#winter lights shawl | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pseudowho · 11 months ago

Text

Fire and Iron

Forced to stay the night with Nanami Kento, the town's blacksmith, after tending to his wounds, you find yourself smouldering in his irresistible flame.

Warnings: 18+, fluff and smut, loss of virginity

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Your boots cracked through the ice-topped slurry puddles scattering the mud path in the village. The shawl bundled over your shoulders was not enough, and the biting cold wind whipped your cloak back, stripping its usefulness off your shivering shoulders.

Townsfolk waved to you, nodding, smiling; greetings for a familiar face, many of them grateful for your travels to their icy town over the years, lacking even a basic healer of their own, let alone one so talented.

Passing by the blacksmith's hut on your way, you paused out the front, feeling the heat bellowing forth like dragon's breath. You tipped your head back, the smell of ash and steel filling your nose. As you paused, moments after, so did the clang of hammer on anvil.

You opened your eyes, stinging in the brutal cold and smoke. You, once more, like a hundred times before, had caught the eye of the blacksmith. He, whose name you did not know. He, who looked but never touched. He, to whom you had passed so many thousands of hours of your life, and his life to you, through gaze alone.

Stood proud at the anvil, shadowing the forge like the door to hell behind him, his broad shoulders wore only an open-chested white linen shirt, and a thick brown leather apron. With his ashy blond hair, and the lines of his face filled with soot, he was ageless and unknowable. He looked to you, his sharp face quiet and impassive; expression always somewhere between fury and tranquility.

Your lips parted once, as if to speak, and it jumped the blacksmith to life. With a barely perceptible nod, and a grunt, he swung his hammer back, brought down in beautiful accuracy, shaping smouldering steel. The clang rung through you, your chest jolting with a short gasp, and you collected yourself, stepping onwards. You were sure you could feel his cool gaze through the back of your head.

Another patient; another healed. Another grateful family; another life prolonged. The days were short now, and as you stepped out of the house of rough-hewn wood and stone, the forest pines were bathed in dying light, netting the low winter sun above the horizon. It was a punishing journey home, on foot, and the horses were long since put to bed.

The blacksmith's hut held its own sunset, the forge open but unattended. You heard stamps, heavy feet and cursing. You paused in the burst of warmth, illuminated, listening. Curiosity carried your feet into the hut, the heavy wet hem of your skirts collecting ashes, absorbing the blacksmith's domain.

"Are you...are you alright?" You called, uncertain, "Sir?" The footsteps, the swearing, had stopped. You stepped further in, feeling the forge belch at you, almost excruciatingly hot now.

"Get away from there!" The bark, deep and commanding, made you squeak and stumble. Darting through the side door, the blacksmith looped one thick arm round your waist before you fell towards the forge, effortlessly lifting you round, his back to the furnace, his face in shadow.

He was close; close enough that you could smell the soft sweat, the tang of fire and metal. He hissed as your hands dropped to his forearm, and you felt a cold dripping cloth draped over it.

"Do you often wander into places uninvited?" He snipped at you. You recognised the cadence in his low voice-- pain.

"I-- ...you're hurt," you insisted, voice barely above a whisper. Looking up, your eyes tried to gauge his unreadable face in the gloom. You felt him huff, warm air across your cheeks. His arm loosened, releasing you. As he stepped back, turning away to close the forge, you saw the blacksmith's mountainous shoulders tense, twitching.

"It's nothing," he retaliated, brisk. You stepped forwards again, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. At first, he flinched, then begrudgingly allowed you to turn him, and lift the damp rag covering his forearm. A thick welting burn, running the length of his forearm, lay weeping and angry on his skin, already nicked with so many little scars. You heard his teeth grit as the air hit his wound.

"Nothing," you scoffed, "this needs dressing. Let me help you." You felt him flinch beneath your hands, hesitant. He felt his skin prickle under yours, finding such curious pleasure in your touch alongside his pain. Your beseeching eyes took him the rest of the way, and he found himself accepting you.

"I...not here," the blacksmith toned, his eyes flitting to the town around him, "if they believe me injured, I'll lose business." You nodded, rummaging in your overburdened satchel, until he took you gently by the hand.

"My home," he began, hesitant, your hand so soft and small in his broad calloused palm, "you'll...you are welcome. It is clean. Quiet. I...I will not harm you. I promise."

Aware of his size and strength, aware of the air of mystery surrounding him amongst the townsfolk, the blacksmith was quick to reassure you. Your eyes softened, and his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles at your words, electricity crackling up your arm.

"I know you won't," you assured. The briefest smile graced his severe face when you offered your name. You felt it warm you from the belly downwards. As he pulled encouragingly on your fingers, leaving the forge to die naturally with the approaching nightfall, you were led through the back of the hut, seeing a newly revealed sprawling cabin of wood and stone, at the edge of the forest. You felt the first kiss of snow upon your cheek.

"Nanami Kento," the blacksmith replied, welcoming you over the threshold. You smiled up at him, taking in his home; barely lit, at first, until he struck a lantern to life. You placed your bag upon a table, rummaging for salves as Kento began to build the fire, skilled and efficient.

You basked in the homely room; autumnal tapestries lining the walls, skin rugs on the floor and furs on the chairs, hanging herbs above a countertop, circled with hung skillets and pans. You relaxed easily into the sincerity of Kento's welcome. A frigid wind slapped the windows, rattling the door.

Before long, an enormous cast iron pot boiled with water, and you knelt before Kento, appraising his wound in the orange glow. Cleaning your hands, wetting a rag with clean water, you moved to clean the ash from his arm before pausing.

"This will hurt," you apologised, looking up to him. Kento's heart stuttered; how many hours had he spent, imagining those sweet eyes, those gentle fingers? Too long. Too many words unspoken over too many years. He was not used to such tenderness.

"I am used to pain," he hushed, smooth and barely audible above the crackle of flame, "my job has certain...hazards, after all." You hummed, swiping the cloth gently, removing dirt and debris.

"Still," you hummed, "I don't like to hurt a friend." Kento chuckled, and you felt yourself blush from hairline to toes at the rich mirth of it.

"We are...friends, are we?" His voice was low and conspiratorial, and you felt it stir a hunger deep within you. You smiled back, mulish as you dabbed salve onto his burn. His knees were parted, with you knelt between them, and your elbows rested on the thick muscle of his thighs. You felt safe, warm, held.

"All those years, passing back and forth," you sighed, teasing, "and not one hello? Just lots of nods," your stomach swooped as Kento laughed again, "and our friendship is just that. An accumulation of nods."

"Would we have stopped at 'hello'?" Kento retaliated. He caught the brief pause in your bandaging, before you continued. You spoke, uncertain again.

"Well," you hummed, testing the water, "offer me one now...and we shall see where it goes." Looking up, you gasped to find your face just inches from Kento's. He smiled at you, his eyes flicking briefly to your lips and back up again.

"Hello," he whispered, quiet and mischievous, "and thank you."

Your breath fluttered out; Kento could feel it against his lips, beckoning him.

"I...it's getting late," you started, and Kento blinked out of his reverie, glancing to the inky black outside his windows, "I should go."

Kento grasped your fingers once more, rising with you as he stood, your shawl shushing against his chest, barely covered by his soft linen shirt. Kento hummed, sounding grave, stepping to the other side of the room.

"It is night," he said, hands cupped around his eyes as he squinted out of the windows, "and the woods are barely safe in the day. I...I cannot allow you to travel. Alone, in the snow. You must stay."

His tone broached no argument, yet still you tried, packing your bag, your cheeks aflame.

"I...it isn't..." you stuttered, and Kento turned to you, chin inclined to the floor, one fine eyebrow raised. You took a deep breath, certain that if you didn't leave now, you may fall too deeply into Kento's insistent heat. Yet...you knew he was right. The path was treacherous. The snow would take you before the dawn.

"Would you like a bath?" Kento offered, turned away to save you your blushes; a gentleman.

"I-- please don't go to any trouble--" Kento swiftly ignored you, beginning to grasp the enormous iron pot, lifting it with stunning ease. His voice didn't even hitch.

"It's no trouble. I bathe every night. You can go before me." Kento carried the pan, stepping behind a folding wooden screen, and you followed him as if to argue, watching him begin to fill an enormous copper bathtub. Your hands shook as you began to remove your shawl, still blushing, so briefly overwhelmed before squashing it down.

Kento glanced up at you, pausing as he poured hot water, "This will take me some time," he said, apologetic, "please make yourself comfortable. I'll call for you."

You nodded, clearing your throat, hands twisting in your removed shawl. Kento chastised himself for admiring the soft curve of your breasts into your waist, the hidden delight of the swelling of your hips beneath your heavy skirts. He did not see how the steam rose fast, dampening his white shirt, how you could see all the way to his navel as he leaned over the bath. Neither of you knew how the other stirred within.

As you walked the length of the room, your fingertips brushing tapestries and grazing over warm furs, your curiosity drew you to a wide, flat trinket box, inlaid with mother of pearl, the colours an aurora in the rolling firelight. You stroked the box just once, before lifting the lid.

Your eyes crinkled immediately with joy at the treasures within; the box was full of lovingly crafted necklaces of gold, silver, pearl and gem, the chains finer and softer than any you had ever seen. You did not feel Kento approach as you admired them.

"I'd like for you to choose one," he offered, sincere, as you spun to face him. He raised his hands placatingly, a smile at the edge of his mouth, "not in lieu of payment, of course. A gift, I...made them with no real aim as to who should receive them."

"You made these?" You gaped, unable to fathom how such enormous hands crafted such intricate delights, "Kento, I-- they're beautiful, I couldn't possibly..."

If Kento had held any reservation, after hearing his name tumble from your lips, he was filled with the burning certainty that the jewellery should be for you, and you alone. His hand closed over yours as you moved to shut the box.

"Please," he breathed, so close, "choose one, or I shall give you them all." Swallowing, your hand hovered over a fine chain of silver and emerald, your fingertips brushing the gem. Kento hummed his approval, before picking it up, his calloused fingers all softness and grace.

"My favourite, too," he rumbled, brushing your hair off the nape of your neck as he clipped the necklace into place. You shivered at the feeling of his fingers on your neck, and almost ran as he whispered beside your ear, "Your bath is ready."

Stripping behind the wooden screen, hearing Kento amble around the room beyond, you sighed as the hot water enveloped you. Washing yourself with a soft sponge, cleaning off the grime of the day, your hand wandered absentmindedly downwards, fingertips grazing through your folds, naturally moving to relieve yourself of the building tension--

"I've left you a shirt." Your hand darted upwards with a guilty splash, Kento's voice only meters away behind the screen.

"Thank-- thank you," you squeaked, blushing, before climbing out, so naked apart from your exquisite new necklace. Drying on a soft towel, your hand hesitated over the shirt draped over the screen, before pulling it on over damp skin. It reached down your thighs, but left little else to the imagination.

Kento remained outwardly stoic, unreadable, averting his gaze as you crept out, arms holding yourself and squashing your breasts together, the colour of your nipples as faint as a ghost under the white linen shirt. He cleared his throat, coughing lightly before skirting past to the bath. You felt heat creep up your neck at the gossamer hush of his clothes hitting the floor, the shifting water as he stepped in, the way he sighed in relief, almost as if--

"I shall sleep in the chair tonight," Kento said, slow and considered, "and you shall have my bed." You felt indignation roll within you.

"Don't be ridiculous," you scolded, "you're injured, and this is your home--"

'-- and you are my guest," he grumbled.

"I won't allow it," you insisted, almost forgetting yourself as you approached the wooden screen, "I'll put some furs on the floor and--"

"You believe I would let you sleep on the floor?" He growled, furious at your suggestion, "I should rather you have me share the bed with you over that--"

"Fine. Then we shall share the bed. And there will be no more argument." You clapped a hand over your mouth as the words tumbled forth, unbidden. Mortified by your own suggestion, you removed your hand to speak again.

Kento stepped round from behind the screen, his towel draped lazily round his waist. You gaped up at him, stunned. He was...younger than you thought, his blond hair now soft and floppy, the ash removed from the lines in his face, taking ten years off him. You faced him, his towering form, the practiced rolls, peaks and planes of muscle belonging to a working man, his forearms so thick--

"Then...we should get to bed," Kento insisted, stepping past you, through a doorway to his bedroom, where you heard him rummaging for clothes, "it is late and I am up with the lark."

You hesitated where you stood, feeling your heartbeat between your legs, desperately curious, but paralysed.

"I don't bite," Kento called out, and you gulped down the sounds of soft fabric dropping over his body, still crippled with indecision and embracing yourself as he stepped out to put out the fire. You were lost momentarily in darkness before he stepped to you, the lantern between you, a beacon in the dark. You felt his hand close around your fingers again. You heard him whisper.

"It will become cold quickly, now the fire has died. Come. Stay warm."

You allowed yourself to be led to Kento's bedroom, hypnotised by the small swinging lantern. Kento led your hand downwards, placing it to the edge of the bed for you to feel your way, your fingers gliding through soft fur and cool sheets. With shaking hands, you crawled across to the head of the bed. Kento waited for you, flipping down the sheets, flipping them back up to your chin as you both slipped between them.

You heard nil but your own heartbeat. Kento faced you, the torch light embering behind him leaving him only just visible as your eyes adjusted to the light. The sheets had not yet warmed from your bodies, and you shivered. You felt Kento shift beside you.

"You...are cold," he stated as if in question. You remained quiet, gripping your hands to your chest lest they reach out for him.

"I'm...I'll warm up. Soon," you reassured yourself as much as him. You heard one doubtful grunt from him. Five minutes passed, and still, Kento felt you shiver against the sheets. Pulling a fur up to your chins, he felt prickles up his legs as one of your feet reached hesitantly out to touch him. He felt rather than heard you sigh.

"So warm," you whispered, your little voice soft with comfort in the dark. Kento's breath caught in his chest, feeling his cock twitch inside his soft trousers.

"Do you...need me?" He offered. He felt your other foot reach out in answer, cold toes wiggling against the downy hair on his leg. He felt a dangerous, needy arousal thread through him.

Reaching out his uninjured arm, he hooked it round your waist, chuckling as you squeaked when he pressed against you. You hummed in pleasure at the heat rolling off him, basking in his warmth, forgetting your awkwardness for a moment. Kento and you lay intertwined like that, with you softening like butter in his arms.

After a few minutes, you shifted against him, about to drift off to sleep. Kento must have been near sleep as well, groaning into your hair as you shifted, reflexively clinging you closer to him. Your bottom, completely bare with his shirt shifted up your body, pressed back to his groin. His clothed cock was hard and barely restrained in his loose trousers, and pressed between your thighs.

You felt a jolt run through you, feeling a warm trickle of arousal, so alien to you, seep out between your thighs. Kento almost saw stars as it dampened the trousers over his cockhead, and he frowned, his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade in apology and embarrassment.

"I-- I'm sorry, I--...it's been so long...since I've felt a woman-- shit, I'm--" Kento rested his nose against your neck, unable to stop himself from ghosting his lips there. You dropped your head back to him, and he growled in appreciation, nuzzling your neck, feeling your thighs clamp around the tip of his cock, your arousal seeping through his trousers and mixing with his own.

"I've never--" you whispered, blushing furiously, drunk on the feeling of his body against yours, feeling so curiously empty and aching to be filled. Kento understood immediately, and moved to pull back.

"No!" You squeaked, holding onto his arm, pushing yourself back to chase him along the bed, "Please, I-- I want--...you. I want you." Your words sat heavy in the air. Kento shifted behind you, at war with himself.

"You don't know what you're asking," he growled, fighting against you to remove his arm, "I am no boy."

"And I'm no girl, nor stupid," you reassured, "I'm not ignorant."

In an instant, Kento moved above you, on all fours, his arms caging you in, corseting you to his bed. He stared down at you, enormous chest heaving, eyes roving down your body, quickly intoxicated by your peaked nipples, beneath his shirt, the hem of it barely covering your sex, still feeling your arousal dampening his cock.

He leaned down, nestling his mouth against your neck again, tongue flicking out, tasting you. He felt you still under his lips, just a little mouse, in the jaws of a bear.

"And yet, all that knowledge is just academic, until you're crying out that my cock is too big for you," he growled, warning you away, barely able to stop himself. He felt you squirm beneath him, his head swimming with you. He was lost, then, to your tiny whisper in the gloom.

"Show me-- please." Kento shuddered, a drop of pre-cum seeping out of his cock, soaking through his trousers and your-- his-- shirt, to dampen your belly. You shivered, desperate to know Kento biblically, desperate for this fabled ecstasy.

Kento raised his mouth from your neck, reading your eyes, seeing such certainty in them. Tangling his fingers with yours beneath the sheets, he pressed the length of his body down against you as he kissed you, his other hand framing your jaw, gently encouraging it open to slide his tongue against yours. Your soft little moan was like music to his ears.

Kissing you deeply, learning your voice and your mouth, letting you learn the peaks and planes of his body with your free hand, Kento kept your other hand plaited with his own, fearful of leaving you to take this journey alone.

He felt himself shudder with the unbridled privilege of being able to worship you, jealously grateful that you had not been left to some boy. He was overwhelmed by the need to set your standards high at the first hurdle.

"Let me taste you," he murmured into your mouth, and you hesitated, unsure of what he meant. Swiping his thumb across your palm, Kento's mouth ventured downwards, sucking the skin of your neck, nipping before soothing the skin with his tongue, feeling you become pliable, supple as water. His fingers danced over the laces holding your shirt together, giving you opportunity to stop him, before untying them, freeing your breasts.

Laying his tongue flat over one nipple, Kento allowed it to curve to the shape of you, to know you, before drawing it into his mouth, sucking on your nipple while his hand toyed with and kneaded the other. He revelled in your whines, a high, keening mewl as you arched off the bed into his mouth. You felt his licks and sucks, curiously, between your legs, and you could not help but buck up against him.

Kento grunted at the feeling of your pussy pressing against his thigh, and moved one hand down to hold your hips still.

"Slow down-- let me show you," he ordered, gentle in his insistence. You trembled under his fingertips, your hips settling back to the bed. He rumbled his approval, rolling your nipple under his tongue again until you sighed, breathy and ecstatic, "Good girl."

In reward, his mouth continued to trail downwards, and your eyes fluttered closed, one hand coming to rest on the back of his head, your fingernails scratching through his damp hair. Kento shivered at the sensation, feeling his cock leap against his thigh.

When his mouth reached your mound, you squeaked out in alarm, flipping the blankets down to see Kento, illuminated in the orange light.

"What are you-- your mouth, Kento--" Kento's eyes crinkled up at you, and two arms came to loop round the top of your thighs, pulling you down the bed towards him, your shirt being rucked up against the drag of the mattress to completely expose your glistening pussy to him.

Maintaining eye contact with you, you trembled with anticipation as Kento poked his tongue out into a point, first grazing your folds, before stroking from side to side to ease in between them. The sound that broke out from you as his tongue stroked over your clit, hot and wet, was one Kento masturbated to for years to come.

You felt as though you had been lifted from earth and dropped amongst the clouds as he licked at you, sucking, stroking, tasting, the pleasure so otherworldly compared to what your own hand could achieve, that you felt yourself being rushed towards your peak at speed.

Twisting and squirming against his mouth, you reflexively tried to pull your pussy away from Kento's attentions. His arms tightened around the tops of your thighs, growling into you, pulling you back as you tried to scoot away. Your hand tugged at his hair as you arched, whimpering, coated in a fine sweat. As Kento groaned into your cunt, you watched his hips roll and hump against the bed, the sight alone enough to send your orgasm crashing through you, and you worshipped his name in a long, keening cry.

Kento let his laps and sucks become softer, languid, letting you float through the haze of your pleasure. Nuzzling at you, tasting you as you trailed lazy blissful fingers through his hair, Kento planted soft kisses to your inner thigh.

Moving back up, stroking his nose against your neck, Kento felt your hand move down his shoulders and back, before coming round to ghost over the front of his trousers. Kento shuddered, kneeling above you to remove his shirt, skin prickling with the need to feel yours against his own.

Gazing down at you, his eyes like whiskey in the flickering light, he grazed a palm from in between your breasts, down to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head in one swift tug, exposing you completely to him.

Your hand still trailed over his groin as he knelt, and you were captivated, obsessed with the shape, weight and length of his cock in your hands, blissfully unaware of what you were doing to him. As you grasped the lace at the front of his trousers, undoing it, and squeezing the head of his cock between your fingers, Kento moaned, ragged, leaning one hand sideways to support himself.

"Fuck-- I haven't-- not for so long," he moaned, low and husky, feeling your inexperienced fingers explore his cock and balls in a way that felt almost abusively naive. As your thumb glided beneath his foreskin, collecting the wetness of his pre-cum, exploring his slit, Kento hissed, panting and grabbing your hand.

You broke out of your reverie, blushing with mortification, tears pricking in your eyes as you began to apologise. Kento interrupted, shushing you, one hand still gripping your fingers around his cock, the other coming up to cup your face, his thumb swiping across your cheek.

"Not you," he huffed, stroking your cheek, smiling down at you with fevered eyes, "me, it's-- I-- I'll cum in your hand if you carry on." Your eyes glimmered, hungry to see how he looked as you pleasured him, and you moved yourself, leaning close, squeezing him again beneath his own hand, and he cried out in pleasure. You felt another drip of his arousal across your fingers, and you gulped, your tongue darting out across your lips.

As you lowered yourself to his lap, Kento's eyebrows raised in shock, and desperate awe, as you licked the weeping cockhead sticking out from your joined enclosed hands.

A low rumble ebbed through Kento, his eyes suddenly dark and hungry as he looked down at you, wordlessly using your hand inside his own, to pump the length of his cock. Feeling the intoxicating glide of soft skin over woody hardness, you let him use your hand to masturbate himself as you took the head of his cock into your mouth, licking, tasting the musty pre-cum there.

Every instinct screamed at Kento to chase his orgasm, to press your head further down his cock so he could use your little hand to jack off into your mouth, and he felt overwhelmed by the innocent licks and sucks you gave him, eyes cast upwards to see what effect they had on him. Kento moaned desperately, twisting on his haunches, fingers in turn tangling into your hair and coming away, clenching and unclenching at speed.

He felt the approaching rush of divine ecstasy, thrumming up his back in waves, his balls tightening up against the base of his cock--

Snapping, Kento pulled your hand and mouth off him, heaving you up the bed and back onto the pillows, before pinning you down with his body, panting into your neck, trying not to spill his seed over your belly. You were thrilled, ecstatic with Kento's pleasure, eager to see more of it.

You crept your hips up to his, trying to ease his cock into you. Kento huffed, his hand shooting down to press your hips down again.

"--going to kill me-- I swear-- no idea...you have no idea what you're doing to me--" Kento panted, quaking above you, one forearm planted above your head. As his peak ebbed away, Kento plaited his hand with your own again, above your head. He felt his cockhead resting against the smooth resistance of your entrance, and he suddenly felt so responsible for you.

"I don't want to hurt you," he huffed, aware he was bigger than average, but knowing from the fevered look in your eyes that he could not dissuade you-- not that he wanted to, at this point, his cock throbbing with urgent need.

"Please," you begged, "please." You felt Kento's hips press forwards into your soaking wet heat, feeling a slight sting as it met resistance. Kento rested his nose to yours, his eyes still feverish, his body still smelling of iron and ash and smoke.

"On one condition," he pressed, authoritative as his cockhead pressed deeper against your stinging resistance, breaking past thin membrane, gripping your thigh up to his hip as you trembled, biting your lip, tears in your eyes as you nodded-- anything, you thought, anything.

"Marry me," he whispered against your lips, and you squeaked as you felt a twang of pain, his cock suddenly nestled deeply inside you. Kento rocked his hips gently, shushing you, soothing you, his thumb stroking your palm. Not moving, just holding you as you adjusted to feeling so full, Kento waited for an answer.

"Y--yes...yes," you mewled, and Kento growled his approval against your neck, slowly pulling out of you before rutting back into your wet, tender pussy again, so intimate and deep that you cried out for him.

Kento rolled his hips, like a boat on the waves, whispering into you, certain he wouldn't last long; "First-- I'll cum inside you-- then I'll treat you like a queen...haaah...for the rest of my days."

You clung to Kento, lost in the ecstasy of him plowing into you, delighted by his rumbling groans in your ears, blissfully proud of being able to make such an unflappable man fall apart inside you. When his grip on your hip faltered, his shaking hand dropping to stroke quick little circles around your clit, Kento growled and bit into your neck to feel you rock your hips upwards to meet his own.

The sting almost completely eased, you felt quick pangs of pleasure, rising with every beat of your fast little heart, completely carried along by the eroticism of Kento's frantic groans and mumbles into your ear.

"My love I-- you feel so good...so good...god, I need to cum, need you to cum I-- aahhhh, fuck--" Kento felt your pussy clench around him, and he came inside you as you drank down his moans, fascinated by how they matched up with the bounding twitch of his cock, how his hips juddered into you involuntarily, how his face contorted, jaw clenched, somewhere between rage and serenity.

You were famished, starved of him, immediately desperate for more, and you felt him crumple into you, caging you in, shoulders heaving and spent. Kento chuckled as you peppered him with kisses, gripping your thighs round him and rolling him over so you lay above him, straddling him as his cock softened within you.

With his chin on his chest to look down to you, and a lazy lopsided smile across his face, Kento played idly with your hair, stroking your nose, your cheeks. He proudly fingered the beautiful necklace, resting against your breasts, squashed and plush against him.

