeks. You can't just leave again.” But Sam’s already on his way to the closet, rummaging, searching first through an unhealthy amount of running shoes -- Bucky’s new vice -- and then his outrageous collection of compression t-shirts. 

“The public is in danger, Bucky,” he says, voice muffled from the closet. 

"My evening is in danger," he replies, crosses his arms and leans in the doorway. 

“Come on, man. I have to go. For the greater good and all.” He looks up from the underwear drawer to send a pleading expression Bucky’s way, and Bucky fixes his glare on a spot on the wall above Sam’s head. Aims his next words at that spot, too.

"”I'm your husband. I'm the greatest good you're ever going to get,” Bucky responds sharply, but Sam continues searching, and soon, Bucky drops the act. “You're injured, Sammy. You're not well enough to go,” he says, pushing off where he’s leaning and stepping forward. Somehow, he lets his arms uncross and clench slowly at his sides, fists that he works to reopen, feeling the stretch of tendons accompany the strain in his voice. Sam helps, taking a hand in each of his, thumb sliding over the base of each of his fingers. The knuckles of his broken arm are covered in plaster, and the metal one whirrs, almost purring. 

“Bucky, look,” Sam says, voice so quiet it’s like he’s relaying a secret in a crowded room, rather than an explanation in an empty one. “I know it's hard, and I'm sorry, but you know that this is what the job takes.” Bucky watches Sam press his mouth thinly together, tries to ignore the logic he knows is present in his partner’s words, but Bucky was never one for ignorant bliss. He’s making an ineffectual effort to suppress the natural conscious that’s telling him to send Sam off, and it isn’t sustainable. “I'll be back before you know it.” Sam’s smooth, low timbre pierces the conflict Bucky is striving to resolve, and the turmoil, the unreasonable bid to restrain Sam from leaving settles like dust after a sandstorm.

Sam’s hands tighten around Bucky’s and he can feel the pulse in them, in the safe, warm skin the touch of which is his home, the surface that brings him back to Earth no matter where his head is going. However, now, Bucky lets go, and retrieves Sam shield. Gives it to him without another word, and accepts the grateful nod of thanks.

He’s almost to the door, Bucky trailing a few steps behind -- resolutely brushing aside the analogy of lost puppies -- when he stops and turns. Gives Bucky a look that would be abstruse if not for years of conversation, of moments that enable Bucky to tell that Sam’s frown, the shine of his eyes, that anxious hand running along the edge of his shield, means only that he’s reluctant. Bucky’s hunch is proven right when Sam comes forward to stand toe-to-toe with him, eyes locked on his.

“Thank you. I’ll be home soon,” he says, leaning to place a kiss on his forehead. Just a touch, a whisper of reassuring force, before he’s moving away again, eye contact only broken when he leaves the threshold of their house, stepping outside.

Bucky holds the back door and watches him deploy his wings. Sam traces a flight path on his arm panel as Bucky looks on, watching the lights shine on his skin like shimmering topaz, beautiful, glowing, alive, and prays that he’ll return to him that way. Again. 

Once he’s done reading mission details and ready to go, Sam looks up again, eyes dancing with mirth and adoration, the former of which he voices in a joke that is meant to disguise his concern for Bucky, even though he’s the one leaving for battle. “Don’t wait up for me. You need your rest, grandpa,” Sam calls, laughter trembling in his throat, taking off in a flash of red, white, and blue. 

[saint-kore]

Give In To Me [18+] (Commodus x Reader)

♡ A/N: Howdy everyone! I’m back with a one-shot for you all. This one-shot is dedicated to the very lovely @captain-el-writes​ . Thank you so much for this idea. I really had a great time writing this so I hope you love it! The ending is kinda of open because I plan on writing a part 2 to this as well. I wanna get started on that as well as the sequel to the Jimmy Emmett fic but in due time, of course! So here you go, enjoy ;) -Persie♡

♡ Word count: 4,464 ♡

♡ Contains: Very NSFW, SMUT, oral sex of all kinds, rough sex, moderate dirty talk (because why not? lol)♡

The sultry heat of summertime Rome laced through the air of the darkening evening, the sleepy sun settling low in the sky. The friendly wind greeted you, a smile gracing your features in appreciation. The deep orange, pink and lavender hues illuminating your features from the wispy white curtains as you listened to Lucius read to you. The story he told seemed to blur against your own thoughts, looking out at the people of Rome readying themselves for slumber. The playful breeze touching on the olive trees, the heady scent gracing the air in return.

“Y/N…,” Lucius spoke, snapping your out of your reverie. You glanced over at him, an amused yet slightly embarrassed smile as he regarded you with his blue eyes. He seemed to be oblivious to your daydreams, a big smile on his small face. “Did you like that story? It’s one of my favorites,” he said, the sparkle in his eyes seeming to grow brighter in anticipation.

“I loved it, Lucius,” you confirmed, much to his delight. You combed your hand through his hair, smoothing his hair back from his smooth face. In the time that you have known him, you could see his growth. His face changing from its cherubic, angelic features to its growing angular shape that showed that he was nearing the cusp of adolescence. “Come, it’s time for you to get ready for bed,” you said as you rose to your feet.

“Uncle says that great leaders have no time for rest…,” he spoke, making you pause for a moment before continuing with his bedtime routine. The mention of Commodus was enough to make your blood run cold and your body vibrate all at once. It was a strange and exotic feeling to you; the few glances that you have gotten of his sharp green eyes sent shivers down your spine. Being a servant girl, you made sure to keep your eyes down out of respect for his Majesty but you could always tell when he was looking at you. The heated yet curious glare would burn through the fabric of your tunic, even over your curves that the cotton fabric clung to generously. The deep blush that would erupt on your features would always earn a hushed chuckle from him, making you wish that you could look up, just once, to see the mirth in his handsome features or whenever he would ask you to do mundane things to keep you in his presence longer than needed. It would get to the point where your normally precise, gentle hands would become shaky with the mix of fear and eagerness of what the unpredictable ruler might do in your presence. It excited you…

Even though you were certain that the Emperor only looked upon his sister with the eyes of a lovesick suitor, he was no stranger to using maids and female servants to fulfill his lustful needs when he saw fit. He was never one to be gentle and depending on who you asked, it was either the best or worst night that they’ve had with a man. The thought that you might have the Emperor’s eye made your heart form a pounding rhythm, your chest shaking from the impact. You wouldn’t dare be so bold to ask him, of course, but you couldn’t help but wonder.

“Y/N,” a soft voice spoke up. You paused, finally being able to get Lucius to lay down for bed and looked up to see Lucilla. She regarded you with a kind look as she usually did, the cloud of sadness in them growing in them by the day.

“My lady,” you greeted as you stood straighter, giving a small bow in which, she gave a quiet nod. She then focused on Lucius, her gaze growing into one of adoration as she sat on the edge of the bed. She kissed his forehead softly, closing her eyes before pulling back. Her silk lavender stola draped gracefully upon her slender frame as she stroked her sleeping son’s head. The soft brown curls framing her face brushed along her cheeks, moving a bit with every slight movement she made. You patiently waited for her next word or request, a small sigh leaving her.

“Commodus has requested your presence,” she finally spoke, making you feel as if someone had poured ice down your back. You clasped your hands in front of you trying to busy yourself from what she had just announced, bringing it to her side. She detected your nervousness, taking the bowl from you and sitting it to the side with care.

“He will grow angry if you keep him waiting. When I left him, he was already restless…,” she warned, her voice remaining even and gentle as she pulled the pins from her hair to let her wavy tresses down upon her shoulders. “I understand your worry, but you will make it worse for yourself. Go to him…,” she repeated. You shifted on your feet, hesitating to move from where you were rooted. Lucilla gave you a knowing gaze, silently urging you to go on. You gave a short nod, silently bidding her goodnight as you left her chambers and walked down the dim hall leading to Commodus’ chambers. Your body felt heavy, let out a huff of short-lived confidence as you pick up the pace. Your gaze flits over to guards, standing stoically and ready for action against the marble walls.

You reached the smooth double doors that were all too familiar to you, the intricate details carved into the gilded exterior spiraling elegantly amongst each other in the design. You lingered around the door, jumping when the guard moved to open the door for you. You immediately greeted with the scent of imported Egyptian jasmine, juniper and fresh woody musk that you had come to know as the Emperor’s favorite scent. The fragrant aroma seemed to pour from him, blending well with his own natural fragrance. You looked around the lavish chamber, your meek footsteps bouncing off the walls as you walked further in. You paused when you finally saw him, feeling the blood drain from your face. He stood with his back to you, looking at the now dusky sky from the balcony. His cape moving in the soft wind.

You watched him for a moment, placing a hand against your chest to try to ease the chaotic thumping. Your hand slowly rubbing the middle of your chest, taking a slow breath. Before you could even open your mouth to speak, Commodus’ voice suddenly spoke before you.

“I was wondering if you would come…,” he spoke, his head turning a bit towards your direction before moving to look at you fully. The dark circles under his eyes made his irises stand out more as he stared at you, an ominous coil squeezing at you as it continued. His pink lips parted before he quirked an expecting brow at you. You quickly lowered your head, forgetting yourself as you quickly bowed.

“Please forgive me, your Highness. I did not mean to look upon you so boldly,” you said gently, keeping your voice even and soft. You blinked when you heard him approach you, his footsteps sounded as loud as your heartbeat. A patient hand touched your chin, lifting your head up to gaze upon his handsome features once more. Commodus stroked your chin slowly before moving down to clasp your neck, smirking when you eyed him warily. He tested your will, giving your neck a light squeeze and enjoyed the soft gasp that erupted from your pouty lips. “Where were you, little bee?” he purred in a honeyed voice, stroking your smooth throat with his thumb. “I’d sent for you,”

“Your nephew kept me busy, Your Highness,” you replied, your voice not above a whisper. “I…I was getting him ready for bed until his mother had returned…,”

Commodus purred softly in reply to your explanation, tucking a loose strand away from your face. His fingertips dancing along your cheek, pulling a shiver from you at the sensation. He pulled away, the hot touch of his hand against your throat leaving you and you suddenly missed the feeling. You gently touched where his hand had once been, your skin tingling in response as if it was hoping that his touch would return as well.

“Y/N, is it?” he said, glancing back at you. You kept your hands at your sides, giving a soft nod of confirmation as you followed his movements. He gestured to platters filled with fresh bread, fruits, vegetables, sliced, smoked fish covered with spices along with large bottles of wine. “Come, enjoy…,” he offered, much to your surprise. You clasp your hands in front of you as you walked over to the table. He watched your every move, smirking as he poured you some wine in a fine gold goblet, amethyst gems glistening in the light. You timidly took the goblet from him, taking a slow sip of the cool, surprisingly sweet wine. You had never tasted anything like it, making you quickly drink down the rest of it, much to Commodus’ amusement.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asked with a mischievous grin. You blushed as he poured you some more, filling the goblet to the brim. His eyes followed the rim of the cup to your lips, watching you quickly take drink so that the sweet red liquid wouldn’t spill over. “It’s one of my favorites. The finest Rome has to offer…,” he proclaimed, a sparkle of pride shimmering in his eyes. You let the sweetness coat your tongue before further indulging yourself in the fresh food presented to you, indulging in each platter. You had never tasted food like it; you had given in to temptation every once in while by sneaking a fresh bread or even cuts of exotic fruits but never often. Commodus watched you, almost curiously, slowly sipping from his own goblet of wine. He looked away from you and focused on the wall, taking another swallow of wine before sitting the goblet down on the table.

