#this year when the air chills my bones I will be grateful

[cupidkenji]

Silent Earth

Now playing: Silent Earth - Josephine Illingworth they saw the silent earth, and they felt it breathe Pairing: Tyler Joseph x gn!reader CW: none really, fluff, missing him on tour Summary: Mornings with Ty when he's back from tour :( Disclaimer: Reader is always thought to be fat in my stories cause chubby readers aren't loved enough. Reader is not physically described here at all but they're envisioned when I'm writing to be bigger. WC: 1.8k bro TOP has had me in a chokehold since the start of October and I'm just now remembering I can write. Shoutout 11 year old me for being a fan I hope you're proud.

The air in the rising hours felt crisp, and nearly frosty. You’d left the windows open the night before in hopes of welcoming the chill, knowing that you and him both ran hot, and slept better when it was cold inside. October was rolling to a close, and you didn’t know how many nights remained before the snow came and forced your windows shut. He had told you once that he liked the nights so frigid because you relied on him for warmth, finally cool enough beneath the duvet to require his body heat to remain comfortable. You’d practically fuse to him this time of year, overlapping any bear skin that you could, like you were trying to siphon the warmth right from it. He never minded, he looked forward to it. He seemed to reciprocate mindlessly, giggling at the noises of surprise you elicited when he’d roll you onto him before going to sleep or at the sudden draping of his arms over your shoulders whenever you were distracted. 

You’d settled into this pocket of domesticity - admittedly - faster than you should have, relying on that routine of sweeping winds and the spirit of Autumn to push you and him closer than you were in the Summertime. Even as he and Josh began their work on Clancy, you hadn’t remembered just how deep the loneliness perforated you when he was touring. Digitally, you were as in the know as possible, with videos of different venues being sent and endless declarations of his ache to be home - to be with you. It was hardly sustainable, both of you feeling the pull back to your shared space no matter where in the world he performed. It was what it was. Both of you knowing intently where your shared roots were planted, doing the best you could to keep them watered from afar. You didn’t sleep as well, he hardly slept at all. Times like these found both of you on call until the early morning, talking about nothing just for the sake of hearing the other. Feeling each other the best you could, metaphorically stretching your arms out as far as possible. The only thing that kept you reaching to close that gap was sheer desperation, pleading for just a moment of interaction. 

Both him and Josh had been devastated at the streak of years that went by with no shows. You were sad for them, but the two of you settled into yourselves during that time. Happy and homely in the life you shared, and you couldn’t find a way to be truly saddened at the time you got to spend with him. They’d gone back on tour not too long ago, tossing their finished album into the sea of fans who’d been waiting for years with open jaws. You couldn’t be happier to see him re-enter his element, going to the opening nights they played near you and wishing them well with teary eyes when they’d left Ohio for the next year. Like always, you’d allowed yourself time to wallow. A couple days to process the temporary loss. Your fingers seemed to itch with the desire to pry open your stomach and stuff it full of something fluffy, something to satiate that swirling puddle of dread that burrowed into you when he was gone for so long. It was earnest and hardy, it was a sense of incompleteness. In a way you were grateful for it because of how vibrant it made the reunions. Whenever he came back, it was like your lungs opened up to finally let air back into your body. He touched you, and seemed to simply sap that feeling from your bones.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of that misery fleeing you as you laid next to him. He and Josh were on an off week, back at home for a bit before going back up North to do the next leg of shows. You’d seen him for the first time in months last night, been able to mold yourself to him again, and slept the best you had your whole life. Now, you were awake before him, propped up slightly on the headboard and just looking. Whenever he caught you staring at him, he’d jokingly chastise that you’d turn him to stone if you looked any harder, but you could never help yourself. The tours were always taxing, you’d heard it time again on your calls, but it was different seeing the way he wore it when he came home. His voice was always a tad raspier, shoulders a tad more slumped, and the circles under his eyes begging for sleep that would actually revive him. Not the shaking tour bus beds or the cheap hotels, but the bed that was shared between the two of you. He was the most ethereal sight you’d ever seen. The sun was christening the floorboards, creeping over his bare chest and making his resting face almost glow in the gold of the light. It was nearly angelic, watching the illuminated room rouse him from the well deserved sleep. You were almost sad to watch him be pulled from it, but you missed him like hell, and the thought of losing time to slumber wasn’t one you liked. 

You meant to greet him good morning as he woke up, felt it bubble up in your throat, even. You’d heard those slight groans of returning consciousness, though, and watched him stretch and fully open his eyes, and simply couldn’t force it out. The warmth that pooled in your stomach at feeling so fully at home after being deprived of it reached up and yanked the words back down before you could say them. You were so captivated by his very existence, that you only smiled slightly, a small upturn of your lips to express the elation pumping through you. He could sense it as he awoke, either the absence of you in his arms or the presence of your eyes on him, and he turned his head toward you. Still lying on the pillow, he rolled over to face you.

He saw your awestruck face, with eyes that were glistening a little with pure adoration and fondness, and he chuckled at the sight. “Good morning.” It was light, and a bit rough both from sleep and residual exertion from tour. It settled silently into the natural ambiance of your still bedroom. 

You smiled a bit wider at the sound, laughing breathlessly at the look of amusement on his face. “Sorry. I know I’m staring.” You nudged him with your leg at the reference, his fingers coming up to trace gentle shapes on it as he smiled at your words. 

“Mm, you are.” It was a bit snarky, and he kept his hand moving on your leg. “But it’s ok. I actually missed it while I was gone.”

You feigned shock at his words. “Really? I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Not worried I’m going to turn you to stone anymore?”

He laughed, a slight giggle that sounded so at ease you nearly cried from how much you felt the absence of it when he was away. “I don’t think I’d mind it.” You raised your eyebrows in question. “Yeah, I mean - if you turn me to stone, I’d just have to stay here forever, and I already want to do that. No problems here.” 

Your face wrinkled in a mix of cringing and laughing at such a cheesy remark so early in the morning. “Wow, that was so smooth.” You remarked, sarcastic and attempting to be deadpan before breaking and chuckling through your response, the man beside you already laughing. 

You put your palm on top of the fingers tracing your thigh, opting to hold his hand and caress the back of it with your thumb. “How’d you sleep?”

You saw his other hand travel up to his head, familiarly fidgeting with the strands of his grown out buzz cut. The angle seemed a bit awkward with his head still resting on his pillow, but it was a subconscious habit, and you doubt he even noticed it. “Indescribably good.” He emphasized, dramatic in tone but still holding a sense of sincerity. “I actually slept. I’ve been so used to waking up or not sleeping deep enough. I think I just passed out last night.”

You giggled at that. “You did. I looked over and you were out.”

“Hey, you can’t blame me for that.” He looked down to where you were holding his hand. “I haven’t been home in forever. It’s like the sleep deprivation caught up with me when I saw you were here and ok.”

Your brows furrowed at that. “I get that. But we talk every night, Ty. You know when I’m home.”

“No - I know.” He paused for a moment. “It’s like, consciously I know you’re fine, but when I’m so far away I can’t feel it like I usually can. I worry about it, you know subconsciously. That you’re not ok somehow and I don’t know because I’m not here.” You go to voice your rebuttal, but he continues his explanation. “When I’m home, everything just…falls into place. I know you’re safe, so I don’t have to worry about anything.”

You exhale, heavy and sympathetic. The same anxiety keeps you from sleeping deeply, haunted by thoughts of his bus crashing or someone wanting to hurt him. You don’t know what to say. You decide, instead, to move back down from the headboard and lay against him. Circling his torso with your arms and slotting yourself in his open arms. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll be waiting for you to get home, yeah? Promise.”

He took his now free hand and held your shoulder with it, pressing you tighter against him. Squeezing lightly in acknowledgment of your words. “Can’t promise that, honey.”

You sucked in a breath, lining your words with more sarcasm. “Too bad.” You brought your hand up to his chest, palm flat against it as you dug your chin into the back of it to look him in the eyes. “I’ll always be here, you know? I love you.” No matter how many years you shared with him, the words always felt slightly foreign leaving your mouth. Nerves still lined your stomach at the thought of willingly giving him so much of yourself. You always pushed through, though. The feelings you held were so blinding, and so overwhelming that they practically spilled from your lips anyways. No matter the words you said, they were always flowing steadily over the rim with the love you had for him. 

The light in the room reflected off his pupils, the depths of brown in his irises shining with the comfort of being home, the innate correctness of the two of you together. He didn’t know how he’d ever lived without it. “I love you more.”

[stesierra]

Okay! Since people are asking, here's some of my writing. I'm not used to sharing because on Twitter no one really cared... 🥺 Please let me know if you're interested in learning more about this book or being added to a tag list for my stuff! I love questions about my stuff too... This is new adult fantasy even though publishing says new adult isn't real.

(please excuse my MC's attitude because she is depressed! We've all been there when we released a plague of skeletons.)

The Bone Queen

Chapter 1

When I fell in love with Aubrey, I never thought I'd dream of killing him one day. Why would I? He was already dead.

Now, two years after he’d won my heart with lies, we stood alone in my dimly lit parlor, between its lion-footed couches all in pine green and gold and blood red, Queen Idony’s colors. The golden tapestries that thickly coated the walls depicted Bandrum Palace as seen from the streets of Asteraxe: a many-floored edifice that sprawled across the top of a hill, half hidden behind a mighty wall.

The enormous skirts of my dress weighed me down like I was dragging my own casket around. The bodice hugged my ribs and the corset I didn't need, embellished with lace and embroidered birds, and the sleeves poofed around my skinny arms. It left my scrawny shoulders bare, and even with the fire that crackled in my fireplace, the winter air inside the palace chilled me.

The dress was ivory. The same ivory as my fiancé’s bones.

He clenched my hand, his icy finger bones pinching my skin, and his touch revolted me. But I didn't draw away. I'd learned by now that there was no escape. What point was there in trying? Besides, I deserved this unhappiness. I'd brought it upon myself. Upon the entire kingdom of Sweelough.

When I'd met Aubrey, he'd been nothing but a handsome ghost on Lake Langlyn’s shores. But since I'd freed him—freed them all—he’d become something more. Not alive, even Queen Idony couldn't do that, but she'd given him back his skeleton with which to wield swords and write notes and touch my vulnerable skin. His ghost hadn't gone anywhere; it wrapped around his skeleton like transparent flesh around bones. Now, when I looked into his face, I saw both sharp gray eyes and yawning sockets, both a full, cleanshaven mouth and a skull’s grinning teeth. And the clothes his ghost wore echoed the very real doublet and hose he'd pulled over his bones. Green and red and gold, of course. He honored the queen in everything he did.

He bent close to me, brushing the top of my fashionable tower of hair with his jawbone. He stank of potpourri and dust. “Tell me you love me, Elise.”

I said nothing, just breathed and thought about hitting his bones over and over again with a hammer. In my mind, he crumbled into bits, nothing but ashes in a grave. Of course, it was a fantasy; no one could kill someone who was already dead. I knew because so many people had died trying. Because I had hit him with an axe down on the shore of Lake Langlyn, and it had only torn his clothes.

He said again, “We are to marry in a month. Tell me you love me. Smile at me and say my name, the way you used to.”

“Aubrey,” I said. I didn't love him, but what good would it do to tell him again, when he would only yell at me? It was pointless. Everything was pointless.

His ghostly eyes narrowed, and he crushed my hands in his. “Smile, Elise. Thank me for taking you to wife. For when we met, you were nothing but a serf too stupid to write her own name. Now look at you. Aren't you grateful?”

Tears stung my eyes. When I'd met him, at sixteen, I'd been happy. I'd had parents and four brothers who loved me, and it hadn't mattered that none of us knew how to read or write. What did farmers need letters for? Now, two years later, life was meaningless, and it didn't matter that the tutors he'd forced on me had taught me to scribble my name and read a handful of poems.

Aubrey sighed and leaned down to kiss the back of my hand. For a horrifying second, his lips passed through me, and his teeth brushed my skin. “I'm sorry, Elise. I know I push you too hard. You'll be a good wife. Docile and obedient. Quiet. A good mother to my children.”

If I was docile and quiet, it was only because I'd given up. But his last sentence made me whip my head up. “Children? What do you mean, children?”

He smiled up at me, his spectral mouth matching the grinning teeth of his skull. “Why, Elise, didn't you think I would want a heir?”

“Why would you?” I cried. “Lady Kinburg tells everyone how she had no choice but to hang her descendents when she came back, because they wouldn't return her lands. The dead don't want heirs. You're planning to rule forever. Aren't you?”

“Of course,” my fiancé agreed, straightening up. “But I would still want children. Offspring who will love and admire me, just as you do.”

Unless they inherited my ability to see and hear ghosts, all the children would see was a skeleton that couldn't even talk to them. They wouldn't admire him. They'd fear him, just like I did. Somehow, that didn't matter, not when there was a bigger issue. “Aubrey, you're dead. You can't sire children. It's impossible. Are you planning to have some living man bed me?”

He scoffed, reaching up to seize my chin. “I'll kill any man who lays a finger on you. You're mine. Forever.”

I ripped my face out of his grip. “If we adopt children, they won't be able to see you.” No other living person in Asteraxe, the capital of Sweelough, saw and heard the dead like I did. They just saw skeletons, awful and deadly. It was my gift and my curse to see more. A curse that had doomed me and all of Sweelough.

He let me retreat to sit upon one of the couches. “But children born of your body will, my love. And it's not impossible. Do you have so little faith in the queen? In one month, on the day of our wedding, she will cast spells upon me to give me the ability to lie with you. With her magic, she'll quicken my seed in your belly. And nine months later, you'll bear me a perfect son.”

Aubrey was going to have sex with me. He was going to force me to bear his child. My thoughts ran in terrified, anguished circles. My limbs grew weak, and I sank into my couch. I wanted to vomit all over his pointed shoes. If I could've, I'd have bolted out into the halls of the palace and straight out the front doors. Running for my life had never sounded more appealing.

But the queen's magic brand wrapped my ankle like a jagged red tattoo, and even now I felt it burning against my skin. She'd promised me, when she enchanted me two years ago, that if I ever tried to escape, it would punish me. And Aubrey had stood beside her, smiling because I could never leave him.

“You look faint, my love,” Aubrey said, stepping up close to me. “Come to dinner tonight. Sit at my side and display your beauty to all the court.”

“I'm not hungry,” I said, and it was true. I was never hungry, and after the horrible news he’d just dropped on me, I might never be hungry again. If I accompanied Aubrey to the Great Hall, where the nobility gathered over feasts of roast beef and fish and fresh fruit, I would only sit uneating in front of plenty, just like all the dead who wanted to pretend that they were still alive. Aubrey couldn't eat, being nothing but bones. I had a stomach and all the equipment needed, but I'd lost my appetite with my family, and now that he’d threatened to impregnate me, it was doubly gone.

He took my hand and kissed it again. “Very well. I will send your maids in to tend to you. But after dinner, I will come fetch you. Queen Idony wishes to speak with you.”

My stomach dropped, and I tore my hand out of his. “What? Why? I haven't done anything wrong.”

He patted my cheek, and his bones were so cold that surely they'd never belonged to a living man. “Fear not, Elise. She doesn't want to punish you. She merely wishes to tell you your new duties in the days ahead.”

“Duties? What duties?” Dread constricted my throat. Duties, whatever they were, would take me away from my rooms and safety. They'd put me in the eyes of the living nobles, and all of them hated me. Not because I was a peasant pretending to be one of them. Because it was my fault they had to bow to a dead queen. I didn't blame them. I hated me too.

Aubrey beamed at me. “Great events are on the horizon. Do you remember that the queen made overtures to our wealthy neighbor to the west?”

Only one county bordered Sweelough to the west. “Ahheleisa. But you said nothing would come of it. That the living were too superstitious to see a gift when the queen offered it.”

He waved a hand. “The living are cretins. But in this case, I was wrong.”

“I’m still alive, Aubrey,” I reminded him. For now. Every other night, I woke from nightmares that the queen had stripped me down to nothing but a ghost and dry old bones.

“Yes, yes. That doesn't matter. We have news now that an ambassador and his party are coming here to Asteraxe. In fact, they are nearly upon us. And so Queen Idony has plans for you. But she’ll tell you the details tonight, I am sure.” He patted my leg through my layers of skirts and petticoats. “Now, promise me you'll eat something.”

“I'll eat something,” I lied. But after he'd left and sent my maids in to check on me, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing. Thoughts kept sneaking in of a dead man's touch and a dead man's children, and I had no peace at all.

[ofduskanddreams]

Magic to Make the Sanest Go Mad [pt. I]

@acourtofladydeath I was so excited when I learned that you were my giftee this year, and also worried how I was going to keep this a secret from you (fingers crossed I succeeded?) I'm so grateful to have gained your friendship this year, and I hope you enjoy part one of your gift! This could stand alone as a prologue-esque one shot, but I have more things planned so part two will be coming early in the new year. This part lays the groundwork, I swear there will be more actual Azris content in the second half <3

Summary:

The end (chapters 63+) of A Court of Silver Flames and beyond from Azriel's and Eris's points of view.

Rated M ✦ 8.3k words ✦ read it on ao3

start reading below the cut :)

Azriel is reviewing reports when Cassian returns to the House of Wind. He expects his brother to head to the dining room where the house is keeping a plate warm for him, and then come fill him in on what they learned from Eris that afternoon. That is not what happens. 

From the sound of it, Cassian is trying to crack the stone floors with every step he takes. Azriel listens while those furious footfalls pass the dining room without pause. He’s steeling himself for whatever storm Cass is about to unleash upon him… it’s all for nothing. Cassian never reaches the spymaster’s rooms, but he slams the door to his own with enough force to make the water in Azriel’s glass ripple.

In his experience, there are only a few things that can rile his brother to this degree, two of them being Eris Vanserra and Nesta Archeron. Given that Cassian came back to the house alone, Azriel suspects the latter but that the former isn’t wholly blameless—Eris Vanserra never is. 

Cassian loves fiercely and proudly. Azriel’s always admired this about him. It also means that Cass’s other emotions regarding those he cares for are equally fierce. Nesta, Azriel thinks, is very much the same even if she pretends otherwise. Sparks often fly when two evenly matched blades clash. This isn’t the first time for Nesta and Cassian. It won’t be the last either, so Azriel returns to his reports and tries not to worry. Cassian needs to cool down; he’ll talk when he’s ready to.

— ✦ —

That night, sleep comes in fits and starts. Dreams and nightmares wake him; overly persistent thoughts drag against the tide of his exhaustion. When he manages to fall asleep, the cycle repeats. Azriel gives up about an hour before dawn, pulling on his leathers in the darkness. He throws himself off of his balcony, letting the chilly dew-damp air drag him downward for a few seconds before he spreads his wings and glides.

Velaris at this hour is his favorite. A fair portion of the city’s inhabitants choose to sleep during the day and rise with the setting sun. Now those folks are back in their homes before their fires and winding down for sleep. It’s early enough that those who rise with the sun haven’t yet emerged. When Rhys was trapped Under the Mountain and Azriel couldn’t leave the city limits, this sliver of not-day-not-night was his salvation. It’s the only time the streets fall truly quiet. 