"You meant it?" He asked, eager, concerned.

You hummed in delight, pressing a tender kiss to his chest as you nodded; "You had me at 'hello'."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Would the anon who requested Blacksmith!Kento PLEASE STAND UP so I can credit you for breaking my brain.

4K notes · View notes

hyukascampfire · 18 days ago

Text

𝓐T 𝓢WA𝓝 𝓛AKE ﹐､﹒ c.bg ˏˋ੭ꠥ ¸ˎ

as both equals and opposites, white swan and black swan, it is paramount that you and choi beomgyu do not touch. the curse of your natures did not even make exception for incidental brushes. that was never an issue for you—not until the day the prince took it upon himself to break every rule you’d ever known. ⋆˛ ˛

⸺ listen to the playlist .ᐟ ‧˚

��⋆ ᧔ 🦢᧓ ･ 10.3k

𝒫airings ˒ black swan prince!beomgyu 𝓍 white swan princess!reader

𝒢 ‎⍪ smut ˒ fantasy ˒ forbidden romance

𝒲arnings ˒ smut, angst and longing, unprotected sex, lots of teasing, jealousy…, yearning and yearning, he cums on her, theyre both desperate, pathetically in love!beomgyu, shes all he wants, virgin!reader, loss of innocence, he talks her through it, he gets a little whiny… hmm i can’t remember if i’m missing anything. this is not proofread!! i’m gonna nap first.

✎୭ ashlynn's note @hmusunoo … baby you did your big one with this. i can not explain to you how excited i’ve been for this one. this is absolutely my favorite. it’s just so me, u know me so well and i think we should kiss. THANK U!

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

Around you, mist and delicate flurries sit over white, fluffy blankets. Where it sits over the lake, it turns the horizon of the lake’s expanse into an obscured uncertainty. If you hadn’t spent so much time right here, you might think that it goes on forever.

It’s a beautiful, clear winter’s morning. Sparkling air wraps you in sweet and crisp tendrils, every breath to your lungs almost bitingly fresh. But in all its lightness, your chest only feels heavier. You had hoped that coming here would be a little, momentary respite. The air is so free around you, though, the weight doesn’t float away with it—it just leaves nothing but the feeling for you to contend with. No skittish wildlife rustle the foliage, and a thin film holds the crystalline lake from lapping at the bank. It seems that not even the wind moves. Just you.

It’s not your tears that you hide here. Sadness is a soft, gentle thing; an acceptable thing for a Lady like yourself to indulge in. It’s what the people expect of their princess. The demure and always prim White Swan. Always correct, always just how you should be.

Your tears are more like scalding, molten licks of fire than the slow, darling tears that are expected of you, though. They’re angry. It clashes up against the walls you’ve built up within yourself, against the role you’ve assumed.

That’s why you’ve come here. Coarser emotions are unbecoming of you, and it’d be a shame to feel them in front of others. It’s a shame that you’re letting yourself feel it now, even. You summon a thin sigh, funneling up all the tangy bitterness on your tongue to let it fall out into the air before you.

It doesn’t do much for you, really. This—feeling like this, so beyond the reach of your usual ways to shove down ugliness—is unfamiliar. Your entire life has been this, why do you struggle with it now? In the center of you, mingling with that anger, it’s as though a blackness blooms. Like a wretched flowering of some invasive plume, or perhaps the floating of inky black feathers through your bloodstream, you feel painted dark and unpleasant.

Holding the dappled fur of your shawl closer, you decide to watch chunks of crystal white ice float on the water’s surface. Or maybe the on-and-off snowflakes that float down around you. Even tracing the lengths of barren branches, lined with white fluff so still and serene, with your eyes. Anything but delving into what that tainted tug inside is, or what it might mean about you.

Snow crunches, or maybe a branch shifting, beckons your attention. But the foliage isn’t too thick, and trees are sparse around the lake, and there is always some small winged creature fluttering between branches out here. So, you brush it off.

A tingling about your person, some sort of whispering premonition, whisps and tugs just around your form. You straighten up at another thick step crunching in the snow from behind you. This time, you can’t explain it away.

A figure greets you. Dark, raven strands of silken hair fallen over eyes of the same, his skin so stark against it, black shoulder cloak on his shoulder flowing like velvet water against his billowing sleeves all ruffled and enamoring. He glitters like the frost, twinkling silver threads and black crystals sewn in to catch the light and make a show of him. Standing there, looking at you, he doesn’t look caught or frozen.

But you are. Wholly still, all of you like a sculpture of frost, you gawk right at him. You’d never interacted with the prince, the black swan. Never even seen him. It was never in the cards. Fear like ice curls clawed fingers over your heart and grasps it.

All your life, grand warnings of terrible things of him and what might happen should the two of you ever touch fell from the mouths of those around you. It was the constitution of who the two of you are—born to be the balance to each other, never to touch. Just an incidental brushing of fingers meant turning the world’s balance over on its head. They told you that the world would begin to fray at the seams, reality would warp, and that it’d be all your fault. And they also told you plenty about who the prince was as a person, too. Not only do you fear him for the curse of your nature, but also for all the nasty things you’ve heard of him. This, meeting him, was a thing of your deepest-cutting nightmares.

And, there, he stands in front of you.

“What are you doing out here crying?” Beomgyu says, curious eyes darting over your face. Under his gaze, you’re not sure how to feel. But you feel every last bit of it, regardless.

You wipe at your cheek, where he must’ve seen the wet streaks glistening in the light. Summoning some poise up from where you keep it in handy, you say, “It’s no matter. I was just looking out on the snow.” You fix up your hair and your dress.

The prince frowns, studying your face once again. Utterly unconvinced by what he finds there, he gestures toward you. “You’ve been crying, princess,” he says. “I didn’t think that lying was in the cards for you.”

Lying? Not in the cards for you? Lying is all you do. You lie to yourself and to others more than you are honest. “Maybe, but I’m well,” you say, and then you lift the soft skirts of your dress to step without treading it in the snow. “Really, I ought to get home before the snowfall gets heavier. It was lovely seeing you.” You try and make sure to keep a good and proper distance from him as you make for where you arrived here from.

Beomgyu reaches out for you, only pulling back from grabbing your arm at a frighteningly slim realization. “Wait,” he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he realizes what he’d almost just done. “You don’t have to leave. Why is it that you cry?”

He’d almost touched you. That close—you’d come that close to tragedy in only the first moments of your meeting. Your heart pumps out sizzling, frantic energy that has you looking at him wide-eyed and shaken. “I think you and I both are the most aware why it’s best that I leave,” you tell him, keeping it curt. You hold your arms to you.

Strong brows knitting, he shakes his head and takes some big steps back. The snow, sat powdery and calf-high on the ground, creaks beneath them. “I’ll stay back here,” he says. “Just don’t go. Won’t you entertain me? It’s a gentleman’s duty to help a weeping Lady.”

You falter. The words might have you blushing and offering him a modest thank you, but the way he says it—it’s rather taunting. It’s taunting in a way that gets right up under your skin and ruffles your feathers. “And why does it bother you so?” you ask him, arching a dainty brow. You’re not even sure why he’s come out here in the first place. This is the one place that you ordain your own. It seems that not even here can you be totally alone. “They’ll have a fit if they know I was here with you.”

The prince, with his clear, ethereal features cracking into a wicked amusement that you’re not sure how to digest, says, “Perhaps they will.” He tilts his head at you, wispy strands of hair moving over his shadowed eyes with it. “But, princess, that’s the fun in it. That they will admonish you for it. Is that why you’re crying?”

Fun? Nothing about what your people, your parents, might do should they find that you’d not only been near but spoken to the black swan, is fun. You level him wary eyes. And, though sense tugs at your feet and asks you to get going, you do not. You do not know why.

“I think it is.” He’s got an obnoxious tilt to his lips. “I think that’s why you cry.”

A scoff, an abrasive and distasteful sound coming from you, falls out from your mouth. There’s that awful imprudence and temerity that you’ve heard of the black swan—everything you ought not to be. “You seem the type to know everything,” you say.

He laughs, delighted. “Is that snark?”

Pursing your lips as though confused, you spin spiced threads of patronization into your voice. “Not snark,” you say. “Just an observation.”

“Hmm.” Beomgyu slides his hands into his pockets to warm his hands. “Might I make an observation about you, princess?”

There’s interest written all over his face—you know he’s playing some sort of game. You also know that you shouldn’t indulge him in it. Still, you do. A slight raising of your brow, or maybe the interest twinkling in your eyes, too, tells him to go on.

“I think that you are too dutiful for your own good,” he says.

In a slight, testy step, he inches closer. Not so close that you worry, but the two of you are not even supposed to be in the same room. Anything is too close. You mirror it with a step back. “You don’t know me,” you say. Against your better judgement, though, your lips twitch into a soft smile. The kind of smile that is insistent, no matter how you refuse it. “So, I believe your wonderings to be entirely groundless.”

Hair blowing gently in the wisps of a winter wind and his nose and cheeks gone pink, he says, “Oh, princess. Hardly. I think we know a great deal about each other.”

Well, that’s true enough. All your life you heard of him and your curse. You’re sure it was no different for him, no matter your differences. “And what do you know about me?” you ask.

Beomgyu’s laugh falls out in a white puff of curling frost. “I know it’s been arranged that you’ll marry a superior Lord,” he says. He observes you. “Am I right?”

So fast, just with that, lightness falls from your face. You hadn’t wanted to be reminded. Your feet itch to be off, so that you can feel it elsewhere. Not here; not in front of him. Leveling yourself so that your voice doesn’t come out as stilted as you feel, you say, “Yeah. You are.”

With his eyes narrowing on you, he says, “You know, it’s weird. I’ve never seen a girl excited to be wedded look like that when it’s brought up.”

You reign in your face and shake your head. “I am perfectly excited. It’s a blessing to be married into such a family.” As much as you smooth over the furrowing of your brows, or make your expression pleasant, it’s not so easy to tame the picking of your fingers.

Anything other than excited, you might be. But absolutely not that. In fact, you are beyond yourself with anger, and you have nowhere to go with it. It bubbles hot just under your skin and demands a release that you cannot give.

Being who you are, it’s been a truth you’ve known your whole life. Someday, you were going to be offered like a shiny, silver pawn to the highest bidder. And you, as the world’s white swan, are quite the enticing thing to own. You thought you’d banished the hope for a union of love right where you’d left the sense of self behind: years ago. The time’s come now, but you aren’t as at peace with it as you should be. No matter how hard you try, you are more human than you’d like to be, and far too human to be what the world expects you to be.

If you’re going to be frank with yourself: you do not want to marry him. Living as something bought, expected to live forever as this mellowed out, poised version of yourself by the side of some man who you don’t even know or love... Of any fate you might be made to live, you think that this one is the worst.

Beomgyu begins working on taking off his jacket, a white and pretty thing with thick, winter fabric. He offers it to you. “You don’t have to lie to me about it. Maybe them, but not me.”

You look between him and his offering hand—his perfect features that are so elegant, and yet, there’s a wildness to him in those hard black eyes. If you didn’t already know so much about him, you might still be able to see the untamed in him. Who couldn’t? He wears it plainly; without remorse. You’re not sure how to interact with it, but, in a way, you envy him.

Reaching out, you accept the jacket from his hand. Tentatively, with great care so as to avoid touch, but you do.

It’s nice and soft against your frost-kissed shoulders. But it’s not enough to fix the bite against the skin on your face, so you trudge through the snow over to the sparse tree line, where the trunks might protect you better from it than the flat expanse of the lake’s surface. You press your back to a tree, and he mirrors it on the tree opposite to you. Looking over the great lake, so very serene. It twinkles with an ice film like sugar crystals atop its surface. “I guess I’m just... scared,” you say. The words come out soft and uncertain.

He nods. Listening. So, you continue. “I don’t even know him. I haven’t spoken to my betrothed once. Maybe I’ll get to know him, and maybe he won’t be bad, but...”

“But he’s not who you want,” Beomgyu says. “Not who you love.”

Licking your winter-chapped lips, you eye him for a moment. You nod slowly and say, “...Yeah. I suppose it’s selfish, but...”

Ignited, Beomgyu pushes off the tree to say, “Selfish? You give your whole life to being their saint. Maybe they think they do, but they don’t own you.”

You, not us. Frowning, you ask him, “Are you not set for some marriage of convenience?” Marrying is different as a woman, but you don’t doubt that the prince’s family intends to strengthen alliances by offering his marriage up to some optimistic, lesser family with a daughter to bargain the way yours has done with you. Every last girl and boy born as you two have been—destined to a life bigger than yourself, a force in the world as much as you are a person—have lived just the same. All of them. Each incarnation of the white swan, and you’re sure every black swan too. The people of this world paint you as embodiments of balance and life, but use you more like power plays. Even your own parents. You were born from your mother all the same as all your siblings, but as much as it aches to admit it, you are not their child. In the back of your throat, hurt and bare anger wells up thick.

He half laughs, half scoffs. “They could try. It doesn’t matter to me. They’d have to kill me before I do their bidding. Is it our fault that we were born this?” he says. “I’m going to live my life how I want, no matter what.”

You tuck your hands into your sides, where they warm between the jacket and your body heat. His words and how he looks at your lives, it’s everything you’re not. Sense of self and determination to live for more than just your predetermined role—while you’d surrendered it all, he lives thrashing and fighting against it. A product of your mirrored and opposite natures.

“Why?” you say, teeth chattering a bit under the cold’s caress. “You have a girl in mind?”

That sounds nice. Being so hopefully devoted to someone, and them to you, that you might war against destiny for it. The thought only nurses hurt somewhere deep in your chest, though. Not for you. Never for you. You could be the prettiest on this Earth, the kindest, the most disciplined, or the least even. Still, that would never be yours. You know that, so why does it taste so bitter?

A quick look, something new, passes over him. In his eyes, you see it. He looks at you for a long minute, the morning so quiet that nothing but tranquility hangs in the air for a moment, and then finally says, “Yeah. Something like that.”

Entirely intrigued, you ask, “Who? Is she a Lady?”

Beomgyu nods his head, that strange look lingering. “Of sorts,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest to lean back into the bark. “And your betrothed? Some well-off Lord?”

A smile ghosts over your mouth. “Probably. I haven’t a clue who it is; but I’m sure he’s got enough coin to spare, if my parents settled on him.”

The lines of his face gone playful, he says, “Not possibly more well-off than me.”

Your nose crinkles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you say. A husband with money is nice. You can’t pretend that you don’t think of that, especially that none of your family’s wealth belongs to you, nor will it follow you into your marriage. Your heart revolts regardless.

Shrugging after a few beats of silent considering, he turns his attention on the lake. His face turned like that, you admire the straight slope of his nose and his eyelashes as they flutter with his heavy eyes. Like the rest of him, his side profile is a contradiction. Strong and noble, but elegant like hewn from marble. It’s perfect. With all the talk in your ears, you’d pictured something far off from the youthful, wry man stood before you. Why you’d come to imagine him brutish, you’re not sure; he’s as much swan as you. Different and mirrored all the same.

“I used to come here all the time,” he says.

“Here? To the lake?” You perk up. This had been your hideaway as a girl; where you’d come at times like this when you needed to bury something away. You thought it’d been just yours. “I wonder how we never ran into each other. I used to do the same. I guess, I still do.”

When his eyes fall back on you, they’re softer. More deep brown than black, but maybe it’s because you’re closer now. He says, “Well, I came here once or twice on my own, maybe when I was five. I didn’t really start coming back until I saw you. You were crying, all snotty, and throwing bread out for some ducks.”

Your face twists up, maybe at the memory or maybe with confusion. It seems like if he’d really come here so often, and had even seen you here, you’d have noticed. “You must have thought I was weird,” you say, the words coming out around a shiver.

“Maybe,” he says through a wry smile that’s cracked over his lips. “But mostly, I just wished I could talk to you.”

He’d watched you, because he couldn’t approach you? You were under the impression that the prince had never cared for the rules, not even one so paramount as that. But, it seems that his brashness came to him later. He stands in front of you now, doesn’t he? Maybe it was just that innocent trust that, as children, you levy out to those arounds you. Especially toward adults; and all of those had preached over moments like this. You imagine a young, curious Beomgyu, hiding himself away between bushes, itching to approach or play with you. But he never did; you hadn’t the slightest clue he’d even been there until now. Could you two have been friends, if not for the curse?

“You never came out,” you say. “Or introduced yourself?” It’s all you can really think.

His mouth twitches. “Would you have stayed?”

No. Then, you don’t think you would’ve. Even now, you’re stricken with the innate fear of touching him, no matter how surprised you are at how different he is. Different from what they said he’d be. You think you would’ve darted, should you have known who he was. For some reason, that makes your heart ache. A dark ebbing wave of ache that you are unfamiliar with.

A slight knowing smile danced over his features, eyes gone to sweet crescents that turn them, usually so dark, into something rounded. Not so abrasive. He tilts his head off to one side and says, “You’re freezing. How long have you been out here?”

Cheeks long been numb, you answer, “An hour. Maybe and a half?”

“I’ll walk you home.”

You grimace. Arriving with him by your side, the man you quite literally were not supposed to even speak with, is the very last thing you should do. An awful idea. “I wouldn’t bother you. It’s probably not the best idea to show up after disappearing, with a man by my side. Especially not as a to-be-married woman,” you say. “But, thank you. Really.”

He knows what you really mean, though. A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Alright,” he says. “I suppose we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

As he begins to turn, making for wherever he’d come here from, you call out to him. “Hey, wait. Your jacket.” You pull it off your shoulders and joust it out at him. Against your skin which it had warmed, the air is bitterly cold.

“Keep it, princess,” he says, giving you a parting nod. “Get home warm.”

Today, you are to give your hand to a man that you do not know.

In the air, the rich nuttiness of fire-toasted chestnuts dance and mingle with the roar of chatter. Hundreds of familiar and unfamiliar faces line long tables with runners decorated by platters of plump, sugar-dusted plums and fruit pies. They’ve all come in their winter’s best—whites and reds and luxurious furs lining thick, velvety fabrics or embroidered with sparkling threads and studded with crystals that twinkle in the low firelight. It’s warm and lovely and all just for you.

But, you don’t feel any of that. All you feel is a heavy belly. Each smile you tug over your mouth feels like dead weight. You’re familiar with this—putting on the act. Smiling in faces that you know will turn around and have something else to say about you, pretending like you don’t know that it’s all false sweetness. You’d been trained in noble propriety since you could walk and talk.

But, considering that they’ve all come here to shower you with gifts and lovely words for a marriage in which they could really not care about beyond how they make it a profit, it’s all a bit more sour.

You’ve met your promised. The man you’re supposed to wed and spend the entirety of your life beside. You spoke with him for... what, two minutes? Two very awkward, very awful minutes. What should you have to say to each other? You’re meeting for the first time today. At your engagement feast. It’s a real conscious effort to not take your lip into your mouth and gnaw, or to not fuss over your hair, or honestly anything that might show these people that you are anything but pleased.

So, you relent to their gaudy pleasantries. You listen to them tell you that it’s such a blessing to be married to a man of high society—and a wealthy one, too. They tell you that they knew your marriage would bring a great dowry; that all the white swans have. That they were watching and expecting it. All you hear is the dripping of greed; all you see is hungry eyes and fingers crossed behind backs.

You relent to it until your stomach is sick and wrought with it. And then, the older lady ahead of you singing praises of your beauty, of how she wishes her daughter might catch the eye of a husband as advantageous as yours, does something out of the ordinary. Her eyes drift behind you, her snooty, pinched features twisting up into something new. You follow her gaze.

Dark and beautiful and his eyes trained right on you, the black swan prince stands beside you. He’s lazed, a heavy cup of some thick, spiced and wintery drink in one hand, as he does. In the clear light of morning, he’d looked so out of place. But here, soft and hard planes of his face illustrated by the flickering orange firelight, he looks so right.

You blink. And then blink again. Never once had Beomgyu made any sort of appearance at any hosted thing by your family. You just stand in place for a moment, registering his presence.

“You look lovely, princess,” he says. His eyes fall up and down you. The way he says it—it’s liquid smooth, but it’s taunting in a way. “The perfect image of a bride-to-be.”

He can’t be here. He can’t be here at all. When you look to the side, the woman is already gone. You have no doubt in your mind that she’s whispering in somebody’s ear right now.

“Prince,” you say, gritting your teeth while also dipping into an elegant curtsy.

“Do you feel that way?” He raises his eyebrows at you, his gaze heavy with underlying tension. “A perfect bride? Happy?”

Making the conscious decision to not look around you, because you can already feel the burning interest of the eyes that you’ll find on you, you say, “I do. Isn’t this quite the feast?”

“I told you that you don’t have to lie to me, princess.”

You shouldn’t even be standing here talking to him. They’re all watching. Stepping back to cut conversation with something witty, you stop in the onslaught of a chorus of surrounding gasps.

Beomgyu had reached out to grab you, and only stopped himself short the same way he had the first time you met him. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he brings his hand down, curling the fingers as if to wash away the urge to reach out.

He’s closer now, too. His breath smells sickly sweet with the liqueur he drinks. A sarcastic grin over his lips, he says, “Did he pay for all this?”

You do a dance of give and take. You step back, and he meets it with a step toward you, all the way until you find yourselves in a quieter corner. “He did sponsor the feast, yes.”

“Well, isn’t that just great,” he says, voice carrying over the many layered sounds of the gathering. “And that makes you happy? You feel fulfilled by that? Is that the purpose of the lovely white swan?”

You’re not sure what he’s getting at, or why your marriage is any of his business. For some reason, though, despite those rational thoughts, some faraway memory whispers that it makes every bit of sense. “He is a lovely man.”

Barking a laugh, Beomgyu says, “Don’t make me laugh. You don’t believe that, no matter how many times you tell it to yourself.”

You curl your fingers into the obnoxious, glittering material of your dress. “Seriously, what makes you so sure?” you say. “What makes you so sure you know? This is good for me. This is the way things are supposed to go. Not everybody in this world can get away with serving only themselves and doing whatever they want. Maybe it works for you, but not for the rest of us. I’m glad your life is fun, though. Really.”

His face doesn’t sharpen into offence, though you brace for him to. You’ve never spoken to anybody like that. Ever. Shaking his head, raven locks glowing warm around the edges, he says, “Because I know. I know. Are you listening to me? You don’t have to lie to me.”

Balking at him, you don’t know how to answer. That was nowhere near the answer you were expecting from the prince, known and notorious for his chaos and fire.

“I am listening,” you say, keeping your voice measured. Thick emotion slips through the seams. “Honesty has never done me any good. This is going to happen; all honesty is going to do is hurt me. So, I’m sorry.”

His mouth opens to fire something back, but you don’t hear it. Somebody digs their fingers into your upper arm, dragging you without a word away from your conversation. You stumble, letting them take you without a fuss. This was to be expected. You shouldn’t look back. If today was already going to be the last day you ever see him, it certainly is now that you’ve been caught not only in touching distance to him, but making conversation with him.

Tossing a self-betraying glace over your shoulder, you find his figure. Hand in pocket and his lips turned down, he watches you go.

You wish you wouldn’t have. You have no explanation for the emptiness it casts into your chest.

Recently, you’ve been crying so much. You might believe that it’s because you’ve been letting yourself feel freely, but you don’t feel free.

Your palms are soaked against your cheeks, face fallen into them as you shudder with it. Their words pin and scrape in your head, forcing you to contend with them before bouncing off the walls and you hear them again and again until your stomach has gone sick. Your parents had given you an earful. That’s been your whole life; you can handle that. The moment you saw him there, intending to speak to you, you’d prepared for it. Instead, it was their contempt and sneering faces that bleed your heart like this.

In this life, you are alone. Totally, wholly alone. Who you are—your role in life—is not the blessing they claim it to be. Is it selfish to ask to be understood? For somebody to just understand, without your pleading or begging?

Maybe. It feels that way, anyway.

“Why is it that I always find you crying?”

His voice freezes you to where you sit sprawled on your floor. Spinning to him, you say, “What are you doing?”

Beomgyu shrugs, as though he hasn’t snuck his way into your room. “I felt bad for getting you dragged off. Wanted to come see how you’re doing.”

Maybe his insisting on being around you should be annoying, but right now… You think you appreciate the company, even from the forbidden likes of him. “You can’t be here,” you hiss. “How did you get in? They’ll… if they find you here…”

His boots squeak against the polished flooring as he approaches you, and then settles down on the floor with you. The fire flickering behind him, his back to it, casts an orange light around the edges of his figure. He looks terribly inviting, like this: strewn on the floor, no holier or better than you, his face not sickly sweet nor cold and devoid of love, and his eyes curious to know how you feel.

“I don’t care what they’ll do to me. I want to see you.” He tugs his jacket off, letting it fall on the dirty floor. Improper for a prince, but Beomgyu doesn’t care. That’s who he’s always been—that’s the one thing that was entirely true out of all the things you heard about him. “Who the hell cares about their approval? We don’t need it.”

You know what he means by they and we. Only a few days ago, you’d still believed that Beomgyu was other; that he was your total opposite, and that you should fear his darkness for all your lightness. All it��s taken is being around him the once or twice that you’ve been able to for you to realize the falsity that drips from that. When you’re around him, your soul, feathery and wispy in your chest and your veins and all the rest of you that constitutes you beyond what is physical, tugs. It’s impossible to ignore—it consumes you. Where your soul longs for him around the edges, like torn and searching for what’s been lost, you feel stuff that is beyond yourself.

