#SIZE OF THE VESSEL THAT MUST HAVE COME FROM GOOD LORD
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Thinking about the Hollow Knight time-travel fix-it fic I talked about in these tags and losing my mind. I dug through the old snippets I have for the AU and I’m so sorry but I need to yeet them into the great void of the interwebs so I don’t explode. Context indented below, but feel free to skip it and just read the snippets.
During the events of the Embrace the Void ending, Ghost has become the next Lord of Shades (a sort of inherited godhood in this fic). After defeating the Radiance she immediately sets to work remaking history, and after some finagling is able to erase the Radiance from existence past a certain point in the timeline. Once she's done so, she enters the timeline and starts manually fixing everything she couldn't correct by abruptly retconning an entire goddess— and this means starting by rescuing the surviving vessels who are still trapped in the Abyss.
TPK brings up the Hollow Knight as his daughter after the Radiance disappeared and he came to the worrying realization that the mindless weapon he'd been raising was actually, for all intents and purposes, a rather normal kid. He has issues with his past but shunts the guilt to the background so he can function as a king and father. But once Ghost enters the new timeline, he starts having visions of there being other vessels who survived in the Abyss— and he starts going on a wild goose chase through all of Hallownest looking for his kids as he's forced to face the impact of the Abyss head-on.
(Ghost searches for survivors after giving herself a mild concussion:)
The first thing Ghost did upon entering the new world was materialize into the Abyss and immediately knock herself out by banging her head on an overhang. She definitely misjudged the size of this form.
She woke with a headache, one of her horns snapped off and lying at her feet, and surrounded by too-tiny, too-empty shells.
She wanted to be sick.
But she was on a mission.
Ghost took in a deep breath and called out.
Silence was what met her at first, then a single, quiet cheep.
Ghost called back with a coaxing chirp.
A head popped up over a large mound of corpses. Just one horn on this one— just one nubby little horn that sat over their brow. Ghost would have thought they were cute if they didn’t look so horrified. She reached out to them, cooing softly, and their fear gave way to interest. They rushed over and hopped onto her back so they could scramble onto her head and pat near where her horn snapped off.
“Did you fall?” They asked through the Void, the question twisted with worry, and she could hear in their voice that they were a little boy.
“No, I didn’t fall. Just hit my head.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” She tilted her head forward to slide the sibling into her outstretched palm. A brother. She figured there must have been at least some boys among the hatchlings in the Abyss, but the only other vessel she knew was Holly. She had a little brother. The thought made her weirdly dizzy. “Where are the others?”
“Eating.”
Ghost froze. There was nothing down here but stone, Void, and corpses, and only one of those was remotely edible. She fought down the terrible memories that crawled up— she remembered the crunch of empty chitin in her own jaws, how it scraped her throat and did nothing to fill her belly— and she reached into her Void to find the supplies she’d been given by Mato before she ascended the Pantheon. Her claws closed around the bundle, and she didn’t even wait to see if they were still good before calling out a sharp, commanding chirp. Come, there’s food here.
The number of little vessels that peered over the mounds of carapace and raced over to her was overwhelming— There were eleven. Eleven survivors, including the one on her shoulder. She didn’t come too late after all. But then she saw what they were all gnawing on and fought the urge to be sick all over again.
“Don’t eat those,” she snapped, and several vessels looked down at the pieces of carapace clutched in their hands, confused. “They’re bad. Come here. I have something better.”
She undid the tie holding the bundle of preserves closed and set it on the ground in front of the other vessels, mentally thanking Mato for his parting gift. There were berries, crawlid jerky, bread, roots and mushrooms and vegetables she didn’t have the energy to name. The vessels eyed the food warily.
“It’s… bright?” One ventured.
“Colorful.”
“Smells weird,” another said.
“Where did you find it?” Asked the one with the single horn.
“Outside. Eat, eat.”
(Ghost is tunneling out of the Abyss with the surviving vessels:)
Ghost carved another stretch of path in the rock wall and swept the rubble out and away, over and over again, hoping she knew what direction she was digging. The vessels on her back questioned her relentlessly while she worked.
“What happened to your thingy?” Asked one, gesturing to her two curled-down horns.
“Horn,” Ghost corrected, and focused less on answering her question and more on ensuring that none of the vessels were swept away with the rubble or slipped from their places on her back while she dug upward.
“She hit her head,” said the one-horned vessel.
“And it broke?” The curled-down horns vessel was aghast. “I didn’t know that could happen! Did it hurt?”
“I was alright.”
“But your thi— your horn!”
“It’s okay. I brought it with me, see? We can find a cloak to tie it back on.”
“But she said there weren’t any old shells outside,” said a bored-sounding vessel with horns that stuck out rather than up or down. “How are we supposed to find a way to tie it?”
While the vessels debated how to reattach her horn, which the one-horned vessel apparently brought with him without her realizing, Ghost made a mental note to check all of their hands when she had the chance. She was so concerned with getting them to drop their siblings' carapace they were gnawing on that she hadn’t looked twice at the wicked-sharp horn in that vessel’s eager grasp. She needed to confiscate it.
But when she broke through the other side of the stone wall and stepped out into Greenpath, only to be met by the Hunter looming with claws at the ready, she knew she had bigger things to worry about.
(The Pale King is able to track down and reunite with the vessels while Ghost is away hunting... at least at first:)
The vessels all crept forward in their own time, until he was able to hand them the rest of the loaf to pick at to their content. He counted them— eleven in total, ranging in height from his knee to his waist. Eleven survivors. Eleven children to take home and ensure they’d recover from their early years.
Oran felt a small weight lift from his chest.
And then he heard a blood-chilling shriek, shot to place himself between the sound and the children, and he was slammed into the cavern wall with a resounding crack.