Now, he flies above those empty streets until they give way to gently rolling hills of swaying grasses and, finally, a pale expanse of sand. Azriel lands, startling a small crab who scuttles toward the frothy waves as quickly as its little legs can take it. He sits on his usual driftwood log and wills the briny air filling his lungs to center him. 

Time passes differently with his eyes tracking the ebb and flow of the waves. Before he knows it, the rising sun is warming his back and outstretched wings. Azriel closes his eyes, soaking in the gentle heat. He’s very accustomed to an ever present chill in his wings—every Illyrian is. For all the hurt-fueled-hatred he holds for Illyrian culture, even Azriel can agree that birchins are a delightful creation for this very reason. But, where the hot steam forces warmth into his blood and bones, the soft radiance of a rising sun coaxes that warmth to flow from within him. 

It’s bliss. Between the dawn, the hypnotic susurration of the waves, and the salty air cleansing his lungs with every breath, Azriel feels a sense of peace come over him for the first time in weeks. But, as it always happens when anything feels too good to be true, the moment shatters too soon.

There’s urgent news from Darach, a shadow informs him.

His eyes fly open, and he has to blink against the light before they adjust.

A scrap of paper falls into his lap that reads: Briallyn has Eris. His own soldiers attacked him last night while he was hunting. My informant says they all winnowed to her palace.

“Fuck,” Azriel breathes, crumpling the note in his fist. 

There were other Crown-controlled soldiers out there? 

The shame of a simple oversight and its disastrous consequences burns. 

Did Cassian mention it and he forgot? Phrases in Eris’s voice echo between his ears, making such terrible sense in the stomach-sinking way only hindsight can elicit.

Azriel’s fingers thread through inky locks, gripping and pulling until the sting anchors him. Now is not the time to fixate on his mistake. Cauldron boil him; he just should have followed up, made sure, done something—No. Not the time.

He needs to focus.

Okay. What does he know so far?

That Eris, their ally who knows too much about the Night Court, has been taken by their enemy. An enemy that would love to unearth their secrets; one who now has possession of a valuable hostage.

But how did Briallyn get Eris to the continent when he’d been hunting in Autumn?

Eris’s soldiers were fae, yes, but he had told Cassian that no one in this unit could winnow. 

The queens could only winnow when they were all together. 

Only a high lord would have enough power to winnow an entire group from Prythian to the Continent. 

A high lord or, Azriel realizes with a sickening certainty, Koschei.

He’s still processing these conclusions as he bids the shadows to take him to the river house.

— — — continue reading on ao3.

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[poppysinpebbles]

Sewer Crypt

Chapter One

What would happen if Raph, Donnie, Casey, and April were never cured?

My idea from Here.

The night air was chilly, especially up on the rooftops. Perhaps too chilly for mid june, but it didn’t bother him, not anymore anyway. In fact, he loved it, reveled in it actually. The bite of the cool breeze in his throat tasted like power. It tasted safe. Safe as this side of the city. The stars were bright here and he was glad for it. The telltale light pollution of civilization disgusted him, it reminded him far too much of the burn of sunrise. But this part of the city had been taken by his kind long ago.

Never had he actually found the darkness of night all that dark. Whether or not that was the result of his dimly glowing eyes or just the abilities that came with the transformation was beyond him. At the moment, It didn’t matter either way because it allowed him to watch his newest batch of ghouls run around the street like roughhousing children. He enjoyed watching them, it took his mind off things.

He’d always been a natural at controlling ghouls. Even back when he was a little fledgling surviving off spiders and rats. He still had his baby fangs back then. That thought brought a smile to his face, one that quickly faded when his mind provided another memory from back then. The time he’d invited his brothers to join him. He was quite naive at the time and he wished he could go back to give his younger self the cold, hard truth and maybe a slap to the face. His hand reached up to his bicep to fiddle with a long, red piece of fabric tied around his sleeve. A habit his master encouraged. It probably made him easier to manipulate, whatever, he didn’t really care all that much.

Pulling his hand away quickly, he reminded himself he still had one of his brothers and two of his friends. Sighing loudly he glanced at his watch and a not so quiet cuss rang out. Taking a deep breath of air, he let out a bone chilling screech that echoed across multiple blocks. His ghouls took action immediately. Scrambling through open doors and windows and into sewer grates and manholes. There were even some clambering into ventilation shafts at the top of buildings. It looked like chaos, and it was, but they all had one goal in mind; to get out of the open. The time was 4:30, far too close to dawn for his comfort.

He himself hastily made his way to a manhole, jumping off the building he had stood on. He hated taking the sewers, they were filled with painful memories from… less complicated times. His hand wandered to the strip of red, tattered fabric just as his mind wandered to old memories. Memories of laughter, memories of fighting, of crying and hugging, of joy, of playing and injury, training and youth, memories of brotherhood.

"Raphael!" A voice yelled way too close behind him. Startled, he whipped around to see a pair of familiar glowing eyes.

"Donnie?" His voice sounded shakier than he anticipated. He blinked away tears he hadn’t realized were there and cleared his throat. His brother's annoyed expression morphed into pity. He hated that. "What the hell, man? You scared the shit outta me!" His voice had a lot less bite than he wanted.

"Look where you are." Donnie’s voice came out unimpressed and somehow it was worse than pity. "I’ve called your name like twenty times!"

Raph glanced around the environment and quickly realized where his brother's worry had come from. He was in his old room in the old lair, muscle memory must have taken him here when he wasn’t paying attention. Weird. He’d think after thirty three years his body would know not to go here anymore. It was the exact same as it was all those years ago, minus the thick layer of dust that seemed to coat everything, he also noticed that his extra mask was nowhere in sight but he decided not to think about the implications of that.

"Oh, whoops! Muscle memory am I right?" He forced a smile onto his face which Donnie immediately gave a look to.

"That’s probably the single worst fake smile I have ever seen." Raph decided Donnie’s deadpan was definitely worse than pity.

He chewed the inside of his cheek and kept from meeting his gaze. Had he always found it this difficult to lie to his purple clad twin?

"Sorry." He eventually managed to sigh out.

"Don’t, just… don’t. Let’s just go home." Raph couldn’t help but wince internally. He hated making Donnie worry, he was his only brother who didn’t see him as some death obsessed, bloodthirsty monster. Probably because he was one, too.

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Next

[kvetchlandia]

Moisei Nappelbaum     Anna Akhmatova, Moscow     1929

No foreign sky protected me, no stranger's wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot, survivor of that time, that place.

Instead of a Preface

    In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind me was a woman, with lips blue from the cold, who had, of course, never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there):     "Can you describe this?"     And I said: "I can."     Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what had once been her face.

Dedication

Such grief might make the mountains stoop, reverse the waters where they flow, but cannot burst these ponderous bolts that block us from the prison cells crowded with mortal woe. . . . For some the wind can freshly blow, for some the sunlight fade at ease, but we, made partners in our dread, hear but the grating of the keys, and heavy-booted soldiers' tread. As if for early mass, we rose and each day walked the wilderness, trudging through silent street and square, to congregate, less live than dead. The sun declined, the Neva blurred, and hope sang always from afar. Whose sentence is decreed? . . . That moan, that sudden spurt of woman's tears, shows one distinguished from the rest, as if they'd knocked her to the ground and wrenched the heart out of her breast, then let her go, reeling, alone. Where are they now, my nameless friends from those two years I spent in hell? What specters mock them now, amid the fury of Siberian snows, or in the blighted circle of the moon? To them I cry, Hail and Farewell!

Prologue

That was a time when only the dead could smile, delivered from their wars, and the sign, the soul, of Leningrad dangled outside its prison-house; and the regiments of the condemned, herded in the railroad-yards, shrank from the engine's whistle-song whose burden went, "Away, pariahs!" The stars of death stood over us. And Russia, guiltless, beloved, writhed under the crunch of bloodstained boots, under the wheels of Black Marias.

I

At dawn they came and took you away. You were my dead: I walked behind. In the dark room children cried, the holy candle gasped for air. Your lips were chill from the ikon's kiss, sweat bloomed on your brow–those deathly flowers! Like the wives of Peter's troopers in Red Square I'll stand and howl under the Kremlin towers.

II

Quietly flows the quiet Don; into my house slips the yellow moon.

It leaps the sill, with its cap askew, and balks at a shadow, that yellow moon.

This woman is sick to her marrow-bone, this woman is utterly alone,

with husband dead, with son away in jail. Pray for me. Pray.

III

Not, not mine: it's somebody else's wound. I could never have borne it. So take the thing that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground. Whisk the lamps away . . .                                         Night.

IV

They should have shown you–mocker, delight of your friends, hearts' thief, naughtiest girl of Pushkin's town– this picture of your fated years, as under the glowering wall you stand, shabby, three hundredth in the line, clutching a parcel in your hand, and the New Year's ice scorched by your tears. See there the prison poplar bending! No sound. No sound. Yet how many innocent lives are ending . . .

V

For seventeen months I have cried aloud, calling you back to your lair. I hurled myself at the hangman's foot. You are my son, changed into nightmare. Confusion occupies the world, and I am powerless to tell somebody brute from something human, or on what day the word spells, "Kill!" Nothing is left but dusty flowers, the tinkling thurible, and tracks that lead to nowhere. Night of stone, whose bright enormous star stares me straight in the eyes, promising death, ah soon!

VI

The weeks fly out of mind, I doubt that it occurred: how into your prison, child, the white nights, blazing, stared; and still, as I draw breath, they fix their buzzard eyes on what the high cross shows, this body of your death.

VII

The Sentence

The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.

So much to do today: kill memory, kill pain, turn heart into a stone, and yet prepare to live again.

Not quite. Hot summer's feast brings rumors of carouse. How long have I foreseen this brilliant day, this empty house?

VIII

To Death

You will come in any case–so why not now? How long I wait and wait. The bad times fall. I have put out the light and opened the door for you, because you are simple and magical. Assume, then, any form that suits your wish, take aim, and blast at me with poisoned shot, or strangle me like an efficient mugger, or else infect me–typhus be my lot– or spring out of the fairytale you wrote, the one we're sick of hearing, day and night, where the blue hatband marches up the stairs, led by the janitor, pale with fright. It's all the same to me. The Yenisei swirls the North Star shines, as it will shine forever; and the blue lustre of my loved one's eyes is clouded over by the final horror.

IX

Already madness lifts its wing to cover half my soul. That taste of opiate wine! Lure of the dark valley!

Now everything is clear. I admit my defeat. The tongue of my ravings in my ear is the tongue of a stranger.

No use to fall down on my knees and beg for mercy's sake. Nothing I counted mine, out of my life, is mine to take:

not my son's terrible eyes, not the elaborate stone flower of grief, not the day of the storm, not the trial of the visiting hour,

not the dear coolness of his hands, not the lime trees' agitated shade, not the thin cricket-sound of consolation's parting word.

X

Crucifixion

"Do not weep for me, Mother, when I am in my grave."

I

A choir of angels glorified the hour, the vault of heaven was dissolved in fire. "Father, why hast Thou forsaken me? Mother, I beg you, do not weep for me. . . ."

II

Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. No one dared.

Epilogue

I

I have learned how faces fall to bone, how under the eyelids terror lurks how suffering inscribes on cheeks the hard lines of its cuneiform texts, how glossy black or ash-fair locks turn overnight to tarnished silver, how smiles fade on submissive lips, and fear quavers in a dry titter. And I pray not for myself alone . . . for all who stood outside the jail, in bitter cold or summer's blaze, with me under that blind red wall.

II

Remembrance hour returns with the turning year. I see, I hear, I touch you drawing near:

the one we tried to help to the sentry's booth, and who no longer walks this precious earth,

and that one who would toss her pretty mane and say, "It's just like coming home again."

I want to name the names of all that host, but they snatched up the list, and now it's lost.

I've woven them a garment that's prepared out of poor words, those that I overheard,

and will hold fast to every word and glance all of my days, even in new mischance,

and if a gag should blind my tortured mouth, through which a hundred million people shout,

then let them pray for me, as I do pray for them, this eve of my remembrance day.

And if my country ever should assent to casting in my name a monument,

I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed

not near the seas on which my eyes first opened– my last link with the sea has long been broken–

nor in the Tsar's garden near the sacred stump, where a grieved shadow hunts my body's warmth,

but here, here I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.

Because even in blissful death I fear to lose the clangor of the Black Marias,

to lose the banging of that odious gate and the old crone howling like a wounded beast.

And from my motionless bronze-lidded sockets may the melting snow, like teardrops, slowly trickle,

and a prison dove coo somewhere, over and over, as the ships sail softly down the flowing Neva.

-- Anna Akhmatova, “Requiem”  written over a long period of time between 1935 and 1961

[the-tomato-patch]

Fluffyfebruary - Prompt 1: Snow

Fandom: SW:TOR ( Star War: The Old Republic )

Pairing: GN! Reader x Lord Scourge

Written for: @fluffyfebruary

Tags: Fluff without plot, potential ooc, cloak sharing?

You weren't aware that it snowed on Odesson. Granted it was the first year you were actually spending a proper winter here since joining the Alliance, but to be fair, your duties hadn't required you to give this world much attention. There hadn't been the slightest white dusting in your line of sight since your arrival, and maybe not for years before that either. Who knew. Who could possibly recall the last time it snowed on Odesson— the answer not being you. What with one catastrophe to the next, you couldn't have afforded the time to wonder. And evidently, neither could the Alliance, as the kriffing heat was busted too.

Today heavy clouds carried fat flakes of snow which fell upon the planet and collected where it lay. While Odesson could handle a light sprinkle, the lack of cold weather gear or warm clothes to bundle in left you feeling less prepared to meet it than normal. Like a protective shell, you wrapped your hands inside the excess material of your sleeves around your wrists. You shivered while pulling the collar higher up the sides of your neck and drew the hood over your head in the hope it would trap more heat.

The meager ensemble was the most suitable clothing you could dig out of your closet, though. And it would be some time before you could seek other, more sufficient outfits to get yourself through the rest of the season. Kriff it all, you might be in for an unfortunate, freezing week or three. It's not like you didn't deserve such hardships in the least, but did it have to be so blasted cold?

As you marched from the exterior of the base, your head was down in hopes the additional fabric over your face could block the bitter gusts which swept the open corridor. The icy needles were strong enough to make tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as they stung into your cheeks. Your breath danced out of your mouth and nose in a cloud of white fog.

"Take my cloak." A shadow stepped into your path, startling your gaze to lift, "You're cold."

You gawked, still reeling at his offer, when the dark lord returned your stare. His intense red pupils seemed to search your very soul. That and he'd spoken to you of his own accord— surely a strange day. Perhaps, a trick. No, it has to be. Still, you nodded an acceptance as the Sith stood tall and began to remove the swath of his cloak from his broad shoulders. He was so quick in response, a surprised gasp tumbled out of you when a newfound heat hit your chest in the most delightful way.

The shock of warmth rushed across your body, banishing some of the frost which clung to your bones. You gulped, reminded then how easily Lord Scourge was capable of killing. You knew the former emperor's Wrath had no ill intentions now, but his imposing figure was enough to make a chill run up the length of your spine. "I know the Alliance's current facilities are somewhat subpar—" he drew the edges of his black cloak around your shoulders a little tighter— "but perhaps, we can fix that."

With the air of superiority Scourge typically held, and the dark power of a Sith always laced in his veins, it had taken a moment to understand just how Lord Scourge wasn't completely immune to the harsh winds himself. Now, without his cloak, the Sith wore the thin, yet heavy weight, of his armor. In all the time you'd known Lord Scourge, he appeared unperturbed by many things and never acknowledged such discomforts or weaknesses. Had he merely pushed them aside? Or was the fact that this is something which couldn't be avoided making the thought all the more urgent in your mind.

Either way, the fact that he'd seen the cold rattle you so easily and had willingly removed the protective cover he could've kept over his own body, left you grateful.

You did the best you could not to take notice of his unusual softness. Though you had come to be familiar with this side of him as well since befriending him, the smallest parts of him were always easier to pick up on than others. Maybe that's why he doesn't share his kindnesses and generous moods so openly. Everyone's got to start somewhere, and it could prove awkward and clumsy if he went about it in full. As awkward and clumsy as he once made his introductions, for sure. And he already felt uncomfortable at times. But how lovely and endearing it was to learn a part of his heart you never thought would reveal itself.

"Thank you, Scourge," you said with an appreciative smile in place.

The glum attitude had suddenly shed itself, leaving a newfound appreciation in its place. You swallowed another cold shudder and hoped the deep hood of his cloak would do its job and hide some of your blushing.

It may or may not. It couldn't be avoided— not the affection.

"It is nothing," the Sith uttered with a curt bow of his head.

You barely managed to follow his step, Scourge didn't slow his stride and even quickened it. Once you had fallen into stride, it didn't take long for your gait to catch up with his, though the angle of his pace took you somewhere else entirely, forcing you to study the length of his arm. You ran a slow eye along his sinewed, nearly perfect build. When a pang of self-consciousness seized your confidence, you lifted the line of your sights and struggled to be free of the temptation to gaze his way.

Then Scourge would pass a subtle glance at you. It must have been the lingering shivers from the cold because every time you glanced his way, it was like lightning shooting straight up the length of your spine.

Stars. Stop it, he's only offering you a cloak.

Scourge looked back again to offer you a curious eye. His attention shifted your way, and when he opened his mouth to speak, a ping on his holocomm went off.

You never got the chance to discover his intentions, or even why he was interested to ask, the ring of his holocomm brought all those answers to a crashing halt. With a displeased hum, Scourge took the time to answer, turning a way for privacy. When the holo communication finally ended, a fresh sigh had the Sith returning his gaze to you, but when the inevitable happened, Scourge's footsteps also came to a standstill.

"I'm needed. You would do best to hurry and remain indoors," the Sith stated. He tilted his head as the contemplation of words danced behind his eyes. But they remained unsaid. You reached around to take the cloak from your shoulders, but his hand paused your efforts to return it. "Do not forget to hold onto my cloak," Scourge muttered.

The sith stepped aside to create a wider gap between the two of you. His ruby eyes latched onto your person. Scourge gave you an amiable, comforting nod. You smiled a faint grin in kind. "Keep warm."

"You, too," you muttered. Scourge bowed his head and turned, striding away.

[inquisimer]

to all who feel rain

sneaking in under the wire of OC kiss week day 2 with some somft, tooth-rotting fluff :3 @dreadfutures' Ixchel & Neria share a warm drink and a moment of peace.

read it on ao3 here

Female Lavellan & Female Lavellan | Rated G | 647 words | No CW

-

Neria tripped through the mirror, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the tile. Ixchel looked up from the bar, already smiling. The bar was much more fun with company.

“Storm Coast?”

“Crestwood,” Wringing out her hair, Neria shook the cold and wet from her skin “Maker, why don’t the mirrors ever show up when I’m in Skyhold?”

“Give it time,” Ixchel chuckled. She grabbed a towel from the stack they kept on a warming rune behind the bar and tossed it in Neria’s direction. The elf patted herself dry, then finished the job with a simple drying spell that rippled the air around her as it flared over her skin and clothes.

“Tell me we have something hot to drink.”