Rather than your opposite, you think that Beomgyu is your other half. You think that they’ve gotten it all wrong.

“How do you do it?” you say, back up against a white, whorling table leg. “How do you not care? I don’t understand.”

Inky eyes shining, he says, “I did. When I was young, I believed everything they told me. It’s hard not to, when it’s all you hear. Them, telling us that our purpose is to surrender ourselves to be something Saint-like. But when you catch one lie, you begin to catch the others, too. I saw their excuses and reasonings peel. Princess, it’s all lies. Everything you know is lies.” He says it with such conviction. Each and every word reaches down into that part of yourself that is missing something. “We’re not their Saints. That’s never been our purpose. I hate that shit; I hate that they’ve made you think that this is all you’re for. Marrying him? Never doing anything, because you’re scared of what it’ll mean for you? It’s not fucking fair.” He pushes himself closer to you. Now, your criss crossed knees are so close that a stray move might mean the world’s end. This time, you don’t panic. There’s no room for that among the swarm of your other thoughts. “So, of course I don’t give a shit about what they tell me to do. I’m going to live this life the way that it’s supposed to be. I wish that you could join me.”

“This life?” you blurt. It’s the one thought that appears clear to you, so it’s what comes out. Frowning, you add, “What lies?”

Deadpanned and as though he’s not delivering something that changes the world’s fabric around you, Beomgyu says, “There is no curse. There’s never been a curse.”

Your room is silent for a few moments, and then you shake your head and laugh. “How would you know that?” you say, nose wrinkling. If you don’t laugh, you’ll begin to actually consider the possibility of that. Just the very surface of the notion makes you nauseous. You couldn’t handle exploring the thought deeper.

Beomgyu doesn’t laugh along with you. “The curse is a lie, and everything that comes with it. All of it is just excuses or justification for the hate for the other people. The whole reason that they ever decided on it was because of their hate. Maybe to the people alive now, it’s not a lie. But that’s what it started as.” His face, dark and soft as he reads your face, twists up. “Of course, we can touch. We are two halves of a whole. There is you in me, and I in you. Do you not feel it? The tug? That’s it. The black swan and the white swan were never meant to be apart and opposite. We are meant to be together. We’re meant to be the only ones that understand each other. It’s us against the world, princess.”

Your ears ring with the pierce of each word cascading out from his mouth. “Beomgyu, I don’t understand. That doesn’t… Make sense. How?” He can’t just make claims about that. Not something like this. It’s not fair.

“I know it’s hard to believe, princess. It’s all you’re ever made to believe. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

Tongue darting out to wet your lips and your fingers stilling where you fuss at the fabric of your chemise, you take a good look at him. Roaming over his features, the contradiction in them and the strange familiarity that constitutes him no matter the fact that you’ve only just met, you consider it. Everything he says is absurd, and it does go against everything you’ve ever known. You should turn your nose up at him for even suggesting it; should suspect that he only has some sort of plan to coax you into bringing the world’s end.

But, you do. You trust him beyond explanation, as though intrinsically.

You nod slowly, holding his eyes in yours. “But I don’t understand,” you say. “How do you know?”

He smiles ruefully. “I saw something—had a dream when I was young. I saw us, in every last lifetime. We have lived again and again, as we are, in so many different ways. But the one thing that was always there was that they couldn’t keep us away from each other.”

The world does a few spins around you. Lightheaded, you try to stay up under the oppressive gravity of that. You want to stick your head in the ground and shake your head and yell no, but that deep tugging that has plagued you beginning the moment you’d met him, and all the emptiness before it, tells you yes.

How poetic is that? How tragic? You, two souls born to be one, made to live apart at the interests of the world around you. Made to do it across every lifetime, and yet, in each you meet. In each, the twinkling thread of fate prevails nevertheless.

“Do they all love?”

That soft smile still playing on his lips, his cheek to his knee as he looks at you with the veneration of somebody who might’ve loved you in a thousand lifetimes before, and perhaps in this one, too. “No. Some of us were secret lovers, but so many of those lived how you do for the entirety of their life. Halved,” he says. “And never did any of them touch.”

Heart fluttering with wings in your chest, you say, “So, how do you know that the curse is a lie? If it’s never been done before?”

“Let me show you,” he says. “That I can touch you.”

All the blood in your body pulls back. You trust him; you do. But is trust enough to risk a touch that could be the end of the world? Is trust enough to be so selfish to do so?

Seeing you blanch, Beomgyu’s eyes go glassy. “Please,” he says, voice breaking as if to touch you might mean more than just proving something to you. As if the weight of everything he’s ever wanted rests on the back of it working—that if this works, and the world does not fall apart around you, then he can love you how he does, and how he had so many times before. Inevitably. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“Beomgyu,” you say, looking between his eyes and the twitch of his hand as it itches to touch you. “I don’t… I’m scared.” Your voice drops to nothing more than a whisper.

“It’s okay,” he says, bringing that longing hand up. Your heart jumps when he raises up by your face. “You can be selfish this once. I want to see you do something because you want to, not because it’s what you think others might want.”

Your throat burns and tightens. Every last sparkling bit of your being longs to lean into his touch—to do what you two have wanted to do so many times before, and finally bring your souls back together. “What if it happens?” you ask, your eyes soft and true like an animal turning its soft underbelly to receive affection.

“Then let it,” he says. “At least we would have touched. Just this once.”

Gritting your teeth and swallowing hard, your belly does itself up into knots. You don’t answer him, but your quiet speaks enough. His hand hovers beside your face with the weight of the world in it.

The first touch of the white swan and the black swan happens in a gentle cupping of your cheek. And, the world does fall down around you. The walls melt, air leaves, and the seams of everything that’s even been good or true are ripped out and sewn with something new and beautiful. It’s as explosive and cosmic as you imagined it, but it is not terrifying. It’s lovely.

Your breaths shudder, your lungs trembling as you look into his eyes and realize what this means.

“Fuck,” is all Beomgyu breathes. It looks as though that it’s all he can manage. His touch grows more solid as the both of you realize that the both of you are still very much here, and so is the world. Thumb pad grazing over the softness of your cheek, his throat bobs with a swallow. You think that if you were to press your hand over your chest, you might feel it thudding there to the same thunderous rhythm that yours beats to.

So, you do. Because you can touch him. His heart sings beneath your palm, even through fabric and flesh. You can’t help the wobbling of your lip and the hot tears that spill out past your eyes and roll down your cheeks.

The second touching is the bringing together of your lips. His mouth is soft and hard against yours, contradictory as the rest of him. He brings his other hand up to hold your face into his kiss. It’s not sweet and slow—it’s as ground-rumbling as the kiss between intertwined souls coming together after an eternity of being away. Each nip and lick and clash of teeth are like the claps of thunder of the storm that will end the world, his hand sliding up the back of your neck to card his fingers through the hair at the back of your head like the claws of a beast sent to ensure its end.

And, maybe Beomgyu is the beast that has come to end the world. You wonder how he’d waited so long to bring the truth to you, or if he was torn about ever telling you. What changed things, after so many years of him watching you from afar? Your engagement? Perhaps that’s what that drink in his hand had been: a thing to forget with.

It hadn’t worked. As he kisses you for all the lifetimes in which you couldn’t, you know that he couldn’t have accepted that and moved on. Of all the black swans that have lived and passed, Beomgyu must be the most stubborn and strong-willed. That’s why, out of every single life, this is the first that you touch. He would take the world on, or play with the existence of it, for this. Just for you. All for you—you’d found somebody who will do something just for you. Curling your fingers into the front of his tunic just over his chest, you pour the fire of that revelation into your kiss.

He roams his hands all over you, mapping your shape. You kiss and kiss, lips tugging and twisting against each other, and still it isn’t enough. Bracing a splayed palm over your lower back, he does not stop kissing you even as he lays you back onto the ground. The flooring is cold against your burning body. He supports his weight on one hand beside your head and straddles your hips to do nothing but run his fingers through your hair and just kiss you.

Only when your lungs are too hungry to ignore does he free your mouth. His soft black hair dangles over his starry eyes as he looks down at you with them. Lips swollen and smeared with you, his chest heaves. Bringing his free hand up, he wipes your wet cheek.

“Oh my god,” you say, breathless. “Beomgyu.”

Pressing his forehead to yours, he laughs. “I like when you call me that. I think I want to make you scream it—scream it until they come breaking down your doors and see that we are each other's. Until your fiancé hears it.”

Body bursting at the seams at the prospect, you nod frantically and dip your face into his neck to dust starry kisses there, too. He shudders. “I want it so bad. Can you please?”

“Of course I can. I’m going to make love to you, okay?” He pushes off you, crawling back so that he’s sat squatted just before your knees as you pin them together. “Open your legs, princess. Show me how pretty you are—I’ve waited so long for it.” He pats on the outer side of your knee.

Thrill spiraling up from between your thighs like sparks, you oblige slowly. You let your legs fall open for him, and choke on your own heart as he begins to slowly work your dress up the expanse of your legs, and then your thighs, baring to him the plush and unseen skin there. He eats it up wildly, his eyes gone ravenous and even blacker.

“I’ve never done this before,” you say, voice trill and unsure. “I don’t know what to do.”

A wicked grin cracks over his features. “I know, princess.” The fabric bunches at your thighs, now. You tremble with the stifling anticipation. “I’m going to take care of you. It’s going to feel so good—I’m gonna make you feel so good. I have so many things I want to do to you. Lifetimes of things I want to make you feel.”

Doe-eyed and laying your trust in his hands, your thighs twitch and you nod. He reveals your cunt at last, finally catching the glistening sight of it for the very first time. And, he does not disappoint. The look that washes over his face—the twitching of his lips, the tightening of his jaw in a flickering muscle, and the fire razing your cunt in his eyes—is something so dreamlike, but lucid nonetheless.

“You just lay down and let me help you. Treat you how a princess should be treated.” He works on his pants, silver belt clinking and then loosening, and then he’s just as exposed as you when his length pops free. It’s hard already, tall and pretty like the rest of him, but pink and obscene at the tip. He leaks from the little slit at the top. “Look at you. You look like you want to taste it,” he says, laughing while collecting the liquid to pump himself a few times. “Next time, baby. I’d love to see the proper mouth of the world’s princess choking on my cock.”

The air is cold against the mess between your legs. It sends a chill up your spine—or maybe that was the crudeness of his words. You suppose you should’ve expected nothing less from him. When he goes to climb back over you and line himself up with you, your thighs twitch and try to snap shut.

He pins your hip to the floor. “Don’t be shy, baby. I wanna see that pretty pussy. It’s not fair to hide it from me.”

“Sorry,” you say, cheeks burning.

Taking that hand and sliding it up behind the back of one of your knees, pressing that thigh up to your torso, he laughs a teasing laugh down at you. “Don’t say sorry,” he says. He holds his length adjacent to your slit and then begins to slip up and down the length of it. “Just let me fuck you. I need it so bad.” He hisses in tandem with you. The drags of his length, harder than how you thought a cock might feel, is like undiluted liquor. “I can’t believe this… shit, princess. I’m about to fuck you. I thought I was going to have to sit here and watch you by his side.”

You take your lip into your teeth when he pushes in. It stretches. You bring your hand up to cup the back of his neck and the other to dig into his tunic, mewling softly.

“It’s okay, princess. Hold on to me, you can take it, right? You cunt was built for me. Everything about you was made for me. Your heart, your pretty hands for me to hold, your sex, all of it. Do you feel how I fit right into you? How I was made to?”

You do. When he finally is balls-deep, his cock nestles exactly where it should. Not an inch too deep or an inch too scarce. The two of you were sculpted by something holy, fit just for each other. “Yes,” you breathe.

He can’t even linger sitting still in you. He begins pulling himself out, all the way until the tip of him threatens to pop out lewdly, before shoving back in right up against that spot. He doesn’t even have to search for it. Head falling into your chest, he licks and bites. “The taste of you,” he says. Then, he presses his tall nose right over that spot in your neck where your heart’s gone wild. “The smell of you.” Wincing, he lays into you with more vigor, hips slapping against your skin. “The feel of you. You drive me up the fucking walls. How was I ever supposed to live without this?” he says. “I refuse.”

Your belly begins to tighten in a way that you’ve never known. Tears prick the corner of your ears, clinging to him as he fucks you into the floor like he’ll never have to opportunity to have you like this again. The wood cradles your back and the back of your hips, receiving each of his thrusts. You curl your toes and will back the lewd cries that threaten to spill over with each.

His voice is taut and wobbly. “Feels good, huh? I know. It feels… so good.” Dropping your thigh to cup your face, he says, “Cry. Cry for me. I said I wanted you to scream.”

Face burning and squirming against the hardwood behind you, you shake your head. “I can’t, gyu…”

“Yes you can,” he says, face twitching. “I want you to start letting it out, or I’m gonna stop. Do you want me to stop?”

Covering your face, with the back of a forearm, you grit your teeth through each punctual and yet sloppy grind up into you. Your bodies sweat and meld, and you’re sure that anybody walking by your quarters would know just by the hollow smacks of skin and grunts that you’re fucking a man. You, an engaged woman, are letting the prince turn your brain inside out.

But, there is nothing you want less than for him to stop. So, you let your mouth drop open and allow the sweet mewls to come with each rut.

“There we go. Louder.” He braces himself, digging his feet into the floor, and then he really starts driving into you. Sparks fly in your belly—each yellow and glowing and scalding. “Do I need to fuck you harder? C’mon, louder, princess.”

Thighs squeezing his hips so tight that they ache, you squirm. You struggle against your sounds—turning from sweet moans and mewls, you groan and gasp and your voice breaks. Each collision of your bodies breaks your sounds.

Curling your fingers into his silken hair, you grit out, “H—hoooh fuck, Beomgyu, Beomgyu, I feel… like…”

Bangs sticky and his eyes growing wilder, he knows something you don’t. The knowing, taunting grin on his mouth says enough. “Let it happen. Don’t fight it. Just stay—stay right there, and I’ll give it to you. No running from it; it’s gonna feel so good.” His muscles go taut, and he doubles down on his efforts, panting through his nose and his neck sheened. He drops his head into your chest. “Fuck. Fuckkkk, I love you so much, princess. Thank you—thank you, so much.”

You don’t know why he’s thanking you. You don’t have the cognitive function to worry about that. Your mind has gone to two things: the growls and whines that rumble and tear from his chest, and the frightening tightness that only goes more dangerous. Your chest tightens—it feels as though, if he feeds that hungry beast gnawing deep down in your belly with any more of what he’s doing now, it will snap and take you down in its wake. Warbled cries crawling up your throat, you arch your back up into his chest to try and dig your hips into the floor, away from the bliss and the power of it.

“No,” he says, cursing. “No—don’t run from it. Don’t… Baby, please take what I’m giving you. It’s gonna be alright.”

Pushing back on the dark throes of the tide as it creeps up over your shoulders and sends shocks through your body, the hair on the back of your neck rising with the effort, you choke. Beomgyu takes a hand down the seam of your bodies and rolls your aching clit. They’re succinct and intentional—pressure right on the sensitive underside, sending your belly rippling as he pairs it with a few more sharp, more meaningful thrusts.

You see white. It’s white and hot. You are the sun, beaming and writhing like stardust. You curve off the floor once more, raking nails down the lengths of his back. Are you even making sound? You don’t know; you can’t hear it past the ringing piercing sharp in your ears. You shake beneath him, cunt gripping him frantically with flutters of your walls.

He grunts, voice strained and shaking as he begins to follow his own release. “Holy shit—look at you. You’re so f-filthy. So pretty, cumming on me.”

You bare each brush of his cock against your still twisting walls, trembling as he fucks you through your orgasm. Your thighs jump and your toes curl, and it’s all too much, but not enough. He needs to come tumbling over the edge right along with you—if he comes with you, it doesn’t seem so hard. You chant his name, smooth voice gone hoarse.

Stilling inside you, he whines, “Shi—it.” A war wages behind his eyes for a long second before he slips his cock from you with a wet, squelching pop, strings of your release breaking as he lays his cock on your belly. His stomach goes tight, and with one last slide of his length, slick with your mess and staining your belly, his cock jumps. He shoots all over your skin, pretty glistening spurts like ribbons a milky white.

He sits back on his haunches, slowly rubbing himself off to give you some more and come down. Your room is quiet now, aside from your heaving chests and the buzz of something new in the air. Letting his head fall back, wet strands of spiky black hair dangle around his neck, a bead of sweat catching light as it rolls down it.

“Feel okay?” he says, looking down on you with softened eyes. He pulls cloth from his pocket, unfolding the fine fabric, and he wipes himself off your belly.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, leaning into the palm he cups your cheek with. “I’m okay.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “The world didn’t explode, did it?” he says.

You share a stolen laugh with him, feeling every last honey wave receding from the spot between your thighs. The world hadn’t ended, and yet, in every way, it had. Savoring the abated rises and falls of his chest and the content sagging of his shoulders, your belly tightens anew.

What happens now, when everything else has been a lie? When you don’t believe that you can survive that lie for any longer

So many hands work on you. One of your ladies in waiting laces you up in the back, and another works on your hair even while you stand, and one bounces a wintry, snow-kissed rouge over the plush of your cheeks.

Yesterday, your world changed. And today, you’re expected to go on living in it.

When Beomgyu slipped out from your room last night after hours of holding each other under the covers, indulging in your ability to touch, you let your heart crack in two. You shouldn’t have. Why had you let yourself think that it was going to end up anything other than like this? You, getting prettied up to be sent away with your expecting husband, and the dreams you’d let build up to the clouds in the prince’s arms all shattered on the floor at your feet.

What else can you do? Loving Beomgyu freely is out of the question. Your parents would laugh right in your face, or maybe lock you away and make even more sure that you never get to see him again.

You try to burn the image of his eyes into your memory. Black, big and round and cunning all the while. You commit the broadness of his shoulders, and the pretty straight line of his nose in profile, and the pink plushness of his lips, and the little freckles you’d discovered yesterday, and the sound of his voice in your ear, and the feel of his touch on your skin, too.

“We’ll leave you until it’s time to come collect you,” a Lady says, bowing at the waist to you as the others finish up, tying the fastening of your dress up quick and sprinkling their final touches over you before following her out.

Your room goes utterly quiet. More quiet than it’s ever felt.

Dragging your limbs over to your bed, you let yourself fall onto it despite all the care they’d taken to get your skirts right. Resting your cheek to your palm, you let your eyes fall closed as you memorize the feel of your own bed, too.

When you flutter them open, there’s something peeking out from the pillow across from you. You furrow your brows and reach for it.

The paper is folded up with haste, torn from the edge of somewhere else and scribbled on with a quick hand. How long has that been there, without you noticing? Pushing yourself up from the bed, careful to at least maintain the smoothness of your hair, you unfold it.

ℳ𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝓉 𝒮𝑤𝑎𝑛 ℒ𝑎𝑘𝑒.

Your soul comes back to life and seeps through your bloodstream. Sitting there for a few moments, idle at the largeness of what you’re about to do, you loose a breath.

And then, you curl your hand around it, shove yourself up in a flurry of white, crystalline skirts, and you go.

The curious faces of the palace hands you pass do not stop you, nor does the morning’s bite as you find your way outside, nor does the almost-slip over ice, and absolutely nothing else stops you as you run. Is he still going to be there when you make it?

God, please let him be there. Don’t let this be almost.

Fists full of the abrasive fabric of your skirts and darting by barren bushes and trees, you do not stop until you clear the little tree line and the lake stands vast and frosty ahead of you.

When Beomgyu spots you, and you spot his figure against the background of the lake crisp in the morning, the sweet cooing of the birds and the rest of the bustle falls away. None of it compares.

“You came,” he says, dragging his feet through the snow until he’s right in front of you, his features elegant once more in the clear morning haze. “I didn’t think you would.”

You reach up to dust away snowflakes resting on his hair. It’s an excuse to touch him—that’s all you find yourself wanting to do, now. Brows pinching, you say, “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just… was scared.”

“No, no, I came,” you say, feeling now the bare expanse of your arms. You run your hands up and down them. Heart in atrophy all the while feeling full just being here with him, you add, “Why did you want to meet here?”

The world is serene for a few long moments as he just looks at you, his gaze searching. “Don’t marry him. Don’t leave with him.”

You know where he’s going with this already. Letting your dress fall from your hands, the one they’d fashioned you in to do exactly that, you say, “And do what?”

“Be with me. Marry me. Be my wife,” he says, the lines of his face solemn. “Let’s elope and find a corner of the world that’s just ours, so that we will never have to hear another word from them again. Let’s just… be together. Finally.”

Chest swelling with something so hopeful that it’s painful, reality comes with its pin point and pop it. “Is that really what you want? You’ll take me, even though I’m promised to somebody else?”

His lip curls as though the thought were detestable. “What the fuck is a dowry to this? To the approval of the fates? The world could try snuff that fact out with whatever they’ll try, and a man could offer your parents a dowry of all its money, and still, you’d be mine. No matter what, our souls belong to each other.” His hand is frozen against your cheek. He’s been out here waiting for you for so long. “I’d take you, promised to another man. I’d take you no matter how you are; in a thousand different lives, I’d have you each time.”

That’s all you need to hear: that you are cherished for more than just your nature, but for yourself. That he loves you unendingly and undyingly, and all you have to do is leave by his side. You’ve already left it all behind—thrown any attachment to the wind, because truly, what is that to this? You don’t know where you’ll go, and you think Beomgyu hasn’t a clue either. But you’ll find that somewhere together.

Together, your half sings. His answers with a thrilling beat.

“This time,” he says, eyes blazing with conviction. You know he feels the tug, too. “We got it right.”

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

✎୭ ashlynn's note MY SHAYLAAAAA. MY SHAYLAAAAAAA!

﹙📋﹚ @hmusunoo , @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @joycelyjjj , @sunoolver , @lvrs-street2mmorrow , @apeachty , @fandomtrashsblog , @bewitchless , @yezzns2 , @hhoneyhan , @ethystclove , @darkdayelixer , @calumcxke , @biteyoubiteme , @bamgeutsz , @soobabby , @little-shiny-starr , @bambammtori , @bunniebun-posted , @heeambi , @bunnisoobin , @hwanghyunjinismybae , @bakugosbottombitch , @304files , @cherricola-star , @lickingan0rchid , @ashistrashhhhhh , @no1likemybbgcharlie , if your tag isn't working, check the mentions part of your settings!

666 notes · View notes

bigcats-birds-and-books · 28 days ago

Text

made it to the end of the first ball of yarn!! she is. Growing Up.

i could switch to a bigger cable to see her better but i don't wanna

anyway! just finished the fifth "CONTINUE CHEVRONS" repeat (what timing!!), so there's only four and a half left before the contrast color switch. very interested to see how much of the second ball of black yarn i need for this--i'm already going through a lot per row, but there's also only four and a half repeats of the pattern with the contrast color, and that allegedly will use one ball or less also. so! hoping to have some extra black at the end, but We Shall See.

now, onward, to Poorly Joining In The Second Ball!

me?? checking knitting books out both to support my library and to avoid paying per pattern??? it's More Likely Than You'd Think

#personal #knitting #my knitting #you shawl not pass #lotr #long post #wip #gif #yeah i know i had high hopes for finishing this AND manuscript within two weeks but. ah. not looking gr8 on that front #i had a turbo hell week i think i'm getting better now though #but we DID start alan wake last night so. there goes a bunch of my time #i seriously love knowing exactly how much pattern is left though that's very helpful #i'm excited to get out of the black and into the colors because it gets so damn dark so early in winter and black is MUCH easier to work--#--in natural lighting lolsob #i do like how i can see the central decreases thats cool too #it doesn't FEEL like any part of it is getting smaller because of the wing increases but when i step back i'm like oh yeah for sure.#shrinking in the Middle ONLY

413 notes · View notes

jezebelblues · 2 months ago

Text

𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 | 𝐇.𝐒 ݁ᛪ༙ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭.

𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐧—𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.

pt. i, pt. ii

𝐂𝐖: fem!reader, blood+blood drinking (bro is literally a vampire there's going to be blood) 1700s!harry, mentions of death

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 7.3k

❏ yall this excruciatingly long so i just figured it was better to split this into four parts. it starts off kinda slow i knowwww but i feel like it fits his character. anyway I hope u will like. mwah :* also YES his heart beats idk i took creative liberty in assuming the blood he drinks would give him some sort of circulation and YES i drew inspo from tvd i like their vamp lore the most ok bye

Fourth of November, 1701

The English flag thrashed wildly in the biting wind, its edges snapping above the clank of chains and the groan of wood as boats were fastened to the harbor. Hooves clattered against the cobblestone, mingling with the grumble of cart wheels as townsfolk hurried homeward, eager to escape the deepening chill of evening.

Winter crept in with an ill-fated air, a shadow over the town. The fishermen’s hauls dwindled to nearly nothing, their nets coming up bare. Squash and pumpkins, once abundant, softened and rotted on their vines before they could be harvested. Livestock, struck by a strange sickness, perished too soon, their spoiled meat no longer fit to eat. Lately the townsfolk scraped by on what little they could hunt—rabbits, mostly—a meager fare that barely stretched to sustain a family for more than a few days.