“Y/N, do you know why I called you here?” he murmured, his eyes shifting towards you one more as he removed his cape. You looked at him, your mouth filled with pieces of apple and sweet bread before quickly washed it down with a few gulps of wine. You felt pleasantly lightheaded from drinking so much wine so quickly, but you found your words once he glanced back at you.

“I do not, Your Highness,” you said softly, slowly twirling your empty goblet in your hands. You glanced away, a dusky heat rolling in your lower belly as you heard him shift and come behind you. You could feel his heat once more, resisting the urge to lay back against his chest. You held back a breath as his hands came up to tenderly caress your jawline before moving to your low hair bun, loosening it so that your glossy hair tumbled down your shoulders and back. He smoothed the hair back, his fingers grazing your temple. His hands smoothed down your shoulders and nuzzling behind your ear before burying his face in your hair. The intimate act made you as stiff as a statue, wanting to move to look at him but didn’t want him to stop.

“I’m actually a little astonished, Y/N…,” he spoke, his breathing moving from your hair until his lips settled near your ear. “I’ve been watching you. There have been a lot of maidens who have served our family and pleasured me but none like you, dear Y/N. You have honestly captured me with this skittish coyness that you present to me…,” he said, the purry tones of his voice making you bite down on your lip.

“You tease me endlessly with the soft call of your curves…aching for my touch,” he continued, his hands moving from your shoulder, smoothing over your breasts. His strong hands pushing your breasts together through the thin cotton fabric, a small moan erupting from you. He pressed against you, his body melding against you as his hands moved to latch a firm grip onto your hips. His breath became labored, pressing his soft lips more against your ear as if he were trying to contain himself.

“Would you deny me if I invited your presence in my bed, lovely Y/N…?” he asked, one hand leaving to stroke your midriff slowly and even gripping at the fabric as if he wanted to rip it off of you.

Your mouth went dry, gripping the base of the goblet in your hand which he quickly swiped away from your hands after a moment of breathy silence between you both. He tossed the goblet; your eyes watching it roll on the polished marble, little droplets of scarlet wine marring its purity. He suddenly turned you around, his eyes boring into yours.

“Your emperor requests an answer, my lady,” he whispered against your lips, his hands already tugging at his own garb. The fabric easily coming loose under his tenacious fingers, breathing heavily against your lips before gripping your throat once more. His heaving chest exposed to you, the pale flesh looked slightly damp from the heaviness of the garment that was now falling from his shoulders and torso.

“I would never deny you; I wish to serve your every need, Your Highness…,” you managed to say, gripping at the table behind you. He smiled against your trembling lips, squeezing your neck slightly as he caught your bottom lip between his teeth. He groaned in satisfaction at your submission, his ego swelling as he nibbled on your lip before capturing your lips in a deep, rough kiss. His tongue pushing and swirling around yours, the taste of the wine still prevalent. You hesitated before allowing your hands to touch his hair with care, your fingers running through the short chestnut brown locks. He let out a growl in response, suckling on your tongue before pulling away.

“Disrobe,” he commanded, stepping away from you. “Tonight, I plan on devouring ever inch of you…,” he added with a lustful moan, sitting on the bed to watch you as undress before him. You stepped a little closer, your trembling hands moving to pull at the sash around your waist. You heard a hum of appreciation leave him as your tunic fell from your body.  The cool air made your skin turn to gooseflesh with a tremble, your nipples instantly perking at the change in temperature. Commodus leered at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his lips parted as he forced himself to keep his breathing steady.

“Look at you…you’re practically ripe from the promise of ecstasy,” he moaned, gesturing for you to come to him. You drew closer to him, your tongue running over your lips in effort to taste the ghost of his demanding lips once more. He quickly stood and bent you over the bed, your upper half pressed against the soft bed. You blushed once you felt him run his hands over your smooth backside, whispering lewd praises that only your ears could hear. He gripped and kneaded the soft flesh with a hungry groan, pulling his hands back to smack your ass hard. A surprised squeal erupted from you followed by a series of cries and moans as he continued, even placing some strikes against the back of your thighs. You trembled against the bed, clenching at the bedding with a firm grip. When the strikes finally subsided, he gently stroked your now sore cheeks and even cooed affectionately as he knelt behind you. A shuddering groan left him as he spread you open, your arousal glistening and dripping down your womanhood.

He let out a whimper as he licked a strip from your jewel to your quivering slit, moving his swirling back down to latch onto your clit. Your hips bucked involuntarily, moaning loudly as your hands clawed at the bed. His moans vibrated against you as he feasted on you, your moans spurring him on to continue. His hands gripped your cheeks, spreading you more as he dipped his tongue into your wetness. His tongue moving around your tight walls, moaning as your wetness sweetened his tongue. He pulled back momentarily, licking his lips wolfishly. When he returned, he licked his way up to the tight ring of muscle, flicking his tongue against it.

You blushed heavily and immediately tried to pull away only for Commodus to grip your thighs harder, digging his nails into your skin as a warning. Your eyes rolled back, your body soaring with pleasure as he alternated between suckling at your opening and your clit to placing generous licks against your rosebud. You felt your body coil as you readied yourself for the orgasm clawing its way through your body. Commodus felt needy and this only made his desire grow, suddenly shoving two fingers into your dripping slit as he continued to lick and lavish your rosebud with attention. He felt your walls tighten around his fingers, thrusting them deeper and deeper inside of you as he urged you to come undone. You whimpered and cried out passionately once you came, your essence coating his fingers as they continued to plunge into you to help you ride out your orgasm. Flushed, Commodus finally pulled his fingers out of you and stood upright once more.

You struggled to turn to look at him, letting out a weak moan as you gazed up at him through your rose-colored pleasure. Your lips parted once he brought his fingers to his mouth, cleaning his digits of your release. He swallowed hard as he stared down at your naked body, a strangled moan escaping him.

“How foolish have I been to deny myself the sweetest nectar I’ve ever tasted from a woman for so long,” he shuddered.

“Your Highness…,” you started before he cut you off.

“Commodus,” he corrected, working to remove the rest of his attire. He made quick work of the rest of his clothing, the sound of shuffling and the fabric hitting the floor filled your sensitive ears. You let out a quiet moan when you felt him kissing and tongue at your navel, licking his way up the valley between your breasts. “I want for my name to be familiar on your lips, in all of your moans and cries…,” he whispered, nibbling at one of your sensitive nipples before sucking hard for a quick moment. A smack at your thigh made you quickly move more on to the bed with him following close.  His eyes glittered as he stared down at you as you stared back, taking in his form. He wasn’t spectacularly muscled, but it didn’t take away from his attractive features and overwhelming sexuality and dominance.  You reached out to touch his stomach, feeling him almost falter at you touching him so intimately. You brought your other hand forward, pressing it again his stomach before smoothing up his chest and running back down to touch his thighs. The wispy hairs rising at the attention as you stroked his inner thighs, his hard shaft twitching between his legs.

A faint smirk appeared on his face as he suddenly moved up until he was straddling your chest, the tip of his lengthy member brushing against your nose before he began to stroke himself in front of you. A small pearl of precum formed at the spongey pink tip before dropping onto your lip. Your tongue quickly licked it away, shivering at the taste. Commodus’ eyes glazed over as he let the head of his rub against your plushy lips, begging for access. You immediately opened your mouth, welcoming his hot length into your mouth. A loud moan immediately left his lips, thrusting his hips forward to push more of his shaft into your soft, wet mouth. He panted, reaching down to cradle the back of your head as he began to slowly thrust into your mouth. You kept up with meeting his thrust, gagging slightly as he scooted forward even more. A possessive moan escaped his lips, his head falling back as he sped up his thrusts. You slid your tongue beneath the underside of his cock, the angry vein responding with a speeding throb. He shuddered, his brows furrowing in pleasure as his shaft pressed against the inside of your cheek before shoving down your throat. You did your best to breathe as he held you there, your gagging making your throat clench around his throbbing shaft.

“Take me now…,” Commodus moaned out to the heavens, giving you a few more breathless thrusts before you felt his hot seed spill into your throat. He gripped the back of your head as he let out a groan of completion, gripping your hair as he gave shallow bucks into your mouth as he emptied himself into your mouth. Your eyes were screwed shut, swallowing down as much of his seed as you could as some of it managed to dribble from your mouth when he finally released you. You coughed, immediately taking a much-needed deep breath. The sound of his chuckling filled your ears as he moved off the bed, trying to catch your breath. Your hazy eyes looked up at him when he offered you another cup of wine that you drank down without a word, the cool liquid settling in your belly pleasantly.

Commodus drank from the bottle, his lean body bending as he turned the bottle up before sitting it to the side. His member still hard, hitting his lower belly as he moved to get back on the bed with you. His tongue licked away the wine from your lips, grinning down at you.

“Are you ready for me?” he purred, his voice pulling you in once more as your legs immediately fell open. He moaned in delight at your eagerness, pushing your legs up roughly to lick up your wetness a few times before roughly turning you over. He arranged you as if you were a doll, your back arched with your face buried into the pillow in front of you. You gripped and held the pillow as you readied yourself for what was to come next. Your ass was still sore from the spanking that you received before; you were even sure that you had other bruises that you would feel in the morning. You felt his hands smooth down your spine and over your sensitive ass. You moaned into the pillow when you felt his hard cock brushing against your inner thigh. His mouth followed his hands, placing soft kisses up your spine and between your shoulder blades. One of his hands came up to wrap your hair around his fist, keeping a good grip as his tip nudged at your creamy slit.

“Commodus, please…,” you mewled passionately, making his movements pause for a moment. You had thought you had done something wrong, opening your mouth to apologize to him until he slid inside of you completely without warning. You moaned loudly, the grip in your hair tightening as he set into a punishing rhythm. You felt like climbing the walls as he thrusted deep and hard inside of you; your hands clawing at the silk sheets and pillow beneath you. The sound of his hips smacking hard against you was vulgar enough but your loud moans and whimpers added to it all, his name fervently coming from you which made him pull your head back as he slammed into your quivering cunt.

“Yes, Y/N. Call for me, let the world know who owns you…,” he growled, giving you a hard smack across your ass as he continued. You tried to bury your face into the pillow only for him to pull your head back up, his other hand coming around to grip at your neck.

“Don’t you fucking dare defy me…,” he warned, turning your head so that he could stare into your eyes. His hips began to move faster, his shaft stretching your walls and moving deeper inside of you. “I want to hear every single whimper that comes from that pretty mouth. I want to hear you scream…,” he growled, giving you a particularly hard thrust that earned a passionate cry from you. The sound of the both of you panting and moaning out filled the air. You didn’t care if anyone heard you but his grip tightening on your neck made your cries even more laborious. You moved your hips back against him, making him moan your name in approval and latch onto your neck, marking you with a hard suckle. His growls and moans began to get louder, his hands moving to roam over your body in a greedy frenzy before wrapping an arm around your waist and his other catching you in a lock around your neck. It was as if you would disappear after he found his release, his hissing breaths and moans filled your ear as he roughly handled you.