Ixchel nodded, reaching for two mugs as Neria settled on one of the bar stools. There was a small cauldron simmering over a low-burning fire and she ladled the rich hot chocolate out in healthy amounts for each of them.

Neria wrapped her hands around the mug and drank deeply, shivering still as the warmth sank into her bones. She hummed and a slow, pleased smile stretched across her face. “Ahhh, that’s exactly what I needed.”

“Josephine can order it from traders out of Par Vollen, if you have coin.”

“Oh, we’ll find coin for that.”

Ixchel swung herself back up onto the bar top. Her bare heels kicked idly at the wood, bumping the oil lamp so the pooling light flickered and danced around them.

“So how is Crestwood?” she asked. Neria’s nose scrunched up and she sighed into her cocoa.

“Terrible, like everywhere is these days. And…odd, in many ways. Things that didn’t add up, coincidences that were a little too convenient.” She frowned. “Of course, we were traveling with Hawke, so my focus wasn’t particularly sharp. I probably just missed the connections that would make things add up.”

Interesting. Ixchel hummed her sympathy into her drink. She could offer little more than vague support—foreknowledge was a dangerous thing, when you held the future of many worlds over in your hand. Still, her steady presence was a comfort to Neria. She cupped her mug close to her side and leaned her head against Ixchel’s thigh.

“Seeking out the Wardens, then?”

“There’s really no other way at this point. I had hoped…well, that hardly matters now.” Neria sighed. I can only assume they have a good reason for whatever’s going on—Warden business rarely makes sense from the outside looking in. We just need to find the one person who can explain the apparent insanity to us.”

After so many years, Ixchel’s straight face was well-practiced. She wore it now, carefully drumming blunt nails down the edge of her mug. Nothing she could say would make much difference. Neria was simply venting in a way she only could to another Inquisitor—to someone who had been there, to someone who understood.

Ixchel set her drink aside and slid over the back of the bar. Another basket sat beside the towels, filled with soft blankets, each wrapped around a warming stone. She unfurled one and returned to her friend, draping it over her head and tucking it snuggly about her shoulders and neck. A shiver caught Neria by surprise—a rippling chill she hadn’t felt settle over her, chased away now. She offered up a grateful smile.

Ixchel stretched up to brush her lips across where Sylaise’ brands decorated Neria’s forehead.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said. “Freezing won’t help anyone in the meantime. Another drink?”

Neria nodded, her smile turning sheepish. Their fingers brushed as she handed the empty mug over, and again as Ixchel ladled it full and passed it back.

“Ma serranas.”

Ixchel gave her a knowing look, full of gentle understanding. “Rest, lethallin. The troubles of your world will be waiting when you get back.”

[fierypen37]

Blue Roses in Winter

moodboard by @libradoodle1

Blue Roses in Winter

 Gerris took a ginger sip of his tea, hands wrapped around the mug to absorb every bit of warmth. It was a frigid day. A biting wet cold where heavy grey clouds loomed, but there was no snow. Just intermittent spates of sleet that slicked the roads in a sheen of ice. On such a day, few parishioners attended service. Far fewer mourners visited the small kirkyard. The tea slid warm down his throat, freshened with lemon. Boredom set in as the cold miserable day waned into night. Darkness crept in, only the wavering shelves of candles and one lone lamp kept it at bay. Sleet pinged off the windows. The quiet wasn’t grating to him. Peace could be found in solitude. And soon, he could rest. His relief would be here in the morning, Septon Walder. As fiery and energetic as his red hair would suggest. Ah, the zeal of youth.

Gerris checked his watch and sighed. Time for rounds again. He heaved up from the small table outside the sanctuary of the sept, donned his coat, scarf, gloves. The wind screamed through the parish as he opened the door. He limped through the small kirkyard, eyes watering into the wind. The air was a cold knife that sliced through his clothing to chill his skin. A miserable day. The rows of tombstones gleamed in the light of Gerris’ torch. He touched the names with gloved fingers and murmured prayers under his breath as he trudged, trying not to slip on sleet-slick grass. Glover, Nott, Fletcher, Cerwyn, Smith, Snow.

“Good evening, Maester,” a cool feminine voice said. Gerris cursed, pulling up short. He slipped on the wet grass and, flailing, he lost his torch. He braced himself for the hard fall when he was caught by strong, sure hands.

“Easy!” in the rain-spattered light of his torch, Gerris found himself eye to eye with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He found his feet, straightening his clothes to hide his embarrassment.

“Pardon me, miss. Pardon me,” he muttered.

“Apologies, Maester, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The woman’s brow puckered in concern. She had been in the kirkyard for some time, he now realized, judging by how soaked her clothing was. The ball cap, down jacket, jeans and boots held up all right, but still . . . Gerris glanced at the stone she stood vigil by. The date on the gravestone would suggest she was his granddaughter or caregiver. Then in the oblique light of the torch, he glimpsed her eyes. Gerris had seen that look in every widow or widower’s eyes. They looked . . . hollow. As if some vital part had been scraped out of them. Who was he to judge? Age differences didn’t matter when it came to grief.  

“It’s a miserable night to be out, miss. Come on back to the sept, I’ll fix you some coffee. Warm you up,” he said.

“Very well. Thank you, Maester,” she said.

“Gerris, please.”

“Gerris, my name is Daenerys.”

“A pleasure, Daenerys.”

The walk back was a quiet one. The howling wind and slick, uncertain footing made certain of that. The warm, dry air of the sept embraced them, and he breathed a small sigh of relief.

“Let me fetch you that coffee,” Gerris said, pouring a cup into his only mug. Daenerys shed her wet hat and shook a mane of silver-blond hair loose. The water made her hair glitter like she was one the Mother’s angels. Gods, she was lovely.

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the cup. Gerris had learned in his long years of service that silence was the most effective tool for communication. Often, people just needed to order their thoughts, or, if they were anxious, they hurried to fill the silence and gave room to work on what they needed to. Daenerys had a self-contained air—almost regal—though she wore her grief as heavily as her sodden coat.

“I have a space heater in here. You can hang your coat, see if we can dry it a bit,” he said, grateful for the warbling heater returning some circulation to his old bones. He took his ease in his chair, kneading his thigh to ease the ache of an old injury. He poured a coffee for himself into a disposable water cup from the water cooler. The heat seared his palm, but he was grateful for it after the icy bluster outside.

“You are very kind, thank you,” Daenerys said, shrugging her coat off and draping it over Gerris’s desk chair. The fluid way she moved was like a dance all its own and Gerris admired her as one would admire a marble statue of a goddess. Daenerys idly stroked the barrier before the altar and its shelves of lit candles. The tinted glasses cast a rainbow of color over her face. Incense filled the air with its sweetness.

“Tell me about him.” The words hurt her. He saw her flinch and hurried to assuage his hasty words.

“You don’t have to, but sometimes it helps to talk. About the good and the bad,” Gerris said. Daenerys took a long drink of her coffee. She leveled him with steely gaze and Gerris wondered at the amethyst hue of her eyes. Her scrutiny was no mean thing, Gerris found himself straightening his posture like he was back in seminary.

“You’ve dedicated your life to your faith. You must believe in it with your whole heart,” she said. There’s a loaded statement! Gerris chose his words with care, aware that if he erred, he would spook her. Perhaps sour her questionings towards matters of faith forever. He wasn’t a man to take such conversations lightly.

“In my youth, I would have answered yes. Without question.” Daenerys’ eyes narrowed to violet slits. Something of her poise and stillness reminded him of a direwolf in the snow.

“And now?” she pressed. Gerris took a long draught of his coffee, relishing the rich, bitter taste. Clearing his throat, he gestured to the unoccupied chair for her to sit. Daenerys remained where she stood.

“As I’ve grown older, I’ve grown to understand that faith is simply one of many frameworks used make sense of the universe. Seven heavens, seven hells.  Nuance matters. Sincerity matters, in my opinion.” The diplomatic words seemed to mollify her. Some of the tension bled from her frame.

“I . . . wherever he is, I want to go there too. Is . . . is that possible?” the words held the vulnerability of a child and Gerris’ throat closed a little. She looked so forlorn and grief-stricken. A rudderless ship in the endless dark ocean with no hope of shore.

“Of course,” Gerris said around the hot lump in his throat. Daenerys looked unconvinced.

“I’ve done bad things.”

“No one is blameless. The Mother’s mercy awaits all of us.” Mercy, grace. That was all we needed in the end. Daenerys slid gracefully into the creaking chair.

“I’m not even sure he believed. His family followed the old gods,” she said.

“And yet you want to be where he is one day. In the next life,” Gerris asked. Daenerys gave a slow nod.

“If there is a chance I could be with him again, I will do what you ask.” There was steel ringing in the words, as if they were a sacred oath. Gerris sipped his coffee to buy time to think. Daenerys was not only grief-stricken and questioning, but desperate. He must be careful.

“I cannot speak for the old gods. I thought funeral rites prescribed cremation.” Daenerys recoiled.

“They did, they do. But I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t bear the thought of burning him. You must think that is foolish.”

Gerris risked laying his hand over hers. Father above, even warmed by the heater, her hands were like ice!

“You loved him. So much you would swear devotion to a god you don’t believe in on the off chance you could see him in heaven. That doesn’t sound foolish to me.”

“Tell me more,” Daenerys said.

The atmosphere relaxed after that. Over coffee and half-stale teacakes, he and Daenerys whiled away the small hours of the night talking about faith. Conversation ranged wider as Daenerys relaxed, onward to discuss mythology and science and politics. Gerris glanced out the window toward the lightening sky and rubbed his gritty eyes.

“Apologies, my dear, but I must get some rest. My relief is due soon. Shall I walk you to your car?”

Daenerys smile was so lovely it stole his breath, but there was little enough joy in it.

“I think not, Maester. Thank you for your kindness and conversation. I think I’ll stay at the marker a while longer.”

Gerris’ creaking knees scaled the stairs to his small room. From the tiny window, in the murky predawn light, he glimpsed Daenerys’ lonely figure among the gravestones. Find peace, my dear. At last the clouds were breaking and Gerris took heart in the brilliant gold of the rising sun. Septon Walder arrived promptly at seven fifteen. Gerris made a detour through the markers until he found the roses Daenerys had left. Gorgeous winter blooms, as blue as the heart of a sapphire. The marble stone. Jon Snow: Beloved Husband

Gerris murmured a prayer over the stone, hoping Jon had found peace—as well as Daenerys who loved him.  

[almostfancywombat]

Entry #1

TASIUSAQ, YUKON

Inhaling icicles, my breath crystallizes in the air. Despite the frigid conditions, it isn’t the weather that is chill inducing: rather, it is how her heart is missing, with ventricles clinging to the corroded organ. Everything above her waist is torn to shreds, exposing the bones beneath. Midnight blood congeals on the snow-laden concrete.

Grumbling, I adjust the mask covering my face. I line the insides of it with a mixture of herbs. Contrary to the novice habit, my preferred scent combination is a configuration of experience: cinnamon, myrrh, and a dash of honey. Just enough to render corpses a nuisance rather than the stomach-churning sights they are.

“Khompon seinan-ekhyan.” I focus on breathing, keeping deathly calm as I drown the outside world with silence, entering a space where figures are overcome by shadows, souls taking the center stage. The lady’s soul is dim from a lack of activity and stored in her cranium, weeping. Hers hardly has a sound and gleam, a dying rhythm. It blurs like streetlights viewed through a rain-washed window.

I grimace and lean against a wall, blinking until it disappears and the city’s gentle thrum returns. What little remains of her is held together by sinew. Empty space now in place of a stomach, chest, and face, but what remains of her jaw clamps down in a grimace. An entire desecration of the mind, body, and soul. It is safe to assume that the perpetrator was searching for her soul; gaping holes occupy the cavities where her heart should be. A nametag sits on the lapel of her coat. In small print, it shares her name: Elisa Arnatsiaq, with an even smaller Teaching Assistant below. To the left is a photo of the lady. She’s youthful, probably in her late twenties. A broad smile shows slightly crooked, dirty teeth, lips upturned.

Peyton stands with his back to the alley, mindlessly twirling his kali sticks. His apathetic nature is something I once scorned. Now, it only fuels hypocritical rage.

“Peyton,” I say, gesturing. His recent slacker tendencies have me taking the lead. “Come get Elisa’s things. And put some gloves on. We can’t have a repeat of last time.”

Huffing, he rests the weapons against the wall and reaches into his bag. Moments later, he puts the sticks away. He dons a pair of wrist-length gloves as he pulls out an old camera. Peyton snaps some pictures before swapping the device for his journal. A glance over his shoulder gives me a good view of his notes, scribbled in neat shorthand. He’s creating a victim profile, noting observations, briefly touching on theories, and estimating the time of death. An above and beyond effort, for him at least.

Providing an inkling of professionalism, he crouches over her body, unmoving until all necessary details are documented. Snow crunches beneath him, the only sound between us. On a technical level, reapers only retrieve souls. However, in cases such as these, when we feel other divisions are lacking, reapers function in their stead.

Finally, the journal closes with a snap. Peyton stands, brushing himself off. “Since we’ve done what we can, let’s go. We won’t have a chance of catching whatever did this to her if we don’t leave soon.”

The officials won’t arrive soon. Instead, they must visit another similar scene, collect the first batch of victims, then tend to Elisa. For now, it is in our best interests to discover any trace of the perpetrator before they fade.

Peyton drags the scythe behind him as we walk. It dips into the snow, snagging onto the concrete beneath. Metal screeches against the pavement, eliciting an ear-grating sound as we sprint out of the alley. People wave without hesitation, calling our names. We’re a spectacle but plain enough to ignore, and after spending half a year in town, I suspect we’ve become much-beloved nuisances.

He guides us through the slippery streets we know too well, jumping and dashing around lithely. Considering his clumsiness, it’s surprising that no one has been impaled.

I’m lost in thought as we plow through the throng, then suddenly, we’re in the middle of a residential road. Mobile homes line the path like vibrant teeth. A gaggle of children floss between them, peeking out from corners to toss snowballs. Their parents perch idly on porches, leaning over railings to chat with mugs of hot chocolate. I see the steam rising and exhale, creating a similar effect.

Distracted, I crash into Peyton and stumble, almost losing my footing on the ice. Upon seeing the object of his attention, I sigh. Staring back is an image of a grinning beaver on the snowed-over man-hole cover. Puzzled, I stare and await an explanation.

When he doesn’t offer one, I clear my throat. “We’re standing above a sewer.” His acute senses must be dulling, a fact I’ll gladly report; the last thing we need is a repeat of Vancouver. “There’s nothing here.”

No sooner than I say it, he turns to face me. I despise how emotional he comes off, even with his face covered. “Hear that?” He asks with a sense of anticipation, holding a finger in the air.

I shake my head but lean in to listen. Without warning, he roughly shoves me aside. Feeling my palms meet the ground, swiping away the freshly fallen snow beneath, I’m about to curse, but the heavy sewer lid flies upwards. Mere moments later, a piercing cry penetrates the air. I turn to see the victim. Or rather, the survivor.

A child stands petrified in the middle of the road before launching into flight, darting toward a porch. Someone—his mother—slumps over on the wooden steps. Her head is deformed by the fall, the cover pinning her against the boards. The boy clutches her bloody shirt, wailing until another lady scoops him up, shielding his body with her own as she tears into the house next door.

It’s chaos in the streets, but we won’t have the luxury of aiding just yet. I force the image from my mind and surge forward, bracing for the pass-off from Peyton. My hands wrap around the handle, and I glide into position as something bursts from the ground. Bricks fly loose as it tunnels upwards, creating a cloud of debris, dust, and powdery snow. Yellow street lights shine through the leaden mist to expose a disfigured thing that can only be the stuff of nightmares. It is a man. Or rather, what remains of one. He isn’t exactly dead yet, transformed into a mythos called Aranea. Limbs dangle several feet above four spindly, hairy legs. A face in the likeness of a spider snaps mandibles covered with blood. Not a hint of anything human remains.

He’s faceless and nameless. No longer restrained by human law. It’s twisted, if not cruel, to permit anything to exist in this state.

Hands, calloused and old, reach into the night. They’re leathery, wrinkled, and starkly black, almost midnight. Those in the streets finally react and scurry in different directions, screaming. With this creature, silence is one’s best hope of escaping with their life. Fear must be powerful enough to override reason.

To aid the escape efforts, I slam my weapon into the ground. Mouth open, I shriek. The aranea loses focus on the dispersing crowds, settling its two sets of beady eyes on me. +Suddenly, it feels like my limbs are entangled in a web. My limbs are lead. Instead of recalling the relevant pages from our guidebooks, my mind remains blank. Seeming to sense my blunder, the aranea releases a murderous shriek and charges.

I scramble into position, one foot behind the other. I lift the scythe. Just as I swing, mandibles lock around the blade and tug with enough force to sweep me into the air. Panicking, I struggle against it. The material oozing from its mouth is foul, its disgusting face inches from mine.

Peyton clears ground, bounding toward me before I can call for help. As he nears, he brandishes a kali stick. Deadly in even untrained hands, they are more so in his.

Jabbing the creature’s side, the Aranea crumbles, shrieking and hissing. It swings around, lunging for him. Only to receive another slam to the face, sending it stumbling back. Freeing my scythe, I do what I do best; I retreat, watching Peyton hit the creature’s legs and torso. He moves like a bird, diving and attacking, retreating before it can ensnare him. Each hit is followed by a loud crack. He slams the Aranea’s sides and legs with the stick with urgency, not halting until it’s stopped on its back.

Finally, with the job done, he sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. He won’t remove his mask and only slides it up to feel the breeze.

“Only female victims so far,” he says. Kicking the creature, he steps back to catch his breath. “I think our monster’s a misogynist.”

I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. It’s a bitter, resentful sound. Looking at Peyton stand over the twitching beast, I feel a twinge of jealousy. Perfected over a decade, his sense of professionalism and spectacle are unparalleled. Once again, watching as he gathers his things, I wait. My insecurity quietly simmers.

It doesn’t matter that he’s trained longer than I, that he’s someone seemingly made for this kind of life. Or at least, I like to believe he had a choice in following it. Contrarily, my sense of obligation makes me feel that I’ve always got to be two steps ahead of him and everyone else.

Watching as he gathers his things, I wait and observe every action, the seamless, heel-to-toe walk, the practiced ease of his actions. My insecurities quietly simmer.

After rummaging through his bag, he sends a box flying my way, muttering a half-hearted “Heads up!”

I catch it and scowl. The item nearly slips through my fingers. Anxious, I scoop it up and stride over to Peyton. But, more importantly, I reach the still-alive monster.

Opening the box, I retrieve an ornate dagger. Once used in a revered soul-collecting ceremony, we now use it casually, as if we were butchering a pig, removing entails, which is what most wayward souls are considered worse than.

Removing the dagger from its container, I steady it in my left hand. I move it up, left, right, then down. Poised over the Aranea’s chest, the dagger’s tip barely hits it before a siren sounds. Intent on completing the only task I can, I bring it up and slam it into the body. Putrid blood splatters across me; I back up as it dissolves, floating up and away into the sky. It seems there was no soul left to reap and that a bystander had taken it upon themself to call the authorities.