YN stood at the end of the dock, the sea’s bitter wind pulling at her hair. A basket woven by her mother dangled from her arm, half-covered by a cloth beneath which a few herbs and stunted vegetables peeked through. She waited for Niall, a fisherman she’d known since childhood, to come ashore. His face was grim, his knuckles pale as he secured his boat. “Any luck?” She asked over the wind, though she already knew the answer.

His mouth twisted into a scowl as he wiped his hands on his trousers and approached her. “Lucks got nothin’ to do with it. s’the new king, swear it. God turned his back on us ‘cause of him.”

She winced and swatted his arm lightly as they started toward the stone walls encircling the town. “Don’t say such things, not out loud.” She kept her voice low, though she too had her doubts about the new ruler. “Best not to tempt fate with those words.”

He rolled his eyes and took the basket from her arm, letting it hang from his own so she could tuck her hands into her sleeves. “You agree with such things. S’pose God does as well from the lack of bloody fish.”

They passed under the worn stone archway marking the entrance to town, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stones. Dover was nestled between the English Channel and rolling green hills, hemmed in by rocky shores and the stark rise of the cliffs, standing watch like grim sentinels over the troubled little town.

As YN and Niall made their way up the winding path from the square, the quiet crept in around them, settling like a thin mist. The evening was thick and gray, heavy clouds stretching over Dover and flattening the light into a cool, uneasy dusk.

Each face they passed, they recognized. it was impossible not to, in a town so small. There was old mrs. Harris, hunched beneath a weathered shawl, who gave them a knowing nod as they went by, as if she alone were privy to the day’s secrets. And mr. James, pulling his cart toward home, who offered a quick tip of his hat, but avoided meeting their eyes too long, as if a weight hung over all of them that no one cared to mention.

Niall, walking beside her, held his silence longer than usual, and there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he finally turned her way. “You’re still makin’ that stew, yeah?” He hummed, nodding toward the basket swinging lightly in his hand. His tone was casual, almost lazy, yet she sensed something else beneath it, like he was testing the waters of a conversation he couldn’t quite bring himself to start.

“Mum has already started it,” YN replied, keeping her voice as light as his. “Cabbage, onion, bit of thyme. barely a stew, more a broth.” She cast a sideways glance his way, catching the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

“No doubt you’ll have your sister servin’ it, then?” He asked, as though it were an afterthought. “I hear she has a way of makin’ anything taste finer.”

YN’s lips twitched, a hint of humor flickering in her eyes. She knew well enough where this was going, but she didn’t indulge him outright. “Oh, she has her charms, but she’s picky ‘bout who gets to see ‘em.”

He laughed quietly, a low sound that seemed to carry on the breeze, soft and uncertain. “She's got the whole town near dreamin’ of her, from what I hear. never seen her eye stray toward anyone, though.”

YN glanced away, her gaze drifting over the clustered rooftops, the narrow chimneys stretching into the dimming sky like spindly fingers. “You’d need more than a bowl of stew to catch her fancy, Niall. You’d best hope for a rich merchant or a duke comin’ ashore.”

His chuckle died off, and for a few quiet moments, they simply walked, the soft scuff of their shoes blending with the distant murmur of the sea. Yet something hung between them, unspoken, like the faintest shadow shifting at the edges of their conversation.

It was Niall who broke the silence, his voice lower this time, his words careful. “Have you heard the talk? About the old watchtower?”

YN’s gaze drifted to the far side of town, where the dense stretch of forest gave way to a steep rise, the silhouette of the abandoned tower just barely visible through the trees. “Folk say all sorts of things,” She muttered, almost to herself. “Been empty as long as I can remember.”

Niall’s eyes narrowed as he looked out toward the darkening line of trees, his jaw set. “Empty, maybe, but someone’s taken to hauntin’ it now. The lads swear they’ve seen a figure up there at night, just a shadow movin’ about, like he’s watchin’ the town from that high window.”

She felt a faint chill that wasn’t from the cold, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “They say a lot of things,” she repeated, her tone steady but soft. “Could be nothin’ but the wind playin’ with shadows.”

He tilted his head, the edge of a smirk softening his face. “Aye, that’s what I'd think, too. But seems each person’s got a different tale to tell. Some say he’s a protector, sent to keep us safe.” He shrugged, his gaze still fixed on the distant woods. “Others say it’s somethin’ darker—maybe one of the king’s men, sent to spy on anyone who dares breathe a word against him.”

YN’s lips parted, but she hesitated, the words hanging unspoken as her gaze lingered on the watchtower. Her grandmother had told her stories of that tower once, years ago, when she was still young enough to believe in the old tales without question. But she’d since brushed them off as the ramblings of an old woman long passed. Now, though, the stories flickered back to her, sharp and vivid as they’d once been.

“I heard some folk say it’s not a man at all,” She murmured, so quietly that her voice nearly vanished into the chill air. “Gran said it’s a spirit—a demon.” she let out a breathy laugh, sending a glance his way. “You believe my ol’gran true?”

Niall made a sound, halfway between a scoff and a chuckle, though he didn’t argue with her. “You don’t seem the sort to believe in demons,YN.”

She didn’t answer him, and for a moment, they stood in the gathering dusk, looking out toward the distant, looming shape of the tower, as if something there had caught them both in its thrall. A strange, unsettling weight hung in the air, pressing down around them, and neither seemed willing to break it.

The faint toll of the chapel bell echoed across the town, marking the evening hour. The sound seemed hollow, almost mournful, as it resonated through the narrow streets, slipping into every crack and crevice, lingering like a warning in the growing dark.

The path wound through the clustered homes of their town, each one narrow and stacked close beside the other, the rooftops tilting like old friends leaning together to brace against the coming winter. Flickers of candlelight peeked through small, thick-paned windows, casting brief glows over doorsteps worn smooth by years of footsteps. Voices drifted out faintly as neighbors settled in for the night, the low buzz of comfort after a long day’s labor.

As they neared her door, YN glanced sideways at Niall, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Well, no use lettin’ the stew go to waste with just me. You might as well come in and help make somethin’ decent out of it. And,” she added, with a playful glint, “my sister will be there, too. Might be the only chance you get to impress her.”

Niall feigned indifference, though she caught the hint of a flush in his cheeks beneath the dimming light. “Well, if it’s to spare you from that sorry excuse of a stew, I s’pose I could lend a hand,” he said with mock reluctance, yet his steps quickened as they approached the small wooden door.

Inside, the house was simple and small, with a low ceiling that sloped slightly, forcing even YN to duck beneath the beams as she led him in. A narrow hearth crackled with a weak but steady fire, casting warm shadows across the modest room, which served as both kitchen and living space. The scent of herbs, drying in bunches along the walls, mingled with the faint tang of smoke from the hearth. A single table stood in the center, its edges worn smooth, surrounded by a handful of mismatched stools and chairs, each one slightly wobbly but bearing the marks of care and countless meals.

“Is that you, YN?” Her mother’s voice came from the corner, where she was bent over a pot, stirring with steady, practiced hands. She looked up with a gentle smile, her face flushed from the warmth of the fire. “And Niall too! Just in time. I was about to send Arthur to fetch you, but he’s off fiddlin’ with somethin’ in the corner.”

Ten-year-old Arthur looked up at the mention of his name, a wide grin splitting his face when he spotted the blonde. “Niall!” He called, scrambling to his feet and darting over, a wooden sword in hand. “You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?”

He placed the basket next to the older woman before he tousled the boy’s hair, giving a wink to YN. “That depends—will your sister cook, or will your ma have mercy on me?”

YN rolled her eyes as her mother chuckled, stirring the stew with a knowing look. “I'll make sure to keep it fit for eatin’. Now, why don’t you both make yourselves useful and set the table?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Niall replied with a quick bow, flashing his best charming smile, though his eyes lingered on the slender figure by the fire.

YN’s older sister, Ella, sat with her needlework in hand, her fingers nimble as she embroidered a delicate pattern into the edge of a linen cloth. She looked up as Niall approached, offering him a nod and a faint, polite smile, though a flicker of amusement danced in her eyes.

“Ella,” Niall greeted, taking the opportunity to lean a bit too casually against the edge of the table. “Now there’s a sight finer than any supper, if I may say.”

“Oh, you may say.” Ella sighed, her tone as mild as her smile. “But sayin’ doesn’t make it so, does it?” Her eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief, and she kept her gaze on her stitching as if he hadn’t said a word.

YN snorted, reaching past Niall to set the bowls on the table. “She’ll need more than empty flattery to be wooed, Niall. You’ll be talkin’ all night before she so much as bats an eye.”

“Empty flattery?” he echoed, feigning shock as he helped with the cups, placing them with exaggerated care. “This is pure honesty, YN. Your sister’s a vision, though I'm not sure she sees it herself.”

Ella finally looked up, one eyebrow arched. “Perhaps that’s ‘cause it’s hard to see with all the bluster in here. Is it flattery or just another of your tales, Ni?”

Arthur laughed as he climbed onto his chair, his wooden sword clattering to the floor. “Tell a tale, Niall!” He urged, his eyes bright.

He obliged with a grand sweep of his arm. “Ah, tales are easy to tell when the company’s fine.” His gaze drifted meaningfully to Ella, who only smirked, clearly unbothered.

“Enough of your foolishness, Horan.” YN’s mother cut in, though her tone was warm as she dished the stew into the bowls. “There'll be time for tales when your stomach’s full. Now, all of you—sit, before this stew turns cold.”

They settled around the table, the simple meal set before them steaming in the flickering firelight. YN ladled out servings, keeping her own expression solemn as she dished out the rather grayish stew. Niall took a tentative sip, raising his brows in mock surprise.

“Well, I'll be,” he declared, setting his bowl down as if astonished. “Tastes just like stew!”

YN kicked him under the table, rolling her eyes. “Don’t sound so shocked, else we’ll make you eat the scraps.”

Ella, watching them from across the table, hid a smile behind her hand. “It's better than you deserve,” she teased, offering Niall a faintly teasing look that sent Arthur into a fit of giggles.

As they settled into their meal, the conversation turned to the familiar rhythms of the day—the fish hauls, the scarcities at the market, the latest mischief Arthur had managed, and the townsfolk they’d seen along the way. Laughter bubbled up around the table, filling the small room with warmth as the stew slowly disappeared, their bowls clinking softly with each spoonful.

It wasn't until they’d nearly finished eating that YN’s mother’s voice turned low, a faint shadow crossing her face as she glanced at arthur. “Arthur,” she said gently, “I don't want to hear any more of you playin’ outside the town walls.”

The boy frowned, his spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “But ma, I’m careful,” he protested, glancing between her and YN as if hoping for support.

“She's right,” Ella added, her voice calm but firm. “The woods aren’t safe, especially with winter comin’ on.”

He looked to Niall, his face a mask of confusion and a bit of defiance. “Niall plays near the woods, don’t you?”

He shifted in his seat, his smile fading just slightly as he glanced at YN. “Aye, lad, but it’s different. I'm older, and I keep my wits about me. Besides,” he added lightly, though his voice held a trace of something darker, “there’s been talk of someone wanderin’ near the old watchtower.”

YN’s mother sighed, folding her hands on the table. “Too much talk.” She said quietly, her gaze drifting toward the narrow window. “I don’t care if s’only lore, you’ll be safe rather than sorry.”

A hush fell over the table, and Arthur's wide eyes darted from face to face. “Who is it, then?” He whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “A man?”

Ella reached over to ruffle his hair, her voice soft. “No one knows. could be a man, could be no more than shadows. But some say it’s best not to linger too close to it, just in case.”

Niall, watching Arthur's reaction, leaned in with a grin. “There now, it’s probably nothin’ more than a lonely ol’ fox. But best stick close to home, eh? Can’t have you disappearin’ on us.”

YN tried to keep her voice light as she chimed in, though she felt the faintest prickling unease beneath the laughter. “You heard him, Arthur. best keep to the town, else you might end up a story yourself.”

The boy’s eyes grew even wider, and he gulped, glancing nervously toward the window as if expecting to see the mysterious figure standing just beyond. He fidgeted, his hand reaching instinctively for his wooden sword on the floor beside him.

With a faint, tired sigh, YN’s mother rose and began clearing the table, signaling the end of the meal. The warm glow of the evening seemed to have dimmed, and even Niall’s usual cheer was muted as he helped gather the bowls, his gaze drifting back to the light flickering along the walls.

Outside, the wind picked up, brushing against the windows and rattling the latch ever so slightly, a whisper against the warmth of the firelight. The small house was silent for a long moment, each of them lost in thought, each glancing occasionally toward the dark window where the night gathered, close and watchful.

Morning seeped slowly into Dover, pale and cool, bringing with it the damp scent of the sea and the faint call of gulls overhead. YN was awake early, as was her habit, slipping quietly out of bed while the house still lingered in the soft dimness of dawn. The fire in the hearth had died to embers, and a chill clung to the air, but she moved quickly, tucking a shawl around her shoulders as she crossed the small room.

Arthur, already up and dressed, was tugging at the latch on the back door, eager to start his morning chores. He looked back when he heard her steps, his face lighting up with a grin. “Thought you’d sleep through it, lazybones.” He teased, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

She snorted softly, pinching his cheek as she passed him. “Cheeky lad,” she muttered. “Come on, then. Let's get to it.”

They stepped out into the brisk morning, their breath puffing in the cold, and began making their way down the narrow stone path that wound through the small patch of yard behind their home. Frost clung to the grass, glinting in the pale light, and the chickens shuffled restlessly in their pen as Arthur went to check on them.

“Careful now.”

He bent down next to them to scatter their feed. The hens fluffed their feathers, clucking contentedly as they pecked at the ground, and Arthur kept one eye on the rooster, who strutted about with his chest puffed, keeping watch over his domain.

“Look at him,” he whispered, stifling a laugh as he threw a handful of seed. “Thinks he’s king of all creation, that one.”

She grinned, crouching beside him. “Well, he’s a rooster. not much else to do but look important, is there?”

The boy giggled, tossing a bit of feed toward the rooster, who eyed him warily before puffing up even further. YN kept watch as he finished the feeding, carefully securing the pen’s latch when he was done.

They moved on to check the small patch of herbs and vegetables that clung to life in the early cold, though the frost had already done its damage. The leaves hung limp and dark, and YN frowned, brushing a thin layer of frost from a withered cabbage leaf.

“S’not lookin’ good, is it?” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a murmur as he followed her gaze.

“No,” she replied softly, her fingers brushing over the leaves. “But we’ll manage. Always do.”

He gave her a solemn nod, but she could see the worry in his eyes, the way he seemed to glance toward the woods, as if he might glimpse the shadowed figure their mother had warned him about the night before. She reached over and squeezed his shoulder, offering a smile.

“No need for lookin’ so glum, Arthur,” she said, keeping her tone light. “We've plenty to keep us busy, and I'll wager you’ll see that rooster crowned king before anything happens to us.”

He managed a faint smile, his spirits lifting just enough to reassure her. They finished up quickly, making their way back inside, where the warmth of the house greeted them. YN set about preparing a quick meal for Arthur and her mother, who was just beginning to stir, her tired eyes softening at the sight of her children.

Once breakfast was sorted, YN returned to her small room to ready herself for the day. She tugged off her worn nightdress, slipping into the fresh linen undergarments she’d set aside, and carefully pulled on a plain woolen dress that hung neatly from a peg beside her bed. It was a simple dress, but a neat one, its modest collar and long sleeves making it suitable for the chilly weather. she straightened the fabric, adjusting the waist so that it lay just right, and wrapped her shawl back over her shoulders, pinning it at the front with an old, weathered brooch that had once belonged to her grandmother.

She caught her reflection in the small, scratched mirror by the window—a young woman with steady eyes and a hint of determination in her gaze, her hair braided behind her, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. After a moment, she tucked a few stray wisps behind her ear and gave herself a brisk nod, turning to head out.

The streets were beginning to stir as she made her way down to the docks, the early morning light casting a soft, muted glow over the cobblestone. A few shopkeepers were already sweeping their doorsteps, preparing for the day’s trade, and a handful of townsfolk passed by, nodding their greetings as she walked.

When she reached the docks, she found Niall already there, standing by his boat, his hands working quickly to secure the ropes. His coat hung loose over his shoulders, and his hair was tousled from the morning breeze, but there was a contented look in his eyes as he glanced up and saw her approach.

“Well, if it isn’t the queen of the cabbage patch,” he greeted her, a grin breaking across his face. “Come to see if I've hauled in a king’s feast for ye?”

YN rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she stopped a few feet away from him. “I wouldn't go that far. but I'll settle for a decent fish, if you’ve managed one.”

He laughed, giving the rope a final tug before stepping back, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Oh, a decent fish, she says. Well, lucky for you, I've got just that.” He reached into a small wooden crate and held up a plump haddock, its scales glinting in the early light. “Not a king’s ransom, but it’ll do for stew, won’t it?”

She eyed the fish, unable to suppress a smile. “Aye, it’ll do. Might even save us from havin’ to wrangle another cabbage.”

Niall chuckled, tucking the fish back into the crate. “Couldn’t have that, now, could we? I’m doin’ my part to keep your cookin’ passable.”

“Passable?” She laughed, nudging him lightly as she stepped up beside him to peer into the crate. “You’re just glad to have an excuse to come round, steal our bread, and charm my sister.”

He gave her a mock-offended look, though his eyes glinted with humor. “Now, that’s hurtful, YN. I'm here for the food and the fine company, naturally. If your sister happens to be nearby, well, that’s not my fault, is it?”

She rolled her eyes, unable to help the small laugh that escaped. “Poor Ella’ll need more than a fish to be impressed. Best not get your hopes up too high.”

“Aye, she’s a hard one to please,” he admitted, a faint, wistful smile crossing his face. “But I'll manage somehow. or at least, I'll keep tryin’.”

They both fell silent, their gazes drifting out over the water, where a thin mist clung to the surface, casting an eerie calm over the harbor. The other boats rocked gently in the quiet, and the gulls called out above them, their cries echoing faintly across the empty stretch of sea. Together they turned back toward the town, the mist curling softly around them as they walked, side by side, in the quiet of the morning.

The midday lull brought a hush over the town, as folk took their brief respite between the day’s labors. The soft light of afternoon slipped over the rooftops, and YN found herself winding her way down one of the quieter streets toward Maura’s, a modest little cottage that doubled as the gathering place for the women in town. Here, around a crowded table of mismatched cups and chipped saucers, town gossip simmered as steadily as the tea.

Maura's door was open, the sound of voices spilling out into the cobbled lane, and YN slipped in quietly, greeting the women with a polite nod before finding a seat near the end of the table. The familiar faces of neighbors turned to greet her—Maura herself, with her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the kitchen, mrs. Harris with her ever-watchful eyes, and a handful of others who paused only long enough to give YN a quick nod before returning to the subject that had clearly held their interest long before she arrived.

“I'm tellin’ you,” mrs. Harris was saying, her voice low and edged with certainty. “There's somethin’ in that tower. maybe it’s a spy, maybe it’s worse.”

Maura scoffed, shaking her head. “If it were a spy, we’d know by now, wouldn’t we? why bother lurkin’ about if there’s nothin’ worth seein’ here?”

“There’s plenty to see, Maura,” the older woman sighed, leaning forward, her teacup nearly sloshing over the rim as she gestured toward the window. “Who’s to say he hasn’t been watchin’ us all along, takin’ note of who’s loyal to the new king and who’s not?”

Maura snorted, but one of the other women, Anna, leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. “or worse—what if it’s no man at all?” Her gaze darted to the others, her eyes wide with a kind of fearful excitement. “There are tales, you know. Of things that wander the woods. Spirits that linger in dark places, things that only come out when the days grow short.”

Mrs. Harris crossed herself, nodding solemnly. “Aye. folk say it’s a night creature—a demon, even.“

YN listened quietly, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup, but she held back a smile. as the women exchanged anxious looks, she leaned back, sipping her tea, the warmth of it calming her nerves. To her, the stories felt like little more than old wives’ tales—a way for folk to pass the time when the days grew cold and bleak. A lonely man, perhaps, who’d taken to the tower for solitude, a soul with nowhere else to go. Nothing so sinister as the women here believed.

“You've a skeptical look about you, dear” Maura said, catching her eye with a wry smile. “Don’t tell me you’d walk up to that tower yourself, would you?”

She met her gaze calmly, setting her cup down. “I'd sooner believe it’s a wanderer, Maura. Maybe one who wants peace more than anything else. Don’t see why we should fear him.”

“Peace, or no peace, he’s still up there, watchin’ us all.”

YN didn’t reply, only nodded politely as the conversation swirled on, the voices around her swelling in speculation and rumor. After a while, she quietly rose, setting her cup aside and offering Maura a grateful nod before slipping out the door and into the fresh air.

The chatter of the women faded behind her, and she took a deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs and clearing her thoughts. She knew she was unlikely to shake their unease or convince them of her view, but as she thought of the lonely figure up in the tower, something tugged at her—a kind of curiosity that gnawed gently at the back of her mind.

Without a second thought, she made her way home, moving quickly and quietly, her mind already set. She slipped through the door, pausing only to grab her small woven basket from its hook. Her mother glanced up, but YN offered her a calm smile, murmuring something vague about a quick errand before supper.

IN the small corner of their kitchen where they kept their stores, she selected a handful of berries from the last of their foraging, a few slightly bruised carrots, and a small bunch of herbs tied with a thin scrap of cloth. Modest offerings, but enough, she hoped, to serve as a token of peace, a sign that she meant no harm.

She took a deep breath and headed toward the edge of town, her footsteps light as she made her way past the familiar lanes and toward the narrow path that led up to the old watchtower.

The path leading to the watchtower was narrow, winding its way up the hillside in gentle, uneven curves. YN had walked these woods many times before, though never with the purpose she had now. Above her, the sky was beginning to darken, clouds gathering in ominous clumps, casting long shadows across the land as the sun slipped lower.

Her heart thudded in her chest, not from fear, but from a strange mixture of curiosity and anticipation. The stories she’d heard that morning lingered in her mind like faint echoes, each warning a small reminder of the mystery ahead. But she felt something else too—a quiet resolve, an odd certainty that she had to see this figure, whoever he might be, with her own eyes.

The watchtower loomed before her, its crumbling stone walls climbing into the sky, weather-worn and scarred by time. She could see now why the townsfolk feared it; it looked like a relic from another era, half-hidden by the dense growth of ivy and the creeping fog that clung to the base of its walls. It was silent here, too silent, as if even the birds dared not sing in the shadow of the old tower.

Steeling herself, she moved forward, her footsteps muffled by the damp earth. The closer she got, the more the watchtower’s age showed itself in cracked stones and vines, a darkness that seemed to pool between the stones, deepening the gray of the twilight. At the base of the tower, a narrow door sat slightly ajar, barely wide enough for her to slip through. She paused there, glancing up, feeling an odd twinge of nervousness as her gaze drifted to the upper windows, dark and empty.

Drawing a deep breath, she pushed the door open, stepping into the dim interior.

The inside of the tower was colder, the air thick and still. Faint light seeped through cracks in the walls, just enough to reveal the sparse furnishings—a wooden table, books, a chair beside the hearth, long since gone cold. Dust motes hung in the air, catching the dim light like fragments of stars, and a faint, earthy smell lingered in the space, as though the room hadn’t seen another soul in years.

Yet something else lingered too, something that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle—a sense that she wasn’t alone.

A figure stepped forward from behind a wall, emerging so quietly she almost missed it. He was tall, with dark curls that tumbled around his face, shadows clinging to his features as though he belonged to the darkness itself. His eyes met hers, a piercing green that seemed to hold an entire century’s worth of secrets, and for a brief, unsettling moment, she felt as though he could see straight through her.

“What brings you here?” His voice was low, quiet, each word clipped and precise, yet holding a softness that surprised her.

YN swallowed, her hand instinctively tightening around the basket she held. “I–I thought you might be hungry,” she stammered, offering the basket forward with a hesitant smile. “Folk talk of you up here, you know. Thought it might be nice to see if you wanted some company.”

He raised a brow, a faint trace of amusement softening his gaze. He didn’t reach for the basket, but instead continued to watch her, as though trying to make sense of why she would come here, alone, to his solitary refuge.

Didn’t seem exactly the safest thing.

“People rarely visit me,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a murmur, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. “Especially not with offerings.”

“Well, it’s no great feast,” she laughed breathily—nervous, setting the basket down on the table. “But it’s enough for a quiet meal.”

He looked down at the basket, his expression unreadable. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, and for a brief moment, she wondered if he would turn her away. But then his gaze shifted back to her, gentle, as though something in her gesture had reached him in a way she couldn’t quite understand.

“I don’t need much,” he breathed, finally stepping closer, his movements careful, almost tentative. “But thank you.”

The silence stretched between them as Harry’s eyes lingered on her, his regard tracing every movement of her face, the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her lips pressed together as if searching for words. He could feel it—her pulse thrumming in her neck, the warmth radiating from her skin, the soft, steady rhythm of blood rushing through her veins. It was maddening. The sound alone clawed at the quiet corners of his mind, stirring that old, cursed hunger he’d worked so hard to bury.

But he couldn’t let her see that. Couldn’t let even a flicker of it touch his face.

With a composed nod, he turned his attention to the basket, using the small action to steady himself, to pull his focus away from her and fix it on the modest offering she’d brought. Herbs and roots, earthy and clean, none of it touched by blood. He forced his breath to steady, aware of her watchful eyes on him as he sorted through the items, careful to keep his hands stable.

“Are you here… often?” She asked softly, breaking the silence in a voice that felt almost hesitant, as though unsure whether it was allowed. Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the sparse surroundings, the thick shadows that crept into every corner.