“Mine…,” he said through gritted teeth before he let out a trembling groan, mixing with your own moans of thirst and lust. His hip movements began to become erratic as he got closer and closer to his release; you were getting closer as well. Your wet walls tightening around his pulsating cock. He had a vice grip on your hips, his jaw jutting out as he slammed one, two, three times before spilling his seed deep inside of your canal. His orgasm set off your own, your eyes rolling back as you came. Panting and moaning his name as he held himself into you; a loud, deep moan of completion left his body as every single drop of his seed glazed your walls. Shaking, he finally moved from you and collapsed beside you on the bed. You moaned quietly as laid beside him, completely spent from your activities. You felt his sticky seed on your thighs, blushing as you pressed your legs together as you laid on your side.

Commodus looked over at you, his eyes heavy as he drew a little bit closer. He moved away the strands of hair sticking to your damp face. His warm breath fanning against your face, making you close your eyes.

“Bathe with me, stay with me tonight…,” he requested silently, a request you knew you would not deny. “I don’t want you to leave my bed…,”

A smile formed on your lips, your lips moving to kiss at the bridge of his nose. “As you wish, Your Majesty…,” you replied.

You spent the rest of the night with Commodus; eating, bathing and making love through the dark hours until the morning when you were both tangled in each other’s arms in bed under the rich blue silk sheets.

[valkyrieofthehighfae]

Chapter 2

Warnings: Language, canon typical violence, eventual smut Link to the High Fae language Sylvarus Join my taglist here Tagging: @miss-spixx​

I stood outside the room Wolffe was staying in here at the palace, staring at the brilliantly hand carved door like it was a rasfald waiting to strike at my hand the moment I’d reach for the door. I’d been so confident on the way here, but now that I was actually standing outside the room, my stomach felt as if it were dropping to the floor and my heart was beating so quickly in my chest.

“Come on, you can do this.” I took a deep breath and knocked with a trembling hand, waiting with baited breath. The door swung open, that now oh so familiar scowl softening immediately upon realizing who was standing here.

“Danica, I wasn’t expecting to see you again tonight.” He stepped aside, allowing me to enter.

“The talk with my mother went quicker than expected, so I thought I’d swing by to bring you something,” I set the basket down on the black cherrywood desk. “It’s not much, just some pastries and a couple different, ah, ciders and spiced wines.” I stumbled over my words, almost forgetting what cider and spiced wine was called for a brief moment. He strode over to the desk, taking up one of the starfruit and shimmer nectar cider bottles, inspecting it closely.

“Thank you, you didn’t have to do all of this for me.”

“Oh it’s no trouble at all. I wanted to do something to make you feel welcome considering my attitude this morning.” I gave him a quick grin as I fished one of my favorite treats out. “Here, try this. It’s a dark chocolate and salted caramel ma’assoa. These are my favorites.” I handed him the nicely wrapped pastry, eager to hear what he thought about it.

Calm yourself, my goddess you are acting like a lovesick teenager. I had to fight back the urge to groan out loud, irritated with how silly I was acting. Honestly, what was wrong with me? Meanwhile, Wolffe hadn’t moved, his jaw slightly dropped in surprise, pastry held limply in hand.

“You’re Commander Reid?” He practically spat the words out, jaw clenching tight enough that I could see a vein in his forehead protruding slightly.

“Yes, I am. I’m honestly surprised you didn’t figure it out in the garden earlier while we were talking. I truly do apologize for this morning. You must understand that with all the troubles we’ve had recently, it was only natural for me to be suspicious of your arrival in our territory unannounced.” I reached out, laying a hand on his forearm gently. “Please, accept my humblest of apologies.” My heart was racing again at our close proximity and I was acutely aware of just how closely he was staring at me.

“I had my suspicions, but your voice is far more… melodic without that bucket on.” Wolffe had finally found his voice again. “What’s a princess doing as a commander in the military?”

“It’s part of my duties as princess of the Court of Stars to help run our military. I’m a good strategist, I lead my own regiment, in fact the only person higher in rank than I am is my father. He runs the entire military, making sure that we’re doing our jobs properly. I have a mind for tactics and battle plans, so it only made sense to put me in charge of my own regiment.” I shrugged as I stepped away from him, pulling a couple of glasses out of the basket and popped open the bottle of cider he’d been inspecting mere moments ago, pouring the bright blue liquid into the glasses. “Under normal circumstances I would be a diplomat, but I don’t have a head for politics and that sort of nonsense, so that position went to my uncle. He’s far more skilled at the job really. In fact, usually the only time I handle “normal” princess duties is during our holidays, the major ones anyway.”

Wolffe accepted the glass with a muttered thank you, his irritation becoming interest quickly. I could almost see the wheels in his head turning as he mulled over this information, processing everything while taking a sip of the cider.

“You mentioned that you have a war going on with the Night Court. Have you engaged them in battle?” He dropped down into one of the cushy, overstuffed chairs near the fireplace, careful not to spill his drink.

“A couple of times yes. It’s how I received these,” I ran a fingertip across the scars that decorated the left side of my face. “The Fae of the Court of Bones are vicious warriors and are more feral than most Fae. They prefer to physically fight over using blasters or other weapons. We’ve always won though, so these were worth it. Plus it makes for interesting conversation since it’s not exactly common to see a princess with battle scars.” Well, it wasn’t common in the Celestial Court anyway since the other princes and princesses were diplomats besides the Winter Court prince. It was far more common to see scars among those in the Night Court from fighting us and fighting each other. It was honestly a wonder they could even hold a war against us with just how much infighting there was between their courts. Queen Helena had managed to hold onto the throne in the Blood Court far longer than past rulers; she was vicious and calculating, using manipulation and fear to keep her subjects in line. After she took over, that’s when the war really began, her need to take vengeance upon my father in particular fueling the fire.

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to discuss war and fights. I’m sure you see too much of that on a daily basis,” I set the glass down on the desk, glancing towards him with a faint smile. “I really just wanted to stop in and apologize. I won’t keep your attention much longer. You’d probably like the chance to rest and get some sleep and I still have last minute preparations for the first day of the harvest tomorrow. Good night, Commander Wolffe.” I took up the empty glass and made to leave when he gently grabbed my shoulder, stopping me.

“Don’t worry about this morning. You were only protecting your people from a perceived threat. Would have done the same thing in your shoes, princess,” His hand was warm and comforting where it rested on my shoulder. “Thank you for the food and drinks. I really do appreciate the gesture. Good night.” His hand lingered for a moment, the gesture sweet and a little surprising really, and I could feel my ears heating up at his intense gaze.

“Sleep well, Commander.” I swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry, and hurried out of his room, allowing the door to fall shut with a soft thud behind me. The minute I was out of his sight, I could breathe properly again, my chest less tight, and my heart slowed to a normal speed.

What is wrong with me? How can someone I barely know get under my skin so easily? I ran a hand through my hair, letting out a sharp huff of frustration. It was unbelievable that I was acting so irrational, not once had I ever been so emotionally charged over someone! Ever! I needed to distract myself, get my head on straight before I said or did something completely moronic. Losing my head over a man wasn’t like me at all; sure I’d had the occasional dalliance and I had some sort of… weird thing with Ragnar whenever his people would come here or we would go up there for Council meetings, but I was never invested in those past relationships and I certainly didn’t picture anything serious coming from the casual sex I would have with Ragnar. Just what made Wolffe so special?

“Ah there you are, my lady! We need you at the fairgrounds at once please! We need your keen eye to make sure we’ve done the proper set up!”

“Of course, let’s go.” Thank the goddess for distractions.

~*~*~

A crisp, cool breeze stirred the beautiful red and orange leaves of the various trees we passed, the sounds of children laughing, people talking animatedly, and lively music filling the air as I walked with Wolffe arm in arm down to where the festival was being held, smiling as a small group of young faelings went racing past us, screaming with laughter and pure joy. I loved the Harvest Celebration; three full days of being with friends and family, enjoying the fruits of our labors and giving thanks to the Gods for what we had was always so much fun. When we got closer to the fairgrounds, I could see some of the clones dressed in traditional Fae garments interacting with my people, talking and laughing as well, the sight of it bringing a slight smile to Wolffe’s face.

“This must be a nice change of pace,” I glanced up at him, smiling as well. “I truly hope you find some relaxation among us for the short time you’ll be here.”

“Thank you,” Wolffe was still watching his men running around, getting the chance to actually goof off and have fun, the rest of his sentence trailing away into silence.

“Would you tell me about them?” I ventured after a moment of waiting to see if he’d pick back up on those now forgotten words. “Your squadmates, that is. You all seem to have such a close bond.”

“What? Really? You… want to hear about them?” He was staring at me like I’d grown a second head.

“Yes, I do.” I was genuinely curious to know more about him, about his brothers. I could stand here for a century and just listen to him talk about something that made him happy. I listened to him tell stories about Plo Koon, about his brothers and their adventures as we walked through the fair, pausing every so often to greet my people or so he could converse with his brothers in between stories.

“Okay, so that’s Sinker and Boost then, right?” I pointed to two men who were being chased by a pack of small faelings who were little balls of pure joy. Little blurs over pearly gold all the way to the deepest midnight blue hues were flying past us to play with the two men who were having the utmost time of their lives tossing these faelings up into the air and catching them, squeals of excitement ringing out. Wolffe was full on grinning as we watched them get bombarded, laughing as Sinker and Boost were quickly outnumbered.

“Okay everyone, why don’t we give Sinker and Boost a moment of peace please! Go on, go play little ones.” I called out, stiffening when they turned to look at Wolffe and I. “Oh no. I’ve summoned their attention. Run!” I laughed, tugging him along as the faelings raced towards us with peals of laughter. “Oh no! You caught me!” I dropped to my knees, allowing them to pile on me, accepting the hugs with a laugh of my own.

“Princess!”

“Yay!”

“You’re so pretty!”

Multiple voices were talking over each other, the little ones all clamoring for attention, when various parents hurried over to gather them up, apologizing profusely for their children.

“Please, don’t apologize! I love this, you all have such delightful children. They’re welcome to come and go as they please.” I took Wolffe’s hand and got to my feet, brushing my dress off, beaming happily. The kids were herded off to do other activities while Sinker and Boost recovered from the excitement, the two of them grinning just as big as the kids had been.

“Sinker, Boost, this is Princess Danica.”

“Hi, it’s nice to put faces with the names. Wolffe’s told me quite a bit about you two. Thank you for your patience with the little ones, I know they can be a little overwhelming, especially with their magic still not completely under control.” I reached out to give the two a quick embrace.

“Nice to meet you, Your Highness.” Sinker returned my hug slowly, startled by  the affection.

“It’s just Danica. Don’t worry about formalities, please. Are you enjoying yourselves?” I beamed up at the two, realizing just how small I was compared to these men with how my neck ached a little from the constant need to look up so I could look them in the eyes.