I return both items, shutting the box with a sigh. Peyton fiddles with his bag as we sit on the slippery curb. An officer steps out of a small, dingy car. He looks poorly, bear-like in the sense of hair. Nearly slipping on the puddle of blood, his nose crinkles.

“By Lord Life,” he mumbles, carefully making his way to us. Coming to a stop, he narrows his eyes. “What are you doing? Witchy things?”

Peyton laughs, a dry sound as he presents our badges. “We caught this man in aranea form after we were sent to investigate a murder on Row 202. We determined that it was the suspect and acted accordingly.”

“202? Is that near the stores?”

“Sure,” he answers, pulling out his notepad to further consult his notes. A flash of recognition shines on the officer’s face. “Closer to the river than stores.”

Squinting, the officer inspects us. His grim expression blossoms. “You’re some of Death’s little lackeys, aren’t you?” He asks with too much enthusiasm. I can’t tell whether it’s good or bad. He seems sterner as he stares, probably at the way I tense.

“Who else would be caught dead in this fashion?” says Peyton, doing a little twirl.

I elbow his side. Sticking to protocol, “We are humble servants of Our Lady.”

“Right,” the officer says. “Anyhow, what are a couple of youngsters doing to get work like this? Enchantment?”

Peyton answers, tiredly kicking at the ground. “Excuse me, but we’ve got a job to finish.” He’s standing now at full height, towering over the unintimated man.

“No, you don’t. Since you can’t verify, I’m here to clean things up.”

A smile carries in Peyton’s tone. “Isn’t that great! That means we’ll get home before nine-thirty. Dealing with that traumatized little boy would really spoil dinner. Let’s get going now. Oh, and collect Miss Arnatsiaq, won’t you?” Before seizing the scythe from my grasp, he wraps an arm around my shoulders. “They never get less annoying. Let’s leave before I have to file an incident report.”

Incident reports occur when reapers inevitably involve themselves in non-essential violence. The concept of necessary harm is intriguing, but not more so in how the phenomenon has a place in protocol. 

I groan, ignoring the officer’s angry protests as I trail after Peyton. Long before either of us notices, a silvery half-moon replaces the sun. Grotesque patterns appear in the sky, a soft blotching of face-like clouds. Streetlights flicker as we trudge through the streets, snow crunching beneath blood-stained boots.

With the hours of the night now upon us, we make haste to ensure we reach Elisa Arnatsiaq before other forces do. Moving as fast as I can, I still manage to nag Peyton as we jog down the empty roads to where we’d left her. She still lay untouched in the alleyway, now stiff beneath the streetlights. Rigor mortis must’ve finally set in while we were away. 

“Hold on, I’ve got the spirit box.” Peyton once again pulls out the box from earlier. He sets it close to her head. 

Coming to a stop directly before her, I briefly stretch and then stand upright. Clasping my hands together, I conduct parting rites.

“Bu khamkha khiyanwat khampokyan; raengshiathaai, aciliakhamaai, hacikhaai, chayohaai, dayallaai.” Using the ancient tongue, I state the soul’s components. A person’s essence as: personality, impulse, identity, secrets, and heart. Then I ask them to abandon the physical form. “Kiyanwat chodikhaer-tikha yakti.”

Dark masses of shadows pour from Elisa. They surge like rain in reverse, swirling and pooling in the air above. The atmosphere feels electric, faintly glowing. I see a blueish, fire-like orb arise from the lady’s corpse before shutting my eyes to focus. Warmth floods the area near my gut as I recite Death’s appeal in her language. “O’ Thienkhai-ara, the salvation and end; I pray to absolve our friend, school teacher Elisa Arnatsiaq, of corruption. I offer her soul to thine embrace.”

Air rushes in gusts; it should be freezing, but it isn’t. I’m warm to the point of feeling as if I’m bathing in molten lava, my soul offering a protective layer. Amidst it, another voice joins my chanting, screaming in pure agony. Elisa Arnatsiaq’s corpse is the culprit, writhing on the ground. Her voice changes in death. Gruff and deep, less human with every second.

Her mouth remains open until a final burst of light ignites her body. It spreads, consuming Elisa until she’s covered in flames. Quickly engulfed, she bursts, creating a miniature supernova in her wake. The snow-covered ground melts, exposing the concrete beneath her and scorching everything, yet I remain unharmed. The weak reaction indicates something of her soul. A bygone innocence, a soul too nurturing to harm others, even in death.

Pain blossoms across my ribcage, burning like hellfire. I double over and catch a glimpse of where Elisa previously lay. Save for a small, pale blue orb in the middle of her skeleton, nothing of her remains in this world. Translucent, her soul looks like sea glass.

It’s a tiny thing, lacking an extravagant form and color. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so small or weak that still beats with the urgent impulse to live. All I can discern from the flickering object is that her life is not one I would ever want to lead. Shuddering, I pass Peyton the ceremonial box.

Peyton snatches her soul, entrapping it. “Hey, Blair,” he begins, toying with the claps, “what do you think the Lady’s name means? Aren’t most of the old accords lost?”

From my place on the ground, I glare. Ragged breaths come out in short spurts, pain flooding the entirety of my being. It hurts terribly, the fire coursing through my veins. The snow doesn’t help. It only burns like hot coals instead of a balm. I don’t know if I’ll ever adapt to the strenuous activity, but soon enough, the sensation disappears. My head stops spinning, and although I can stand, my limbs feel like jelly. But I grit my teeth and bear it because, at the very least, I’m still alive.

Peyton grips my arm, hoisting me up, silently dragging me through the streets as we head towards the bus station, occasionally slipping. Several times, I come dangerously close to kissing my scythe. He laughs at that, helping to hoist me up when the bus comes to a stop. The kindly driver rejects our fair. Mr. Basaure is adamant about safely getting us, his regular pair of creepily masked patrons, home. Or rather, the cold, drafty shack we occupy in its stead.

“We appreciate it.”

“Your route isn’t too far from my home,” he says, voice creaky and old.

I grin and shuffle into the vehicle, fervently thanking him. At this hour, hardly anyone is out, allowing us the entire bus to ourselves. Peyton, his heathen of a self, spreads his legs, taking up four seats with my scythe held hostage across his lap. It leaves me to plop down to his left. I hold on as the bus sets off, shifting slightly.

Once we’re away from the residential areas of town, I feel safe enough to remove my mask. Finally, breathing unscented air is much like eating after seven days; I can tell my face is red from the heat radiating from it. My inability to sweat is an utter nightmare in warmer climates, causing extreme overheating.

Although the world is a peculiar patchwork of eras and climates, Tasiusaq is on the perimeter of the Arctic circle, where winters have plentiful snow. Technology is still behind, with no service offered outside the ski lodge grounds or grocery store.

Belonging to the ski lodge’s owner—a member of the Lady’s council—our house here is more of a glorified shack. Nevertheless, we are permitted to use it during our stay. The cold is a friend to me but not to Peyton, who is accustomed to living on estates in warmer locations. What he does abroad during the cold season, I couldn’t ever know. But, for sure, I know he was less inclined to landlocked states and hardly remained in any place longer than a month before his assignment to me.

More pressing, however, is our day. Relatively uncommon, these spider-like mythos derive from complete misuse of the human form, whether physical or spiritual. If someone had forced the man into such a state, then who? And if not, what heinous acts had he committed? Do they render him worthy of such an end?

“What are we going to do?” I mumble, slumping over. The guidebooks and studying hadn’t prepared me for man-made horrors beyond mortal comprehension. Considering how outdated those are, it’s only expected, but the existence of aranea implies sinister forces at work, and they shouldn’t be anywhere near here. “I don’t see how anyone could have a soul so ugly, you know? It’s not natural! There must be something we can—”

“Blair,” Peyton tries to come off as unfazed, but I know better. Through his whiny tone, I can practically hear the gears in his head spinning, working to rationalize the fear. “Don’t worry about that. We should be worried about our pay! The Lady’s sooo not going to be pleased about this. You, her golden child, coming under inspection again? She’s going to skin me! And turn me into one of those ugly rugs she gives everyone during the holidays!”

Despite myself, I chuckle. Those are, in fact, incredibly ugly. She gifted us one last winter, and it’s still hanging outside to dry.

“So, we agree to lie on the report?” Peyton asks, tilting his head.

“There’s absolutely no reason to.”

“Blair, Blair, Blair,” says Peyton, sing-songy. He slides over, seeming to float across the seat. Arm hovering over my shoulder, he pulls back when I glare. Nevertheless, he remains flush against my side. “I think you mean, no reason not to.”

No one has to know about it. Embellishing the mythos type won’t hurt. It will spare us unnecessary trouble. And innumerable sheets of paper work.

I glower at the thought, but it’s so very enticing.

Swallowing my pride, “Well, we weren’t in inherent danger, and we still need to see if it was behind the others. Araneas form all the time in large cities, and the entrance to that weird underground place is close. We’re only, what? A few hours from it? It’s possible one snuck over.” 

In agreement, he prattles about corrupt farmers, reapers, and game wardens. An instance of bribery, failure to follow protocol and consequences. That establishes our ever-evolving guidelines.

Something jumps to mind. “Wasn’t there that case where someone tried illegally bringing a kappa into the country?” Vaguely, I recall a stale-smelling man in the station, briefly encountering him before he was whisked away. 

“See? Smuggling happens all the time, too.” he chirps. “The world’s getting crazier by the day. Don’t worry too much over something that’s likely a cosmic fluke.” But the cosmos never makes mistakes. I nearly protest. Instead, I cling to the notion of normalcy, repeating it like a mantra.

[beaucoup--spookoo]

"Remember, remember, remember, this is now, and now , and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it." - Sylvia Plath

[thisisarcanereverie]

Change of Plans (DARK! Moon Knight x Reader) Knight and Pawn series

A/N: HEY! So this was like, over 5k words. So I did end up changing it a little, not by a lot, the overall ending is the same it's just a small detail. I might release the original chapter if I get enough requests for it but as of right now I don't feel comfortable with telling that version quite yet.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: MINORS DNI, VIOLENCE, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, BETRAYAL, BAD VIBES MY DUDES BAD VIBES!

“Layla?” 

“Shut up and hop on.” 

You immediately do as you’re told, putting the helmet on in the process. Once you're situated on the bike you hear Layla mumble something before revving up the bike and zipping out of the parking lot at lightning speed. Your arms frantically wrap themselves around her, as you prayed to whatever god that Layla’s suicidal driving doesn’t kill you, or maybe you hope it does as you’re reminded of your…previous activities. 

You push down the nauseating guilt for later as you hope she doesn’t smell him on you. 

Lights pass by in a blur, the roar of the engine and the honking of cars make any attempt of conversation futile as it would be drowned out by noise. 

In between praying for life or death, and suppressing the urge to throw up, you focus on the woman driving the motorcycle. You haven’t seen her in three or four years. You don’t know for sure how long since Marc abducted you, but it felt like years. 

“It shouldn’t be far now!” Layla shouted. 

“What shouldn’t be far?!”

“I’ll explain it when we get there!” 

Sure enough, after a few more sharp turns and taking some…interesting routes, Layla cuts the engine and motions you to let go and to get off. You’re in the middle of an ally on the edge of London. 

“We have to go on foot the rest of the way,” Layla says as she takes off her helmet, “it’s not far, just a block away.” you noticed immediately that she cut her hair, her dark ringlets fell an inch above her shoulders and she held herself differently, her stance was guarded and the look in her eyes were harder than you remember. Courtesy of Marc you assumed. You start to walk beside her, and the chill settles in. The damp London air cuts its way to your bones, you rub your hands over your arms, hoping the friction will help warm you. 

“So where exactly are we going?” You ask tentatively. 

“We’re going to a safe house Jake helped me set up, we’re going to be there for a few weeks before boarding the next train out of London and to the furthest countryside possible, from there we go to the nearest airport and get on the plane furthest away from London. From there we will be traveling from town to town, city to city, state to state, until either Marc gives up, or Khonshu abandons him for another avatar, which I don’t see happening anytime soon.” 

“So what,” You say, “I’m just supposed to run and hide?”

“Yes,” Layla says, turning to face you, her dark eyes intense, “yes that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.” You both walk a few more feet before Layla turns. You notice she turns to open a door to a building, years of graffiti decorated the stone as well as the overgrowth of dead ivy and various other plants. Honestly, if Layla would’ve kept walking, you wouldn’t have noticed it was ever here. Which you supposed was perfect considering you were trying to hide. 

Layla turned the knob and motioned you to get inside before her, the first thing you noticed was some of the floorboards creaked, but that was normal considering how old the building must have been. The wall was covered in old wallpaper, it was fraying at the ends and yellowed by time. There was a pull out couch with a tv, a kitchenette, one bathroom and one bedroom. It was very different from your previous accommodations. 

And for that you were grateful. 

You jumped at the sudden sound of deadbolts locking, the noise catches you off guard. You turn to the brunette as she is finishing locking the last deadbolt. 

“I already stocked the kitchen up, so our rations should be good. We don’t have cable so I hope you don’t mind our very limited selection of dvd’s, the bathroom is right over there, and I would change my clothes if I were you, because the next few weeks are going to be very difficult if you get sick with pneumonia or something.  I got a few clothes for you in the bedroom,” Layla points to the bedroom door, “I’ve got the pull out couch, in case our plan fails and Marc finds you. I can distract him while you make an escape.” You were about to speak up when Layla cut you off, “I promise we’ll talk…after you get out of those wet clothes and into something warmer.”

You quickly went to the bedroom, it was small, a single twin sized bed and a dresser were in there. You went through the drawer and picked out a sweatshirt and sweatpants. You stripped yourself of your wet clothing when a dull pain could be felt in between your legs. You shake as you’re reminded of what your freedom cost you. 

The swirling pit in your stomach made you feel nauseated beyond believe, you couldn’t believe you did that. That you slept with Marc fucking Spector, and enjoyed it. 

You would’ve felt better if it had just been sex, if he was a two pump chump and fell asleep right after. 

But no. 

You ran your fingers through his hair, you came multiple times, you begged for more, you kissed his forehead and listened to his heartbeat.  

If Marc wasn’t going to kill you, the guilt was. 

Your mind wandered to the curly haired woman in the living room you once thought of as your best friend. Layla had already risked so much just by being here, and you slept with her ex husband. 

You were despicable. 

You suddenly felt the need to claw at your own skin, to rub it until it was red and raw, you wanted to throw up all your memories and drown. 

You felt like you were drowning. 

You tried to even your breathing, just now noticing you were hyperventilating and you sunk yourself onto the floor. You closed your eyes and willed yourself to even your breathing. 

In……and out

In…….and out 

In……..and out. 

Once your chest stopped heaving and you felt your heart beat slow, with shaking arms and legs you picked yourself up and dressed yourself. The soft material of the sweatshirt brought comfort to you. 

You walked out of the bedroom door to find Layla sitting on the couch, waiting. You took another breath to quiet your already shot nerves, and went to sit next to her. 

Silence passed by you two, for what seemed to be forever, until Layla spoke up. 

“Just so you know,” Layla started, “I don’t care about what you had to do to get away from him tonight.”

Your head whipped right to her, your mouth open, ready to plead and beg for forgiveness and ask how she could’ve known when she stopped you. 

“I don’t know what happened tonight,” Layla said holding your hand, “I could probably guess if I wanted to but I don’t.” Her hand squeezed yours, “I don’t want to know, maybe one day we’ll be able to talk about it but right now I just can’t if that’s ok with you?”

“Of course,” You say immediately, returning the squeeze to her hand, another moment of silence before Layla breaks it. 

“I was angry at you,” Layla starts, “You were my best friend and suddenly you were gone. No note. When I came back that day, all of your clothes were gone and Marc was huddled on the ground holding onto your broken picture frame for dear life.” She lets out a cynical laugh, “When I found out what he did I was pissed. I yelled at him, blamed him. But nothing I did phased him. He didn’t sleep for months, he just kept looking, he even hired a PI to track you. I guess it was the fifth time I caught him up all night, glued to his phone looking for you, when I knew he loved you. He loved you in a way he could never love me, and that pissed me off. He was my husband and yet I couldn’t help but feel like the other woman…I wanted to blame you,” She looked up as tears pricked the corners of her eyes, “I kept telling myself that if it wasn’t for you Marc would love me more, that you left me without telling me anything because you were guilty, I did a lot of things. But when I left Marc and lived for myself a while, I came to accept it wasn’t your fault.” Layla looked at you, “you were the one who took most of the brunt on our missions, you took literal bullet shots for me, you protected me until you couldn’t. You loved me, and I loved you. You leaving was because you needed to put yourself first, and I respect that. I realized you probably didn’t have time to write me a note telling me goodbye or maybe because you weren’t sure what to say without lying.” Layla laughed as a single tear rolled down her cheek, “Let me tell you it wasn’t easy to accept or understand any of that. But I still tried to be mad at you, if not because of my own pride, then I heard about Marc abducting you and instantly that anger vanished, you were in danger and for once I needed to help you. To save you.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since Marc abducted you?” You shake your head, you could have an estimated guess, but you don’t know for certain. 

“He abducted you a year and a half ago,” Layla said, “your friends at SWORD looked for you, but Marc hid you well and Steven paid off higher SWORD people to…overlook your disappearance.” 

You weren’t shocked, you knew Steven had a lot of money now, and money talked, and bargained, and made things happen and disappear. 

“Jake only told me things I needed to know,” Layla said, “like Marc abducting you and where to pick you up and take you.” her eyes were softer now as she looked at you, “but I don’t know anything of what happened before. Where you’ve been for the last three years or what you were up to, and I don’t mean to be nosey but the only thing I know was that you worked for SWORD and that’s it…I was kind of hoping you would fill me in, tell me what your life was like before all this shit.” 

You took a sharp breath in, you wanted to tell her, you just didn’t know where to start. 

So maybe you would just start at the beginning. 

“After I left Marc’s I sort of just moved around a lot, staying in motels or hotels or air bnb a place if I felt like splurging or hell even camped. I didn’t stay in one place for too long and I was taking some odd jobs here and there, using mostly cash only, trying to limit my paper trail in case he looked for me.” you willed the tears to stop, “then about six months later I was in Portland, and that’s where I met Alec. I spilled some coffee on him, and when I tried to clean him up I looked in his eyes and I just couldn’t help thinking he had the most gorgeous eyes I had ever seen.” You let out a sad laugh, “I must have said it out loud because he laughed and said that there were other ways to hit on him than spilling coffee on him and flirting. After that he asked me on a date and I went, I kept pushing back the date I was leaving before finally deciding to stay…for him. I accepted a job with SWORD, got an apartment, and was living normally. Alec worked a lot, he had to take a lot of phone calls but we both managed to work from home most days.” Your eyes tear up as you remember the beach, “Then Alec got promoted and we had to move to New Jersey, he proposed, I said yes and for a very long while we were happy. We moved near enough where I could go into the office and since he was a project manager he had to go in more as well. His work calls went down significantly which was amazing, and we were just…happy and normal.” A tear slipped past as you remembered the last day of your ideal life, “then, a few days before we were going to get married, Marc came out of nowhere. Told me he was going to kill Alec if I didn’t go with him, he gave me 24 hours to say goodbye to my life before he took it away. But of course…I had to fight back.” You knew you were trembling, “I couldn’t let him have that control over me, so I tried to hide Alec away, somewhere Marc couldn’t reach him…Alec sacrificed his life for me, Marc cornered us at the bus station and snapped Alec’s neck right in front of me…I could only cry and weep and act like a blubbering mess, meanwhile Alec was dead and I just..passed out. When I woke up I was in London.” 