Harry let his fingers linger on a sprig of thyme, keeping his voice level as he answered. “Yes,” he confided simply, his tone giving nothing away. “I find it… peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” she echoed, a faint smile touching her lips as she looked back at him. “It doesn’t frighten you, being all alone up here?”

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles—him—frightened? How sweetly ironic. “Sometimes solitude is easier than the alternative.”

She studied him, and he could feel the weight of her eyes, searching for something beneath his answer. Her heartbeat quickened just a bit, a small, steady thump that seemed to reach straight through him, its warmth coiling like a spark inside his chest. He could almost taste it—the sweet, heady pull of her pulse.

But he forced the thought down, burying it beneath years of restraint. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, redirecting the focus onto her. “And what about you?” he asked, his tone soft but steady. “Doesn’t it frighten you to come all this way, alone?”

She gave a small laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “Maybe it should. But I suppose I don’t scare easily.” She paused, her gaze slipping to the narrow window where the trees outside swayed gently in the wind. “It’s quiet here, almost like a different world. Sometimes it feels like our town is shrinking, like it’s closing in. Out here, it’s–it’s freer.”

Harry’s gaze softened, though he said nothing. There was something in her words he understood, something that echoed faintly in his own memories of why he’d chosen this place—this forgotten, lonely tower—to escape. A life he could no longer live, a curse he couldn’t risk unleashing.

She looked back at him, curiosity bright in her eyes. “People say you’ve been here a long time—I mean, they say the tower’s been abandoned forever. But you don’t seem…” She trailed off, biting her lip as though she didn’t quite know how to finish.

“Don’t seem what?” he asked, his voice low, inviting her to continue.

She waited, and he watched her carotid flicker in her throat as she searched for her words. “You don’t seem like someone who belongs in a place like this,” she murmured. “Like you’ve got more in you than—than just seclusion.”

He felt a tug deep in his chest at her words, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time—a faint longing, a half-forgotten ache for a life he’d once dreamed of. But that life was gone. He’d buried it the night he’d been turned, when the world as he knew it had collapsed into a semblance of hell.

“It’s strange,” he replied carefully, his eyes drifting toward the flickering shadows on the wall. The hunger gnawed at him, unrelenting, every second reminding him of how close he was to her. She was standing barely a foot away, her warmth filling the small space, her heartbeat a steady, maddening drumbeat that drew him closer, closer…

He straightened slightly, pulling himself back. “Solitude,” he said quietly, almost as if reminding himself, “sometimes feels simpler.”

She nodded slowly, but her eyes stayed on him, and he could see the spark of curiosity still there, unquenched. She was brave, this girl. Far braver than most. And something about that bravery—the quiet way she stood her ground in the face of shadows and rumors, in the presence of a stranger—intrigued him. She wasn’t running away. And a part of him, despite everything, wanted her to stay.

“Thank you,” he mumbled—almost a dismissal, gesturing to the basket, his voice softened with a touch of genuine gratitude. “Not many would bring gifts to a stranger. Especially not one so isolated.”

She smiled, her cheeks flushing faintly in the dim light. “Well, maybe I’ll bring something better next time,” she replied with a small laugh. “If you’d want that.”

He paused, her words lingering in the air between them. Next time. It felt dangerous, allowing the thought of it, letting her return. But as she looked at him, her smile warm and unguarded, he found himself nodding almost without thinking.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I’d like that.”

But even as he spoke, he felt the old thirst stir beneath his words, a dark reminder that she was flesh and blood, and he was anything but.

Harry watched her retreating figure until the last of her shadow disappeared down the winding path. The silence settled thick around him once more, yet it felt different now, charged with the lingering warmth of her presence. The faint echo of her heartbeat still pulsed in his mind, like a phantom drum that refused to fade. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, pushing down the hunger that had clawed so violently to the surface, fighting a void that had nearly overpowered him the entire time she’d stood there.

He had always been a weak man for the living.

Turning back into the tower, he closed the door and leaned against it, his hand flexing as he grappled with that old, familiar agony, the ache that thrummed through his veins whenever he was near a human. After all these years, after countless nights spent mastering his restraint, he still struggled. The curse was unrelenting—an obstinate thirst that he could never truly silence, only suppress.

Memories rose in him unbidden, dark and sharp, clawing their way out of the places he kept them buried. He could still recall the crisp air of that autumn night in 1601, back when he was alive, when he’d believed his life was bound for something beautiful. He’d been a poet then, a young man enamored with language, eager to make something of himself. He’d had dreams of attending university, of pursuing a life dedicated to literature and ideas, a life where he could spend his days wrapped in thought and art.

But all of that had been shattered in a single night. He had been walking back from a small tavern in London, tipsy and laughing, still reciting lines of poetry in his head, the night air filling him with a light, exhilarating hope. He remembered it so clearly—the dimly lit street, the damp chill creeping into his coat, the rough hand that had seized him by the throat and dragged him into an alley. He’d thought it was a robber at first, maybe a cutthroat from the docks looking for a quick coin.

But then he’d seen his attacker’s face.

The man’s eyes were inhuman, glinting with a feral hunger, and his skin was pale, almost translucent in the moonlight. Harry had fought, struggling against the impossible strength of those arms, but it had been useless. The man had pinned him down with a brutal ease, baring his teeth—a flash of something razor-sharp, malevolent—before sinking them deep into Harry’s throat. The pain had been excruciating, and then everything had gone dark, his life draining away into a cold, endless void.

He hadn’t known what had happened to him for days afterward. He’d awoken alone, hidden in the dark recesses of a forgotten basement, his body shuddering with an unholy thirst that tore through him like wildfire. The transformation had left him a half-mad, hollow shell, consumed by an insatiable need he didn’t understand. He’d stumbled through the streets, eyes wild, hunting without even knowing what he was hunting for. And when he’d finally cornered a man in the dead of night, tearing into his throat with a frenzy he could barely comprehend, he’d learned what he had become.

The first months were a blur of blood and horror, a nightmare he hadn’t known how to escape. He had been controlled by an ache, a greed—enslaved by it, a wretched creature lost to bloodlust. He’d fought it as best he could, but each time he tried to resist, the thirst only grew stronger, until he was reduced to a brutal, savage need that erased everything else.

It had been a year later, in 1602, when he encountered another vampire. His name was Thomas, a wily, unrepentant creature who fed freely and without remorse. Thomas had found Harry alone and ravenous, nearly mad from weeks of starvation in an attempt to restrain himself. He’d taken Harry under his wing, teaching him how to survive in this new, cursed life, how to hunt, how to kill cleanly. But while Harry had been grateful for the guidance, he quickly saw that Thomas reveled in the whispers of the devil, that he viewed humanity as little more than prey. He was malignant.

His own heart was too soft for such cruelty. He’d hated the feel of human flesh beneath his hands, the way his victims’ eyes widened in terror as he held them down, the way their life drained away in his grasp. He hadn’t wanted this life. But the need was too powerful, too all-consuming, and he had been too weak to fight it.

And then, in 1643, came the night that shattered him completely.

Her name had been Beatrice—a young woman from Manchester, one of the few souls who’d looked past his oddity, his quiet reserve, and seen something in him worth knowing. She’d been kind, curious, always showing up at his door with a warm smile, her laughter lighting up his otherwise bleak existence. For months, she’d been a balm to him, her presence a brief reprieve from the loneliness that gnawed at him. He’d been so careful around her, so painfully restrained, never allowing himself to get too close. But one night, after days of starvation, he had faltered. She’d come to visit him, concern etched on her face, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek.

And in that moment, he’d lost himself.

The memory of that night was burned into him like a scar, the scent of her blood, the warmth of it cascading from his lips and developing him whole— the sound of her heart slowing as he drank from her—all of it haunted him, even now, decades later. He had tried to pull away, tried to stop himself, but the hunger had overpowered him, consuming her life, taking everything she had. When he finally came to his senses, she lay cold and pale in his arms, her eyes staring up at him, empty and accusing.

After that, he’d fled, haunted by the horror of what he’d done, determined never to let it happen again. He’d hidden himself away in this tower, learning to feed from the animals that roamed the forest, forcing himself to endure the hunger rather than inflict his curse on another innocent soul. He would never again allow himself to feel that agony, that terrible loss.

And yet tonight, with her presence in his small, empty world, something had stirred in him, a strange, aching reminder of what it meant to be human, to crave connection, companionship. It was dangerous, foolish to even entertain such thoughts, yet he couldn’t deny the faint spark she had left behind.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly, steadying the wild, restless energy that surged in him. She couldn’t come back. He couldn’t risk it. He would have to find a way to make her think the tower was haunted, or evil—something to scare her off for good. Because he knew himself, knew that he was a creature of hunger, bound to a curse he couldn’t escape.

And if she returned—he wasn’t sure how long he could resist.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #vampire!harry #vamprry #kinktober #harry styles series #harry styles fanfic #harry styles drabble #harry styles x you #niall horan

339 notes · View notes

inlovewithregencyera · 9 months ago

Text

My Fair Lady: Late Baroque Era Set

(no fancy thumbnail this time, sorry) ♫ < baroque music

Please READ ALL OF THIS before downloading. I will not answer an ask if it was answered here. Read.

This is a late 17th-century/early 18th-century Baroque Set. You will get 25 items for women, girls, and toddlers! Towards the bottom, I will give you tips to start a Baroque Era Save (people to find on gallery and men/boy attire).

I would like to thank @the-melancholy-maiden @linzlu @sychik @batsfromwesteros @vintagesimstress @cringeborg @acanthus-sims @stereo-91 and sims 2 creator maya40 for the stuff I've used to make all of this. I'm sure there are more creators but I cannot recall their names off the top of my head. DM me if you see a piece of your mesh here so I can give proper credit. I would also like to thank @belleophile for testing these items for me.

The stuff in this set can work for the late 1660s-early 1710s.

WHAT YOU GET: You will get 3 hat hairs, 1 for each age I listed above, 2 Fontanges for adults that work with the hat slider mod, 4 adult hairs, an adult baroque hair comb piece, 1 adult baroque sash accessory used for court and portraits, 1 ribbon hair piece to go with a hair, and 13 dresses (2 1670s/1660s mantuas, 1 1680s-1710s Habit used for Hunting or Riding, 1 1690s-1710s court dress used for court occasions, 1 1690s-1710s jeweled portrait dress and 1 1660s-1670s portrait dress with sash, and finally 7 1690s-1710s mantuas used for everyday, formal, and seasonal wear. I've included 1 dress for a child and 1 dress for a toddler as well).

SMALL NOTICE ABOUT THE PIECES: The hairline on the hairs will not behave correctly if you have head shape presets on the sim. I've tried fixing that but no luck. If I manage to fix it, I will update it. The Hat Hairs are found in the HAT category and are not compatible with hairs you MUST download the hair files that I'll be including with them. This being said, if you remove sim clothing while they have the hat hair on, it removes the hair override too. It's strange, but just put the hat back on and it should fix. The comb, and ribbon accessory are also found in the hat category. The Sash is found in the GLASSES category. The 1660s-1670s Mantuas are not compatible with shoes, leggings, or socks. I've removed these options in CAS tools so you shouldn't have to worry about clipping. The Barbara 1670s Dress has a sash meshed onto it, and because of this does not behave well with bigger bodies. The same applies to the Henrietta 1670s Dress, as the pearls don't behave with bigger bodies. Same with the Sarah 1670s Dress jewels. The 1690s-1710s Mantuas will have small gaps if the sim is plus-sized. I have tried to fix these issues, but no luck. The hat hair fontange looks a bit gray without reshade or a lighting mod. @northernsiberiawinds has some good lighting mods. Other than that, it's fine. Below, is how it will look white with a lighting mod.

Everything has AT LEAST 20 swatches. Some things have more. There are only a few things that don't have this many swatches.

Here are some pics up close of what you are getting.

Here are some pics/fashion plates from this era.

Did I forget the 1680s mantua..? Oh no! Luckily, I've included this surprise 1680s dress you'll be getting as well for reading all of that. So 26 items! (here you can see hat hair fontange without lighting mods installed)

BAROQUE SAVE TIPS: These dresses will work for winter, summer, and traveling wear. Just add a fichu for summer wear or a shawl. For winter wear just add some long gloves and a cape. For men's stuff from this era, @stereo-91 has recolored some acanthus outfits which can be found here. I'll show you how they look below. I also recommend going to his gallery (ROTAMETERS91) as he has AMAZING builds for this era. For a little boy, @acanthus-sims has some stuff that can work.

DOWNLOAD

#baroque ts4 #baroque sims 4 #sims 4 baroque #sims 4 decades #my cc #historical cc #ts4 cc #historical sims 4 #sims 4 historical #historical sims #sims 4 cc #the sims cc

572 notes · View notes

satellite-evans · 7 months ago

Note

Hi! I saw that you’re taking requests..I wholeheartedly believe that Benedict is one of those ppl who are always warm like a human furnace sooo do you think you could write something about him keeping the reader warm when it’s cold outside (i.e, holding hands, hugging, etc.)

Much love😇💜

Warm Embrace

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: You find solace in the warm and comforting presence of your husband <3

Word count: 874

Warnings: just pure fluff

A/N:

Thank you so much for your request nonnie, You guys make me the happiest girl in the world when you sent in not only request, but also asks or questions, it honestly and truly makes my day🥹🥹🥹

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The chill of the early winter morning seeped through the cracks of the old country house, the wind howling softly outside. You shivered, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you looked out the window, watching the first snowflakes of the season dance gracefully to the ground. The room was dimly lit, the pale morning light filtering through the heavy curtains, casting a serene, almost magical glow over everything.

"You're awake early," came a familiar, warm voice from behind you. You turned to see Benedict, his hair tousled from sleep, standing in the doorway of your bedroom. He wore a simple nightshirt, the soft fabric clinging to his well-built frame, his presence comforting and reassuring.

"I couldn't sleep," you admitted, smiling at him. "The cold woke me."

Benedict's eyes softened as he walked over to you, his presence immediately warming the room. "Come here," he murmured, pulling you into his arms. His body radiated heat, and you sighed contentedly as you nestled against his chest, feeling his warmth envelop you. His embrace was familiar and secure, the perfect refuge from the biting cold.

He led you back to the bed, pulling the covers up as you both slipped underneath. Benedict wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. His body radiated heat like a human furnace, and you felt the chill melt away as he held you tight. The sensation of his warm skin against yours was incredibly comforting, a stark contrast to the cold air outside the bed.

"Better?" he asked, his lips brushing against your temple.

"Much better," you replied, resting your head against his shoulder. "You always know how to keep me warm."

Benedict chuckled softly, his hand gently rubbing your back. "It's a husband's duty to ensure his wife is comfortable," he said, his voice filled with warmth and affection. "Especially on such a cold morning."

You smiled against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your ear. "Well, you're certainly excelling at it," you teased, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. You felt the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, each exhale a soft whisper of warmth against your hair.

Benedict shifted slightly, pulling you even closer, his hands roaming your back in soothing circles. "Stay here with me," he whispered, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "We don't have to get up just yet. Let's just enjoy the warmth and the quiet."

You nodded, closing your eyes as you relaxed into his embrace. "There is no place in the world that I would rather at than to be here with you."

The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in your cozy cocoon. The wind continued to howl outside, but you felt safe and warm within Benedict's arms. His fingers trailed up and down your spine, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

After a while, Benedict began to hum softly, the deep, rich sound vibrating through his chest. You recognized the tune – a lullaby his mother sang to him and his siblings when they were children. Violet told you that it was the only way her children slept, especially Benedict, who always found it difficult to fall asleep. The melody was soothing, and you felt yourself drifting off, lulled by the warmth of his body and the gentle sound of his voice. You couldn't help but wonder if Benedict would sing it later to his own children too.

Benedict continued to hum, his hands never ceasing their gentle movements on your back. He was like a living, breathing source of warmth and comfort, and you felt incredibly grateful to have him by your side. His warmth seemed to seep into your very bones, driving away any lingering chill.

As the morning light slowly brightened the room, you opened your eyes to find Benedict watching you, a tender smile on his lips. "Good morning again," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. The look in his eyes was one of pure adoration, making your heart swell with love.

"Good morning," you replied, leaning in to kiss him. His lips were warm and soft, and you felt a rush of love and contentment wash over you. The kiss was slow and tender and felt like a warm lasting hug that you never wanted to break.

"Shall we get up and start the day?" Benedict asked after a moment, his forehead resting against yours.

You shook your head, a playful smile on your lips. "Not just yet. Let's stay like this a little longer."

Benedict chuckled, his arms tightening around you. "As you wish, my love," he said, settling back against the pillows with you still in his embrace. The sound of his laughter was like a warm breeze, filling you with happiness.

And so you stayed, wrapped in each other's warmth, savoring the quiet moments before the day began. Outside, the snow continued to fall, but inside, all you felt was the heat of Benedict's love, keeping the cold at bay. The world outside could wait; for now, there was only the two of you, nestled together in your own private haven of warmth and love.

#benedict bridgerton #benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #violet bridgerton #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton family #benedict bridgerton x you #bridgerton #bridgerton s3 #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

372 notes · View notes

shadowdaddies · 3 months ago

Text

The Offering

Nesta x witch!Reader smut (AU)

A/N: I'm very much in the Witchy Girl Autumn spirit. This is an AU where Nesta is a Death Goddess; be warned it's a bit dark and twisty.

Warnings: mean domme!Nesta, fingering, oral f!receiving, tribbing, pussy spanking, breath play ish?, degradation, idk this is filthy just beware and minors dni or I'll hex you

Ice-coated leaves crunched beneath your bare feet, the remnants of snow a dulled sting against your skin. Unable to fight the shivers that wracked through you, you inwardly cursed yourself for being such a weak witch to be phased by something as little as the weather.

The heavy black cloak draped over your body provided your only protection from the late December air as you found your small opening in the forest and knelt. Shaky hands, stiff from winter air clumsily pushed debris to the side, pulled kindling from your pack, carved the spell circle into the dirt.

Hands dirtied, breath cloudy in the crisp cold, you looked to the sky as the stars seemed to dim even without the light of the moon. The second full moon of this month - and the last of this year - would guarantee the strongest connection to the earth. As mother nature began anew, you would so draw from her power, praying to the goddesses for guidance and strength to begin anew as well.

Regretfully, you pulled the black shawl from where it draped across your neck, sucking in a deep breath at the chill that filled your bones when you laid the offering at your makeshift altar’s base beside the purple candles and fruits you’d set to honor the Crone.

The symbol of new beginnings, wisdom, and serenity - your last hope was sacrament and supplication to the waning facet of the Triple Headed Goddess. As darkness enveloped the land and the wind grew eerily still, you breathed light into the candles with a whisper of a spell-cast. The kindling caught quickly, blazing to life with a ferocity that had you pulling off your cloak.

Completely bare in the darkness with the spirits of goddesses and witches past watching curiously, you began to chant in the old language - your story, and your please for help. A soft smile graced your lips as the flames raged higher and higher, the only source of light in this Black Moon night, signaled that your voice had been heard.

As warm hope swelled in your chest, you closed your eyes, head thrown back in whole surrender to the powers that listened, only for that warmth to be brusquely ripped away. No gust of wind signaled the suffocation of the flames before you. It was the cold, a supernatural force that rattled your core which told you something was amiss.

Eyes fluttering open, you gasped at the sight of the North Star shining brightly in the sky, where it had been missing only moments ago.

“It’s snowing,” a sultry voice purred. You jumped at the sight of a woman - not a woman, but something... more - leaning against the pyre, seemingly unbothered by the simmering embers of extinguished flames against her exposed skin.

Translucent silver fabric draped over the curves of her body, your eyes drinking her in as they trailed upwards. The thorned diadem that circled her braided hair seemed to mimic the silver flames that danced in her eyes, and you gasped at the realization of who was before you.

Lady Death read your expression with a taunting smirk, eyes glittering with amusement as she leapt from the altar with grace. You watched in awe as she picked up a pomegranate from the offerings, humming a cheery tune that seemed to betray the nature of her being.

“It’s snowing,” she repeated, brow arched in question as Death’s gaze raked unabashedly over your naked body. “Aren’t you cold, little witch?”

The heat from her gaze sent a shock of confidence though you, your expression shifting to match her own. “I could ask the same of you, Lady Death,” you countered, accentuating your own, slow stare. You allowed yourself to fully revel in her form, the unexpected beauty of a goddess of death.

Her long legs reflected the star’s light through the slits of wispy fabric in her gown, her breasts peaked from the cold, nearly as pale as the snow that had begun to drift upon the forest floor.

A laugh echoed through the air, and your eyes snapped to hers to find that same taunting smile, lazy like a predator who’s caught its prey. “I am Death,” she purred, plunging a finger through the flesh of the pomegranate in her hand. “I don’t get cold, pet.”

Tipping the fruit to her lips, pomegranate juice flowed down, staining her lips a deep red and trailing down. Down her throat, the red liquid flowed slowly between her breasts and below the dress.

You could feel heat rise to your cheeks, cunt fluttering at the mere sight of her, of everything you could and could not see. The fruit rolled from the goddess’s fingertips, dropping to the ground unceremoniously as she strolled toward where you still kneeled on the ground.

A single finger curled under your chin, easily maneuvering you how she pleased. “Why did you summon me?”

Heart thundered in your chest, eyes widening as you registered her question. “I-I didn’t mean to summon you,” you argued, voice pleading. “I was making an offering, hoping for a blessing from the Crone-“

“You meant to summon the Crone?” Death’s grip sharpened on your chin.

Willing your heart to still, you forced yourself to look into her eyes, the depths of them swirling with dark power. “No, I meant to ask for wisdom. For blessings with a fresh start. My life-“ You choked slightly at the press of her hand at your throat, just hard enough to make your head feel lighter.

“You summoned me, you naive little witch.” She spat the last word like a curse, cupping your jaw as she jerked your head to face the circle behind her. “You summoned the Crone. Hecate, Coatlicue, Muerte, Meng Po, Lady Death.” The briefest pause. “Nesta.”

I go by many names, witch. And yet, you somehow ‘accidentally’ summoned me, for a mere blessing?”

“W-well, yes. I just wanted to move on, my relationship-“

A sharp cackle cut off your rambling, the noise so unlike how the goddess had sounded earlier that you nearly jumped again.

“You know, pet,” Nesta whispered, leaning down until her face was a breath away from your own. “I appear to those who call on me as what they truly desire. And you, my dear, see me as myself.” Drawing back slightly, the goddess’s hand moved to stroke your hair in a frighteningly soft manner.

“So tell me, pet, what do you truly desire?”

Eyes dropping down to the trail of sweet juice that stained Nesta’s skin, you could feel her smile as though she could read your thoughts. Lust overcame you like a force of its own, head cloudy as you heard yourself babble admissions of want.

“Take it. Take what you need, little witch.” Nesta gasped as you lunged forward, pulling her to her knees along with you in the dirt. Lips instantly found hers, a clash of teeth and tongues as you licked every bit of remaining fruit from her mouth.

Trailing down, you followed the path of temptation down her chest with a frantic need you had never felt before, pawing at the scraps of fabric that held Nesta’s dress in place. She laughed softly, the sound quickly turning to a moan as you took one of her nipples into your mouth.

“Lay back,” you panted, Nesta’s amused lack of urgency only spurring on your own frustration. “Please,” you whined, helpless in your need to touch her, taste her. With a soft hum, she obliged you, laying back on the thin blanket of snow with a slowness that allowed you to strip her bare before she hit the earth.

Bringing your lips back to her chest, you licked and sucked dark bruises that drew sinful moans from the goddess. She reveled in the pain and pleasure, and with that knowledge you dragged your nails down her thighs, cleaning up the juice until you hovered above her glistening cunt.

Practically panting in your crazed state, you spread her legs to settle in when you felt yourself suddenly lifted. Death had easily flipped you onto your back, her hips nestled atop your own as she pinned your wrists into the dirt.

“You look so cute like this. Needy, desperate enough to let me do anything to you,” she growled. So wrapped up in your lustful haze, you simply nodded along, weakly arching your hips for some sort of friction. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you asked for, baby,” Nesta cooed. Her hips lowered to meet yours, legs interlocked as she slowly ground her clit against your own.

Soft moans flowed from her lips like a melody, your own soft pants swallowed by her lips crashing against yours, her teeth sinking into your skin, lips sucking your tongue into her mouth as though she was trying to consume you. Nesta kept you pinned beneath her, using your body as she humped and rolled her growing slick against yours.

You had never felt so helpless yet so powerful, lacking control but seizing pleasure. Your pussy clenched, lips gaping as you felt yourself begin to hit your orgasm when Nesta abruptly pulled away. “Not yet, pet,” she tsk’d at your fucked out confusion beneath her.

“You need to take care of me.” Turning around, Nesta slid up your body, her sticky cunt perched over your mouth as her hands skated down your hips. “Show me that you deserve my blessing.”

Fully pressing her weight onto you, you moaned at the feeling of breathlessness, the taste of her dripping against your chin and lips as her hips began to rock. Taking advantage of Nesta releasing your wrists, you wrapped your arms around her thighs, pulling her closer to lick her clean, sucking and lightly nipping at her clit while you studied her reactions to every motion.

You could tell she was close, doubling down your efforts when she suddenly thrust a finger inside of you, curling against your slick walls with embarrassing ease. She chuckled, adding to the humiliation when she added a second finger, twisting a curling with tortuous slowness that stole your focus from her pussy.