“It’s great, you Fae know how to have a good time.” Boost replied with a pleased look on his face, Sinker agreeing with an eager nod. “Food’s great, alcohol is damn good, and everyone’s been really welcoming. It’s… kind of odd really. They treat us like we’re equals.”

“Because you are? You’re people, too. Why wouldn’t you be treated as such?” I frowned at his words, looking between the three with a furrowed brow. “Do… do Republic citizens not…?” I was horrified when they traded knowing looks, all but confirming where I was going with my question. “That’s terrible! Surely not everyone feels that way?”

“No, not everyone Princess. But a good majority do.” Sinker murmured. I was aghast hearing this, rage quickly taking over.

“That’s unacceptable. You are fighting a war to keep them safe from those Separatists, the least they could do is treat you with respect and dignity.” I spat, hands curling into fists, my nails breaking the skin on my palms with how hard I was clenching them closed. “Do you earn wages? Hazard pay? Any sort of compensation for your sacrifices?” My anger only grew when Wolffe slowly shook his head, his eyebrows raising slightly. I unclenched my fists, resting a hand on my chest as I studied these men, taking in just how battle worn they were. They suffered losses and were expected to move on, to keep up the relentless pace and I could feel my heart breaking for them.

“You all deserve so much better. Please, go enjoy yourselves, take in the sights, just… take time for yourselves. You’ve more than earned that right.” It was hard to keep the emotional tremor out of my voice when I found the ability to speak again, a sadness gripping my heart tightly in its clawed grasp when I embraced the two again, watching as they went to catch up with some of the others.

“Your bleeding, princess. Let me take a look.” Wolffe wrapped a hand around my left wrist gently, lifting it to inspect the marks in my palms.

“Oh, that’s not a big deal. Guess I need to file my nails down again, it’s nothing to worry about.” I inspected the long, almost talon like nails on my right hand, making a face at them. “You’re sweet to worry, though. Thank you.” I ran a finger over the marks, humming softly and lifted my palm to show him it was okay. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m positively starving right now. Shall we go get something to eat? There’s a woman here who makes the best moonflower ma’assos. Oh! Speaking of food, did you enjoy the treats I brought over last night? I hadn’t had a chance to ask and I nearly forgot.”

“Yes, they were delicious. You made them yourself?”

“Oh good! I’m so glad! I love to bake, it’s relaxing. There’s just something about being in the kitchen, covered in flour and spices, the smell of freshly baked treats in the air that’s just peaceful.” I looped my arm through his again, leaning on him as we strolled through the marketplace, chatting softly as we took in the wares being sold around us, stopping at every booth so I could speak with the shopkeepers, actively including Wolffe in my royal duties. There was nothing that could beat this moment; the peacefulness of the market and walking with Wolffe, getting to know him on a more personal level was just… perfect.

“Wolffe? Can I ask… how did you get your scar?” I reached up, softly running a finger over the raised and puckered flesh, gasping softly when he grasped my hand tightly in his with a dark look. “I’m sorry, I didn’t -”

“You didn’t know. It’s… a sensitive subject, and not one I care to talk about,” He cut me off, looking away after dropping my hand.

“I apologize, I overstepped.” Silence grew between us and I extracted my arm from his with a quiet sigh. I hadn’t meant to push any buttons, this was still something that really seemed to be bothering him. He reached out and took my arm back, pulling me back over to him without looking down at me, his gaze focused ahead at the jousting arena.

“What’s going on over there? I’ve never seen anything like it.” He was staring intently at some of our guard members who were with their ronki, getting ready.

“It’s called jousting. The goal is to knock your opponent off of their ronki,” It was a fairly straightforward explanation really. “If you want to try it, you’re welcome to borrow Sleipnir and some armor.” We had gotten closer and watched as Sif unseated Loghain with ease, the light purple and silver Fae woman crowing triumphantly as Loghain landed on the ground with a curse.

“Better luck next time, Loghain!” Sif called over to him from the other end of the list, grinning from ear to ear. Loghain grumbled at her, but returned her smile despite having lost, whistling for his mare to come back.

“I highly doubt this srula would be interested in our customs.”

I turned to see Tyr walking towards us, helmet tucked under one arm and a smirk on his face. I rolled my eyes at him, annoyed that he was going to try and goad Wolffe into a match by acting like an ass about it.

“Captain, I would respectfully ask you to shut your mouth.”

“Why, my lady? Do you think he can’t do it?” Tyr had a wicked gleam in his eyes as he attempted to twist my words.

“I don’t have time for this, Tyr. Your goading isn’t going to -”

“You said I could borrow Sleipnir? Let’s do it. Since your captain here seems so confident that I won’t be able to win, why don’t we put it to the test?” Wolffe cut in with a smile that had me wincing.

“Okay… if you’re sure. Let’s go get you set up then.”

[lordrethandus]

The Wayward Son Pt 4

On the third day in the final hours of the dwindling sunlight, they waited. Sir Sorlu and his platoon of armored guards stood silent and ready before the steady hum of the arcane prison, accompanied by several towering constructs for added measure; but they have waited all day, and despite their strict discipline, they were beginning to grow restless.

The Red Raven circled overhead, still bathed in the orange sunset while the Amber Glade beneath them was shrouded in the great shadow of Azeroth. Miriam swirled a glass of wine in her hand while she glared impatiently down at the scene through the observation window.

“We agreed to three days.” She started with an irritated huff. “Did he need more time?”

“I’m so sorry this is taking so long.” Syrahn gave Lady Kaevia a warm but nervous smile. “I should have planned this out better. In fact, we should have tried this months ago.”

“Better late than never at all.” Kaevia did her best to smile, but it wasn’t easy; this was the first she’d heard of her father in months. Many believed he was dead. She was ready to accept the fact that he was gone, yet now she had to struggle with those emotions all over again. Viridias ignored Miriam and her whining, instead choosing to keep Lady Covaya Sun’rael distracted from what surely was a trying time in her life. She seemed relaxed enough when they talked about their sons, Arden and Taen.

“Well I’m not prepared to sit here and wait all night.” Miriam sneered, turning her back to the observation window. “Two more hours and I’ll need something stronger than this swill to-”

“What… oh Gods!” Syrahn cut her sister off mid sentence and sprung to her feet. A bright flash of light flickered in the distance. “What is that? At the south entrance?!”

Covaya slowly rose to her feet and approached the window in silence. With the distant flames came a presence she hadn’t felt in months; the soft glow was unmistakable. The Lady of War pressed her hand against the glass as she fought back the swelling frustration and eagerness in the back of her throat. “Syrahn.” She spoke in a low whisper, but Syrahn heard her well enough. “Take me to my husband.”

A roaring pillar of blistering flame erupted at one of the side entrances of the Amber Glade. The guards were sent into a hysterical frenzy as they scrambled away from their posts to mobilize a sizeable defense; the alarms howled in the air over the shouting and cursing, catching the attention of the gatekeeper. The handful of defenders on the scene clutched their blessed weapons tightly, fearing the Burning Legion had come to lay waste to their secluded home at last. As reinforcements hurried out of breath to rally to their defense, they formed a phalanx against the impending onslaught of demons, but something wasn’t adding up.

Whitstan had escorted his beloved to the Glade hoping that some semblance of peace would be established; If not for the sake of the woman he held dear, for the sake of his child. The man slashed angrily at the earth before him showering the immediate vicinity with dirt and sand. He lifted his sword as its tip tore from the root and twine of the surface. The smell of the freshly unearthed soil permeated throughout his vicinity. Whitstan had hoped for a friendly and peaceful visit. He had been mistaken. He fell to a knee as if offering penance to some deity, yet he maintained his composure. “Grant me the strength needed to trudge through this trial.” the Knight pleaded. “Gods, angels, demons, beasts or… men… give me the strength to cut through all those would harm those I care for.” With that prayer, he took to his feet and brandished his blade. His faithful undead horse was summoned at his side with a mere stroke of his gauntlet. As he pulled himself onto the saddle, Whitstan turned to the pillar of smoke on the horizon, and began his approach at full gallop.

A figure stood in the blinding smoke of the ruined portcullis, alone and armed with only a radiating gladius and a large gilded shield. Confident it was some sort of fanatic instead of a demonic invasion, the guards broke formation and charged into the smoke to subdue this trespasser to bring him to justice. Yet the stranger moved like a demon all the same, seemingly unencumbered by the thick plate that covered him head to toe and undeterred by the smoke that surely blinded him. The stranger’s shield tasted teeth and blood, and one by one the guards were knocked unconscious with broken bones and shattered faces. The gatekeeper arrived on his hawkstrider at last, raising his hand and barking something incomprehensible to order his men still on their feet to retreat and regroup.

“Surround this intruder and wait for my-” The gatekeeper made the mistake of taking his eyes off the assailant for a moment too long. When he looked back the stranger was upon them with the familiar hum of Holy Magic coursing along his open palm. The unwary elf was snatched off his bird like a misbehaving child, lifted over the intruder’s shoulder and slammed face-first into the ground. Another explosion of searing flame expanded from his body, sending the other guards airborne and unconscious. The gatekeeper was incapacitated but still somewhat aware of his surroundings. All he could hear was the hissing of flame crackling along the ground, the faint wail of the Amber Glade sirens, and low, labored breathing; instead of finishing him off, the stranger decided to press forward. With the defense force completely overwhelmed, the southwestern gate was left in ruin, exposed, and compromised.

One at a time, soldiers were introduced to the ground. Whether they ended up on their knees, stomachs or faces, they all met the same fate; defeated by an overwhelming force but allowed the sanctity of their own lives. Nothing seemed to deter the stranger rampaging through the entrance of the Amber Glade. “... Syrahn…” the man uttered as his eyes burned with an unstable holy flame, finally facing one of the men who had fallen before him. “Where is she?”

The guard weakly looked up at him through his dented helmet; blood rushed from his nose and mouth, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Lady… Bloodfeather…?” He winced, struggling to sit upright. “Uuugh… go to hell. And take... your b-bloodlust… with you…”

“Bloodlust?” the strange assailant asked incredulously, “Bloodlust…? No. This isn’t bloodlust. This is justice.” A quick jerk introduced the guard’s helmet to the attacker’s own faceguard with full force. The man went limp in his grip as he allowed him to fall to the ground. Reinvigorated with the man’s reluctance and his own sense of justice, he stepped deeper into the territory of the Glade. In the distance stood the Amber Castle, a place he’d heard of before yet never seen himself; it was the largest and brightest building in the Glade, and most importantly, the best guarded.

The second line of defense remained hidden in the sparse trees, concealed in the darkness of the growing night. Archers let loose a flurry of arrows at their target in hopes of turning him into a pin cushion. A raised shield released a blinding reflection as he summoned an Aegis of Light around him while the man dashed forward. The arrows either found themselves a mere moment behind the location of their intended target or deflected altogether. A goal was in mind and the unrelenting force wasn’t going to stop before he reached it. The archers turned to fall back to the inner walls, clearly intimidated by the single man who managed to cut through the outer defenses effortlessly. The guards standing watch along the innermost defenses were much older and less swayed by this stranger’s actions, gripping their weathered blades with stalwart determination; five veterans dropped over the heavy iron gate and cautiously strode toward him, keeping their shields and swords handy.