For a while Layla just held you, rubbed comforting circles on your back as you weep and blamed yourself. You were filled with so much sadness and pain that it felt like your heart was going to burst, your throat was closed up and sore from all the crying. You trembled from nerves and lack of hydration. Your guilt was eating you alive, from Alec’s death to sleeping with his killer. You were consumed with guilt. 

You were drowning. 

And you wanted to drown. 

—

It’s been a week since you escaped Marc. 

Layla and you caught up with one another, you tried apologizing for all the pain you put her through but she wouldn’t accept it. Slowly, little by little, you were both taking the damage done to your friendship one day at a time. 

You both didn’t do much besides lay low, watch tv, ate, and talk. Damn did you guys talk. 

With the tv playing some old movie and both of you chilling on a couch as you talked through the movie, you couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. When Marc wouldn’t come home until late and you stayed up with Layla to help ease her mind. And you felt like maybe you were getting back there. 

But the guilt stayed with you, always there in the pit of your stomach, waiting to consume you again. You still blamed yourself, for everything, you blamed every bit of misfortune on you. If you had done something differently, things would’ve worked out better. 

You were in the middle of making supper when you felt the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. At first you felt like you were crazy, but as the harsh pounding of the dead bolted door came you grabbed the hot pot from your hand, discarding the contents onto the floor and held it up. In case you needed to use it as a weapon, Layla motioned for you to be quiet and to stay low. You shakily followed her instructions. You heard her peak through the door only to let out a sigh of relief, you peaked your head over the counter to find her motioning you to stand up. 

“It’s Jake,” She said as she opened the door. You knew you shouldn’t have flinched when you saw him, he helped you escape, he tried to right the wrong done to you, and yet. When you saw him, flashes of Marc came through and invaded your head. You breathed through it and tried to calm yourself down. 

“Change of plan,” Jake said, his accent thick, “You leave tonight, grab your things and meet me outside.” and with that he was gone from the doorway, you saw Layla immediately spring into action and urged you to do the same. You put down the hot pan and went to pack what few things you had, the clothes and blankets being one of them. You met her outside, where she held your hand and gave you a nod of reassurance before slipping a gun into your coat pocket. “For insurance” she said. You both made your way where Jakes limo awaited you, you didn’t think twice before hopping in the backseat. 

“What happened, why did the plans change?” Layla asked as Jake floored it away from the safe house. 

“Marc knows,” Jake said thickly, his eyes darting to his rearview mirror, “he knows I helped you and is pissed off, I need to get you both to safety before he takes control again.” 

“So where are we going now?”

“You’re still getting on a train,” Jake replied as he ran through a red light a series of swears and honking didn’t deter him, “just not the one we wanted. Now if you don’t mind, I need you guys to be quiet as I focus on driving and not losing control.” 

Both you and Layla were silent as London passed you by, it was a blur at the speed Jake was going, and despite having lived in the city, you didn’t know your way around it much. Directions were never your strong suit, but at some point things started to become familiar as you felt Layla tense beside you. Immediately you knew something was wrong, the sinking feeling of dread and seconds felt like minutes as you turned to see her confused gaze. You were about to speak to Jake when you noticed him turn at a familiar sign. 

Roxxon Luxury Apartments

“Jake why are we here?” You asked. Your heart was pounding a mile a minute. 

“Just one second, Starlight.”

Your heart stopped, the sinking feeling in your gut dropped to your feet and your hands shook as your eyes slowly went to meet him in the mirror. 

Those weren’t Jake’s eyes you met in that rearview. 

It was Marc. 

His eyes were dark, intense as he stared at you, his thick brows furrowed. All you could see in his eyes was dark, obsessive, possessive, anger, every dark emotion he had under the sun. 

Marc was pissed. 

You turned to tell Layla to get out of the car and run. 

But it was too late. 

Marc had turned around at lightning speed and stuck something in her neck. 

“I really didn’t want to do that,” Marc said, “but you didn’t leave me a choice.” 

You screamed as Layla went limp beside you, Marc released her as he went to exit out of the car, he at some point parked but you didn’t notice. You went to feel for a pulse, you were practically heaving as you felt a very small, very slow pulse. 

“Layla,” You said, trying to wake her, “Layla come on, open your eyes!” 

“She’s not going to,” He said as he opened up your door, you kicked and screamed as he pulled you away from her. “I was going to leave her out of this, but you didn’t leave me a choice.” 

“What did you do to her!” You yelled, pounding your fists on his back.

“I gave her something to make her fall asleep,” He said, “she’s going to sleep, and then she will peacefully, slip and be with her father again.” He practically dragged you away, carrying your fighting body without struggle, “this was the best I could do after this little incident. She wasn’t going to fuck off after this, so this was the only other option.” He set you down once you were in the elevator, “you belong to me.”

You spat in his face, you saw his eyes flare with an anger you’ve never seen before as the elevator dinged and he dragged you back to that apartment. The one with all those windows, looking out to a world you’ll never be a part of again. 

The windows that killed you. 

The door locked instantly as you noticed the disarray around you. 

Shattered glass, holes punched into walls, you saw Marc went mad in here.

Or maybe he always was. 

You heard the door lock behind you as you were harshly turned around, his hands had a death grip on your arms, they were bruising and you could barely move. His eyes were trained on you, dark, and angry, but you also saw so much sadness in them and hurt. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. 

“Why?” His voice was low and dangerous, “why did you do that, did I not provide everything for you?”

“You took me,” You said, “you had no right.”

“I had every right.” Marc said. 

“You sound like your mother.”

It was the lowest of blows you could throw at him, you knew. But all the grief, and guilt, and blame, and anger, everything boiled over. You swore to yourself you would never, ever, say those words to him. 

Another vow you’ve broken. 

His hands let go of you as he recoils from you like you had burned him, and if you were honest, burning him would’ve hurt less. 

You felt the cold press of metal against your skin and your hands flew on their own. Your hands held the gun and aimed it at him. If you were honest, you didn’t want to kill him. Probably wouldn’t, but you could try, probably physically harm him enough for you to get away again. 

But what was the point?

You could see Marc was silently impressed with how fast you had armed yourself. 

“You won’t kill me.”

“Probably,” You said the gun still aimed at him as you turned the safety off, “but I can try.”  

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!” He screamed, “I have loved you since we were eight, I only knew after that night in the cabin. You are my world, my moon and stars, you have no idea what I’ve sacrificed in your name.” 

“No,” You said, “but I know the names of the people you’ve killed in my name.”

“We’ve spent years dancing around each other,” He said as you put distance between you two, “always loving each other but something or someone always came in and fucked it up. Don’t tell me that you didn’t feel like you were finally complete that night in the cabin, or when we made love, here, in our home.” His eyes were pleading, “why am I the villain for taking the first step?” he stepped forward while you took a step back. 

“I always loved you,” You said never looking away from him, “but you treated me like shit and when I had finally built a life for myself you took it away. And for that I will never forgive you.”

“THAT LIFE WASN’T REAL!” Marc screamed, “NONE OF THAT WAS REAL!” 

Time seemed to stop. Like every heartbeat stopped as you see Marc’s eyes widen in shock as he realized what he said. 

“What?” You felt numb, your hands shook slightly, “what do you mean none of that was real? It felt real to me.”

Marc was silent, which you learned quickly was never a good sign. 

“What did Alec do for a living?” Marc asked, “did he ever tell you?”

You were about to say yes, but you stopped. You thought about it and Alec never gave you a straight answer. Always saying stuff about some mysterious project, work calls, promotion to project manager but he never said anything about what project or which company he worked with. You were so in love with him that you didn’t even think to ask. 

“He was a project manager.”

“In some way he was,” Marc said, “you were the project.” 

Your body began to shake as he continued. 

“Alec wasn’t even his real name,” he continued, “I mean Alexander Maximillian Hamilton? Alexander Hamilton? That’s the dude on the ten dollar bill, did you not find that weird?” Silence, “his real name was Mack Gildmen, he was a Private Investigator that I hired to keep tabs on you.” You pointed the gun at him firmly. 

“You’re lying!” You shouted even though the pit in your stomach told you otherwise. 

“I’m not,” He said, “he was just supposed to get close to you, be a part of your life when I couldn’t be. I had too much work to do, and you were right. I deserted you and I tried to work hard in being worthy of you again. We had this agreement, he would be a part of your life, give me updates disguised as business calls, refer to you as the project so as to not raise suspicion, and when I felt ready to reconnect with you again he would step out of the way, naturally. I paid him his top dollar for every update.” Tears welled in your eyes. “But then he went and fell in love with you, which shouldn’t have surprised me because who wouldn’t. But it did, it surprised and angered me. He quit, and told me he would always protect you from me, even if it meant himself getting in the crossfire.” The sudden realization dawned on you, “I told him the next time I saw him he was a dead man.” 

“So when you told me if I didn’t go with you, you were going to kill Alec…”

“I was going to kill him either way,” Marc confirmed, “he knew that. Why else did he put you on the bus, why else would he jam it and not get on the bus with you?”

You didn’t want to hear it. 

“Because he knew he was going to die that night either way,” Marc continued, “he knew I would find him, but I was too angry. I saw red when I saw him, I didn’t take into account that you saw me kill him. I never wanted you to see that. But I guess that was his plan, get me riled up, have you in the audience and let myself completely destroy whatever good thought you ever had about me.” 

Your back was to the window, looking out to the city beyond, its lights flickering on the water. 

You wanted to deny it, to tell yourself that he was a liar and he was lying. 

But you knew he wasn’t, that look in his eyes, everything finally making sense. 

You knew this was the truth. 

“So this life I built,” you started, “my home, my fiance, my perfect, normal life…I didn’t build it at all, you did.” You knew you only got the job you did because you had previous experiences with super heroes. 

With him. 

Your home was paid for by Alec- you mean Mack, from the money he received from spying on you for Marc. 

Your whole life was a lie

You lowered the gun slightly, grief, anger, despair, as you recalled every happy memory. The smiles, kisses, happy birthdays, holidays you spent with him, with your friends and co-workers. Flowers you received, small gifts that Alec or Mack you guessed bought you, really weren’t from him. 

They were from Marc. 

Every small gesture, like bringing you iced coffee because hot coffee made you sick, or putting on your favorite show when you were down. 

All of that. 

Was him. 

The sick swirling feeling in your gut wouldn’t cease, as you threw up all of the contents of your stomach towards the nearest trash can. 

Marc didn’t approach you, worried that you would flinch from his touch and right now. 

That would kill him. 

While your head was buried in that trash can, reliving every happy day in those three years, you knew what you had to do. 

To end the madness. 

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Your head shot straight up from the trash can and whirled around to look at Marc. 

“Let’s get you washed up.” 

“No.” You aimed the barrel of the gun away from Marc. 

And aimed it at your temple instead. 

“NO!” Marc screamed as panic filled his very being, “NO WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” 

“Did you mean it when you said I was your world,” you asked with your eyes and tone cold and numb, “your moon and stars.” 

“Yes,” Marc said, slowly inching closer, “you are everything to me.” 

“Good,” You said, “You took everything from me, it’s about time I return the favor.” 

With a bang everything went black. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re sure of this exchange?” Khonshu asked, Marc was trembling as he held you. Your beautiful eyes were once so vibrant, stared at nothing, your skin was still warm (thank god) and Marc couldn’t stop sobbing. He could hear Steven and Jake in the background, they weren’t in any better condition. 

“A lifetime of servitude for her life,” Marc said, kissing your limp hand, “I’m sure.” 

He just wanted you back and he knew Khonshu wouldn’t let him join you until the debt was paid. 

“You do realize that this lifetime will be far longer than you expected,” Khonshu warned, “My healing armor will keep you young and strong for centuries. My justice will require much bloodshed.” 

“Just bring her back to me,” he pleaded. Khonshu sighed as he felt for your pulse, it was weak, but your soul had not crossed over yet. So, he still had some jurisdiction here. 

“Let’s begin” 

TAGLIST:

@simonsbluee

@yuki235171

@dopeqff

@themapoftinyperfectthings

@later-gators12

@lovepeaceorelse

@ahookedheroespureheart

@8hgel

@onestopficshop

[storiesofsvu]

Hidden Love

none are my images* Fills the “Dancing with Tears in My Eyes” song square of thatesqcrush​ Valentines bingo. Alex Cabot xFem!reader Warnings: Language. Minor, smidge of angst? Otherwise fluff. A/N: For the sake of minor plot points this is set in the same time frame that episodes airs, so early 2000′s. (Also I was legitimately outraged when I googled it to find out gay marriage wasn’t legalized in the States until 2011…that’s fucking wild). ALSO, this story could be read as an alternate timeline/ending for Hidden Desires, where Casey is simply a coworker (though yn is a detective in this one). Just to make y’all Alex fans happier. 😘 

 * It had been one hell of a long day by the time you returned to your apartment and you were more than ready to all but shotgun the bottle of wine in your cupboard. If that was even possible, you weren’t sure. As awesome as Valentines Day was as a kid, the candy, chocolate, little cute cards that everyone was required to give to everyone in the class, the festivity began to lack with each year that passed.

Then you and Liv had to spend the majority of the day talking with students and teachers at the high school where there had been accusations against the assistant cheerleading coach. The place was decked out with red and pink decorations, candy grams, Valentines, matchmaker quizzes and gooey puppy love teenagers everywhere giggling over the excitement of a dance that night. It was like they were trying to rub it in that they were living in a fantasy of a better time than you (though lets be real…high school low key sucked too).

This particular Valentines Day was worse because Alex had been gone for four months now. When you pushed the door open to your previously shared apartment you had to remind yourself ‘it’s over…it’s over..’ the cold empty home no way near as welcoming as it was when she was there. Though, it technically wasn’t over.

Olivia had offered to come over that night, cook you dinner and keep you company, but then you would have to explain as to why literally everything of Alex’s was still there, why you hadn’t purged any of her things to make the pain of memories more bearable. You couldn’t explain it because you were the only person who knew Alex was still alive, stashed in witness protection somewhere around the country, you had no idea where.

You would be eternally grateful that she’d fought like hell to make sure she got to say goodbye to you after the hospital before she left. You only wished you had had more time together before she left, but you had to deal with the fact that it was ten minutes in an abandoned lot on the outskirts of the city. You’d bawled your faces off in each other’s arms as long as you could, you begged her to let you come with her, begged her agent to allow it. Screw your career, screw even having time to pack a bag, you’d get in the car right then and there if it meant being able to be with your love. You were instead reminded that the program only allowed legal spouses and children to be included with the witness. Not that it would have mattered if you tried for a shotgun wedding, gay marriage wasn’t legal in New York anyways. You had no choice but to say goodbye.

So you attended the funeral the next day, you grieved alongside your coworkers because even if she wasn’t dead, she was still gone, out of your life with absolutely no contact for who knew how long. You were simply living out a memory of a love that died. But the part of you that was holding onto her, the part of you that knew she was still out there and hopefully wouldn’t fall out of love with you, was the part that kept your apartment just the way it had been before that fateful day.

You changed out of your work clothes, wrapping an old Harvard sweater of Alex’s around your chilled bones. As you moved through the apartment your hand hit the two way long distance lamp on the end table, using your phone to change it to purple, your favourite colour. It had turned up on your doorstep, wrapped in an Amazon box approximately two months ago, no note, no other address aside from the Amazon warehouse. You’d read the instructions, hooked it up and left it, you’d nearly jumped out of your skin when it shot on a few hours later, changing a bright blue colour….Alex’s favourite. Naturally you’d burst into tears over the entire situation. Alex had found a way to very secretly and discreetly communicate with you. It wasn’t much, but the lamps were connected, you touched yours, it would turn on hers and vice versa, your little way of showing the other that you were thinking of them. That you missed them, that you still loved them. You’d bought a little notebook that you kept beside the lamp, everytime Alex turned it on you’d write her a little note, everytime you had something to say, you’d write something a little longer before you turned yours on, as if you were hitting send on text.

Putzing through the kitchen you pulled down the bottle of wine, grabbing a glass from the drying rack, tugging open the fridge with a deep sigh. At first you thought you’d be ordering takeout but you’d nearly forgotten you’d made a batch of lasagna a couple days prior, quickly heating that up for dinner. Casablanca was playing on the movie channel, you left that on while you moped over your food and wine, wishing Alex was there to play with your hair, tell you that it was all going to be okay.

You jolted when your phone rang, you pleaded that it wasn’t work, especially once you saw Olivia’s name flashing on the screen.

“Yeah?” You answered, pushing up to sitting on the couch.

“I’m just checking in.” She greeted warmly, “no work emergencies.”

“Oh thank God.”

“How’re you holding up?”

“Well, it’s late and I’m with my love alone.” You sighed, “every part of my being still loves her. I just wish she was here.”

“I know..” Liv’s voice softened, “I knew today would be tough with what you had planned…”

“Yeah…” your eyes fell to the small velvet box placed beside the still purple lamp. Sure, an engagement wouldn’t have done much legally at this point, but it was the commitment, the promise to be together forever that really mattered to you, to the both of you. You’d had the discussion a hundred times, you’d agreed on a wanting a usual engagement, rings, a party celebrating your love even if you couldn’t sign a stupid piece of paper.

“You sure you don’t want me to come over?”

“Nah,” you took a swig of your drink, “I’ve got enough wine to drown in and Italian food with three times the amount of recommended cheese.” Olivia laughed.

“Okay. Hey….don’t worry okay, even if it feels like the end of the earth right now, things will get better.” She reminded you. Your head shot up as the lamp suddenly changed to blue, Alex was home..and she was thinking of you, you couldn’t help the dopey smile on your cheeks.

“Yeah…it will be..”

“G’night.”

“Night.”

Hanging up quickly your eyes were transfixed by the lamp. Honestly, it helped a lot more than you thought Alex even realized. You were still worried, even with her in witsec you were worried about them somehow tracking her down, so whenever that light turned on or went blue, you knew she was home, and that she was safe. Using the app you made it flash yellow three times to make sure you had her attention. Then you flashed it red, followed by pink, followed by blue. It paused on the blue for a moment before it flashed red, pink, and then purple. Even without words you had managed to come up with a code that meant I love you. And today, that brought tears to your eyes. You snuggled deeper into her hoodie, picking up the small box, cracking it open to look at the ring, you didn’t know how long it would be, but you knew you’d be giving it to Alex Cabot one day.

*

A year and a week later you were working on the Connors case, you’d tried to take a step back once the ballistics match came back, considering your knowledge, but Liv ended up out sick and you were stuck working it with Stabler. Casey called out that the detectives were there to arrest him for Alex’s murder and your heart jumped into your chest.

Back at the precinct you got called into Cragen’s office after he had noticed your signature was missing on the DD 5’s, you were thankful at the presence of Agent Hammond already there. He gave you a telling nod and you declared you weren’t comfortable committing perjury to sign the forms. Before you knew it, Alex was back in New York.