Nesta’s thumb found your clit, your hips bucking up at the sudden feeling. Before you could register what happened, Nesta was fully sitting on you, cutting off your air as a harsh smack landed on your pussy. Your scream was muffled by her cunt on your lips, but Nesta rolled against you in response, moaning at the vibrations.

Lifting up slightly, the goddess rolled a soothing hand over your puffy clit. “You take what I give you, pet. Now, stay still. I will not ask again.” She gave no warning before plunging her fingers inside of you once more, this time faster as her tongue licked a wet stripe down your clit.

Your legs burned from keeping them still against the cold, hard ground, head swimming from how long you’d been held between Nesta’s thighs when she fluttered around your tongue. “Come, now,” she commanded, and your body obeyed. Shaking and moaning, you savored her release as she worked you through yours.

Sitting up with an impossible grace, Nesta smirked at you over her shoulder, lips stained red and shining with your arousal as the North Star cast a glow over her silhouette. You lay, sore and exhausted, as the goddess crawled up your body, sitting her wet pussy on your stomach. She looked down at you with a sense of appraisal, hands lazily roaming every inch of your skin.

“I think I’ll have to keep you,” she hummed, thumb lazily dragging across your bottom lip.

“Keep me? What does that mean?” you squeaked out in a whisper, eagerness and fear eddying within your mind at the possibilities.

Nesta only offered you a cryptic smile, thumb dipping into your mouth where you could still taste the pomegranate’s sweet nectar on her skin. Tongue flicking out, you wrapped your lips around her like second nature. “Good girl,” she muttered as the forest grew dark around you once more.

160 notes · View notes

winxanity-ii · 21 days ago

Text

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 14 Chapter 14 | silent strain⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The days that followed were restless, though you tried to hide it beneath the mask of routine.

Each moment you could spare, your eyes trailed toward Andreia and Prince Telemachus. Whether it was during dinners where the royal families mingled or as you passed by the courtyards in your duties, you found yourself drawn to their interactions.

Andreia's demeanor toward Telemachus was as obvious as sunlight. She was coy, her voice lilting with playful notes as she leaned toward him just enough to invade his space without overstepping.

She'd twirl a strand of her auburn hair around her fingers, her head tilting at the slightest inclination of his voice, as though every word he spoke was a revelation.

Her laughter was sweet, too sweet—a bubbly, ringing sound that set your teeth on edge, especially when compared to the cold detachment she'd shown you that day in the sheepfold.

It was jarring, to see her so kind and open with him, far removed from the icy, calculating figure you had encountered. She radiated warmth, her emerald eyes sparkling with a feigned innocence that you couldn't unsee now that you knew better.

She was a different person entirely—charming, demure, and confident in a way that left little doubt of her intentions. Her fingers would linger on Telemachus' arm just a moment too long, her smile a fraction too wide.

It was as if she were weaving a net around him, one thread at a time.

Telemachus, for his part, seemed polite and cordial, though there were moments when his boyish charm peeked through.

At dinner, he'd lean in closer when she spoke, his face attentive, his easy smile encouraging her to continue.

You couldn't help but notice how his eyes occasionally flickered to her face, perhaps taking in the faint blush that colored her cheeks. But then, there were times he seemed to grow restless, a faint flicker of something unreadable in his gaze as if he were only half listening.

It stung, though you tried not to let it show, especially during those evenings when you'd catch snippets of their laughter echoing through the halls. Your hands would tighten on the linen you were folding, or your steps would quicken as you passed by the feasting hall.

Still, you reminded yourself that this was his role—a prince courting a princess, ensuring alliances. Yet, even with that reminder, Callias' words lingered in your mind, a whisper of reassurance battling against the tightening in your chest.

The days grew shorter as autumn began to edge into winter, the chill creeping into the mornings and biting at your skin despite the midday sun. The air carried a sharper edge, and the light waned faster, casting the palace in long shadows that came too early in the day.

It was on one such brisk afternoon that you found yourself leaving the seamstress' quarters, a small scroll in hand detailing the queen's updated winter measurements. The cold nipped at your cheeks, and you tugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you moved through the quieter corridors of the palace.

You were on your way to the queen's chambers for lunch, the scroll meant to be presented alongside her midday tea. The thought of her warm smile and the calm wisdom she carried in even the simplest exchanges brought a small measure of comfort as your steps echoed softly against the stone floors.

"____!" The sound of your name, called with warmth and familiarity, startled you, and your heart leapt in your chest.

You turned sharply, your fingers tightening around the scroll as your eyes landed on Telemachus. He was walking briskly toward you, his steps purposeful yet light, and you couldn't help but notice how his smile grew wider as he caught your gaze.

His eyes brightened, the fatigue that had seemed to cling to him in recent days momentarily lifting, and there was a slight spring in his step, as though seeing you had filled him with a sudden energy.

"____," he called again, his voice carrying easily over the quiet. "I was hoping to run into you."

"Telemachus," you breathed under your breath, his name slipping from your lips without thought as he approached, stopping in your tracks.

Your heart beat faster than you wanted to admit, your heart fluttering in your chest, each beat heavy and echoing in your ears. You tightened your grip on the scroll in your hands, suddenly hyperaware of how cold your fingers felt against the smooth parchment.

As he stopped before you, his smile softened, and his gaze swept over you with quiet intensity. His eyes lingered briefly, studying you as though searching for something. "How are you?" he asked, his voice low and warm, a thread of concern woven through his tone. "Are you feeling well?"

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe, caught off guard by the way he looked at you—his brows slightly furrowed, his head tilted just enough to show genuine interest.

The wind teased at the loose strands of his hair, and the soft sunlight caught in his eyes, making the warm brown hue seem almost golden.

"I-I'm fine," you managed to say, though your voice sounded too light, too forced, even to your own ears. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other before offering a small bow of respect, glancing down briefly before meeting his gaze again. "Thank you for asking, my prince."

His lips twitched, as though suppressing a deeper smile, and he gave a slight shake of his head, waving a hand dismissively at the formality. "There's no need for that," he said, his tone light.

The words seemed to relax the air between you, and his shoulders loosened as he studied you again. This time, his gaze held no urgency, only a quiet satisfaction as he took in the healthy flush of your cheeks, the steadiness of your stance. "Good." The tension around his eyes eased as his smile softened further.

"You look much better," he murmured, almost to himself, before clearing his throat. "I mean, not that you looked unwell before, but... you know." He trailed off, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

You felt a warmth rise to your own cheeks, and you nodded quickly, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "Yes, I'm fine now. Thank you for asking, my prince."

He studied you for a moment longer, as though committing the sight of you to memory, before his expression shifted slightly. The softness in his gaze gave way to a more thoughtful look, and he hesitated before speaking again. He shifted his stance, his hands brushing lightly against his tunic as though gathering his thoughts.

"Uhh, I noticed," he began, his voice slower now, deliberate, "at the feast the other night, and... well, even before that." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly as he searched for the right words. "You haven't been playing your lyre. You usually don't go a night without it."

The words hit you like a sudden gust of wind, freezing you in place. Your breath caught sharply, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, wide-eyed. The scroll in your hands felt suddenly heavy, your fingers trembling as your grip tightened.

"I mean," he continued, seemingly unaware of your sudden tension, "you still play beautifully—every instrument you touch, really—but I couldn't help but notice. Your lyre... it always seemed to be your favorite. And now..." He trailed off, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "I just wondered if everything was alright."

You forced yourself to swallow, trying to steady the rising panic clawing at your chest as your mind scrambled for a response.

No one else had noticed—not the queen, not the other servants, not even the musicians you occasionally played with.

You had thought your quiet substitution of instruments had gone unnoticed, a small, insignificant change in the grand scheme of things.

But Telemachus had noticed.

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, and it only made the lump in your throat grow heavier. How could you explain it? How could you tell him about Andreia, about what had happened?

Only Callias and Andreia herself knew the truth, and you had worked so hard to keep it that way.

The thought of revealing it to him—to anyone—made your stomach twist with unease.

"I..." You hesitated, your voice faltering as you tried to steady your breathing. You forced a smile, though it felt brittle, and shook your head lightly. "I've been trying something new," you blurted out, the words rushed and awkward. "Different instruments, I mean. I thought it might be... refreshing." You forced a smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

For a moment, Telemachus said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. You braced yourself, the seconds stretching into what felt like an eternity. But then, to your immense relief, he nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing.

"That makes sense," he said finally, though his voice carried a note of skepticism. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before his lips quirked into a small, reassuring smile. "You've always been talented. Whatever you play, I'm sure it's worth hearing."

His words sent a strange mix of relief and guilt washing over you, the warmth of his praise clashing with the unease that still churned in your chest.

You nodded, managing a quiet, "Thank you," though the words felt hollow in your throat.

"And, ____, if there's ever anything you need... anything at all—you know you can come to me. Right?"

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice, and you nodded quickly, your throat tight with emotion. "Of course, my prince. Thank you."

He held your gaze for a moment longer, as if searching for something unspoken, before his smile returned, softer now. "Good," he said simply, his tone warm. "That's all I wanted to hear."

Telemachus' smile lingered, and for a brief moment, the air between you felt lighter, warmer, as though the weight of the conversation had been lifted. But deep down, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that the truth was closer to surfacing than you were ready for.

For a moment, the two of you stood there in the quiet corridor, the world around you fading into the background.

You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely breaking the quiet between you. Telemachus' head tilted, his brow lifting slightly as his attention sharpened. For a heartbeat, you hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze, before the words tumbled out.

"Have you, um—" You faltered, your voice catching for just a moment. "Have you seen any new constellations recently? Or... perhaps something interesting in the stars lately? You know, with the season changing."

Telemachus blinked in surprise at first before his expression shifted immediately, his eyes lighting up with a boyish excitement that made your chest tighten. "Oh, yes," he said quickly, the words spilling out like he'd been waiting for an excuse to talk about it. His smile grew, softer but no less genuine, as his fingers brushed absently over the hem of his tunic.

"The skies have been stunning this autumn," he began, his tone growing warm with excitement. "Just a few nights ago, I was out watching the heavens, and I caught sight of Lyra—the Harp—hanging low near the horizon. It's faint this time of year, but clear if you know where to look." He paused, his lips curving into a thoughtful smile. "It... made me think of you."

Your breath hitched, and his cheeks flushed, the faint pink spreading across his nose as he seemed to realize what he'd said. "I—I mean," he stammered, his hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the ground before flicking back to yours, "it's just—you play the lyre so beautifully, and, well, Lyra always reminds me of music and..." He trailed off, his voice softening, his gaze dropping for a moment as though he needed a second to steady himself.

He cleared his throat, his hands now clasping in front of him, and when he looked back up at you, there was a tenderness in his eyes that made your heart ache. "Since my father returned, he's been teaching me tricks about the stars—navigating by them, learning their patterns—things he picked up on his travels." A faint, bashful smile tugged at his lips. "He says I've got a good eye for it."

You couldn't help but smile, the image of Telemachus and Odysseus stargazing together filling your mind. "That sounds wonderful,"

Telemachus' gaze flickered away again, the faint blush deepening on his cheeks as he nodded. "It is. It's... peaceful, being out there under the open sky. Sometimes, it feels like you can hear the stories the stars are trying to tell."

He hesitated, his weight shifting slightly, his hands brushing against his sides as though searching for something to do.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, softer, almost unsure. "So, uh, tomorrow night, Venus will be at its brightest," he said, his eyes glancing up at you briefly before darting away again. "It's—it's something to see, really. It lights up the sky like a beacon."

He cleared his throat again, his fingers now fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. "I... was thinking—" He stopped, biting his lip as his gaze darted back to you. His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and he stuttered slightly as he continued, "If—if you'd like, you could... join me? To see it, I mean. It's, uh, better with someone else. I think you'd... enjoy it."

Your heart leapt, the warmth in his voice wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. The way he looked at you—shy, hopeful, as though his entire world hinged on your answer—made it impossible to refuse.

Your lips parted, the word "I—" barely forming before a voice interrupted the moment.

"Telemachus~" the voice cooed, smooth, and saccharine, cutting through the air like a blade.

Your breath hitched, the faint warmth that had begun to bloom between you and the prince cooling instantly. Both of you turned toward the source of the interruption, and there she was—Andreia.

Her auburn hair gleamed like polished copper, catching the soft light spilling through the corridor windows, and her practiced smile curved effortlessly across her lips.

She strode toward the two of you with an ease that bordered on regal, her eyes flashing briefly over you before locking onto Telemachus.

"Here you are," she said, her tone light and lilting, as though she'd spent hours searching for him. The way her words flowed, so casual yet so perfectly placed, made your stomach churn.

Andreia's hand brushed lightly against Telemachus' arm, her touch lingering just enough to feel possessive. Her fingers rested there, delicate yet firm, like she had every right to stake her claim. "I was wondering where you'd gone," she added with a soft laugh, tilting her head ever so slightly as she looked up at him.

Telemachus stiffened at first, his shoulders squaring in surprise, the flush still on his cheeks as his gaze darted between you and Andreia. "Oh, uh... Lady Andreia," he greeted, his tone polite but lacking the warmth he'd just shown you.

His fingers flexed at his sides, betraying his awkwardness as his eyes flitted back toward you, only to snap back to Andreia under the weight of her commanding presence.

Andreia's smile widened, a flash of teeth, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about our lunch plans," she teased, her tone playful but carrying an undercurrent of reprimand. "You promised to show me the olive grove today."

The words hung in the air, heavy despite her light delivery. Your grip on the edge of your shawl tightened, your knuckles brushing against the scroll you still held.

Telemachus shifted his weight, his unease evident in the way his eyes flitted briefly to yours before snapping back to Andreia. "Right," he said slowly, his voice faltering as though caught off guard. "The olive grove."

Andreia's hand slid down from his arm but stayed close, her posture angled toward him with practiced grace. "Shall we go?" she asked, her emerald eyes locked on his face, her expression one of expectation.

Your chest tightened at the sight, and for a fleeting moment, you thought Telemachus might turn back to you. His lips parted slightly, his gaze turning to linger on you just long enough for something to flicker in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or an apology he couldn't voice.

Andreia's attention, however, was unrelenting. Her smile faltered for the briefest moment as she followed his gaze, her expression cooling when her eyes landed on you. "Oh..." she drawled, her head tilting slightly, the tone of her voice dripping with feigned surprise. "You're ____, yes?"

You straightened instinctively, willing your voice to remain steady. "Y-Yes, Lady An—"

Andreia didn't let you finish. She turned back to Telemachus, her gaze softening as though you weren't even there. "Oh," she said lightly, her voice airy, "am I interrupting something, Telemachus?" The question was directed at Telemachus, her tone sweet but pointed, her wide eyes locked on his face.

Telemachus' face remained carefully neutral, his features set in a mask of calm that he had learned to wear during courtly interactions. But beneath the surface, his mind churned.

He was acutely aware of how close Andreia stood now, the scent of her floral perfume faint but distinct in the chill air. The warmth he had felt only moments ago, while speaking with you, had all but drained away.

His eyes darted toward you again, lingering for a fraction longer than was prudent. You stood stiffly, the scroll in your hands held tightly against your chest, your gaze lowered.

There was something almost imperceptible in your posture—disappointment, perhaps? Hurt? The thought made his stomach twist, though he quickly shoved it aside.

He couldn't afford to focus on that, not now.

"No—no, you're not interrupting," he stammered, his tone caught between reassurance and discomfort. He forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, and gestured vaguely toward you. "We were just finishing up."

Andreia's smile returned, brighter than ever, the edges curling with satisfaction as though she had won a quiet battle. She stepped closer to Telemachus; her fingers grazed the edge of his tunic, an almost imperceptible gesture that felt calculated, meant to be seen but subtle enough to be dismissed as casual. "Good," she said with a soft laugh, her emerald eyes glinting as they met his. "I wouldn't want to pull you away from anything... important." Her words hung in the air, carrying a subtle challenge that wasn't lost to you.

Telemachus swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening briefly as he resisted the urge to glance at you again.

He knew how this moment looked, how it felt, and it gnawed at the edges of his resolve. But he also knew his duty, the expectations that came with his station.

Andreia wasn't just a princess—she was a potential alliance, a symbol of unity between Ithaca and her own kingdom. To dismiss her or show favoritism toward someone else, no matter how innocent the context, would be unwise.

"Of course not," he replied, his tone even, though his chest felt heavy. He offered a small, polite nod, one that he hoped would convey the right amount of respect and deference. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Andreia tilted her head slightly, her smile softening as though his words had pleased her. She reached up, brushing a strand of auburn hair back from her face, the motion deliberate yet graceful. "You're always so considerate, Machus," she said, her voice light and teasing; her gaze flickered briefly to you again, as though gauging your reaction, before returning to him.

Telemachus felt his pulse quicken, his discomfort growing. He hated how easily Andreia commanded the conversation, how her presence seemed to overshadow everything else in the moment.

But he hated more that he couldn't bring himself to break away, to say what he truly wanted. His role as prince demanded restraint, diplomacy, and sacrifice.

And so, he buried the flicker of guilt that had sparked when he'd seen the look in your eyes.

You shuffled your feet, the use of the nickname "Machus" feeling like an invisible weight pressing against your chest, the easy familiarity of it jarring in its intimacy.

How comfortable she was using it—and worse, how Telemachus neither stopped her nor corrected her—made the moment heavier, more painful than you cared to admit.

You knew better than to take it personally; you knew the realities of his station and the delicate politics at play, but that knowledge didn't dull the ache.

Your throat tightened, and you softly cleared it, drawing their attention briefly. You dipped into a polite curtsy, your voice steady though quieter than usual. "If you'll excuse me, my prince, my lady," you said, keeping your gaze lowered as you took a step back. "I'll...I'll take my leave now."

Telemachus' eyes flicked toward you, his lips parting as if he might say something, but the words never came.

Andreia giggled softly, leaning closer to him as though you had already gone, her hand lightly resting on his arm. "Oh, Machus," she said, blinking up at him with a coy smile. "I almost forgot—one of Bronte's navigators mentioned that Venus will be at her brightest tomorrow. Isn't that perfect? We should watch it together."

Her tone was light and airy, but there was an undercurrent of possession in her words that wasn't lost on you as you turned to leave. The sound of her laughter, soft and musical, lingered behind you as you walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

You didn't glance back, though your heart clenched at the thought of what you might see if you did.

You had barely made it halfway down the corridor, your steps deliberate yet distant, when the sound of hurried footsteps behind you broke the rhythm of your retreat. Before you could react, a warm hand wrapped gently but firmly around your wrist, halting your escape.

"Wait," Telemachus' voice came, low but rushed, tinged with urgency. You turned halfway, your heart skipping at the sight of him. His face was flushed, his breath slightly uneven as though he'd chased after you without thinking.

"What are you—?" you began, but he shook his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he leaned in closer.

"Please," he said, his tone softer now, imploring. His gaze darted briefly over his shoulder, and you caught sight of Andreia still standing in the corridor.

She was a distance away, her posture poised, though her expression was unreadable. She waited, her presence a looming reminder that you didn't belong in the same orbit as her.

Telemachus turned back to you, his brow furrowed, his words coming in a rush as if trying to explain something too complex for the time he had. "I know how this must look—how she must seem—but you have to understand, this isn't—I-I didn't mean for you to think... I just—" He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated with himself as he glanced back toward Andreia again, and he looked back at you. "This isn't what it looks like."

Your chest tightened, and you pulled your wrist gently out of his grasp, stepping back to create some distance. "You don't have to explain anything," you said softly, your voice measured, though you felt anything but calm. "I understand."

His eyes flickered, confusion flashing across his face. "You... do?" he asked, his tone unsure, as though he didn't believe you. He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if afraid Andreia would hear. "I just mean... Andreia is a princess and she's here because... because of alliances. It's all political, so I have to entertain her. I—" He stumbled over his words, his frustration evident. "It doesn't mean anything."

The words were like a stone dropped into a still pond, rippling through your mind in ways you couldn't fully grasp. It doesn't mean anything. Then why did it feel like it meant everything?

You tilted your head, searching his face for clarity, but all you saw was a young man caught between two worlds—one of duty and one of desire. His expression softened as his eyes met yours again, his voice gentler now. "I just... I want you to understand, that this isn't real," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have to do this—for Ithaca, for my father. For everyone. But it's temporary." His explanation was clumsy, the words jumbled as though he didn't quite know how to phrase what he wanted to say.

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "I just... I didn't want you to think that this, that she..." He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, desperate for some sign that you believed him. "You see that... don't you?"

You wanted to, desperately. But the words felt hollow, his explanation thin. Temporary or not, Andreia was a princess, and you were... you. Someone who could be excused without a second thought, whose place in this palace was dictated by servitude, not status.

Besides, part of you couldn't ignore the lingering ache in your chest. His words didn't erase the sight of Andreia's easy closeness or the way he hadn't corrected her use of the nickname.

You forced yourself to nod, the movement stiff and mechanical. "I see," you murmured, though your heart felt like it was splintering with each syllable.

Relief washed over his features, his grip on your wrist finally loosening. "Good," he said, exhaling as though a weight had been lifted. "I just didn't want you to think—" He stopped himself, shaking his head again, a faint, almost boyish smile tugging at his lips. "I didn't want to lose your trust."

You nodded again, a small, tight smile finding its way to your lips. "Of course, my prince," you said, the formality slipping out before you could stop it. "I understand."

The formality of your words made him flinch slightly, but before he could say anything else, you curtsied quickly and turned to leave.

This time, he didn't stop you.

As you walked away, your heart felt heavier than before, each step echoing in the quiet corridor. You couldn't shake the feeling that you'd just crossed some invisible line, that something between you had shifted in a way that couldn't be undone.

Meanwhile, Telemachus remained where you'd left him, a heavy sigh escaping him, watching your retreating figure with a conflicted expression. He rubbed a hand over his face, his thoughts spinning in disarray.

He'd thought you understood—hadn't you just said so? He didn't know why the moment still felt so unfinished, why his chest felt tight with an unease he couldn't shake.

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair as he glanced back toward Andreia, who was waiting for him with a curious tilt of her head.

He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to push it aside.

You understood, he told himself. You knew his actions were only temporary, a necessary pretense, and that was enough.

Or so he thought.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You barely made it a few steps down the corridor before the tears began to blur your vision. They welled up hot and fast, threatening to spill over no matter how tightly you bit your lip to keep the sobs at bay.

You kept your head down, focusing on the stone floor beneath your feet as you tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat refused to ease. Each step felt heavier than the last, and no matter how much you told yourself to stay calm, the pressure inside you grew with every passing second.

By the time you rounded the corner, the tears had started to fall, hot and unbidden, streaking down your cheeks. You swiped at them angrily, as though erasing them would somehow make the ache in your chest go away.

Another sob tried to claw its way out, but you bit it back harder, a metallic taste filling your mouth as you forced yourself to stay quiet.

You're so foolish, you thought bitterly, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. You don't have any claim over him. He's a prince, and you're... Your chest heaved as you drew in a shaky breath, your steps faltering as the realization settled deeper into your mind. You're a servant. You have no right to feel this way.

And yet, no matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself, you couldn't ignore the way your heart clung to the moments you shared with him—the stolen smiles, the quiet conversations, the way his eyes seemed to soften whenever they met yours.

Were they just illusions? Things you'd foolishly read too much into?

Just as you turned another corner, lost in your thoughts, you collided with something—or someone. The force knocked the breath out of you, and you stumbled back slightly, the scroll slipping from your hands as you let out a startled gasp.

"I'm sorry!" you blurted out, your voice trembling as you hastily bent to retrieve the scroll. Your fingers fumbled clumsily as you wiped at your face, trying to hide the tears that still streaked your cheeks. "I-I wasn't looking where I was going, I—"

A low, warm chuckle cut through your hurried apology, freezing you in place. The sound was rich and teasing, carrying a lilt of amusement that made your heart skip a beat.

"Why," the voice drawled, smooth and playful, "do I always seem to catch you at the worst moments?"

Your breath caught, and you slowly looked up, blinking away the last of your tears. The figure before you came into focus, and your eyes widened in recognition.

Hermes stood before you, his divine presence striking against the mundane backdrop of the palace corridor.

His tousled curls caught the dim light, the faint shimmer of his form almost too vibrant for the simple stone walls surrounding him. His scarlet cloak draped effortlessly over one shoulder, and the faint flutter of the wings on his sandals sent a soft breeze brushing against your skin.

He looked every bit the god he was, radiant and untouchable, yet somehow entirely at ease.

You stared, momentarily frozen by the contrast of his divine radiance in this otherwise quiet corner of Ithaca's halls. His head tilted slightly, a grin tugging at his lips as he observed your stunned silence.

Then, raising a hand, he lightly tapped a finger against your forehead, the motion playful yet deliberate. "Anyone home?" he asked, the amusement in his voice pulling you out of your daze.

You blinked rapidly, heat rising to your face as you realized you'd been gaping. "H-Hermes, I—I'm sorry," you stammered, taking a step back, gripping the scroll tightly against your chest. "I—I didn't expect to see you here."

"No, clearly not," he said with a grin, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against the wall. "Though I must admit, bumping into you is quickly becoming my favorite pastime."

You frowned slightly, glancing down at the floor. "Sorry," you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn't paying attention."