“Trespasser! You have spilled blood on these sacred grounds, and now stand before Sorlu Bladefathom! What is it you want, intruder? Speak!” The grizzled old man shouted, slamming his lance against his shield.

“Syrahn.” he responded curtly without losing momentum. He still made his way toward the opponents in front of him, showing no sign of hesitance while he pressed forward. Eventually his feet slowed to a stop as he regarded the guardians before him. “Truth, and justice.” the Paladin responded. “That is what I want… And none of you can give me the solace I seek. You’re all only obstacles to what needs to be done. Move aside, or be purged by the Light. I won’t warn you again.”

Sorlu shrugged with a welcoming demeanor, and with a wave of his lance the others slowly retreated back to the gate to give them some room. “Being your obstacle is our job. If you seek audience with our Lady, I’m afraid you’re too late for today. She’s sleeping in these early hours… and she will not be disturbed.” The moment the guardian finished speaking a heavy shield was launched to his location. He raised his own in kind but vanished in the explosion of Holy Magic, rocking the nearby trees and sending a handful of the guards along the wall to their knees.

“I told you, I won’t warn you again.” the stranger responded grimly with an iron grip on his gladius.

“Then die on your feet with that sword in your hand!” The old man roared, standing up straight again while he let his dented shield fall useless to the ground beside him. The stranger dashed forward in a flurry of attacks and parries that lit up the night sky with the sparks from his tenacious onslaught. His lance shattered in half from a brutal overhead swing, forcing him to discard it with a curse beneath his breath. His curved khopesh came up in a flash, reaching around the intruder’s shield and biting into his shoulder.

The blade dug deeper into his flesh as he forced himself closer to his opponent without pause. Eyes burning brightly with a teal hue burned into the old man along with a stern visage consumed by tenacity, “You won’t defeat me. You don’t have the strength.” They held each other’s wrists tightly, preventing any more swings of their weapons; but the guard was trembling, and he wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer.

The old man coughed with a sly smile spread across his lips, but he couldn’t hide the forceful strain in his voice. “I'm not trying to defeat you.” What sounded like a roaring applause arose from behind the old knight; crested helms beyond counting shuffled toward the edge of the wall, wielding crossbows and rifles. Another surge of troops poured out of the portcullis like a golden wave of armor and shields; before long they were surrounded by the full might of the Amber Glade. “You've lost.” Sorlu continued, keeping his weary eyes fixed on Alucieus. “But it's not too late to surrender. Lay down your weapon… we can.... help you.” One of the guards at the edge of Alucieus’ vision began pacing back and forth.

“Father…!” He coughed out, causing Sorlu’s face to grimace.

“Stay back, boy!” The old man sounded more strained and exhausted by each passing moment. The gentle whistling of a portal echoed over the countless helmets of the Amber Glade’s might, revealing five elven women now standing on the edge of reinforced wall.

“Alucieus?!” Syrahn shouted out before covering her mouth. She wasn’t prepared to see him in such decrepit state; black circles hung under his sunken eyes, and it looked like he hadn't eaten since Dalaran. “Alucieus stop!”

“Stay back all of you…!” Sorlu forcefully grunted. “He must make... this… choice… him… self…!”

“Stand down, Justicar!” Miriam shouted with a commanding voice. “Don't do anything you'll regret!” Lord Augustus Sun’rael stepped into Alucieus’ line of sight behind the venerable elf. He said not a word, for the disapproving glare was more than enough to get his message across; being bested by an elf that was doomed to die sooner than later was a price Alucieus was not willing to pay. Sorlu saw the flash of fel corruption behind his eyes; it was still a foreign concept to him, but he knew madness when it stared him in the face. Out of options and out of time, Sorlu popped a serrated blade out of his knee and he brought it up as hard as he could, hoping to bury it into his opponent’s stomach. If defeating him was out of the question, gravely wounding him for safe capture was his best bet.

The Paladin released his grip on his enemy’s wrist, instead opting to drop his shield and grasp at the blade digging into his flesh. He instinctively swung his head backward to protect his vital functions, the helm dropping from his crown while he attempted to dodge the attack. Still, the unexpected weapon found itself lodged in its target’s stomach. A worn and weathered visage seemed to meet the old man, eyes laden with hatred as he felt the blade pierce his torso.

“I already told you… you won’t stop me.” the man coughed out with blood escaping his lips. He flipped the blade within his hand to shift from a slashing motion, to a stabbing one; he brought the tip of the gladius closer to the older man’s chest while it was resisted with all his strength. In an instant the old man’s strength failed him for the first time, for the last time. The blade punched through his chainmail and cut through flesh and bone, forcing a weak gasp from his dry lips.

“Nooo!” One of the guardsmen shrieked, stumbling forward until he collapsed on his hands and knees.

“Thank you… for your countless years of service… but your skills are no longer needed now...” a raspy voice whispered those final words to the gentleman, while simultaneously burying the blade deeper into his body. Sorlu stared into his eyes for one silent second before his legs gave out beneath him, causing the guard to collapse into a tangled heap of his armor and cloak.

“Now… it’s time to have a chat with my young and foolish friend, Syrahn.” Alucieus violently tore the sword from the man’s chest. “She owes me some answers. You served her well. Rest.”

“Alucieus!” the all-too familiar voice called above the roaring flames behind him; when his fel-scarred scowl rose to the wall, the maddening whispers of his surrounding ancestors became deafening. The other faces around her melted and blended together, forcing his burning eyes to focus on Syrahn as she glared down at him with nauseating fear. Her lips moved but he could barely hear her voice.

“Behold.” Augustus hissed with malice dripping from his lips. “The fruits of her treason have blossomed; she has turned your wife and daughter against you.” Seeing Covaya again after so long, only to be standing beside the enemy, encumbered Alucieus with a weight he had never known. He threatened to collapse to his knees, but the smoldering fire searing the inside of his head would not allow him to relent; what little reprieve he experienced seeing his wife and daughter was short lived, replaced with an irresistible urge for violence.

“What… happened to you…?!” Syrahn’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard against his ears; every moment that passed with breath in her lungs was an affront to everything he stood for.

Miriam wasn’t willing to stand around and wait for an answer. “With Sorlu’s death, Alucieus’ life is forfeit!” She commanded, raising one of her hands. “Prepare to fire on my command!”

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on him!” Covaya snapped out of her dreadful stupor at the threat on Alucieus’ safety. “Syrahn the fel corruption is compelling him! He’s innocent!”

“Belay that order!” Syrahn commanded, shooting a feral glare at her older sister before returning her gaze to Alucieus. “Alu… please! Lay down your weapon and turn yourself in! This isn’t you!”

A cruel grin unbecoming of Alucieus spread across his face. “Areus said those very words too, once. No… if I’m dying, it’s on my feet with my sword in my hand.” Kaevia flinched, staring down at her father with bewilderment. “What has he done to Uncle…? What is happening?”

“To hell with this.” Miriam hissed, glancing around at the crossbowmen at her command. “Sorlu is dead. The law is clear, this man must die for what he’s done!” Just before Syrahn, Viridias, and Covaya could interject, the crumbled heap of cloak and armor at Alucieus’ feet sputtered and twitched. Sir Sorlu coughed up a lungful of blood, and he was turning blue in the face with his chest cavity filling.

The Priestess wasted no time leaping off the side of the wall, and with a small whispered incantation she landed harmlessly in the grass with a gentle plop of her feet. “Alucieus…” she called out, fearful of the bloodsoaked gladius still firmly in his grip. “Let me save him. Please…! If he dies…!” Kaevia moved to join her former mentor, but her mother grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back to her side. Covaya watched Alucieus like a hawk, studying his erratic twitches and the subtle shifting of his feet, yet she remained completely silent.

“Lower your weapons!” Miriam shouted, glaring hatefully down at the High Justicar. “I said lower your weapons! If any of you hit your commander I’ll kill you myself!”

“Our moment of triumph is upon us.” Alucieus’ father whispered in his ear, compelling him to take a step back as a token of goodwill. Syrahn drew closer with every second despite her sister’s warnings, keeping her eyes fixated on the bloodied gladius still in his grasp. The Holy Light fluttered from her fingertips the moment she was upon Sorlu. The fel corruption searing Alucieus’ mind flared the instant she took her eyes off him, compelling the High Justicar to act.

“Syrahn!” Viridias shouted at the top of her lungs at the sight of him lunging at her youngest sister. His injuries against Sir Sorlu belied his punishing strength, completely catching Syrahn off guard when her eyes snapped back up to his outstretched hand; instead of cutting her down with a single strike of his heavy blade as Miriam, Covaya, and Kaevia feared, he snatched her by the arm and yanked her to her feet.

“Order your men to lay down their weapons and retreat back through their portals!” Alucieus commanded, pressing his gladius beneath Syrahn’s chin. “Or I'll bleed her like livestock!” Syrahn remained silent while she struggled to breathe with such a sharp edge so close to her throat, as Miriam froze in place, glaring down at Alucieus with a hateful fear she had rarely known. “I will not tell you again!”

“Do as he says…!” Syrahn fearfully stared at Miriam, Covaya and Kaevia when she managed to speak the words, causing the surrounding guardsmen to reluctantly drop their weapons and shields.

“She trembles like a leaf in your grasp.” Augustus sneered, running the back of his hand against her cheek. “Syrahn knows she is guilty. Her penance must be pain.”

“Father!” Kaevia finally snapped out of her stunned stupor and approached the edge of the wall. “You can't go through with this! I know you can still hear me… fight this corruption! You have overcome far worse! You are stronger than this… better than this!”

“Better? Better?!” Alucieus snapped back, tightening his grip on Syrahn’s arm. “Everything I have ever done, was for my house. For my family! To preserve House Sun’rael as my father did before me, and his father before him!” Syrahn furtively pointed her hand down at Sir Sorlu in a desperate attempt to heal his grievous wounds to stabilize him, hoping her deranged captor wouldn't notice. “You are willing to toss away our legacy… for what?! For him?!”

“Arden is growing taller and stronger every day.” Covaya assured, standing beside her daughter. “Our family legacy is secure. Light of my life… don't let this misguided hatred be the end of everything we have!”

Alucieus stared at his family in silence. They were his world, from dawn to dusk, to dawn again. The two people in this world he cherished the most, the two he would gladly trade the world for just to ensure their safety. He remembered the day he met Covaya all those years ago, addressing his wounds from a reckless duel in some forgotten tournament. That moment he looked into her shimmering blue eyes, he knew she was the one, and despite invoking his father's fury, he made her his. The day he held Kaevia in his arms, his world grinded to a screeching halt. How could a baby so small make so much noise? Sixteen grueling hours of childbirth left his beloved Sunlight exhausted, allowing him to clean his firstborn himself. That was the day every other man in this world became a threat; the day he knew he would raze Azeroth to the ground to protect her. But now, in his most trying of times, they forsake him.