The night before the trial was spent in her hotel room, there were tears, there were laughs, there were moments of near silence, the room filled with breathy gasps and moans. But most of all, there was a moment where you told her just how much you loved her, and presented her with the ring. The ever so emotionless Alexandra Cabot was really put through the ringer that night, tears bubbling in her eyes for a whole new reason as she accepted your proposal before pushing you back against the pillows to show you just how much she loved you.

While darkness truly sunk through the room, your voices softened, neither of you really wanting to go to sleep despite the big day ahead. You weren’t sure what was going to come from the trail, and wanted to make sure every moment together was perfect. You half joked about running off to Canada after it wrapped, gay marriage had been legalized in Ontario the year prior, at least then you’d have something, you assured each other that no matter what happened, you would be together.The most important thing was that you fell asleep in each other’s arms, small smiles on your faces, satisfied and incredibly happy to be where you wanted to be once again.

Unfortunately for everyone, despite the win, Alex was whisked right back into Witness Protection the moment the trial wrapped. Olivia saw the way your entire body sunk at the news, making sure to keep an eye on you for the rest of the evening, offering you a ride home when she saw the tears begin to glass at your eyes.

When you got home the lamp was off, you turned it on, leaving it on purple. You ended up passing out on the couch as you waited for it to turn back blue, but it never did, you fell asleep on a damp pillow that night.

It was nearly a week later, you were moping your way through making breakfast, your brain replaying every moment in that hotel room, now more than ever worried that something had happened to Alex between the trial and her new location. Three bright flashes of yellow bounced off the walls and your face split into a huge grin, turning toward the living room as you watched it go from red to pink to purple. You quickly repeated the chain but ended with blue. Alex was fine, and she still loved you. (You’d later find out that she hadn’t been allowed to go back to Wisconsin and had to order a new lamp for her new apartment/life).

*

The next three years were some of the hardest of your life, those little flashes of light all you had to remind you that Alex was still there for you. Though everytime that lamp flicked on, it brought a smile to your face and a warmth to your chest. Olivia, along with the rest of the squad was gently urging you to maybe start dating again, that no one knew when this was going to be over, if Alex would ever be allowed to be Alex again without being in danger. They of course, didn’t know about the ring, about the promises you’d made to each other in the darkness of her hotel room. She’d kept the ring on a chain, completely hidden underneath a turtle neck during the trial. Alex was worried about your safety, that if her life was still in danger, and a perp found out she had a partner, that they’d go after the not hidden by the government option.

Which is exactly why she didn’t tell you she was back in New York until she was one hundred percent certain that they finally had the all clear.

And why you were stuck in the middle of a closed off street, grumbling about the cold, grumbling about Greylek being one of her must be at the crime scene sprees. Fin’s voice broke into your thoughts,

“That’s not Greylek.”

At first you rolled your eyes, great, another new A.D.A, just what the team needed. Then you glanced up and it was like the entire world stopped, suddenly everything and everyone on that street was a blur, the only thing that you saw was the blonde with a small sheepish smile that burst into one she couldn’t control as you gasped, shrieking her name. It no longer mattered that you were in the middle of the road surrounded by your coworkers, that you were waiting outside a literal blood filled crime scene, all you had eyes for was her. You sprinted to her, pulling her into the most passionate kiss either of you had ever shared, tears slowly starting to streak over your cheeks. Your faces remaining close together you spoke quietly,

“You’re really back?” You asked, voice shaking.

“I’m back baby.” Her hand moved up to cup your cheek and you caught it in your own.

“You’re…wearing the ring?”

“I made a promise..” her voice suddenly wavered, “I…uh…I understand if you don’t want”-

“No! I told you!”

“You..you really waited for me?”

“I would wait for eternity if it meant to be with you Alexandra.”

She was about to kiss you again when a loud whistle from Cragen made you both jump, cheeks flushing at the sudden realization that your little private moment was exactly the opposite of that. Ducking your heads, you muttered a quick apology to the team as you hurried towards the scene, thankful that no one called you out on the fact that you didn’t drop hands until it was time to make your separate ways.

Four years apart had truly been some of the hardest days of your lives, you’d hated having to be apart for so long, and you both agreed that you weren’t sure you would’ve made it without the reminders of love from the lamps. When Alex had been back for the trial you’d decided on a couple of other code sequences for the colours, able to say more than just I love you, or having the other know that you were safe and thinking of them. You would never stop thanking Alex for not only discovering them but sending you yours.

It took another two years before you were actually able to get married, but the moment you could, you did. A quick ceremony at city hall followed by a small party of your love surrounded by your closest friends any family at your apartment. Every day had been a struggle for so long that you weren’t going to let a minute go to waste, especially now that you could officially address the other as ‘my wife’.

[stesierra]

I am posting this again (my pride and joy) because now I know how to do that read more thing so all the people who hate long chunks of text don't want to kill me! Also, last time I didn't put up the full first chapter! So... Here it is again.

The Bone Queen

Chapter 1

When I fell in love with Aubrey, I never thought I'd dream of killing him one day. Why would I? He was already dead.

Now, two years after he’d won my heart with lies, we stood alone in my dimly lit parlor, between its lion-footed couches all in pine green and gold and blood red, Queen Idony’s colors. The golden tapestries that thickly coated the walls depicted Bandrum Palace as seen from the streets of Asteraxe: a many-floored edifice that sprawled across the top of a hill, half hidden behind a mighty wall.

The enormous skirts of my dress weighed me down like I was dragging my own casket around. The bodice hugged my ribs and the corset I didn't need, embellished with lace and embroidered birds, and the sleeves poofed around my skinny arms. It left my scrawny shoulders bare, and even with the fire that crackled in my fireplace, the winter air inside the palace chilled me.

The dress was ivory. The same ivory as my fiancé’s bones.

He clenched my hand, his icy finger bones pinching my skin, and his touch revolted me. But I didn't draw away. I'd learned by now that there was no escape. What point was there in trying? Besides, I deserved this unhappiness. I'd brought it upon myself. Upon the entire kingdom of Sweelough.

When I'd met Aubrey, he'd been nothing but a handsome ghost on Lake Langlyn’s shores. But since I'd freed him—freed them all—he’d become something more. Not alive, even Queen Idony couldn't do that, but she'd given him back his skeleton with which to wield swords and write notes and touch my vulnerable skin. His ghost hadn't gone anywhere; it wrapped around his skeleton like transparent flesh around bones. Now, when I looked into his face, I saw both sharp gray eyes and yawning sockets, both a full, cleanshaven mouth and a skull’s grinning teeth. And the clothes his ghost wore echoed the very real doublet and hose he'd pulled over his bones. Green and red and gold, of course. He honored the queen in everything he did.

He bent close to me, brushing the top of my fashionable tower of hair with his jawbone. He stank of potpourri and dust. “Tell me you love me, Elise.”

I said nothing, just breathed and thought about hitting his bones over and over again with a hammer. In my mind, he crumbled into bits, nothing but ashes in a grave. Of course, it was a fantasy; no one could kill someone who was already dead. I knew because so many people had died trying. Because I had hit him with an axe down on the shore of Lake Langlyn, and it had only torn his clothes.

He said again, “We are to marry in a month. Tell me you love me. Smile at me and say my name, the way you used to.”

“Aubrey,” I said. I didn't love him, but what good would it do to tell him again, when he would only yell at me? It was pointless. Everything was pointless.

His ghostly eyes narrowed, and he crushed my hands in his. “Smile, Elise. Thank me for taking you to wife. For when we met, you were nothing but a serf too stupid to write her own name. Now look at you. Aren't you grateful?”

Tears stung my eyes. When I'd met him, at sixteen, I'd been happy. I'd had parents and four brothers who loved me, and it hadn't mattered that none of us knew how to read or write. What did farmers need letters for? Now, two years later, life was meaningless, and it didn't matter that the tutors he'd forced on me had taught me to scribble my name and read a handful of poems.

Aubrey sighed and leaned down to kiss the back of my hand. For a horrifying second, his lips passed through me, and his teeth brushed my skin. “I'm sorry, Elise. I know I push you too hard. You'll be a good wife. Docile and obedient. Quiet. A good mother to my children.”

If I was docile and quiet, it was only because I'd given up. But his last sentence made me whip my head up. “Children? What do you mean, children?”

He smiled up at me, his spectral mouth matching the grinning teeth of his skull. “Why, Elise, didn't you think I would want a heir?”

“Why would you?” I cried. “Lady Kinburg tells everyone how she had no choice but to hang her descendents when she came back, because they wouldn't return her lands. The dead don't want heirs. You're planning to rule forever. Aren't you?”

“Of course,” my fiancé agreed, straightening up. “But I would still want children. Offspring who will love and admire me, just as you do.”

Unless they inherited my ability to see and hear ghosts, all the children would see was a skeleton that couldn't even talk to them. They wouldn't admire him. They'd fear him, just like I did. Somehow, that didn't matter, not when there was a bigger issue. “Aubrey, you're dead. You can't sire children. It's impossible. Are you planning to have some living man bed me?”

He scoffed, reaching up to seize my chin. “I'll kill any man who lays a finger on you. You're mine. Forever.”

I ripped my face out of his grip. “If we adopt children, they won't be able to see you.” No other living person in Asteraxe, the capital of Sweelough, saw and heard the dead like I did. They just saw skeletons, awful and deadly. It was my gift and my curse to see more. A curse that had doomed me and all of Sweelough.

He let me retreat to sit upon one of the couches. “But children born of your body will, my love. And it's not impossible. Do you have so little faith in the queen? In one month, on the day of our wedding, she will cast spells upon me to give me the ability to lie with you. With her magic, she'll quicken my seed in your belly. And nine months later, you'll bear me a perfect son.”

Aubrey was going to have sex with me. He was going to force me to bear his child. My thoughts ran in terrified, anguished circles. My limbs grew weak, and I sank into my couch. I wanted to vomit all over his pointed shoes. If I could've, I'd have bolted out into the halls of the palace and straight out the front doors. Running for my life had never sounded more appealing.

But the queen's magic brand wrapped my ankle like a jagged red tattoo, and even now I felt it burning against my skin. She'd promised me, when she enchanted me two years ago, that if I ever tried to escape, it would punish me. And Aubrey had stood beside her, smiling because I could never leave him.

“You look faint, my love,” Aubrey said, stepping up close to me. “Come to dinner tonight. Sit at my side and display your beauty to all the court.”

“I'm not hungry,” I said, and it was true. I was never hungry, and after the horrible news he’d just dropped on me, I might never be hungry again. If I accompanied Aubrey to the Great Hall, where the nobility gathered over feasts of roast beef and fish and fresh fruit, I would only sit uneating in front of plenty, just like all the dead who wanted to pretend that they were still alive. Aubrey couldn't eat, being nothing but bones. I had a stomach and all the equipment needed, but I'd lost my appetite with my family, and now that he’d threatened to impregnate me, it was doubly gone.

He took my hand and kissed it again. “Very well. I will send your maids in to tend to you. But after dinner, I will come fetch you. Queen Idony wishes to speak with you.”

My stomach dropped, and I tore my hand out of his. “What? Why? I haven't done anything wrong.”

He patted my cheek, and his bones were so cold that surely they'd never belonged to a living man. “Fear not, Elise. She doesn't want to punish you. She merely wishes to tell you your new duties in the days ahead.”

“Duties? What duties?” Dread constricted my throat. Duties, whatever they were, would take me away from my rooms and safety. They'd put me in the eyes of the living nobles, and all of them hated me. Not because I was a peasant pretending to be one of them. Because it was my fault they had to bow to a dead queen. I didn't blame them. I hated me too.

Aubrey beamed at me. “Great events are on the horizon. Do you remember that the queen made overtures to our wealthy neighbor to the west?”

Only one county bordered Sweelough to the west. “Ahheleisa. But you said nothing would come of it. That the living were too superstitious to see a gift when the queen offered it.”

He waved a hand. “The living are cretins. But in this case, I was wrong.”

“I’m still alive, Aubrey,” I reminded him. For now. Every other night, I woke from nightmares that the queen had stripped me down to nothing but a ghost and dry old bones.

“Yes, yes. That doesn't matter. We have news now that an ambassador and his party are coming here to Asteraxe. In fact, they are nearly upon us. And so Queen Idony has plans for you. But she’ll tell you the details tonight, I am sure.” He patted my leg through my layers of skirts and petticoats. “Now, promise me you'll eat something.”

“I'll eat something,” I lied. But after he'd left and sent my maids in to check on me, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing. Thoughts kept sneaking in of a dead man's touch and a dead man's children, and I had no peace at all.

My maids haunted the room for a while, waiting for me to make my will known. When I said nothing, Amphelisia asked tentatively, “Can we fetch you something from the kitchen, my lady?”

I opened my eyes and looked at them. To anyone else living, the three of them would look identical: three skeletons in humble black dresses that covered them from neck to ankle. They were lucky; they didn't have to wear enormous skirts that barely fit through a doorway, and since they were just maids, nobody required them to have towers of hair. The dead noblewomen wore wigs; my maids left their skulls bare except for tendrils of transparent hair.

To me, who could see ghosts, I couldn't possibly mistake one maid for another. Amphelisia’s face was round and as bright as her voice, Lettice’s face was angular and always vaguely worried, and Ysoria had a strong square jaw and a matter-of-fact tone that sometimes made me feel like a small child. Their names had been the height of fashion in Sweelough two hundred years ago, when Queen Idony had ruled for the first time, but no living woman had borne them in a hundred years.

When I didn't say anything, Ysoria said, “You got a present, my lady.” She held out a plain wooden box the size and thickness of my hand.

I stared at her. “From Aubrey?” No one else would send me anything, but he always gave me his presents in person. He'd presented me the necklace of gold and emeralds that currently weighed down my throat just last week, before worship. I took the box. It barely weighed a thing.

“The boy that delivered it didn’t say.”

“Then it’s not from Aubrey. He loves to put his name on things.” Things like me. I opened the box and peeked in.

A chain of silver skulls coiled inside, rubies where their eyes should be, just long enough for my wrist. I stared at it. No, this wasn’t from Aubrey. God knew Aubrey would never send me something to remind me he was already dead. This was a comment from somebody rich, but what sort of comment was it? A joke? An insult? A threat? It couldn’t just be from an admirer, not with those skulls.

“What should we do with it?” Lettice asked me.

I shrugged. “Put it with my other jewelry. I'll figure out where it came from later.”

“Later,” Ysoria agreed, snatching it out of my hands. “After you've had dinner. You can't skip anymore meals, Lady Cropper! You'll wither away to nothing.”

I sighed. “All right. Something green, though. I'm tired of eating twenty kinds of meat.”

Amphelisia wrung her hands. “But, my lady, that is how the nobility eats.”

“Well, I'm a peasant, and I miss vegetables.” I rubbed a hand across my eyes. “Please. Something green.”

“All right,” Ysoria said softly. “We'll be back with that in a jiffy. Why don't you work on your lessons? The Duke of Winworth will surely be pleased if you can read him a poem.”

I couldn't care less about whether Aubrey was pleased. But I picked up the poetry book that sat on the little table in between my couches and opened it to where a blue ribbon had preserved my place. Poetry was a woman's art in Sweelough, although everyone said that the poets who'd written the Book of Souls were men blessed by God. I'd never be holy enough to hold that book. Even if I hadn't been a peasant and nearly illiterate, I'd brought a war down on Sweelough, caused the death of thousands and gotten Queen Alma deposed. I never prayed to God or Othin anymore, even though I attended worship every Othiday. Why would either of them listen to me?

By the time Ysoria returned with a wooden trencher, I'd only read three lines of the poem and worked myself into an awful state. The juicy white pork on the trencher must have come from the royal cooks, but the winter cabbage and onions had probably been fixed for the servants. The nobles would never touch anything so pitiful. It was perfect, and I almost didn't mind that I wasn't hungry.

I shoved the book aside and took the trencher right there on the couch. The cabbage tasted a little bitter, but cabbage was like that sometimes.

My maids watched me eat as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. I wished they'd say something. Anything to distract me from the awful process of swallowing.

On the last bite, my lips and tongue tingled and went numb. I could no longer tell if I still held the mouthful of cabbage. I spat it onto my trencher. The mush looked normal, but the numbness spread across my face, and my skin crawled all over my body as if it were about to rip free and drag itself away.

“Ysoria?” I slurred. “Something’s wrong.”

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

[clarissalance]

Who has the upper hand?

Pairing: Kaeya x G/N!Reader, mention of Varka and Diluc.

Warning: Slight swearing, Kaeya is a lil shit, reader being stubborn and scheming, immense tension

Summary: You’re so terrible at swordsmanship that you can’t withstand 2 strikes from Kaeya or, are you? 

Word count: 3k5

Disclaimer: What is written in here is based on my imagination, nothing from this fic should be taken seriously. Most of the fact I put in this fic does not follow the lore of the game so it should only be taken as a grain of salt. For example: section 8 in Knight of Favonius codebook.

A/N: I struggle so much when I wrote this piece. This was suppose to be angstier but I tone down a little bit (because Kaeya was very OOC in my draft, I think he’s still a bit OOC in this fic but I tried my best ;-;, pls don’t bite me.) 

How did author write a 50k+ oneshot? I can’t write something more than 5k properly ;-; Anyhow, please enjoy this fic. I’m going to have a good rest for 2 weeks before release a comeback. Please shower Kaeya and our new MC with a lot of loves!!!! 

As a strategist of the knight of Favonius, you don't usually have enough time to finish the towers of reports, the never-ending meetings and dealing with cheap tricks Fatui diplomats. Often, you have to skip your daily sword training session, which results in a rather miserable situation. The whole practice ground is staring holes at your defeated posture. You are sitting on the hard soil ground, and the Calvary captain is towering you, his sharp blade just a few inches away from your throat. 

It is not a strange scene for any knights to lose a spar against the Calvary captain, he should be one with the best swordsmanship after Grand Master, and maybe Acting-Grand Master, too. However, as knight, they can usually withstand him at least more than 2 blows. 

Whispers and talks start to circulate around as soon as you stepped your foot in the training ground. It’s very uncommon to see people from that department wandering around this area. The strategy department is famous inside the Knight of Favonius to be the weakling-cunning-mouthy-jerks, who always find excuses after excuses to skip the monthly knight evaluation. 

So, who gives them the right to be exempt from the test? Of course, it’s from the ultimate high chief of strategy department. Rumours say before the strategy chief works for the Favonius knight, the man was once a legendary attorney. That person can flip words from black to white, turns the defendant from guilty to innocent.  With a profound convincing skillset coming from the chief, persuading the Grand Master Varka is easy as a piece of cake. The whole department of 10 people is easily off-hook for 3 years, never participate in the monthly evaluation before the man suddenly dropped the bomb 2 days ago.  

“ I’m tired from coming with excuses to cover for your lazy asses.” The man waved his hand, his eyes staring outside the window. His nails scratching the messy shaved chin.“ Varka seems to get used to navigating my thoughts-”

“Maybe time is wearing away your skill-” At the corner, someone accidentally blurted out, and the whole table gave him a sharp look. Did he have a death wish or something? If so, everyone here can happily dig him a hole, free charge for the coffin.