Hermes tilted his head, studying you with a look that was equal parts curious and amused. "Apologies, apologies," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "You mortals are always so quick to blame yourselves. Tell me, little musician, what's got you so distracted this time? Or should I guess?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You weren't sure what to say—how to explain the storm of emotions swirling inside you without sounding utterly ridiculous.

A part of you wanted to open up, to let him know everything, but another part held you back, unsure of how much a god could—or would—understand.

Hermes, however, seemed content to wait, his gaze steady, his golden eyes filled with a quiet patience that felt strangely comforting. Still, you couldn't help but wonder what had brought him down to Ithaca this time, and why, of all places, he'd found you here in such a state.

"I—" you started, but the words caught in your throat. Your grip on the scroll tightened, and you swallowed hard, shaking your head. "It's nothing," you said quickly, your voice barely steady. Clearing your throat, you glanced at Hermes, forcing a small, uncertain smile. "What brings you down here? Are you here to deliver another message?" you asked, your voice wavering between curiosity and hesitation.

Hermes waved a dismissive hand, his expression light and amused. "Nah, no messages this time," he said, leaning casually against the wall. "I was bored. Thought I'd drop in on my grandson-in-law, Laertes. You know, see how the old man's doing. Deliever a message for my granddaughter Anticleia and all that."

For a moment, your mind froze, his words not fully registering. "Your... grandson?" you repeated, blinking up at him in confusion.

Hermes chuckled, bending slightly to meet your gaze, his head tilting in mock curiosity. "What's the matter? Didn't you know Odysseus is a descendant of mine?" His teasing tone and the glint in his golden eyes sent a ripple of warmth to your cheeks.

The faintest memory stirred in the back of your mind—Penelope mentioning the royal lineage, the gods woven into their family tree—but you hadn't thought much of it at the time. The knowledge had slipped away, buried beneath the weight of your daily tasks.

"I... think I heard that before," you admitted softly, your brow furrowing as you tried to recall the details. "But I guess I didn't really connect the dots."

"Figures," Hermes said with a laugh, straightening up and gesturing grandly to himself. "It's why Odysseus is so clever, you know. Gets it from me. Same with Telemachus, to some degree—though he's still figuring it out." He shot you a playful grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're lucky, by the way. Not everyone gets such a close-up view of divine legacy in action."

Your mind finally caught up, a single word from earlier sticking out in your thoughts. "Anticleia," you murmured, hesitant yet certain. "Isn't she...?" You trailed off, unsure how to phrase it delicately.

Hermes raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your reaction. "Dead? In the Underworld?" he finished for you, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "Good ear, little musician." He tapped the side of his head playfully. "I do sometimes stop by to deliver messages for her. She's one of my favorites, you know. Sweet woman. Always appreciated my visits." A fond smile softened his face for a moment before he glanced back at you.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. "Are you interested in going?"

The question caught you off guard, and your breath hitched. "G-Go to the Underworld?" you stammered, blinking at him in confusion. The idea sounded absurd—terrifying, even.

Hermes let out a hearty laugh, his voice echoing lightly through the corridor. "Not permanently, little one. I meant for a visit! Think of it as a 'bring a mortal to work' day." He winked, the boyish charm in his expression making the suggestion sound almost enticing. "I'm due to deliver a message to Anticleia from Laertes anyway. You could come along—get a glimpse of something most mortals only dream about."

You hesitated, the weight of the offer settling over you. The thought of traveling to the Underworld was daunting, to say the least, but a part of you was intrigued.

If you declined, you'd only be left alone with your swirling thoughts of Telemachus and Andreia, so perhaps this unexpected detour was just the distraction you needed.

Swallowing your nerves, you nodded slowly. "Alright," you said, your voice soft but resolute. "I'll go."

Hermes' grin widened, his excitement almost contagious. "That's the spirit! Stick with me, little musician, and you'll have quite the story to tell." He extended his hand toward you, his long fingers steady and inviting.

For a moment, you hesitated, glancing at his hand. It was unlike yours—smooth, unblemished, and seemingly untouched by the trials of the mortal world.

When your hand finally met his, you were struck by the warmth of his palm and the lightness of his touch. His fingers closed gently around yours, cradling your calloused hand with an unexpected tenderness, as though you were something fragile.

The contrast was stark, your roughened skin a reminder of the countless hours spent working and playing music, his touch soft and divine.

"There we go," Hermes said, his tone playful yet reassuring. "Don't worry, I won't let you fall." His golden eyes twinkled with mischief, but there was something else beneath them—a quiet promise of safety. Then, without warning, he pulled you closer, his warmth enveloping you as he bent his head down, his breath brushing against your ear. The soft rush of air sent a shiver cascading down your spine, your skin prickling in response.

"The shadows conceal the threshold, a gateway unseen to mortal eyes," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, carrying an intimate thrill that made your heart race. His breath was warm, each word laced with an excitement you couldn't quite place.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling ever so slightly in his grasp.

Just as you thought you might ask a question, he pulled back slightly, a playful grin spreading across his face. "You're going to love this," he said with a happy chuckle, his tone shifting to one of boyish enthusiasm.

Before you could respond, Hermes stepped backward, tugging you with him. The shadows seemed to ripple and twist as he moved, pulling you effortlessly into their depths.

And then, you were gone.

A/N: ahhh love a good miscommunication 😩 as promised heres the promised chappie ❤️ next update features more hermes, stay tuned (p.s am i forgiven??? 🥹)

Tag List: @uniquetravelerone

108 notes · View notes

gtgbabie0 · 1 year ago

Text

-Finnick Odair x reader

{Quiet moments between you and Finnick when you can’t sleep}

I hope you enjoy my lovelies! 💕

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Winter was in full force, with harsh winds that nipped at your skin. Not even the fireplace could fend off, let alone the fluffy covers that you’ve layered upon your shared bed. Perhaps it was the cold chill in the air that prevented sleep from capturing you, or maybe it was something else entirely… you decide to not let your mind wander to what that could possibly be.

You sit up wrapping your cotton shawl around your shoulders tightly as your eyes scan across your room, dimly lit by the small sliver of moonlight that peaks behind the curtains and stretches across the floor trailing along the wall.

Finnick doesn’t stir with your movement which means he must be exhausted because he’s often a light sleeper, although you’re not surprised with the busy day he’s had. You smile softly down at him, the way his cheek is smushed against the soft pillow. You gently push his hair away from his closed eyes as you admire him, you’re glad he’s found comfort beside you.

The thought crosses your mind to wake him up, he’s always told you that if you can’t sleep to wake him up, he wouldn’t mind. But looking at him now, you just can’t bring yourself to do it, you’d feel far too guilty.

Instead, you decide to make your way to the kitchen, but not before putting on a pair of thick socks, after all, the tiled floor always felt much colder in the dead of night. Perhaps a warm drink would help lull you to sleep? You think to yourself as you fill the kettle.

You cringe slightly as the water begins to boil, squeezing your eyes shut at the sudden loud noise. Finnick had brought all types of different teas with the hope that one of them might help you get a good night's rest, he’d do anything if it meant you were happy.

You remember when he brought them home, two whole bags full of boxes with different kinds of ‘sleep treatments’ it brought tears to your eyes.

Finnick was always sweet to you, it shows in the way he looks at you, the way he holds you, and the sweet nothings he whispers to you whenever you feel down. You start to miss him, even though he’s only in your shared bedroom, the room next to the kitchen, fast asleep.

You pour the hot water into the small ceramic mug, the same one Peeta had gifted you as a congratulations for your engagement, he had hand painted them, beautiful flowers that swirl around the cup.

Soon enough the sweet smell of the tea reaches you, soothing the restless feeling that builds up within your chest. You take a small sip of the warm beverage as Finnick wanders through the kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep.

“It’s freezing out here honey” his voice is rough despite the softness of his tone, exhaustion hangs on his every word. he shuffles closer to you, bringing his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him as if he’s trying to protect you from the chill that lingers within the air.

A sigh falls from your lips when he presses a kiss to your forehead, his hands soothing against your back as you rest against him. Even in the safety of his arms the guilt still bubbles up within you, “Did I wake you up?” You ask, pushing your face against his shoulder.

“No, was already awake” he’s lying but you decide not to fight him on it, far too distracted by the warmth of his hands as they slip underneath your shirt, fingers splaying across your lower back. “Can’t sleep without you anyway” he says, pulling back to get a better look at you, the truth of his words are shown through his eyes.

“M’sorry” you mumble into the soft fabric of his shirt, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me” The words come out much heavier than you’d like and it strikes a cord within Finnick, one that pinches his heart.

He tuts softly as he leans back slightly, holding your chin with his finger and thumb. “Hey,” he whispers, tilting your head to look at him. His eyes immediately soften as yours find his, “Don’t apologise, honey, it’s what I’m here for, yeah?” He smiles, seeming more awake than he was just mere minutes ago.

“I know, I just- I don’t want to be too much” The words feel silly as they escape your lips but your chest feels lighter for it. You know deep down you shouldn’t feel like this, Finnick has never made you feel anything but loved.

“Too much?” He repeats after you as if you had just said something that had completely baffled him, and it did. “There’s no such thing, sweetness,” he tells you, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I love you- so much” he whispers against your lips before kissing you, not letting your mind wander elsewhere for even a second.

“I love you too Finn” you exhale, eyes closing as he rests his forehead against your own, your noses bumping against each others slightly.

“Come on, it’s warmer in bed,” he says, unwrapping his arms from around you as he picks up the tea you had made, “I got this, you go get into bed honey” he smiles and you know better than to fight him on it, so you do as he says, climbing back into the cosy bed with Finnick following shortly behind you.

He hands you the warm beverage before joining you, his hand slipping into your own as you take small sips of your drink. He talks about the market, how they're starting to sell that one specific seasonal bread you like, and he even begins to make plans for the weekend with you. his voice clams your nerves, it brings peace.

"Thank you, Finnick" you whisper, resting your head against his shoulder as he pulls the blankets over your legs.

He brings your hand up to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles, “Always for you” he says, voice heavy with sleep once again. You set your mug on the bedside table before turning back to him, and for the first time tonight, you start to feel yourself drift off as you lay in his arms.

Finnick could admire you forever without wanting anything, study every ‘imperfection’ and fall even more in love with you. He would pour his heart out to you right now if he wasn’t so tired so instead he settles for a simple, “G’night beautiful” with love dripping from his tone, and soon enough you both find sleep.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

884 notes · View notes

ghoulnextdoor · 12 days ago

Text

“People say that long ago the dead held a service on the night before Christmas ...”

I initially wrote the following on Christmas eve, fourteen years ago, but have since made an annual tradition of trotting out the creepy old chestnut to share with all of my friends and family and kindred spirits. I cannot envision a more like-minded bunch with which to share this ghostly Christmas tale and I hope you will enjoy its eerie delights as much as I do.

Click on the link for the entirety of The Hooded Congregation (The Christmas Service of the Dead) with illustrations by Chris Van Allsburg. And, as always, wishing you peace and light in this dark, dying time of the year, and may you not be without your shawl or other talisman this winter holiday when the dead are afoot and hungry for your company. The Christmas Service of the Dead | Unquiet Things

#the christmas service of the dead #the hooded congregration #christmas ghost stories #midnight mass #swedish folklore #time life enchanted world

66 notes · View notes

lina-vas-dom · 24 days ago

Text

Придет зима. И будет света мало, Как будто в небе тоже замело. И на земле златое покрывало Укроет снега белое крыло. И будет танцевать на тропках сада Метель. И небо звездами сиять. И сонный лес под шалью снегопада Задумчиво - загадочно молчать. Зима придет. Тиха и белоснежна. Притихнет под прозрачным льдом вода. И очень нужно, чтобы в сердце нежность Не остудили эти холода. /Та(Tiana) Александровна

Winter will come. And there won't be much light, It's as if the skies are also darkened. And the earth will be covered with a golden blanket And the snow's white wing will cover the ground. And the blizzard will dance on the paths of the garden The snowstorm. And the sky will shine with stars. And the sleepy forest under the shawl of snowfall Will be thoughtful and mysteriously silent. Winter will come. Quiet and snow-white. The water will be quiet under the clear ice. And it's necessary that the tenderness in my heart Not to be chilled by this cold. /Ta(Tiana) Alexandrovna

#стихи современных авторов

118 notes · View notes

dhampling · 10 months ago

Text

sunburn dadstarion, <1k

She runs in with cheeks flushed, head wet with a thin clad layer of sweat. Remnants from some form of cool treat dry on her chin. Plaits - neat this morning - loose now with tangles and damp as she beelines straight for his workroom.

Face scalding as she buries it in his abdomen.

“You’re getting muck on my shirt, little one.”

She mimics his words with a cutting tone as she burrows deeper, wraps even tighter around him. Smells like cloves and hot paving and the dry-sweet musk of city dust. As he presses a kiss to her head he feels the sun lingering in her hair. Little white cowlicks brushing his nose.

If he stills he can hear you out on one of the cast-iron chairs with a glass of red in hand, talking to a friend of some parental variety in the early evening heat.

“You’re so cold”

His heat comes from woodsmoke and yours from the sun. Both familiar to her. He could light a fire but you’d moan at him for it.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He pokes at her clammy arms with a fat laugh and she winces away, pulling a face.

“It’s hot.” She sneers. He quirks a brow.

“Sounds like a you problem.’

He lifts the last of her plaits and looks round at the ruddy blush beginning to bloom at the nape of her neck. She squirms at the ice of his fingers.

‘Run up to the washroom and get the cream. Quick.”

You sit just beyond the window - he can hear your laughter, the muffled lilt of your voice by the climbing ivy. He imagines the ornate carafe - left to aerate all afternoon - rich and ripe as the wine within soaks on your tongue and darkens your teeth. Your loving grin. The little wave you’d do; the light clothes he’d spent all winter designing for you to sit out front and feel comfortable in, in spite of the sweltering sun.

To throw a casual look through open shutters and see you out there again. A wink. A little sign that he’s thinking of you.

Maybe he’ll head out, when the stars are newly minted yet the sun still lingers. Feel the iron sear his skin through his clothes. The warmth of your palm as it wraps around his forearm.

It’s not until the youngling returns that his gaze shifts from the dark to her, a tired furrow on her brow.

“I’m too hot.”

Her mouth hangs open in a wide pant. Astarion kneels before her.

“Have you had any water?’

No.

‘Right then.”

Hours pass and you shuffle back in with a thick-knotted shawl draped lazy over your shoulders, the singe of a giggle still whisper-light in your breath as your friend shouts their farewells.

“She burned today, you know.”

He’s quiet as he stitches, merely an observation; thread between teeth. You sigh fondly in the doorway.

“She’s a child. It’s what children do.”

You bring your warm chalice to his mouth and he lifts his head to take a sip, humming softly. He looks up at you with a raised brow.

“Get burned?”

“You morose bastard. Sun-burn. Children get sunburned.”

She’s lounging on his worn chaise, hair wrapped in towel, with a small bowl of plums at her side and a drawing pad atop her knee. Contented in new pyjamas and the cool dim of her father’s workroom.

The cream has seemingly worked. The cool bath you heard her splash about in not so long ago must’ve been some clever placebo work.

“Found some pretty beetles today, but wasn’t allowed to bring them in.” She speaks as usual with Astarion’s theatrical whine, riddled with fatigue. You roll your eyes affectionately.

“What were they like, darling?”

He’s preoccupied, stitching something small in the gilded embroidery he works at; but there’s the persistent glimmer of interest in his tone. The slightest tilt of his head as his eyes find her in the periphery.

“Really pretty. Different colours. All pinky and greeny.” She waggles her fingers and sighs with a start.

“Draw them for me?”

She looks at him warily as you watch on.

“Will you keep it if I do?”

At that, Astarion stops. A gentle halt. The needle and thread in hand gently tucked into the stitchwork.

“I keep everything you do.”

You scoff. She looks at him with a tiny glare.

“Where is it then?”

“What?”

“All my drawings?”

“It’s where are they, darling.’ He chides, the smallest chit of his fangs.

You move to sit and your daughter lifts her head from the chaise, so it rests on your settled lap when dropped once more. The hint of a grin plays at his mouth.

‘And I keep them somewhere safe so when you’re old - like me - you’ll be able to look back on you now. You’ll be able to remember the beetles.’

He shuffles over to where you both sit, cross legged as he rests his chin on the chaise. Brings the back of a hand to her forehead and swears a sizzle as he pulls away.

‘Plus. I can’t see these beetles now, can I? My sunburn gets a fair bit more serious than yours in nature. I’d like to see them.”

She pauses for a moment.

“Okay. But ONLY because you can’t go and see them for yourself.”

#my writing #dadstarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion baldurs gate #astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3

343 notes · View notes

http-shield · 2 months ago

Text

♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ It Will Come Back

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: angst, childhood memories, bucky as the winter soldier, eastern european/slavic heritage reader, does not follow the canonical timeline after bucky is arrested in romania, deviates from canon, childhood memories, implied SA, post war trauma, ~ wc:5.4k ~ not proofread Your grandmother has the gift so why couldn't she see the man in your future?

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

It is said that you must not utter the name of the wolf. Use any other word to describe the beast for its name and title will summon it from the depths of hell.

1993 Nižepole, FYROM

A clump of wet tea leaves stares at you from within the porcelain cup.

"I see a rock," you answer honestly, pointing a tiny finger at the lump as you swirl it in the leftover liquid.

A wrinkled hand reaches out and slaps yours, and a harsh voice begins to berate you. "Stop! You're ruining it."

Your grandmother sits across from you on her wooden stool. Her shoulders hunched and covered tightly in a tartan shawl, a matching headscarf tied beneath her chin in a knotted bow. The years of farm life had worn on her, freckled marr her skin like stars on a clear night sky, lines and wrinkles embedded deep from all the years of love and laughter, stories so woven through her very being that they manifest in flesh.

Her eyes crinkle up as she smiles and gently takes the cup from your hands, knobby fingers like a birch tree cradling the porcelain as though it were a baby chick. She holds it up to the light, trying to discern the pattern from beneath. From where you are sitting, you can't see any light coming through, but Baba is magical—always has been—so maybe she sees something you can't.

She hums, lowering the vessel to eye level and taking another peek.

"You're going to move away from here—far, far away," she says wistfully, closing one eye to garner a new perspective on the future. "I see a cat." She flits her gaze from the prophetic cup to you and then back to the cup. "There is a tall man, but I can't see his face."

Your nose wrinkles at that.

Tall man? Moving away from home? Unlikely. There has never been a desire to get away from your farm. Your home's rolling hills and endless sky are enough for you, and you doubt you will ever want to be anywhere else.

A cat, maybe. You've always wanted one.

"There's something else, something sooner, but I don't know- I can't see it." Her voice dissolves into a whisper as your attention shifts.

With your head slung back against the chair, you bask in the mid-spring sun. Heat kisses your exposed skin, and the warm breeze does naught to cool you down, but you enjoy it. You have longed for the heat all winter, wished that the months would be shorter so the sun would come around quicker, and now that it is here, you never want it to leave. The farm is its usual springtime uproar, with birds chirping and bugs humming as they flit from flower to flower. Cowbells ring from the neighbouring field as the cattle graze for lunch, chickens cluck in their roosts, and the dogs across the road bark as a newcomer drives by. You hear the rumble of an engine; the sound of rubber under gravel fills you with excitement at the possibility of a new face or delivery from the main town.

The dogs bark louder as the car draws nearer, but their howls have a sharper edge, and their snarling is grittier and lower. Fear begins to settle in your chest.

The air shifts, the wind suddenly stops, crickets no longer hum, and birds are eerily quiet. The sound of the engine ceases for a moment, and then there is the crunch of boots on gravel. Your grandmother reaches out to you; her bony fingers wrap around your wrist and tug you forward. Her words are hushed, spat out at a speed you can't understand.

"Listen to me," she tugs on your wrist, and you look at her face. Terror lies in her furrowed brows, thin lips pursed as her jaw clenches.

"You need to get inside. Go hide in your cupboard, and don't leave until I get you. I don't care what you hear; stay inside until I come for you." Her words are grave, a direct warning not to disobey her instructions.

"What's happening?" you whisper, panic rising in your throat.

She spares a glance at the front gate; the sounds of footsteps are replaced by howling dogs.

"The wolf is here."

2015 Bucharest, Romania

A wolf can smell its prey from two-point-four kilometres away. This is a fact.

That is the distance between you and your apartment, exactly two points four, or no more, no less, as stated by the map on your phone.

Your location pings as a small red dot being shared with your friends, who can easily open the application and see that you are almost home, almost safe within the confines of your apartment walls, but you don't know if you will make it home tonight, for there is a wolf standing on the street corner.

Cloaked entirely in the blackness of night, the outskirts of the streetlight do little to illuminate much beyond the silhouette and glint of canine eyes. It is crouched over in the street, claws digging into the freshly fallen snow as it hurls its guts up, spewing its latest kill into the gutter. Terror slices through you, a sharp winter wind following suit and turning your blood to ice. You need to move, to step back into the darkness before the beast takes notice and begins its hunt. The snow is soft beneath your feet, and the wind is loud enough to cover any sound you make; you might make it out alive. Might cheat death once more. Potentially be more than just a number on a spreadsheet, so you take a step back, gently, carefully, ohh so tentatively to avoid arousing suspicion. Still, as your shoe crunches on powdery snow, the wolf turns.

In the low light, the beast begins to shift. Standing from the crouch emerges a man as he rises on two legs and stumbles forward, sputtering unintelligible sentences as he lunges through the snow. The creature paces forward, his steps sloppy and belligerent, but he is tall, his gait wide and lengthier than yours, and though you have turned, tried to make a break for the street beyond, a hand clamps down on your wrist. There is no fur, no claws, nothing to resemble a beast beyond the look in his eyes as you are yanked forward. The nauseating stench on him fills your nose; sweat and beer, vinegar and cigarette smoke engulf you as he shoves his face into yours. You attempt to pull back, the bag on your shoulder having slipped off and down to the earth below.

"Let me go." You grit through clenched teeth, the lump in your throat turning to bile as you breathe in more of the putrid scent. "Get off me."

The beast smiles, teeth rotted and missing, and you try desperately not to gag. "Where are you going? Do you need someone to take you?"

"Leave me alone." You tug on your arm, but his grip is locked. "Please."

You curl your fingers into a fist, nails digging into your palm in a sharp sting, but that is nothing compared to what could come, what you could be facing if you do not make some attempt to fight back.

The beast stumbles forward, his chest pressed against your arm, your hand being placed over the seam of his pants. A scream builds in your chest, your throat tightening painfully against the tears that begin to line your eyes, but before you can make a sound, neither a whine nor whimper, the beast is ripped away from you.

A second pair of hands is tugging at your shoulders, pulling you back into the shadows of the building as your assailant slides through the snow.

"It's okay. You're okay." another man's voice fills your head as you are pulled further back. "Just keep walking."

You shouldn't follow the instructions; for all you know, this was planned. Have someone scare you, then use a second man to lull you into a false sense of safety before you are finally trapped and carted off to where they had planned, but you do as he says. You lean into his hands and let him guide you away, leaving the beast in the snow.

The hands veer you in the opposite direction, towards the light and sound of a busier street. You want to turn, to face the person who had just pulled you from certain death and thank them, to offer them some kind of reward for the deed they had just committed, but the hands on your shoulders keep pushing forward.

"My bag!" you exclaim, suddenly aware of the lack of weight dragging down your right side. It feels silly to worry about such a thing, but you had your wallet, keys, and phone in that bag; your entire life was in that bag.

"Got it." Your hero mutters, and you spot the white canvas bag swinging at his side.

When did he pick that up?

The light of the street stuns you as you step out of the alley. You still, for a moment, reorientate yourself as you feel the pressure of his hands leave you, only to be replaced by the weight of your bag on your shoulder. Whirling around, your vision blurring momentarily at the sudden spin, you face your saviour.

"Thank you so much," you whisper, voice shaky as you take deep breaths, the ice-cold air burning your lungs. "Thank you, thank you."

Another gulp of air stabilises your vision, subsides the tingling in your hands, and begins to even out your heartbeat.

"I'm so sorry." Apologies are quick to be thrown. "I don't know what would have happened if you- thank you" The words fly out of you as you speak, not pausing to breathe. "I owe you so much. A drink or food or money, I'll give you money."

You reach into the canvas bag, searching for your wallet, to offer money as a thank you, but a gloved hand on your arm stops you.

"Are you okay?" the man asks.

The question gives you pause to truly understand what just happened. Tears sting your eyes, your throat tightens once again, and you begin to feel your bottom lip shake, but now is not the time. You will break down at home, in the sanctity of your own bathroom, not in front of another strange man.

"Yeah, I think," you swallow the lump in your throat and blink back the tears, your shaking hands wiping your cheeks in case any had fallen free. "Thank you."

"Do you need to call someone?"

The offer has you looking up at your hero and are stunned by his appearance. He is handsome, scarily handsome. Chiselled features of sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, piercings blue eyes framed by locks of dark brown hair hidden beneath a scruffy baseball cap. His brows are set in a concerned furrow, his mouth following suit. You stare, unable to make sense that a man so perfect is standing before you and not the leading man in a painting by Eugene Delacroix.

"I can wait with you?" He presses, dipping his head so as to not seem so imposing.

You shake your head. "No, I—I don't have anyone to call." A frown tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I can walk home; it's just a block away."

The man shakes his head. "I'll call you a cab, " he says, raising his hand to signal a taxi.