“Misguided hatred…?” He repeated, while slowly sheathing his gladius; for a moment relief washed over their frightened faces. Only for a moment. “This is just the beginning.”

“AAAAAHHHH!” Syrahn’s sudden shrieking caused Viridias to clasp at her mouth. In an instant her arm shattered, twisting in directions it was never supposed to; with a surge of strength the High Justicar had snapped her bones like a child breaking apart a twig.

“See how easily she breaks.” Augustus tsked, slowly shaking his head in disapproval. “Pathetic.” Miriam and Viridias were stunned at the sight of Syrahn flailing and kicking in his grasp. Every time she moved the splintered bones in her arm jolted agony, but she was in too much pain and panic to stop. Alucieus’ other hand shot up at the zenith of her screaming and caught her by the throat, plummeting the surrounding field in silence.

“I want Whitstan’s head!” The High Justicar bellowed, as Syrahn feebly clawed at his gauntlet to free herself. “Do you hear me, Bloodfeathers?! Bring me his head or I will give you hers!” The color from Syrahn’s face was quickly fading, and in her current state she wouldn’t retain consciousness for much longer.

“Stop…” Viridias spoke in a frightened whisper. “Stop…! Stop we’ll give you whatever you want!”

“Father no! STOP!” Kaevia shouted, while a helpless weight threatened to flatten her against the railing. Covaya didn’t say a word, horrified at what her lover had become. Before anyone had the chance to move, a familiar neighing echoed along the wind of the open field.

Whitstan appeared atop his deathcharger, leaping clear over the wall in a single bound. The undead horse landed hard against the grass and almost buckled from the weight, but kept steady while it slowed to a halt. Alucieus’ surrounding ancestors began screeching in a deafening crescendo, filling the High Justicar with a deep-burning malice. “Whitstan…!” Kaevia thought out loud, breaking her gaze away from Syrahn only for a moment to look at her undead beloved.

“Alucieus.” Whitstan started, swinging a leg over his saddle before landing silently in the grass beside his horse. “Let Syrahn go.”

“Drop your blade, ghoul. Or I drop your traitorous savior.” The hatred dripping from his voice was almost tangible. Whitstan seemed unmoved at the sight of Syrahn’s unnaturally twisted arm, but he furrowed his brow at her ruthless strangling; if he didn’t quell this problem, a certain Hunter certainly would.

“You know that’s never going to happen.” Whitstan spoke in a calm voice, reaching over his shoulder to pull the sickeningly crimson greatsword off his back. “Killing her will force all of those guards to return. How many could you take down before you’re overwhelmed? Ten? A hundred? Your quarrel is with me… and if you want my head so badly, come and take it.” Viridias shrieked at the sight of Syrahn’s free arm falling limp against her side, and her eyes slowly rolling back before closing. A brief lapse in his building fury caused Alucieus to release Syrahn, letting her fall face first into the grass like a sack of grain. He then took a few steps calculated steps forward with the Holy Light forging something ominous in his open hands.

“Out of all your bad ideas, this one is certainly the worst.” Ellyria whispered from the hilt of Whitstan’s runeblade. “Your plaything is going to be disappointed no matter this outcome.”

“You fought a High Justicar before…” Whitstan huffed in response, pointing his blade at Alucieus; the Holy Light within his grasp took form, revealing a dazzling and elegant sword with a serrated edge and glimmering handguard.

“Yes. And if it weren’t for sacrificing all of my precious thralls I wouldn’t be here, trapped in your blade.” The attitude in her tone almost caused Whitstan to smirk, but given the current circumstances, it would have to wait.

“Any tips?”

“Don’t get killed.”

Collabuddies: @k-sunrael @whitstanwilhelm

[benito-cereno]

The Further Adventures of Santa Claus, Chapter 1: The Saint Comes to Wallachia (part three)

(Part one here. Part two here.)

(drawing by @fetorpse )

“Stay outside for now,” the saint had said, as he tied his horse’s reins to a post outside of Vlad’s princely court before likewise doing the same with the beast’s chains. “For the time being, this is a polite house call.” He laid his finger knowingly along the side of his nose and winked. “But stay alert, as I may have need of you later.”

The beast snorted his assent in a puff of steam that hung in the chill air as the saint made his way to the entry of the main hall of the court. But their travel had been long, and without activity to keep him alert, the beast grew tired and soon the lids around his wide and bulbous eyes became intractably heavy.

Before long, the snow was softly falling on the shaggy creature’s tawny, leonine fur, which covered him from his curved horns down to his mismatched feet--one of which, if disconnected from the rest of this faun-like figure, might be mistaken as human, and the other unmistakably a cloven hoof--as he began to snore loudly, disrupting the still night. He slept curled on his side due to the sizeable basket-like hamper strapped onto his back. His long arms clutched tightly at the tools of his trade, a bundle of switches--known in nearby areas as a virgács, which in later years would be painted gold and used as a festive decoration, but which for now was still a warning sign of some power--and the tip of his not insubstantial tongue flicked about the edges of his toothy maw as he dreamed deep of years past.

And here is the dream he dreamed:

It is winter and it is snowy and there are mountains but they are not these mountains, not these that surround and protect this old princely court, but those mighty and ancient mountains that stand proud and lofty above all pretenders and whose very existence had been enough to topple prideful armies who thought they could cross without an offering of respect and obeisance to these immortal hills that would and had outlived people and nations and empires and races and species. These mountains stood thick with trees which despite the cold still showed green in defiance of the dark and frost and deep within a grove of such prickly needled trees stood their unquestioned master, the Wild Man of these woods, the Great Clawed One, the Krampus.

And there he stood bedecked with chains but not the iron chains that held him now and burned his flesh whenever he thought of violence against the innocent but bright bronze chains festooned with bells that clanged and clonged with each step or sweep of his arms. Around him danced a small army of nubile young women who poured out to him libations of potent fruit brandies to appease him. Though he was terrible indeed the long winter dark would bring far more terrible things and it was only through the propitiation of this fierce and proud lord of the wood that the surrounding village could hope to be protected from those things. It was a situation that suited the Krampus just fine and a contented rumbling issued from his throat like some infernal cat purring.

But soon an unfamiliar sound would interrupt this sylvan revelry: a THWAK THWAK THWAK sound resounds through the high powder of the snowy grove. The Krampus snorts and tilts his head to find the source of the sound and soon he is racing through the woods toward the source of this unwelcome sound and leaving his terrible mismatched footprints through the banks and drifts. There are men and they are standing next to his shrine and they are holding hammers and hammers and hammers and they are knocking down his shrine with no regard or respect or obeisance to the Wild Man of the Woods whatsoever. And it is red red red as the shaggy beast roars with pain and shock and anger and chases away the men with the hammers from his crumbling and crumbled shrine through the woods and onto the road and into the village.

And what he finds is worse and his anger turns to fear as he runs into the shadow of the cross that stands haughty and fearsome upon the top of the newly constructed church of people who will no longer offer brandy to a horned daemon to protect them from the dark but instead will look to the heavens for succor and no no no no and all is black and red and there is blood on his claws and on his lips and his mouth is full and a shoe so small so small is in his hand and there is a house and another house and more shoes and more blood and more very small bones and bones and hair and branches and claws and a hamper weighing down his back as the red and the black weighed down his mind and he hears shrieks and screams and cries and sobs and then he hears his name his name

KRAMPUS he hears and he turns and there stands a man the first man he has seen since before the red and black times that has not been afraid of him and the man holds in one hand a staff and in the other hand a bag so much like the beast’s own switches and hamper but this man is covered all over with that wretched cross that burned like fire and the man says

You forgot a child Krampus you forgot the fattest child the fattest child to fill your belly is in the bag

And in the red and the black he runs and he reaches into the bag as if the bag contained life itself and it burns and burns like the cross burns but it burns from inside and the red begins to cool and the black begins to calm and he can hear the man again and the man says

Those shackles once bound St Paul of Tarsus when he was imprisoned. Now they shall bind you. You have been terrorizing this village for too many years, Krampus. You have many sins to atone for.

Sins? What sins have I done? Thinks the Krampus when the clarity given to him by the burning, cleansing fire of the chains leads him to turn and see the children clambering out of his hamper in terror and limping their way home to their terrified mothers and fathers and he knows he knows he knows and he is devastated. The man holds out a hand to him a friendly hand and not a hand of judgment and the man says

I will help you, Krampus. But you must help me.

And he does and he does and the red is gone and the black is gone and he wears the chains he forged in life and the Krampus loves the man and the man loves the Krampus and he hears a whistle and a crash and he wakes and he wakes and he wakes

*****

Prince Vlad gloated over his foe, the great bishop of the Turks who traveled the night and gave rather than taking like some sentimental old fool, as he lay pinned by the smoking and charred host of the sick and poor of Wallachia, who grasped at him with blackened fingers. He was so confused by the saint’s high, shrill whistle that he did not see the shadow hurtling toward his hall window like a man-sized cannonball.

As the glass exploded into a shower of slivers that twinkled like hailstones as they fell upon Vlad’s table and the hideous feast he had until so recently been feeding upon, one sound roared above even the shattering of the window, above the mad prince’s gasp of surprise, above the moans of the crackling undead, and above the silent smile of Nicholas of Myra; one sound, three words:

“GRUß VOM KRAMPUS!”

Vlad, the unholy voivode of Wallachia, who had seen the deaths of hordes of men and women and children, who strung up his halls with the dead as others might do with garland, who stared death in the face until death blinked, who saw Lord Beelzebub as a lesser prince to himself, had never seen its like. This figure who was to the eyes of the Alpine people of a millennium before the welcome sight of a tutelary spirit was to the ungodly eyes of the Son of the Dragon nothing more than a fiend dragged up from Hell itself to take him to his just reward and that fiend was now barreling down the length of his banquet table, spilling plates of flesh and wine with his terrible mismatched step with no regard for the sanctity of a prince, moving forward with all the determination of a Fury who would not and could not be stopped. And for the first time since he had made certain arrangements with certain personages of power, Prince Vlad III, Son of the Dragon, known as the Impaler, was afraid.

“Du schreckliches Graflein!” the prince heard as he turned to flee, to no avail, as the horned monstrosity grabbed the sable fringe of his great cloak. “Du solltest nur brav sein!” The jolt as the beast yanked Vlad from his feet caused him to drop the saint’s three oranges, which pealed like golden bells as they struck the cobblestone floor.

What followed was a battle beyond imagining and beyond description. With the Krampus there to distract Vlad, the army of the undead was less focused on their prisoner, and Nicholas was able to regain his feet and crozier, the better to defend himself. The cowardly Vlad hid behind his host of revenants, but the Krampus made short work of them with claw and switch and chain. Vlad was, of course, a formidable warrior who had slain many a foe on the field of battle, so when forced, he re-entered the fray and the battle between prince, saint, and beast raged on far into the night.

So far, indeed, that the battle exceeded the night itself, as evidenced by the reliable sound of all the roosters of Târgovişte signaled the coming of the sun. The earliest rays of rosy-fingered dawn began to stab through the splintered remains of the windows of the hall.

“Dawn…” said Saint Nicholas, gazing eastward in hope.