The chief cleared his voice again, blue eyes melancholy drifted to the table. “So, you guys have tried your best on this monthly evaluation. I hope to see you all again next month.” 

The meeting was dismissed afterwards, and everything spiralled into chaos. The whole department hasn’t touched anything aside from the parchment papers and the quills in the last 3 years. How are they going to master the swordman-ship in 2 weeks? 

But, the worst thing is,

Your well-respected, talented, and tactful chief has run away. 

The next morning, you received the news that a foxy old man is on a business trip to Fontaine with the Grand Master. The expedition is 2 weeks long.

You should have known what he meant when the deceitful man ambiguously ended his sentence like that. Nothing goes well when the chief said:  ‘Farewell, my comrades’. 

 For the last 2 days, you have been starting to familiarize yourself again with how to hold a sword and how to swing the sword. 

As you trail along with the long-forgotten memories, trying to look through the familiar feeling when swinging the sword, you hear footsteps coming in your direction. It is familiar, with the way the person is walking, the beat, the sudden burst of noise in the air, you can only conclude it’s the Calvary Captain. The practice ground seems livelier as soon as the man steps inside, people rushing to his side to give their greetings. Maybe today is one of his practice days.

 “ Never thought I would see you here.” The young man calls out, successfully jostle you up from your thoughts. You give him a complex look and turn away, focusing on the tattered dummies. Your wrist is screaming in protest, legs wobbling. You remember those golden days when you were young when you were flexible, and your bones didn't crack as much. Oh, where the golden days have gone? 

“What do I own the honour of seeing you here, captain?” You fold your arm defensively, voice monotonously. Kaeya despites the most when you start talking in an emotionless tone. Oh, how you love riling him up in the middle of the practice ground! 

“ I come here for my weekly practice, but-” He shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “ look like the rumour about the abolishment of special permission for the strategy department is true.” 

So he has heard the rumours. You roll your eyes, face blanks. You know Kaeya has his own way to obtain his information, but you never thought it’d be this fast. Words don’t easily leak from the strategy department. 

“What do you need? Make it short, so I can practice for the upcoming evaluation.” Tired of his long introduction, you ask him directly. If you are going to ignore him any longer, the man will continue poking you. 

Starting an argument only wastes your time, and asserting dominance in the middle of the training ground won’t boost your ego. You’re a strategist, your weapons are detailed plans and sharp word, not sword and bow. Showing off your strength in front of those ruthless knights don't improve your relationship with them. 

“ Straight the point eh?” You give him an impatiently look, tempting to ignore him again before he flashes you a smug grin. “How bout sparing with me?”  

The whole training ground falls in silence, and you direct at the captain a confusing look. Is he serious? No one in the knight except the Grand Master can go against him, not to mention someone who hasn’t touched a sword for three years. 

“I can help you with your training, and you can help with mine” Kaeya speaks with utmost confidence that you almost nod and agree. That man is really deceitful, he knows how well your skill has gone dull, yet he still wants to practice with you? What is this man plotting?  

“ Do you realize how absurd your offer is? ” You give him a complicated gaze, voice unwavering. Everyone takes in a deep breath, tension crackling. It's not everyday scenery you often encounter. A heated argument between the mischievous cavalry captain and the tactful strategist. Nosy people gather around the pair, internally hoping for the war the breaks out. 

“ You know well that I can’t properly block your first strike.” Light-hearted, you joke, but there is no hint of amusement in your voice. Sharpe eyes glaring at the blue figure, you notice the man remains unfazed. 

" Shouldn't you choose a more competent opponent?" 

The sound whispers and talking about the reasons why Kaeya picked such an easy opponent start to circulate, and you can’t help to curl your lips up. Within a  few seconds, you have effortlessly turned the gossiping direction toward your desired path. Flashing Kaeya a victorious grin, you tap your foot impatiently, waiting for his reaction.

You should have worked at PR damage control or marketing instead! The diplomat would have been fine too! At least, you wouldn’t need to practice swordman-ship.

As you mulling on your terrible choice of career, a chill runs down your spine. Tilting up, Kaeya is beaming sweetly at you, the frost slowly creeping up and nipping your shoes. Look like you just pressed the wrong button. 

The man narrows his eyes, and you gulp nervously, avoiding his calculating gaze. Kaeya chuckles, his voice laced with worry, wavering and hurtful. 

“I just want to help you improve as fast as possible. The test is coming in two weeks isn't it?” 

The whole table has turned, and people start to say how considerate and thoughtful the cavalry captain is. The crowd starts to criticize you and tell you to be more grateful and stop suspicious of his unconditional help. Oh, you wish he wasting it on you, many knights in this training ground would love getting advice and improvements from him. 

Applause for our dear Calvary captain, smoothly seeking empathy from the crowd and turning the favour back to him. No wonder how fast he climbed up the rank. 

Bantering and arguing with a person like him is meaningless, so you accept his offer and drag your sword toward his direction. Let finish this within 2 strikes. 

Moving to the centre of the field, both of you face each other, his eyes scanning you sceptically. What is this man plotting again? Bowing, you finally give him a warning look before standing at your ready position. Kaeya holds his sword, analyzing your starting posture. 

As soon as the whistle blows, you charge at the man, opening the spar with a direct hit. Kaeya quickly raises his word up to block the first blow, the sound of steel clashing loudly. He then forcefully diverts the sword to the left, a classic way to counter the strike. 

Knowing your limited strength against him, you take a step back and swiftly angle the blade downward, aiming for a weak spot at his waist. This move would create a noticeable weakness on your right, and only the idiot doesn't use this as his advantage to disarm you. 

You’re right, he uses the loophole you planned, successfully disarm you within 2 strikes. The sword slips from your hand clanging loudly behind as your foot slips and fall on the ground. 

His sharp blade is just a few inches away from your neck. The calvary captain wears a solemn look, his cerulean eyes imbued with irritation. Seems like he figures out you purposefully planed to end the match in 2 strikes. 

Quickly raising your hand in defeat, you shoot him a taunting grin. The referee declares Kaeya is the winner, and people start to clap and cheer loudly, but overall no one is surprised. As the match end, audiences start to disperse, return back to their tasks. 

Kaeya put his sword away and offers you his hand. You stare idly at the gloved hand a moment before putting yours on. The man effortlessly pulls you up, your body flush against his. With Kaeya so close to you, your first reaction is to push the man away, but his firm grip says otherwise. He inches closer, dark blue locks brush your cheek, tall figure towering you intimidating. 

“Why end it so early?” He leans down and whispers, your body tenses up visibly. “Surely, you could handle more than 2 strikes of mine.” The young man in blue hums, his voice sultry. 

“ What are you saying? I haven’t touched the sword more than 3 years.” You remind him, hands pushing his chest away, trying to create some distance. The man doesn’t budge an inch. 

“Your strikes doesn’t say so. The first strike was not bad.” Noticing your effort to push him away, Kaeya stands straight, heels dig into the ground. His lips curl up at the helplessness flashing in your eyes. He loves seeing you struggle, seeing how anxiety and desperation rising in your sparkling orbs. “I think you could at least have a decent fight with me.”  

“ Quit spouting non-sense Kaeya, let me go. We are in public.” You let out an annoyed hiss, punching his toned chest. He still wears the uniform improperly like that, the exposed tan chest can be under many layers. Sometimes you don't even know the reason why doesn't he just button the shirt up properly. Finger grazing at the bared skin on his chest, you turn your head away, cheeks heat up. 

The man loves seeing you squirming in his trap, and you’re not going to let him see that. Anything, but satisfying his masochist hobby. 

“You don’t like skin-ship?” The man fakes a gasp, his orb sparkles with mirth. “But you were being touchy with your friend. Why can't we be a bit touchy? ”  His tone suggestively, the tall man snickers at your blushing mess. Out of everything, why would he mention that? You give him stinky eyes, brows furrow deeply.  

“I’m not touchy with you.” You deny dreadfully. Archon, how long have you wasted your time here with this slithering serpent? 

Kaeya arms wrap tightly around you, your body moulds perfectly into his embrace. You hate how perfectly you fit into his hug like this, but you can’t deny how warm he is, despite the fact he wields cryo. 

“ When will you let me go?” Your voice starts to grow weak, dragging slightly in discomfort.  Kaeya curiously looks down, noticing your pouting. Sensing his gaze, you turn your head away but his fingers have quickly grabbed your cheek, forcing you to look at his deep blue eye.  

“Give me a kiss, then I'd let you go.” His voice serious, but what he just said is not. You look at the cryo wielder horrendously, mouth gaping. His face is composed and relax, like what he just ask is like asking about the weather, asking about your health, not for a kiss. Is he being serious? What in the world did he just ask? A kiss? Excuse me, a what? 

“You...you are not being serious.” You wriggle your way out, escaping from his fingers, but his embrace tightens, caging you inside. Damn it, Kaeya. He’s messing with you. 

When you flash him a furious look, the man shrugs nonchalantly, his cerulean lock fluttering gently in the wind. Suddenly, you have an urge to wipe off that calm demeanour. He can’t be serious. Why does he have to go all the way to annoy the shit out of you? 

The smug grin hanging on his face, the mischief in his blue eyes, the arching brows, everything about him screams a flirt, yet you feel so mesmerized. Blinking a few times, you have to constantly remind yourself this man is not trustworthy. From the attitude to the way he looks at you, to the way he acts around you. Nothing from his action is truthful. Like Diluc’s warning, you can only believe half of his word and action. 

“ Of course I’m being serious.” His voice solemn, but you can see the amusement in his eyes. If he doesn’t like you, why would he spend so much effort bothering you this much? What reaction is he expecting from you?  

“ I really like you, Y/N” Kaeya confesses cheerfully, and you can faintly hear a few gasps around. Not this again...

Archon, you’re going to die early at this rate. You just want to practice for the upcoming evaluation, not becoming a hot topic for all Mondstadt citizen to gossip about. 

And this man too, how can he easily slip out those words when you just heard him flirting with another woman the other day?  You already told him numerous times that you’re not interested in dating him, or anyone right now! 

Hung your head down in exhaustion, you tap his shoulder, mumbling quietly. “ Fine, fine.” You finally open your mouth, too exhausted and bothered by his stubbornness. He only wants a kiss, and you won’t hurt giving him one. Just a kiss then you can get back to your practice.  

“Just don’t confess your love to me in a crowd like this again.” Before closing the deal, you weakly add a bargain, nudging him.  

The calvary captain looks surprised, his eye widens little, not expecting you to agree. Normally, it takes another argument or two before you comply with his request. Kaeya timidly raises his gloved hand to your face, gently caresses your cheek. This time, you lean into his touch, nuzzling your face into his palm, eyes glimmering softly. Despite a cryo wielder, his hand is surprisingly warm. 

The man in blue curiously peeks at you, he feels like a feather tickling the itchy spot. Are you plotting an escape route? Since when did you become so obedient? He has never seen the soft fur under the spiky façade you set up to face with the world, but strangely, he likes this version of you more. 

Noticing his relaxed stance, you carefully gently wrap your fingers around his wrist while keeping eye contact with him. Kaeya eye widens, startles at your sudden touching. Trying your best to not break the unspoken connection, you bring his hand away from your cheek. In those cerulean eyes, you see a hint of disappointment, but it quickly dissolves. Slowly, you draw closer toward the hand hanging in the air, lips fluttering on the smooth skin on his wrist. 

The calvary captain instinctively moves back, trying to escape from your sudden contact. Ironic, he is the one who innates the hug and demands a kiss from you. Tightening your grip, you press your wet lips on the exposed part of his wrist dedicatedly while maintaining eye contact with him, eyes drown with submission.

Kaeya stares at you in awe, maybe not expecting the passionate look in your eyes. His azure eye fills with mischief, now replaces with confusion and hesitation. You notice how his ears have dusted with pink despite the winds blowing in the practice ground. The man avoids your eyes, flustering. 

Whispers and gasps start to remind you of the crushing reality, so you let his hand down while grinning cheekily at the cryo wielder. Poking and breaking Kaeya meticulously façade is always something you want to try. The man is a living devil, so it’s extremely unusual to see him losing his composure. 

Sneakily, you untangle his other arm wrapping around your waist, plotting an escape route. 

However, Barbatos doesn’t let you slip away that easily. Quickly regaining his composure, Kaeya snakes his hand around your hip again, tightening his hold. Unlike the first time, the sneaky bastard lifts you up and has the audacity to throw your body on his shoulder, carry you like a sack. 

“ Yah! What are you doing?” You exclaim, fluster at his sudden antic. Kicking and punching on his shoulder, you try as many as you can, but somehow, Kaeya manages to dodge all of them.   

“ You said you will let me go when I give you a kiss!” The crowd uproars, stares and gossips poke pointedly at your back. You don’t want to hear those comments from those knights again. They're not going to let this live down, aren't they? Bury your face in the Kaeya's furry collar, you let out a frustrating sigh, punching his shoulder as hard as you can. 

“ You give me a kiss on my wrist. That doesn’t count.” Kaeya nonchalantly strides away from the practice ground, unfazed by your attempt to escape. This man is a beast, how can he not budge an inch with all of your kickings on his shoulder? 

“ You didn’t specify the place. A kiss is a kiss!” You emphasize, and you can feel his shoulder shaking. Is he laughing? “You didn’t keep your promise.” Fuels by the rising anger, you kick your leg aggressively, struggling to free yourself from the iron-clad grip. This time, his strong arm wraps around your calves like a chain.  

As soon as you raise your head up, the familiar pathway hits your memories. Shit, he is heading toward the headquarter, likely to his office. You can’t let anyone in there see you in this state. Punching his back profusely, you shot back. 

“Not fulfilling the contract is breaking the Knight of Favonius's code of cond-.” Before you can finish your sentence, the man smacks your calves loudly, successfully shutting your mouth. Speechless by his sudden punishment, you let out a disbelief breath.    

“ There are no such a section states about fulfilling contract inside the code of conduct, so stop making the rule up.” Kaeya smugly grins, and you can already picture his blue eyes glinting with mischief, the signature shit-eating grin on his handsome face.

" There is, it's in section eight-" Before you can finish your sentence, Kaeya cuts in, waving his hand dismissively. 

" Section eight is about interaction with your co-worker, there is none about keeping contracts." The calvary captain humming, trying to recalling the content of the book. Speechless by the detailed memories of his, you can only close your mouth, quietly waiting for him to drop you down. If you stay still on his shoulder, will he let you go? 

" You know, not everyone reads and memories the knight of Favonius handbook, you are just unlucky that I know the book by heart." Seeing you deflate weakly on his shoulder, Kaeya lets out a chuckle, patting your head comforting.       

Before heading inside the HQ, the man doesn't drop your down but leans in closely, his whisper tickling your ear. “But at least I had fun seeing you squirming in my grasp.” 

And then it hits you, the bastard purposely falls for of your antic. 

[heliads]

Our Paths are One

You recently became a Ranger, traveling the North to protect the land and its people from monster attacks. When you meet Strider, you cannot help but wonder why you seem to keep finding each other in the wilderness, even by accident.

masterlist

The woods of the North are cold this time of night; cruel winds whisper between the trees, carrying with them reports of steel blades to the West and monsters to the East. There is no safe place to rest without keeping one eye open and one hand on the hilt of your sword. It’s a dangerous place, out here in the wilderness, and the threats only grow in number once darkness falls across the hills. All the same, you prowl in the dark with a smile on your face.

Your footsteps, at least, are silent. You’ve been in the forest many times before, and it knows your scent. It’s best not to let it know your footfalls too. That being said, you can still hear a dense shuffling and stomping sound coming from the trees to your right, down a ravine. Your fingers close around your sword, slipping past the pommel to wrap firmly around the grip. The air is thick with the promise of a coming fight. You can only hope to strike now, while you still have surprise on your side.

You’d heard rumors of a pack of orcs traveling somewhere in the vicinity, after a harried traveler had collapsed in a nearby pub last night, bawling stories about how his party had been attacked and had to flee for their lives. There are no doubt many boastful groups looking around for the same monsters, but the title of killing them can only go to one, and you intend it to be you. You only became a Ranger recently- it’s time you earned your stripes and cemented a place for yourself amongst their ranks.

You drop down into the ravine silently, using a patch of moss to disguise the sound of your heels landing on the packed earth. You unsheathe your sword, paying no heed to the bitter glint of moonlight along its edge before you begin your work. You’re able to stab two orcs in the eye and slash one’s throat before one of the beasts finally lets out a dying gurgle of blood and the rest discover that you’re there.

They yell gutturally at you in anger and charge, although you’re ready for them. Their lunges are strong but clumsy, and you’re able to dance around them as if you were part elf instead of fully human. You parry a fierce blow, forcing the nearest orc’s weapon down into the earth before quickly riposting to cut through its chest. Normally, you keep your sword as sharp as possible; tonight, it slices through orc flesh as if it were the thinnest of silks. You smile. It is not the gentlest of looks.

You move steadily through the pack. Trapping them in the narrow ravine had been a smart move, and they’re limited to attacking you in groups of two or three, which you can dispatch quickly before more manage to climb over their fallen brethren to reach you. In fact, you’re just readying yourself for a final swing towards the last pair before the orc in front of you lets out a startled sound, strangled by the blood knotting in its throat and the sword suddenly jutting out of its chest.

The blade is quickly removed, and seconds later, the final orc’s head is spinning off into the ground near its feet. The body falls as if kicked, and you’re face to face with your apparent savior. However, you don’t feel grateful for the rescue, only annoyed. “I had them down. Why would you interfere?” The man before you is tall and dark-haired, his eyes piercing even when lined by a splash of orc blood. His lips are slashed by a smirk. Evidently, he’s proud of himself for ruining your string of kills.

“I wanted to make sure that you would not be hurt. You are one of the newest Rangers, after all. I have yet to see you on this side of the forest before.” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you this welcoming to all new Rangers, or only me?” The corner of his lips twitch again. “You could simply thank me, you know. Let’s just leave it at that.”

You scoff, reaching forward to wipe the blood from your sword on a nearby patch of grass. “Oh, of course. I shall sing your praises to the archangels themselves, mysterious stranger. Now, if you don’t mind, I will be on my way. Or are you going to take over my later travels as well?” There’s a glint of something in the man’s eyes. It could be irritation, could be satisfaction. Perhaps a bit of both.

“Only if I was certain that you would be this upset over it. Who are you, then?” You consider him for a second longer, then nod. Whoever this man is, he’s a fellow Ranger, and committed to ridding this world of orcs, even if the kills are meant to be yours. “Y/N. Y/N L/N.” He inclines his head. “They call me Strider.” You sheath your sword, tapping the hilt once before making for the hills once more. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Strider. With all respect, I hope our paths should never cross again, or I’d fear for my other quests lest you add yourself to them as well.” You can practically hear his grin as you walk away. “The same with you, Y/N.”

You assume that your leaving will be the end of this. The forests and grasslands scattering the North are vast; canvassing them by yourself could take years. The chances of running into this Strider fellow are slim to none. 