"No, no, please." you begin, waving your hands in protest. "I'm fine!"

A car pulls over as the man flags him down. "I'll pay for it, please."

"No, I can't accept that-"

"No. Ma'am, please. Let me get you home safe." His insistence shuts you up, and you find yourself following his instructions as he opens the door of the car and motions for you to get in.

The taxi is warm and smells of tobacco. The driver is an old man who looks vaguely like an uncle you haven't seen in years. He smiles at you and turns back to your saviour for directions. The man stands on the sidewalk, one arm slung over the top of the car as he leans in and nods to you in the back seat.

"Take her wherever she needs to go." a gloved hand slips him a decent amount of bills that could cover three of your trips.

"Ohh, that's…" You're once again shut down by a look from the strange man. You sink into your seat, suddenly feeling like a child being scolded.

"Please, just get her home safe, " the man implores, glancing at you once more before he pulls away.

The driver tips his hat with a small "yes, boss" before he pockets the money and pulls away from the curb.

You turn in your seat, staring out the back window to catch another glimpse of the strange man, but as you look back, you see that the spot he once stood in is empty. Nothing but the swirl of snow. You sink back into the leather, inhaling deeply as you run through the events of the last ten minutes in your mind. Who the fuck was that and why did his eyes look so familiar?

---

Bucky hates snow—always has and always will. His mother had always scolded him for using that word, her soft voice reminding him that hate is such a strong word that he should use softer, kinder words. That there was no room for hate in his heart. Bucky detests snow.

There is nothing magical about frozen rain as it pelts against raw skin, covering the world in a dangerous icy slick, freezing the ground so nothing can grow, and turning everything into a white wasteland devoid of any sign of life. He didn't like it as a child and certainly does not like it now.

His breath is puffs of air into the frozen morning, the street glowing yellow beneath streetlights, shopfront displays of Christmas trees, and twinkling fairy lights. Bucky thinks for a moment, trying to recall the months of the year and how many of them he had spent in this city if it was almost Christmas. His mind is a jumble of days and weeks, and he cannot pinpoint the exact moment he had come to Bucharest; it would be on a ticket somewhere in his apartment. He should get a calendar and start marking days off. That would be normal. It could lead to the healthy habit of timekeeping, grounding him to the present day whenever he felt the world got too soft beneath his feet. Timekeeping is good, something he wasn't allowed to do back then, and he was never given a chance.

Bucky scrawls his to-do list of buying a calendar in the top margin of his notebook, followed by a simple 'food; right under it. He had been paid yesterday. Cash in hand for his work as a handyman, carrying supplies up and down stairs on a construction sight. Easy, simple, achievable work. There was no thinking or conversing, simple yes's and no's to even more straightforward questions. It hadn't been hard to find that type of work once he settled into his version of a normal life post-Hydra. There is no shortage of under-the-table work. Employers want to avoid paying benefits and taxes to their team, so they hire drifters and passersby, undocumented people who overstayed visas and travellers looking for some extra cash. Bucky had fit right in, his quiet demeanour hiding him from prying eyes as he worked, head down and mouth shut, just making enough to eat. Never more. There is no need.

The weight of the notes sits heavy in his pocket, and he knows he should have gone into the market yesterday to blend into the crowd, but as the day wound down, his anxiety did the opposite. The racing in his chest at being recognised spun him into a frenzy of shortened breaths and darkening vision. The roaring in his ears as his blood rushed through his veins became all too similar to the machines that had been used on him, the pressure in his mind building and building until all he could think about was smashing his head against the wall until he cracked his skull, the blood spilling and tension easing but as the minutes passed, the cold tiles of the bathroom soothing his clammy skin, did his heart return to normal, breathing intense and laboured but even, the roaring dulling until he felt like Bucky again. A very blurry and fragmented Bucky, but Bucky nonetheless. His stomach begins to growl, his hunger becoming nausea as the time between meals stretches further, and he is reminded why he had decided to face the world.

Food.

---

"I need you to watch him." your manager whispers as she passes behind you, her arms full of boxed muffins.

"Who?" you follow her as she rounds the corner of the bakery department, throwing the stock on the silver bench. You quickly scan the area around your workspace, spotting no one other than your coworker who is busy decorating a cake.

"There's a guy in the bread aisle; he looks weird." is the only explanation as she begins to scan each small box, the scanner unit in her hand chirping after each successful read.

"Why me?" you groan, fingers working on tightening your apron strings. "I don't wanna watch some creepy guy."

Your boss stops, places her hands flat on the counter and fixes you with a look of mild annoyance. The muscles in her jaw twitch as she takes in a breath.

"Just go. Pretend to fill stock, readjust tags, just make sure he pays for whatever he takes."

You wait a moment, debating whether or not to turn this into an argument and whether the subsequent unpaid overtime you might have to do would be worth it to not watch a potential shoplifter. But you value sleep and time alone, and doing unpaid work is not worth the mild inconvenience it would be if you had to talk to the guy, so you sigh and throw your head back dramatically, resigning to the orders of your boss.

She shouts a sung thank you as you walk away; your only acknowledgement of her gratitude is a raised hand as you walk into the aforementioned aisle.

The shop's bright white fluorescent lights reflect off the grey linoleum with a harsh glare, smothering the cavernous warehouse in a mildly offputting, ever-present light. Smooth, bulbous black security cameras hang over the ends of each aisle, deterring most thieves; however, some still try to push their luck. Towards the end of the aisle, the suspected man stands in front of the packaged loaves. Oh. You've seen him before, a few times, actually within the past few weeks. He had become a frequent shopper, always quiet and polite, and never once struck you as someone who would try to steal, though his current ensemble did scream thief! Dark jeans, heavy black boots, a green jacket, and a black baseball hat slung low over his eyebrows. You watch as his gloved hands trace over the labels, mouth moving as he silently sounds out the vowels. He turns the bread over, weighing it before his head snaps towards you.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden movement. There have been very few moments in life when you felt as though the ground would crumble away beneath you. Honestly, you can count them on one hand, but so far, the man in front of you has been present for two of them. Those familiar blue eyes stare back at you, and you cannot move.

It's not fear but something so remarkably close that freezes you to your spot. It is not an emotion you can name. It is something you haven't felt before, but the tightness in your throat has you categorising it with the bad emotions, the ones that make you want to curl up in your bed and hide from the world, the ones that make you feel small again.

The man takes a tentative step towards you—just one, no more—not as if he wants to get closer, just open up his body for conversation. You swallow, knowing he is about to speak, but the rock in your throat makes it impossible.

He holds up the loaf of bread in his gloved hands and asks, "Do you know which bread keeps the longest?" There is a hint of an American accent you had not heard a few nights ago.

You shook your head. "I can ask if you would like?" the Romanian strangely formal on your tongue.

He shakes his head, a tight smile appearing briefly before he turns on his heels and walks out of the aisle.

A shaky breath escapes you as you fold over. Hands on your knees as you open your mouth, gulping air down and down into your body, the oxygen chasing away the static slowly creeping along your limbs. A nervous response your body has enacted for as long as you can remember, but it always goes away with a few deep breaths, the electricity turning back to blood and rushing through your body usually. When you were younger, you often panicked that if that static got to your heart, it would override your entire body, turning your muscles into electrical wires. You would become part robot, part human, and that fear had only been exacerbated after witnessing the man in your barn. His metal arm glinting in the low light sent shivers down your spine at the genuine fear your young brain conjured up, but that had to be a dream; there was no plausible explanation for that. Who has a metal arm?

Another deep breath has your body relaxing, the tightness in your muscles easing away, but it does not stop your mind from racing. You hadn't had a moment to sit and think about that man from the other night; the second you got home, you had been bombarded with emails from your aunt, unanswered calls from your manager and an inbox from a friend you had not spoken to since moving away. There was not a single second where you sat and processed the events and the possible outcome of what could have happened, and if you are being honest with yourself, there never will be. You don't want to open that, to tear a small hole open to inspect inside, because if you open that gash, it would undoubtedly undo the rest of the hastily sutured wounds you have, and there is no time for that. No time to think about your home, your parents, your grandmother, the life you left behind, no time for anything other than moving forward. To keep pushing, to keep living.

"Are you okay?" your boss asks, her hand sliding up your back to rest between your shoulder blades.

Another deep breath in.

"Yeah, just tired." You lie and stand, your vision darkening temporarily at the sudden movement. "Just saw someone I thought I knew."

---

You see your hero two more times in store before you work up the nerve to say something.

The original plan was as follows:

Step one: Introduce yourself.

Step two: Say thank you for the other night and apologise for taking so long to say thank you

Step three: Ask him out for coffee as a thank you (and not because he is possibly the most stunning man you have ever seen)

However, like all good plans, yours goes to waste the second you see him standing in the bread aisle.

"This bread is really good even if you keep it in the freezer." you slide up to him, a loaf of bread in hand, an attempt to be smooth and start a conversation.

A side glance is spared your way. His jaw is clenched, but upon seeing you, it relaxes. He turns his head, his eyes finding yours for a split second before glancing at the bread in your hand.

"Sorry?"

Oh.

Your cheeks heat in embarrassment. Have you got the wrong guy? Is this not the man you have thought of for the past week? The man who had saved you from certain doom?

"The last time you were here, you asked which bread would keep the longest, and I didn't have an answer." You hold the bread up a little higher. "But now I do."

Should you mention the incident in the alley?

Confusion furrows his brows, but he accepts the loaf nonetheless. "Thank you."

But there is no sincerity in his words. He is cautious about avoiding touching you despite wearing gloves, his fingers digging into the paper bag with gentle strength. He takes a step back, eyes squinting as though trying to figure out your motive behind the gesture and continues to back away before swiftly turning for the register, not another word spoken.

A heavy sigh leaves you. All the air in your lungs had turned to lead for the duration of the conversation.

Yes, You should have mentioned the incident in the alley.

---

"Thank you," a smooth voice says from your left. You quickly turn to find the source, unsure if it's a customer or coworker, and are pleasantly surprised to see your illusive hero standing beside you.

You stand, brushing your hands on your apron, suddenly aware of how grimy and dirty your uniform is. "For?" the question comes out a little harsher than you intend.

He shifts uncomfortably at your tone. "The bread, earlier in the week."

"That's okay. I'm just doing my job." You're quick to correct the bitterness you had just spilt with a quick smile. "I'm glad it worked out."

There is an unusual jitteriness to him. Usually, he is still and calm, like a man made of marble, as he analyses the stock, but today, he is fidgety. His fingers twitch at his side, and his eyes search for something in the space between you. You think he is going to speak as he parts his lips, but he doesn't.

You fill the gap. "You probably don't-"

"I just wanted to"

The two of you awkwardly talk over the other as you realise you both want to say something.

"Sorry. You finish what you were saying." He holds out his gloved hand as a gesture to keep talking.

"It was nothing, I just—It's not important." You quickly dismiss yourself, not sure if you want to open that can of worms. If he has yet to mention it, surely he doesn't remember.

The man looks like he wants to say something but stops himself and takes another direction. "I just wanted to say thank you. I'm Bucky." A gloved hand is extended, and you take it without a second thought. The leather is warm against your frozen fingers as you introduce yourself.

Maybe you'll just let it go and start afresh. Close that wound completely and get the healing over and done with.

"Lovely to meet you, Bucky. If you ever need anything, come find me." You've made this offer to many customers and thought nothing more of it but as he lets go of your hand and bids you farewell, you hope that isn't the last you see of him.

---

It's not.

Bucky becomes a frequent shopper. Having been seen maybe twice a fortnight, it is now once a week, with increasing conversation each time your paths cross.

It starts with small hellos as you stock the aisles he is in, both of you watching each other as you navigate the small space; then he starts to ask about your day, comments on the weather, and the busyness of the square outside. Small talk to break the ice and ease him into conversations. He wants to talk to you despite every cell in his body telling him to run and hide from the potential threat; he can't stop himself as he smiles at you.

"Do you like fruit?" he asks rather abruptly one day as he watches you stock the apple display.

The question gives you pause, and he worries he has said the wrong thing or made a mistake, but your smile eases his anxiety.

"I like fruit," you nod, attention on him but hands still working to stack. "Why?"

Bucky is still determining why he asked the question. He has been looking at foods that increase memory and brain health, so that could be where it came from, but there is another part of him, something smaller and buried a little deeper, that wants to get to know you. He knows of you, has seen you in the store and saved you from that freak that one time, but other than that, you are just the pretty store clerk who he can't seem to forget about.

"I've read that fruit can help with memory and was going to ask if you had any favourites I might try." That works.

"Well, watermelon is my favourite, but I don't think that helps the brain a lot, so I think after that, it might be rasp-ber-ry?" you struggle to pronounce the word in Romanian, your tongue slipping over the constants.

"Raspberries?' Bucky answers in English, having already known your native language just by the way you pronounce certain words.

"Oh, you speak English?" you turn towards him, eyes wide as the familiar language catches you off guard.

"Better than Romanian." a small chuckle escapes him before he can help it. "We can stick to it if its easier."

Your eyes narrow as if trying to figure out who you are talking to. Bucky wants to laugh at that and encourage you to try. Let him know if you work it out so he can figure it out, too.

"I've heard plums are pretty good, too." he watches as you bite down on your bottom lip, pulling the flesh into your mouth for a second. "You know-"

Bucky stiffens, heart beginning to race. There are too many variables as to where this conversation is headed.

"I know you, " you say, brows crinkling ever so slightly. You helped me that one night. I'm not sure if you remember."

A huffed breath leaves Bucky as his muscles relax. Not the direction he dreaded. Good. He nods and leans against the stand.

"I know, I didn't want to say anything in case you were…I didn't wanna scare ya."

You nod slowly, taking a deep breath as you turn back to stack the apples in your hands. The silence has his heart racing, this time for an entirely different reason.

"Can I take you out as a thank you?" you ask suddenly, staring at the produce under your hands.

Bucky jolts, the fruit beneath his elbow shifting at the surprise, but he quickly catches them. The mechanics in his arm whirs, and he hopes to God, you didn't hear it.

"Me?"

"No. The other man who saved me." you joke, and Bucky notices the blush that begins to creep along your cheeks.

Bucky laughs. "Uh, sure."

"If you want." You are quick to amend.

"I want to," he reassures you, not wanting to cast doubt on his desire to go out with you. "I just haven't gone out in a long time,"

"Me neither," you shrug, leaning on the plastic create. "It's just a thank you. You don't have to dress up, I swear."

Bucky wets his lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth as he deliberates. "Sure."

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. "I can give you my number?"

"I don't have a phone."

"I can meet you here?" The offer is sincere and you don't look too perturbed by the fact he doesn't have a phone.

There are a lot of things missing from Bucky's life—a phone, a proper house, friends, family, his sane mind. However, something is pulling him towards you. He isn't entirely sure what it is, where it has come from, or what will happen if he starts a friendship with you, but there is something so deep within him—the same gut feeling he had when he saw Steve on the bridge all those months ago—that is pulling him towards you now.

He squares his shoulders before asking. "What time?"

109 notes · View notes

omnis-hostis-resurrexit · 1 month ago

Text

The Light of Absent Eyes

Vander has taken to visiting Ekko's mural on quiet evenings. Without the oppressive haze of the grey, Zaun's nights are colder than they used to be. Silco, ever observant, brings him his sweater. Sentimental shenanigans ensue.

Read on AO3

Rating: T for mild smut

Tags: Silco/Vander, S2 Utopia AU, Fluff, Old men being sappy and cute, Multiverse-Typical OOC

Word Count: 2110

Without early winter's chill in the air, Silco thought, this place would smell intolerably swampy. A few browning lilypads still clung to the surface of the pool, and a carpet of the giant ginkgo tree's shed leaves slid and squished under his boots as he made his way through the water. Dusk barely filtered down into the abandoned reservoir, and the only clear light came from a cluster of mismatched candles in front of the mural of a young woman's face. A young woman with fiery red hair and a fighter's wraps on her hands. A young woman whose expressions made her look by turns angry and angular, soft and smiling, and utterly at home in her own skin.

A young woman Silco had never met, and never would.

"Missed me that much, eh?" Vander was leaning against one of the mossy concrete pipes that littered the reflecting pool, and his voice echoed off the metal walls around them.

"Were you gone?" Silco asked with a mocking tilt of his head, slinging Vander's thick, much-mended cardigan off his shoulders and holding it out toward him. "You shouldn't be wandering around the fissures this time of night in your shirtsleeves."

"Yeah, alright, mum," Vander said with a good-humored roll of his eyes as he shrugged his arms into the sweater. In the poor light, Powder's riotously-colored darning washed out to a shadowy camouflage around the cuffs and elbows like flashes of unpolished ore emerging from the mud-brown yarn.

"I'm serious. Winter's getting colder every year since they redid the air filters," he said, wrapping his arms across his chest and burrowing his chin further into his scarf as he settled himself next to Vander on the concrete pipe. "Not that I miss the grey, mind, but I'm beginning to understand the topsiders' penchant for hats and gloves and twenty-seven petticoats at a time."

"Oh?" Vander reached over to twine a finger absently through the fringe on Silco's scarf. "Is that why a pallet of Shuriman cashmere shawls fell off the back of an airship straight into the upstairs storage closet?"

"Just reading the market, darling. Remember our deal," he said as he gently unwound Vander's hand and held it in his own. "You don't stick your nose into my perfectly legitimate import-export business, and I don't complain that you still don't put enough bitters in an Old Fashioned."

"I did agree to that, didn't I." He shook his head and settled his hand comfortably on Silco's knee. Wind sighed across the mouth of the reservoir far above, scattering a grace of golden leaves across them. Vander looked up into the branches, one fan-shaped leaf caught against his hair.

It pulled at something in Silco's chest, the thin thread between them that had been cut and re-tied against all better judgment, frayed and worn and haphazardly repaired again and again. Stronger at the mended places, he thought as he plucked the leaf between his fingers and quietly slipped it into his shirt pocket.

He didn't know how long Vander had been here communing with this uncanny vision of his dead child, older and more fully-formed than she'd ever been in life. His girl, his Violet, his fierce little firecracker, and Felicia's and Connol's before that. Never really Silco's. He was an infrequent visitor to their cramped little rooms under the old water tower, while her parents lived. And after? Forgiveness refused to be rushed, it took its own hard-bitten time, and time in Zaun always had casualties.

"She's definitely Connol's work, no mistaking that," he commented as he drew one leg up, perching on the dry moss. "The one on the far left? Tell me that's not exactly the scowl he'd give every scab who walked past us on the picket line."

Vander chuckled and shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Gods, he was a force of nature, eh? Always the quiet ones."

"Hmm," Silco nodded. "They made an odd pair. I always thought he grounded her a bit. Not always a bad thing." He pressed the side of his leg against Vander's warmth and felt him shift closer.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Vander gave him a brief sidelong glance. "What else is different over there. Who else might've…" He dropped his head slightly, and his grip on Silco's hand tightened.

"Been spared?" A corner of Silco's mouth contracted, and he squeezed Vander's hand in return. "We were children of Zaun when that meant even odds we wouldn't live to lose our milk-teeth," he said, his voice tempered by something like remorse. "Who knows if any of us survived to see her at that age?"

Vander made a soft grumbling sound in the back of his throat. "The way Ekko talked, sounds like I never did learn to give a good apology. The other Ekko, I mean. Her Ekko." He tilted his head toward the mural.

Silco tucked a strand of Vander's hair behind his ear and saw how the candlelight glimmered in his eyes. "Sounds like I was never smart enough to let you try until you got it right. I would have been a great fool to walk away and leave all this on the table."

His fingers strayed to the back of Vander's neck, warming under the smooth blanket of his hair. Every silver strand still felt like victory to him, a shining thread of resistance against the years of want and days of ash and blood.

Vander leaned into his touch, and his breaths deepened. "That your way of saying it's time to head home?"

"It is where we keep our bed, for better or worse," Silco murmured as he gently scraped his nails over the base of Vander's skull, just to feel him shudder.

Vander turned, placing himself between Silco's legs and sliding his hands slowly and firmly along them, pulling him closer. "Since when did we need a bed?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pressed his lips to Silco's with a gentle familiarity that did little to hide the underlying hunger. Silco clutched at him, hid his hands under the warm wool, strained to twine his calves against the backs of Vander's thighs. The cold air around them seemed to hone every exposed edge, every shirt-hem lifted, every collar drawn aside. It made the warmth of Vander's skin even more precious and ever more urgent.

They kissed like drowning men with something true to live for, lips and tongues a sliding, driven dance, Vander's hand at the small of his back, both increasingly ravenous for the other's heat. Vander bit gingerly at Silco's lower lip as he sucked it into his mouth, and Silco swallowed back the needy sound that threatened to leave his throat. He scraped a fingernail over Vander's nipple through his shirt, provoking a low and blissfully undignified whimper.

Never let it be said that Silco didn't give as good as he got.

Vander's thumb was toying with one of the brass buttons on Silco's trousers, making maddeningly patient little circles that just barely grazed the head of his cock through the stiff twill. "S'alright?" He breathed into Silco's ear, just a shade of hesitation in his words.

Silco's breath hitched, and he put his hand on top of Vander's, stilling them both. In an instant, Vander had gently tilted out of Silco's embrace and propped himself one hip against the mossy concrete, his other hand still resting on Silco's ribcage.

"Happy to take my time, you know," he offered. "You could wear my sweater if you're cold." He couldn't see the tentative smile on Vander's face in the dark, but he could hear it. He couldn't hear the concerned little line between Vander's eyebrows, but he knew it was there.

"No, it's not — it's fine, Vander. It's not you." He leaned forward and tucked his cold fingers under the waistband of Vander's trousers, nodding toward the mural. "I just can't shake the feeling we're being watched."

Vander let out a breath that sounded relieved, and clouded in the air. "Well, I can't say my knees aren't grateful," he said with a subtle lilt of laughter, dragging one heavy boot through the limestone gravel beneath it. He held one hand out, and Silco slid down from the concrete pipe into his arms.

"Don't go making them any promises," Silco said, pressing himself closer, hands flush with Vander's chest. "Plenty of dark and relatively dry alcoves between here and the Drop. You might get your chance yet." He patted one hand in joking reassurance and pulled away with languid steps, heading toward the tunnel mouth.

Vander's answering low laugh was a banked coal, deep in the belly. "Relatively dry, hm?" He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "You really know how to show a fella a good time."

"So you keep telling me," he said, the scars on his cheek straining against the slow, vulpine smile that overtook his face in the dark.

He stood at the edge of the water while Vander put out the candles under the mural, one gentle hand lingering on Vi's painted hair for a moment. Silco might have heard a murmured g'night, love in the gathering dark. He must have heard it. Nothing else explained the swell of sentiment that rose beneath his sternum for a breath.

Vander slung his arm across Silco's shoulders, and they fell into step as they sloshed back toward the tunnel. Its inky depth was broken only by a thin trace of glow-chalk on one wall — Powder's helpful contribution, a new invention she was justifiably proud of. Its light pulsed faintly in time with the hollow sound of their even steps.

And if their youngest cast a skeptical eye at the smear of chalk across the back of Silco's jacket, or looked askance at the mud on Vander's knees before he hid them conveniently behind the bar? Well. There were worse things out there than two old rabble-rousers having a nostalgic fuck in a forgotten corner of the infrastructure.

As Silco stood by the back counter and made them both a proper cocktail, still loose-limbed and supple with fading afterglow, he pondered over all his hard-won blessings. How many did the other Silco have? Useless thought, but there it was.

Had he already died an ignominious, lonely death? Died young? Been cut down in his prime, coughing up blood until he drowned in it, like so many of their comrades from the mines? Lived still, driven by spite and distrust, fighting for every scrap until a violent end became inevitable? It didn't bear imagining. Not standing here in the warm light of the Last Drop, two full glasses in his hands, gazing at his partner's broad back as he pulled another pint of lager.

"There you are, love." He sat one glass on the counter near the taps. "That one's yours."

Vander handed the pints off to Gert with practiced efficiency and picked up his drink, reflexively wiping a wet ring from the counter with the bar towel. Behind him, a table of academy students boisterously toasted Live forever!, leaving a careless shower of suds in their wake.

"Now that's a prayer for bad luck if I've ever heard one," Silco mused, swirling the liquid in his glass.

Vander gave him a thin smile and cast his eyes briefly over his shoulder. "At their age, anything feels possible. Even in Zaun."

Silco rested his drink against his breastbone, looking aside in a satire of shame. "Gods, what am I like. You'll tell me, won't you, if I become one of those hideous old men who can't stop going on about how the younger generation's gone soft? Just say the word, and I'll give Powder a length of piano wire and tell her I hate her haircut."

"Oh, now I definitely won't tell you," Vander replied, his smile broadening into something genuine and bubbling under the surface. "Besides, someone has to teach these young'uns what their city's made of."

Silco raised his glass. "Blisters and bedrock?"

There was a warm shadow in Vander's eyes as he clicked the worn gold rims of their glasses together and returned the age-old toast. He held Silco's gaze longer than usual, looking at him as if he was something Vander couldn't bear to lose, someone he couldn't imagine living without. And for a moment, Silco felt the terrible, dizzying weight of the trust he'd placed in this man. The other Silco — Vi's Silco — would no doubt scoff, and fume about the catastrophic foolishness of his choice. In any other timeline, he'd be right.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he said.

#zaundads #silco x vander #arcane season 2 spoilers #silco #vander #zaun utopia au

60 notes · View notes