“Dawn…” said Prince Vlad, smirking slyly.

As the light of the sun struck the floor of the banquet hall, the flesh of Vlad’s undead army dissolved into nothing more than a small cloud of ash and dust. Nicholas, worn out from the night’s battle, leaned heavily upon his crozier but smiled nonetheless.

“The rising of the sun on a saint’s feast day. A holy sunrise, indeed. You have lost, Vlad. You must make your retreat.”

Vlad smiled, revealing the bloody row of shark’s teeth that lined his unholy grin. He crossed his arms across his chest and began to glide backwards across the banquet hall, moving though not taking a single step. An ornate sarcophagus standing upright in the back of the hall that had somehow gone unnoticed until this moment, swung open its great hinged lid to welcome in its usual tenant.

“You are right about one thing, Nicholas,” the prince said, settling back into the sarcophagus. “I must make my retreat.” As the lid of the sarcophagus creaked slowly closed, its shadow could not hide the light of triumph in Vlad’s eyes. “But soon you shall realize that with the dawn came not my defeat, but my victory.”

The look of hope flew from Nicholas’s eyes and his shoulders slumped. He realized that Vlad was right, and this realization haunted him as he and Krampus exited the old princely court and untied his horse from the post outside and as they resumed their ride in the chilly air of morning.

He had allowed himself to be distracted all night long, and Saint Nicholas Eve was gone. As a result of getting caught in a heated moment, Nicholas had allowed the good to go unrewarded, the bad to go unpunished--

--and he had let Dracula win.

END CHAPTER ONE

(Chapter two soon.)

[scribble-dee-vee]

The Winterking

Hey all! Merry Christmas and/or happy Monday. This is a special time of year for me, and I wanted to commemorate it this year by gifting you all a little something that relates to the season. So, here’s a short story I wrote for the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards! My primary aim here is to capture the spooky, magical winter vibe that always accompanies this season. I hope you like it :D

(Story starts under the cut for convenience of length! Check out my tags for content warnings if ya need them, or feel free to message me about any concerns <3)

I ran through the snow on the Winterking’s feast, deep in the forest, alone. My feet were bare and numb with ice. My nightdress caught and tore in the brush. Snow clung to my hair, left long and loose, and my tears froze a solid ice mask on my face.

Shouts chased me, bouncing tree to tree. I mustn’t stop running. Stopping meant my pursuers would catch me, and their success would spell my death. I paused for a moment, resting my hand on a tree, because I couldn’t go any longer without getting my breath. I suppressed a sob, pressing a hand frozen at the fingertips to my face.

The feast had been mere hours ago. It felt like an eon. I couldn’t remember what the torches felt like, the firelight burning in my father’s great timber hall. I couldn’t remember the taste of the meal on the tables, laden with delicacies- roasted pigs on spits, thin-shelled eggs, brandied walnuts all sticky and warm. All I could conjure in full was a long coat of white furs, wrapped around my shoulders and his. I could see his eyes, dark as an iced pond. I didn’t want to think about my new husband, but my mind wasn’t giving me a choice.

I looked back. Between dark, leafless trees came a flicker of orange light, a leaping and vicious jet of fire. I took flight again. I prayed that they didn’t have hounds- but who would answer my prayers? The gods and spirits wouldn’t listen. They hadn’t stopped the blood from flowing in my father’s hall. When I crept from my room, awakened by the noise, my prayers hadn’t prevented my brothers from falling to the sword. No, the gods didn’t care, but I prayed as I fled, because what else was I to do? I didn’t have a weapon, and I wouldn’t know how to use one if I did.

I came up on a stream, flowing fast around jagged blocks of ice like the ships of invaders. I hesitated, but I couldn’t stop. I splashed into the stream. Water cold as liquid death pulled at my legs until I dragged myself, shaking, up the opposite bank of snow. My nightdress leaked with ice and blood as I pulled it up with me.

Three cloaked men emerged from the forest on the opposite bank. The first two held drawn swords, high and bright, that glinted in the light of their torches. The third carried not a sword, but something almost worse: a longbow. He shouted to his companions as I scrambled up the bank and into the tree line again.

 I ran, and I ran, and I ran, until the swirling flakes of snow plastered themselves to my face and the winter wind tore the air from my lungs. I ran from the men, and I ran from visions of blood mixed with spilled cherry wine under the capacious ceiling of my father’s hall. I ran like a rabbit, but I wasn’t fast enough to outrun the wolves. I was fast enough, however, to run out over a break in the forest floor before my panicked mind told me to stop.

My feet broke through a layer of leaves and brush and met the open air. I pitched forward and fell down a dark hole. I closed my eyes. This was how I was going to die. I was almost grateful; it was better than a slow death at the end of a blade.

The dark swallowed me whole with easy, painless grace. My last thought was one of thanks.

Later- I can’t say how much later- I found myself lying facedown in something soft. The light was gone and I heard no calls, but if this was death, it didn’t feel at all like I would have suspected. Why could I still see the cruel, sharp lines of my husband’s face in my mind’s eye? Why was I still so cold?

I drew myself up onto my forearms. My hair and dress fanned around me across the ground. My hair looked black, as it should, but my cream-colored nightdress seemed a dingy gray against the shining purity of the snow. I gathered a handful of the stuff in awe, forgetting the cold of my hands. The snow sparkled like a million shards of diamond, or the broken dust of some shattered star.

I had to tear my eyes away to orient myself. I was in a forest clearing, but this looked nothing like the forest of my father’s lands. It wasn’t only the snow; the trees were far taller than the ones I knew, so high that I couldn’t see the tops, and all were encased in thick frosting swirls of ice. A solid river and a sugary waterfall were suspended in place, reflecting back a thousand thousand stars on their shimmering surfaces. And the strangest thing by far was the presence of animals, many dozens of animals: white rabbits, great birds of prey with golden eyes, moose standing in conversation with boars, quails playing tag with voles. There were gray mice the size of thimbles standing behind the ears of great black forest cats at rest; cardinals stood out on the snow in bright crimson glory. They wore wreaths of red berries and sharp holly leaves. The animals weren’t in close proximity to me; they congregated around a large figure standing several yards away. When I saw him, I understood why.

He was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, shaped nearly like a massive stag. His coat was thick and dark, made of something like fur and something like the gorgeous and terrible gleam of a winter sea under the moonlight. His eyes were the shifting purple, black, and gray of a winter storm. His horns were tall and tangled and crafted of pure, sparkling silver, twined with little bells and frosted at the ends. Between them sat a crown of branches. Waters droplets frozen in the shape and shine of diamonds served as gemstones.

I dropped my head at once, in reverence. But the Winterking spoke to me in the voice of snow building miles deep and glaciers collapsing into the sea.

“You needn’t fear us or bow to us,” he said. I lifted my head. He dipped his, beckoning me forward, breathing clouds into the air from his velvety muzzle. “Come. Get up, now. Come forward and speak with us.”

I stood. I felt weightless, like I walked in a dream. As I ventured toward the Winterking, cardinals and snow mice placed a wreath of icy branches on my brow and draped a cloak of stars around my shoulders. At once I was warm; the pain left my fingers and toes. The ice of tears sloughed from my face and melted onto the snow. I held on to my cloak, grateful, as I came to stand mere feet before the Winterking.

He lowered his head to look me in the eye. His gaze was immense, but not as cold as I might have thought.

“Welcome to my court, Eira Daughter of Cole,” said the Winterking. “In your realm they call you king’s child, do they not?”

“Yes,” was all I said. It didn’t seem right to call the Winterking “your majesty.” There was something too human about the phrase.

He gazed into my eyes. “You have seen great woe tonight, king’s daughter.”

“Yes,” I repeated.

“Your wicked husband has waged a war against your family, good hosts who had promised to protect his retinue against the bitterness of my snows.” The Winterking closed his eyes, face turning to pain. The creatures closest to him tittered, anxious. “They have done a great crime to you and yours in the sight of my court. We owe you a debt, Eira Daughter of Cole. How can we repay your sorrows?”

I considered the question. The Winterking’s court pressed in closer to me, brushing me with wings and tails in the way mothers might stroke and comfort their children.

Images rose in my mind: my husband’s dark eyes in a handsome face of stone. My father’s booming laugh. My sisters braiding ribbons through my hair. My brothers falling in pools of deadly crimson that stained my husband’s white furs and the cloaks of his men. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, I knew exactly what I wanted.

“Give me the power to kill them all,” I said to the Winterking. “Give me the tools to enact my revenge.”

He nodded, contemplative. “As the winter winds reclaim their domain each year from the invading summer breezes. I could, king’s daughter. But I hesitate to give you a gift that you could easily take for yourself.”

“What do you mean?” My face began to heat. I imagined spilling their blood, as they’d spilled my brothers’. I imagined breaking the doors of their halls and shaking them to their very foundations until they crumbled at my feet. “I have no gifts available to me. I have nothing. I don’t have any family, or skill, or access to power.”

“Haven’t you?” said the Winterking. “Don’t be so sure, king’s daughter. You must look closer.”

The Winterking closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they had changed into a swirling silver that solidified to form two clear mirrors. I saw my own face reflected back at me: my deep eyes, my cheeks and nose reddened from cold, my hair hanging long and dark all around.

“Look at yourself truly, king’s daughter,” he said. “Look deep.”

I stared into his eyes and into my own. I saw only my face. Snowflakes fell between us, flaking down to the ground faster and faster despite the fact that the stars still shone high above. I looked into my eyes, but the image in the Winterking’s started to cloud and blur.

Here I stood, terrified and lost in the cold. This ordeal couldn’t end in anything but tragedy for me. I had no home, and my husband would find and kill me before I ever reached the neighboring lords. Weapons would spill my blood on the snow, and I would become one with the frost and dead winter. My body would freeze and break. The snow would claim me.

But maybe… I saw the clearing reflected behind me in the Winterking’s eyes. This wasn’t fairyland. It didn’t feel like that. I’d reached the heart of winter, that was all, and it proved the winter cared for me. The trees and snowflakes had whispered to each other to bring me here, and the Winterking was willing to earn me my revenge on his own feast day. The cold wasn’t warm or comforting, like a broken timbered hall, and yet it surrounded me always. I could trust in the Winter. It already trusted in me.

Two great drifts of snow passed between the Winterking and me, and my once they fell, my vision had changed.

I still saw myself in the Winterking’s eyes, but I was truer than before. My eyes were hard chips of shining ice, brightened in the absence of fear and grief. My hair flowed like living water. A mask of ice froze around my new and beautiful visage, curling outward in intricate loops and sharp angles. It grew up my face, around my neck, into a crown of dagger icicles and an intricate necklace to match.

I touched the side of my face, the bluing skin and spreading ice. I felt the cold still, but not through the pain of human weakness. I was as strong as the frozen wind that sweeps the landscape, as inevitable as the change of the seasons.

“And so it is done,” said the Winterking.

“It is done,” I agreed. My voice was grating ice, like his.

He lowered his head further, so that his antlers surrounded me like a forest in miniature. I realized, now, that he was bowing.