That being said, when you find yourself crossing through a particularly dark patch of the wilderness and hear the sound of conflict carried to you by the winds, you can’t help but shake your head. You can hear the clang of steel and the snarl of what appears to be half-trolls, but every now and then, you hear a grunt of exertion coming from the swordsman taking on these monsters. It’s a familiar sound, and a familiar voice, despite the fact that you’ve only heard it once before. You grin to yourself. This is going to be fun.

You come across the scene soon enough. You have to admire Strider’s courage- he’s taking on a trio of these half-trolls without an apparent care for his own safety. Then again, you can spot the fleeing silhouettes of a family of travelers. Strider has likely taken on these monsters to save the journeyers, but he’s now left with the difficult task of saving his own skin. He’s so concerned with making it out alive that he hasn’t spotted you yet.

You wait until his back is turned to you, sword holding back the blow of one of the half-trolls’ stone clubs, until you strike. You can see Strider’s eyes widen slightly as your knife buries itself in the chest of the monster in front of him, which sways back and forth before crumpling to the fallen ground. It was an excellent throw, you can admit that yourself. You drop to the ground, rolling under a looming fist before coming up on your feet behind the beast, your sword already in your hand and slashing at its back. The half-troll groans in agony, twisting around to swat at you, but by the time it’s facing you again you have relieved the monster of its arm. It cries out again before turning to run, although it doesn’t make it far before Strider’s sword lodges firmly between its ribs.

When you turn to face the battle scene, you note that the other troll has been dispatched. The clearing is empty save for you, Strider, and a few half-troll carcasses. Strider moves towards you, eyes roving over your arms to check for cuts and scrapes that aren’t there. “May I ask why you chose to intervene?” You can’t help a satisfied smile. “I wanted to make sure that you would not be hurt. You are one of the most maddening Rangers, after all. I couldn’t just leave you to die.”

You walk forward to retrieve your knife from the chest of the fallen half-troll, so you don’t see the slight incredulity washing over Strider’s face. You can hear it in his voice, though, along with the undercurrent of humor that always seems to be present within him. “I appreciate you looking out for me. That’s the sign of a good Ranger, you know. However, seeing as I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, I might advise you to not take on enemies that might be too much for you.”

You stare at him now, before roughly yanking your dagger from the dead monster’s trunk. It comes directly from its heart, and shines darkly from the blood coating it down to the hilt. You hold it up, heedless of the scarlet starting to drip down over your knuckles. “If I thought I couldn’t handle those things, I wouldn’t have gotten involved. I’d argue that I’m worth a little more than you might think, Strider.”

You step forward slowly, until you’re only a few feet away. “We are both Rangers now. It would be best for you to stop seeing me solely as a commoner who stole a weapon from a nearby blacksmith.” You say, yet Strider’s hands close quietly over your knife. You’re not sure why you let him take it, but you watch as he walks a few feet away to wipe the blood from the metal. He does not say another word until he has come back to you, pressing the weapon gently into your awaiting palms. “I would not dare, Y/N.” Something almost like a smile plays over your lips. “I should hope not.”

You see Strider again, and then again. You don’t plan it, honestly, this meeting up with him, it just happens. You’re trying to rid the forest of some thieves, he appears on the path behind you to stop you from being cut off at all sides. He’s cornered by some rogue orcs, you find yourself charging the lot to ensure that the one Ranger you know won’t find a lonely death in the forest. You’re not sure whether you would consider him a rival, a friend, or any mixture of those terms, only that it does make you smile every time you see him.

Then, in the midst of a nighttime journey, you get the sensation that something is wrong. The feeling washes over your skin, raising the hairs on your arms and chilling your bones. You dismount from your horse, walking forward to look over the edge of a nearby bluff for any signs that another conflict has come upon you. You see it then- a rocky outcropping not far from you, a single curl of smoke piercing the sky. It is quiet, and suddenly a shriek shatters through the night.

You clap a hand over your mouth to stop a gasp of shock. You’ve never heard that deathly wail before, yet you can recognize it instantly: a ringwraith. It could be nothing else. Even by hearing the sound, you can conjure up the mental picture: darkly clothed figures, rattling breaths, the stench of death even before they strike. Somehow, you know that the wraiths are approaching that mountaintop, and somehow you know that there is a Ranger there who will attempt take them on alone.

You’ve jumped onto your horse before you can muster up a second thought, lashing the reins and charging forward in a thunderous gallop. You’re not bothering with silence this time, only speed. Your steed canters forward as fast as it can, racing between low-hanging boughs and up the side of the rocky mountaintop. You can only hope that you’ll arrive fast enough. The thought alone is not enough to stop your nerves from threatening to tear you asunder.

You approach the rocky clearing soon enough, and your heart catches in your throat to see the scene. Across the space from you, you can see four of what appears to be hobbits, one of them lying painfully on the ground as if injured. Then, closer to you, one man armed with a torch and a sword, taking on five Nȃzgul as if they were no more than garden-variety thieves. You could almost laugh at his selflessness, were it not for the fact that he’s about to get himself killed.

You have a torch of your own, and hold it in the air. Your horse raises itself on its hind legs, neighing loudly in the still air. The attention of the ringwraiths is diverted to you, as is Strider’s, although you cannot tell whether or not the look in his eyes is driven by relief or regret. You charge forward, torch held at the ready. Your horse bears down upon the cloaked beings, moving forward swiftly despite their shrieks and calls. You swat at first one then the other, beating them back with the fire. 

You can feel your horse panicking beneath you, so you jump down after a second, trusting it to remain close. You and Strider fight side by side, forming a barrier of flaming torches and steel that does not allow any of the Nȃzgul to approach. At last, Strider lunges forward, forcing the last of them back. All of a sudden, you are alone once more, the air seeming to heat up again now that the soul-sucking chill of the ringwraiths has been removed.

You do not have a chance to speak with him immediately. The dark-haired hobbit, Frodo, is gravely injured from a wraith’s blade, and is rushed away with an elf who smiles at you briefly before taking off once more. Then, you have to watch over the remaining hobbits, and make sure they don’t manage to call attention to themselves once more. Only once it is far later into the night, when Strider has allowed the three hobbits to rest, do you follow his unspoken request and go with him a ways away from the meager camp to talk.

Strider waits until you’re sufficiently out of earshot of the camp before he begins. He is pacing away, away, and then he whirls back to you. There’s a fierce sort of light in his gaze that has never been there before; it becomes him, in a way. “What were you doing here? You could have been killed!” You raise an eyebrow. “You could have been killed as well. That’s why I was here, actually, making sure that you weren’t murdered when you tried to take on a swarm of Nȃzgul.”

His eyes flash in the darkness. “Do not put the blame of this on me. I will not have your death on my conscience.” You let out a surprised, bitter laugh. “You won’t, I’m still alive. How are you upset about this? This is what we do, we save each other. You want to avoid thinking that I could have died because of you? How do you think I would feel if you died when I did nothing about it? I would rather have been killed than know that you were going up against ringwraiths while I sat back and watched.”

Strider’s expression is merciless. “I would rather have your grief if it meant you were alive. There are only so many rangers in the forest. We cannot afford to lose one because you wanted to get involved in something like this.” You shake your head, disbelieving. “That’s what this is all about? You would chide me for saving your life, all because you are worried about the numbers of rangers?” 

There’s a pause, and then he speaks again. “No. It is not for that.” All of a sudden, his fierce stance is gone, replaced by a man, just a man. Out of some indescribable emotion, you reach forward and take his hand. He stares at your interlocked fingers, and so do you. “Then what is it, Strider? What would make you speak this way?” He looks at you for a second longer, then his gaze flicks away again. “Aragorn. That is my true name. I would have you use it.”

Your fire is gone now, as is his. All that remains is a few embers, catching light in the dark night of this section of the forest. “Then, Aragorn, what would make you afraid to lose me?” Your tone is light. You cannot think about the consequences of what this all means. “This is a lonely life, Y/N. All the same, I have still had you. Do you know how large the wilderness is, how great the expanse of territory that we rangers pursue? Yet, every week or two, I still see you. Somehow, our paths keep crossing. If I lost you tonight, and I had to go back into the forest without knowing that you were there somewhere with me, I would feel more lost than the first time I stepped from my doorstep.”

His voice is quiet. Yours is too. “Then you understand why I had to fight too, don’t you? It is the same for me. Your loss is mine.” Aragorn looks up at you. “The same?” You nod. His eyes have warmed again, the fire warm this time, not meant to burn but to encourage you to stay a little longer. He glances towards the camp, no doubting wondering what trouble the hobbits have managed to get themselves into. “We go to Rivendell, after Frodo. Will you go with us?” You smile at him. “Anywhere, Aragorn. My path is yours.” He kisses you before he goes, and you watch him walk back to the camp, silhouetted by the soft starlight. You will follow soon enough. For now, you sit and think to yourself, wondering how you managed to get this lucky.

lotr tag list: your compliments would lead me to swear undying allegiance to you @underc0vercryptid​

[mythicalgemwrites]

Selkie x F! Reader (Linn) Part 1

Sorry for not posting earlier guys! I've been very busy with online classes.

Warnings: mentions of drowning. Pics are not mine, all credits go to the owner!

M! Selkie X F! Reader

Living on an island your whole life has its perks. From the fresh scent of the salty ocean air to the calming sounds of the waves crashing lazily, it never failed to wake you up with a serenity that could be found nowhere else. You had lived alone with your Toller pup for the past couple years, in the house that your grandparents had left for you. You grew up with them, as your parents always had to move from town to town due to their profession. They were both marine biologists and had taken up a job at a top secret research facility when you were 12, so they decided to let you stay with your beloved grandparents. However, on a stormy day a couple years ago, when you were 19, both your grandparents got caught in a storm while they were out fishing, and they never came back. During the funeral, you had found out that in their will, they had stated that you should get the house, in the event of something tragically happening to them.

And that’s how you got the house three years ago. When it became too lonely, you decided to adopt a Toller puppy for company, and you had named him Sam, which was your grandpa’s nickname. He provided good company and unconditional love, which is important in every home. The house had its own dock leading to the beach, so every morning, after your walk, you’d put Sam’s retriever genes to good use and play fetch with him, fetching the ball from the ocean was one of his favorite past times. Whenever you brought him to the beach, you sometimes feared he was going to be the reason why someone almost drowned. To date, you were grateful nothing like that had ever happened, but you sometimes couldn’t brush off that fear. You were a writer, and sometimes, you couldn’t control how far your imagination went, and sometimes, the words you put on paper would be some of your worst fears, if they were to come alive.

As the days go by, and the weather gets chilly, you would often take Sam on a walk to the nearby cove, usually in the warmer months it would be filled with children playing by the beach and in the waters, but as the weather got cooler, it was mostly couples going on romantic walks, or some who preferred the solitude, just came to enjoy the sunset. On this particular day, there weren’t many people by the cove, just a couple strangers. It was around 6:15 when you threw the ball the last time, and waited for Sam to retrieve it. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, fully inhaling the chill autumn air, when you heard a whelp coming from the water. Opening your eyes, you saw Sam caught on a wave, and struggling to get back to you. In a panicked state, you took off into the water, not worrying about the growing current, but more worried about your faithful companion, struggling in grasps of strong waves, at least for a dog his size. As you grab him by his collar, attempting to pull him out, another wave comes crashing into the two of you, causing you to go under. Trying to call for help, and failing, as the water fills your lungs, you stop struggling, knowing it might make your situation worse, however, Sam starts barking, with his head barely above the water.

Suddenly, you could feel yourself being pulled out of the water, and being held against a broad chest by strong arms. Once you reached the water, you looked at your savior, beautiful greenish-blue grey eyes met yours, and you saw a cute familiar face looking back at you. It was Linn, the barista in the cute local café. You had to admit, you’ve always had a crush on him, but from afar. You didn’t know anything about him, except that people claimed that his family had lived on the island for years, centuries even.

He had shaggy brown hair, and small freckles were scattered along his face. With his help, you got up from the ground and called out to Sam. “Are you alright? I saw you getting pulled under and saw your dog barking. Do you want me to call someone?” he asked , in a boyishly deep smooth voice. Gaping like a goldfish out of the water, it took you a few seconds to process what was said. Coughing, you rasped out “ Yes… I’m fine, thank you! My dog , Sam, got caught in the waves, and I tried to get him out.” you started babbling like a lost child. “ Can I call someone to come get you?” He asked again, a hint of concern in his eyes. “ oh, no… no it’s okay, I live alone, well with Sam. There’s no one to call.” you said, trying not to act like a 15 year old who just couldn't help but be nervous around her crush. “I’ll be fine, really, I just need to walk home and dry out. Thanks again for helping!” you exclaimed. Calling Sam to you, the both of you started to walk home. “ Hey! Wait!” you heard Linn calling from behind, “ I’ll walk you home, if that’s okay. It’s getting dark anyway. I’ll see to it that you both get home safe,”. Before you could say anything, you felt him putting his jacket over you, helping with the chill. You didn’t realize you were freezing until he wrapped his jacket around you.

When the three of you reached your home, Sam was happy to be back in the warm embrace of his bed. Standing by the door “ Would you like to come in? Maybe a cup of coffee… or tea or anything else, if you prefer?” quickly giving him the option of whatever he preferred, to make sure you didn't seem ignorant. Sure, he worked as a barista in the local café, but that doesn't mean he loved coffee, right? “ Um, sure! Anything will do,” he said, as he followed you in. Looking around, you kicked yourself in your head, not keeping up to the schedule you set yourself for cleaning up around the cottage. Sure, it was decent, but paper everywhere? A heaping amount of mugs were strewn around your coffee table, as you sat there working on your next work.

Quickly picking them up and moving them to the sink, you filled up the kettle and turned it on to boil. “ There’s tea and coffee in the cabinet above the kettle, feel free to help yourself. I’ll go get dried up,” the words left you, as if you were telling them to an old friend, hoping to not make a fool of yourself anymore, you gave him a sheepish smile and made your way upstairs to your bedroom.

(Linn pov)

I made my way to the cabinet, looking through the various tea blends. Something which would help with the cold temperature would be nice. There in the right corner of the cabinet, was a box of peppermint tea. It would definitely help make her feel better, since she was soaked to the bone. I can’t help but feel a sense of concern for her. This beautiful strong woman that I always encounter in the café I worked in, and possibly have a crush on, I can’t believe I never spoke to her. I’ve always seen her writing in the corner of the café, in her spot, as my coworkers and I have labeled it. She always seems so sure of herself, and always seems ready for anything, but today, out in the water when I saw her struggling, something came over me. I had to save her, felt a sense of protectiveness for her, hence why I offered to walk her home. Taking two bigger than average mugs from the cabinet, I filled them up with the boiling water, after placing a tea bag in each and placing them on the coffee table before the couch. Her dog was in front of the heater, longing for some warmth and hoping to dry off. I heard soft footsteps coming down the stairs.

As I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw Sam laying before the heater, trying to get warm. Making my way to the tiny laundry room, I picked up Sam’s towel. Making my way to him, from the corner of my eye I saw Linn, sitting on the couch, two steaming mugs of what seemed to be one of my teas in front of him.

“ I made some peppermint tea, it helps with colds, we don’t want you to catch one now do we?” grinned Linn.

Thanking him, and taking the mug he held one, I sat next to him on the couch. Keeping some distance between us, I asked him if he wanted to use the bathroom to clean up.

“ If you have any spare clothing that might fit, I’d like that! It’s okay if you don’t though!” he nervously exclaimed. “ I do have some spare clothing that belonged to my grandpa, they should fit. Gimme a sec! I’ll go grab ‘em, and a towel too!” I exclaimed, leaving the cozy embrace of the couch.

Making my way to my room, where I kept a spare drawer full of my grandparent’s clothes, I dug out a jumper and a pair of pajama pants which belonged to my grandpa.

When I went down, I saw Linn drying Sam with the towel that I had left by his dog bed, and Sam being the belly rub loving dog he is, happily accepted Linn drying him with the towel, belly rubs being a necessity. Letting out a chuckle at the scene before my eyes, I held out the spare clothes and a fresh towel to Linn.

“ There’s a bathroom two doors left from the stairs upstairs,” I exclaimed, reaching for the doggy towel he left by the couch and chucking it in the laundry room. “Thank you,” he exclaimed, leaving to go to the bathroom.

Once Sam was dry enough, I picked up my mug of tea, making myself comfortable on the couch. Looking out the living room window, rain droplets trickling down the class, I sip on my tea, waiting for my guest to arrive from the bathroom. A couple minutes passed, looking up when I heard soft footsteps heading towards me, I offered Linn a smile and patted down the space next to me on the couch. “ Here, you can leave once the storm stops,” I handed him the mug.

We both sat beside each other, talking about what we remember about my grandparents and how we never spoke to each other when we were younger. Sam sitting at our feet. The dying fire casted a warm allure on his face, illuminating the soft scattered freckles. Hours passed as we enjoyed each other's company over another mug of tea, laughing at all the brief mutual moments that were shared between us. He mentioned that he would always get excited to see me whenever I visited my grandparents by the docks. I didn’t want to admit it, but I always loved to catch a few glimpses of him, whenever he wasn't looking as well.

I laughed at his words, tired but somehow feeling rejuvenated. It had been a long time since I last laughed with someone. It felt good to let go.

His expression of awe paused me mid laughter. He was gazing into my eyes, as I his. For a brief moment, his gaze averted to my lips. Moving his gaze up to my eyes, as soft as a whisper “ May I kiss you?” he asked, a foreign emotion lingered behind his now soft eyes.

Giving him a gentle nod, I felt him place his hand at the nape of my neck. Inhaling a deep breath, his scent which reminded me of the sea with a hint of musky peppermint enveloped my senses.

Linn leaned in, gently bringing my face towards his. He closed his eyes, and for a brief few seconds I admired him until mine shut involuntarily as I felt his lips on mine. After a few seconds, he pulled away, still gazing into my eyes, “ I’ve been wanting to do that for quite a while now,” he said, with a sheepish grin, before kissing me again.

He deepened the kiss a little, giving my bottom lip a light lick before pulling away. “ I regretted not telling you how I felt about you earlier… I did ask permission from your grandpa before he passed. The last thing he said to me was, he’d be happy if you chose me,” he paused for a second, a hint of sadness and regret casting a shadow on his blue eyes. “ I… I need to tell you something. I might … might not be who you expect. And I understand if I’m not who you want,” he stammered. Grunting, “ The rain’s about to stop. I should probably get going,” he said as he started to get up.

Grabbing onto his hand, “ No...don’t! Please… It’s late, you should stay!” I stopped him. “And I’ve had a silly little crush on you too… I just never knew how to tell you” I whispered. He sat next to me, slowly, as if I were made of fine china. That, at any moment, I might crumble. “ You did?” he breathed, his breath close enough that I could feel it on my face.

“ I also know what you are. Grandpa made sure to educate me on myths, and he said some were not myths. I’ve seen you carry your pelt around sometimes,” I closed his hand between mine. “I know you’re a selkie, Linn. I don’t want you to hide that from me.” I breathed, gazing into his eyes. I could catch a glimpse of adoration in them. “Thank you… for not running away, even when you knew what I was,” he sighed. I gazed at his lips, before catching them with mine, a soft peck, to let him know I accepted him for who he is.