“Welcome, sister,” he said. “Daughter of Winter, called Khione. I hail you.”

I turned. My cloak swirled around my feet in the shimmering snow. The animals knelt and chattered to me in their own tongues, and now I could hear the language they spoke. I raised my eyes to the sky, and the snowflakes fell faster and harder from the vacant space and wealth of stars above. My mind was at peace.

I was Khione. I was Winter, like the Winterking himself, infinite cold and calm and calamity. And I was going to take back what belonged to me, as the season claimed the land and froze it all away.

[mordessathemad]

Great White Witch Excerpt #3: Fire Manes

Coughing, sputtering back to life, I hastily sat up to expel the rest into a cupped hand. The fit seemed endless, bringing tears to my eyes and small dribbles of spit to my lips, until I felt something very warm ball out. Once I saw what it was, I grew nauseous and began to wobble back. An appalling amount of blood-filled phlegm dripped between my fingers. Something caught me by the head.

“Got ye right n’ the lung din’ she?”

It was the little old man. His voice was deep but had a sharp aspect to it, like a bear mixed with a mouse, and nested a twang that I can't quite explain. Like a dragon, his breath blasted out with sundry smokes and a pungent smell of wine. Having not noticed it before, I found that his massive whiskers also had little gold rings on each end, causing them to fray wildly beyond the metal. We were inside a pelt tent of sorts, though it looked terribly broken and stepped-through in some places, which I soon recognized was my fault.

“Hot-headed, that one, evryn’ knows yer s’pose to aim fer the heart.”

He slipped the hand back to his side once I summoned the strength to sit upright again. Then proceeded to pull out a familiar looking pipe that appeared pieced together with a sloppy amount of sap, bringing it to his bushy whisker-hidden lips, and puffed on it for a few moments before speaking again.

“Looks like it got the job done though. Gotcha deep. Why, when I found ye lyin’ an' bleedin’ in that mud, you were pretty dead. Luckeh for you, if I hadn’ come along, nobody else could've dug out this damn thing-” He reached back and held out two ends of split and bloodied arrow with a red fletching, the head looked hooked and devious, three fingers in width. “made it me self.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Thankful for saving me but very confused as to why he, a complete stranger, would do so, the words were hard to find in the fog. I felt groggy and empty, and most of all, very cold. When I rubbed my eyes to inspect the tent further, I blinked at the pewter light of dusk and little stars that had begun to twinkle in the sky. Shakily feeling for the wound, I noticed a little lit lamp beside us, and that my robe was gone. Awareness steeply came back, I wasn’t wearing any actual clothes at all. Scrambling back into the corner after letting out an abrupt yowl, I tightly covered my chest in arms and locked my legs, glaring drawn-eared at him.

“Awww, I’m sorreh lil’ one, din’t see nothin’ if that makes ye feel better, not with all the fluff yeh cats got.” He looked out and smiled to himself, bringing the pipe to his hidden lips again, "especially yers". I felt greatly embarrassed and even more so disturbed. He smelled of pinecones and other wonderful scents of the forest, but noticeably hadn't bathed for a long while. Neither had I, at least for a moon or two, my fur felt grossly clumped and greasy in many places. As if he were reading my thoughts, "K'll be back from washin' up any moment now, if ye want to rinse all that blood away. Might wanna stay out of those robes fer a bit anyway, whole reason she didn' trust ye in the first place. She doesn' like magic, you see. But don't worreh, she ain't gon' set off on ye again. Made damn sure of that." He said this between white puffs, giving me plenty of time to think of how to escape. As far as I could tell, nothing was keeping me from leaving save the mushroom, a pair of boots, and my apprentice's robe.

"Wan' some tea?" He asked.

Shy from having been seen bare, though utterly awake, I didn't say a word. But, I was curious what "Tea" was, and nodded my head almost unnoticeably. He toked his pipe deeply, exhausting what was left, then pushed the tent flap aside and pulled it back suspiciously like a tavern's curtain. Outside, a fire crackled, and some metal pots among other utensils clanked together soon after he disappeared. Leaving me alone and naked with the lamp, and a roll of bandages.

 Later, tea was being poured into little pewter cups, and the old man called. I entered the open meekly, still attempting to cover myself. He glanced from the pot to me, and smiled for only a second, then did a double take. Worry rushed my mind, thinking the happy man may get furious at what I'd done. His cheeks raised immensely as he stifled a laugh. "Y'know yer s'pose to cover wounds with those, not your bits. Ye look like a mummy." I had a thick layer of gauze wrapped around my hips, waist and chest, then crossed over my mark and to my bitten shoulder, like some odd dress with big gaps in its midsection. Though I knew it would not last long, I was quite proud of my shoddy tailorship, and a small smile curled into my cheeks upon hearing his remark. He held out a thin-metaled mug for me from afar. I took it comfortably, constantly trying to keep my new covers from becoming unwound with every step.

 Tea just tastes like water with grass stirred in. No special color or smell. Nonetheless I drank it all to be polite, and partly because I was extremely thirsty, then handed the cup to him with a silent thank you. We were sat upon two fallen trees around the fire, stripped and smoothed by the river, with a barked third left empty set across from mine. With a gleeful expression, the elf in his smelly sleeve-rolled tunic stoked and poked the fire, sending a thousand little red sparks into the blackened sky. Khenarthi breathed life into it and through the tips of the dead long grass around us, rustling them gently into a mesmerizing sway. The sight and radiance calmed my thoughts of "This doesn't make sense, why hadn't they skinned me?". Then, I realized that nothing in the past few days had made much sense at all, and played along with his temperance as if this were any normal day. The fire dried and cracked the mud plastered to my face fur. Sitting tightly cross-legged and scratching the log with my claws, I thought about his offer of taking a bath.

"Do you have any soap?" Were my first words to him since the day before, though I didn't tear my eyes from the fire.

"O'course.

“But I don't know if yeh cats can use bars." He said as he sprinkled more leaves into his pipe. "There's a pale jus' over there-" A loose-skinned and boney finger pointed towards another tent just behind the third log, still trampled, and beside it an uneven bucket whose contents; lumpy self-made soap from the fat of a troll, practically spilled. I nodded again in thanks, lifting away from my claw-scarred seat, as he attempted to light his pipe with a branch amusingly too big. On my tip-toeing trip to the soap, I conjured a flame at my middle fingertip and snapped. The charred opening of his pipe flared, and his little leaves caught light as I smiled, continuing on my way without looking back. Pipes and other harmful pleasures such as sweet sugars were not a seldom sight in my caravan. I was often called to help set the things for Ma’dran in addition to Ri'saad's fellowship, and if anything, this was the least I could do for the elf's courteous conduct and otherwise humble hospitality. Of course, since I had never done anything so precise with flame, I was worried his red beard might catch fire. Out of the corner of my eye, he looked genuinely confused when I did it, but it made me feel nice and my tail uncontrollable. There was a spring in my steps as I went, bounding merrily through the tallgrass like wildlife, going from tiptoe to tiptop. Until I met her.

Utterly and shamelessly naked spare the axe amulet and holding her bandana in one hand, she stood so close I was afraid her nipple would poke me in the eye. I hadn't noticed her in the warmth of my success, the old man's surprised expression playing over and over in my head, otherwise I would have made sure to be armies away. She smelled nice, and dripped big puddles from every end when she stopped, obviously having just finished her wash. Unlike before, she seemed restrained, barely. There was a look about her tightened lips that said she was holding back a very strong urge to strangle me. I tried to stare at my feet as much as I could, holding my tongue and breath, cautious and considerate enough not to look at anything else. I wished she'd done the same. The bush woman ran her wet hip into my arm after what seemed like two moons of mortification, though there was plenty of space to go around, and left me staring into the distance at nothing. And I stayed in this spell of anxiety as I self-consciously unraveled and stepped into the once green water, now oranged by clouded streaks of Falmer fluid, where a few curly red whiskers floated. Frightened at first by its freezing coat, and chilled by a hideous remembrance, I bravely let it level at my knees and no further. Then melted the fire mane's soap to a slippery white sludge in my palm and scraped away at the crust of mud and my own blood.

I had no idea people could be so... pink.

How anyone could be comfortable so bare, baffled me. Does she not feel the fingertips play upon her spine and the shudder that ensues? Does she not tense upon the caress of an unfamiliar breeze? I thought as she guzzled innumerable bottles of the glazed drink labeled as hers across from me, letting it trickle, sometimes cascade unmannerly from her low lip, down her chin, and onto her sinewy thighs. A truly terrible sight. Relief filled me when the Nord finally tied on linen unders in the firelight, as the old man asked of her, which soon faded once she began to stare and continue drinking. I tried looking to the fire instead of the discomforting sight. But, even in its presence, the relaxation and imperturbability the flame sustained before ebbed, contested. This was a woman of fire both in appearance and passion, she must have been playing with it or overpowered it, because here there was a ward between us yet no sensation of safety. Evasively, I tried to wash myself with licks just to avoid eye-contact, although I'd just cleaned in the lake. No matter what I did, where she went, an untrusting eye was trained upon me with a furrowed and bushy brow. Though I had my sullied bandages wrapped carefully to cover everything, her icy sapphire eyes that gleamed like a dagger's point exposed me, and were digging deeper and deeper, searching furiously through the dancing flames for every secret, any trace of who I really was, and into the deepest darkest desires of my soul.

What more could she possibly want? Revenge already belonged to her, fulfilled the moment she pierced my side and brought upon me an agonizing yet fascinating pain. Did she want death? How much had she seen in our battle of mind boring? I prayed that Ra would overlook my current state, if she were to show, I would wake within a mountain of gore; a hideous way without reason for defending me that I will never understand. Which left only what was among us to a claim savior. The fire may not be able to fight one of its own Ilk and save from this savage, but there was one who could.

"Be back, gotta take a leak" He gruffly announced, lifting from the log and interrupting what to him must have been a very long and awkward silence. The one called "K" put on an unsavory grin that I did not like.

Leak?

"But it isn't raining-" I tried to say, holding perilously onto the hope that he'd stay, but he danced a funny way into the dark before a thing could be said, and was gone. Nothing. Devoid of defense, swamps of consternation drowned my mind, and I started to shake. At any moment fire, would be upon me, to stab, skin, and devour, as any hunter should. As curiosity dared, I turned with an utmost unwillingness and terror only to find her seat empty.

Hello again! I wanted to expand upon this further as a single part, but since I’d already released it to the thread I thought it best to stop here. I’d like to thank http://mrhaar.tumblr.com/ for permitting me to use his characters in these amateur stories, I’ve had a blast working with their personalities honestly, but sadly, I believe their inclusion will be wrapped in in excerpt #4.

I know I’m no Jo when it comes to writing, but I hope you at least enjoyed this part! Thanks for reading thus far.

Excerpt 2: http://mordessathemad.tumblr.com/post/156478930458/the-great-white-witch-excerpt-2-mushroom

Excerpt 1: http://mordessathemad.tumblr.com/post/152582902633/the-great-white-witch-excerpt

ALSO, if anyone has a suggestion on a different background to make reading easier, or more pleasant, I’m all ears. I still have no idea what I’m doing on this site.