Oran was not an idiot. He heard that shriek start as a growl that sounded like a blade dragging across ice, like an echo of the language of wyrms, and he knew it meant get away. He was not an idiot. But by the gods was he stupid sometimes.
He snapped to his feet, ready to fight a vengefly king and lead it away from where his children stood on unsteady legs, hungry and weak— easy pickings. His stomach dropped when he saw not an apex predator, but a bug with a pitch black shell rushing towards them. A lance of light sprung into his hands without a thought, but he couldn’t move fast enough, it had already closed the distance—
—And looped its wyrm-like tail in careful coils around the children, then roared at him in a primal rumble he understood on instinct: If you draw any closer to my young, I’ll kill you.
A god— no, a goddess. A goddess with a shell like midnight, eyes like suns, claws like scythes, horns like castle spires. And she was hunched low to the ground, terrified, trembling as she bared her teeth at him. The Lord of Shades, reborn.
(Ghost threatens the Pale King for a good few paragraphs when he thanks her for protecting the vessels before he could rescue them.)
A pale-shelled head popped up from over the coils, shortly followed by all of its fellows. One small vessel chirped— chirped— at the goddess, who simply rumbled tightly and nudged them back down with her cheek, keeping her eyes on Oran. For every wide-eyed vessel that she hid away, two popped back up, intent to watch what was happening outside their guardian’s coils. It was difficult to reconcile the fact that his life was being threatened by the newly reborn Lord of Shades with the sight of his children peering up at him excitedly from where they perched in her coils. Adorable, the father within him remarked when one of them pointed and waved. Horrifying, the survivor within him said when the Lord of Shades fixed a vicious glare upon him as he reached out to them.
The one-horned vessel raised the loaf of bread he gave them and prodded the Lord’s cheek with it. She bared her teeth at Oran, eyes still trained on him, until the vessel tapped her top-most coil and trilled irritably at her. She pouted at them, no longer wearing the face of a feral beast ready to rip him limb from limb, but rather an exhausted elder sibling being pestered by their junior. “What?”
The one-horned vessel held the loaf of bread over their head excitedly.
“Where did y—?” She glanced at Oran narrowly. “And it didn’t make you sick?”
The vessel shook their head, patting her coil happily. They pointed to Oran and bounced up and down, and the bewilderment in her face deepened.
He took the opportunity to speak. “They’re starving. I brought them food. Please, I intend to take them home to my palace to be cared for. I don’t know why you’ve decided that they belong to you—” She bristled, growling at him once more. “— but it’s clear that they recognize me as their kin. They deserve to be with their family. Be reasonable.”
She paused, expression crossed with grief, and sat back on her haunches while relaxing the coils of her tail. The vessels clambered out and gathered around her legs to chirrup gently at her. She stooped down to sweep them into her arms and stand at her full height, towering over Oran as she spoke to them. “Are you sure?” She asked the larger one as they shrugged and moved to perch on her shoulder. “He’s not… he isn’t…” One nudged her jaw with their brow, and she returned the gesture of affection. “No,” she sighed. “No. I don’t like him. He hurt me. He hurt us.”
One small vessel hopped down from her arms and cautiously stepped toward Oran, holding something that didn’t quite fit under their cloak. They held it out, revealing a long, jagged, midnight-colored horn, snapped off near the base— and pointed to the goddess, posture hesitant in its silent question. He furrowed his brow. The tinier vessel pointed again, more insistently this time. It was then that Oran noticed the goddess, who still stood speaking to the vessels perched atop her, was missing a horn on the left side of her head. The dots connected.
He accepted the horn from the vessel, then turned to the goddess. “I am able to repair your horn, if you’d like.”
She gaped at him, silent for a moment. “You… really?”
Motioning for her to kneel, he wove Soul around his fingers in a spell of mending. She shrugged the vessels off and slowly bowed her head into reach. He held the broken-off horn in place with one hand and traced the break with the fingertips of the other, murmuring the incantation to fuse it together under his breath. The carapace snapped back into place, and the goddess flinched away.
"That was a seal of binding," she said.
He quirked a brow. "I suppose one could describe it as such."
Baring her fangs, she hissed, "If you ever work those spells near any of us, I'll swallow you whole."
(Ghost accidentally reveals that she is related to the Pale King during her explanation of how she stitched together time in a way that would mend the damage he did. The Pale King awkwardly changes the subject.)
The vessels finished their game and stood up to cluster around the god’s legs, tugging on her cloak and asking to be picked up.
“What are their names?” He found himself asking. If what she said were true, perhaps the goddess had picked up his own tendency to dodge questions.
She knelt down to let the vessels climb onto her back and shoulders, perch between her horns and crawl into her many arms. When she stood, her expression was dark. “They have none.”
“And yours?”
The goddess leveled him with an icy glare. “I am the Forsaken, Failure, Refuse and Regret, Master of Dreams, She Who Swallowed the Sun, Lord of Shades, God of Gods. I knew no name until the Daughter of the Beast branded me with one. I am the monument to my sire’s sins. I am the Ghost of Hallownest.”
Oran buried the dread that bubbled up at that damnation of a name and waved over a servant to ready the royal tram.
A child named after the things he’d done in another life. Things he would have done in this life, had she not swallowed the sun. A child who had slain his greatest enemy, and would not hesitate to cut him down as well should he prove himself anything other than tolerable.
He had so much to explain to his Root when he returned.
(Ghost + TPK + the vessels travel to the White Palace and meet the White Lady, who is confused by TPK introducing Ghost as Hollow's twin)
The White Lady’s brow furrowed. She idly rubbed the back of her knuckles over the branching-horns vessel’s cheek as she spoke. “Dear one, Calla’s not even a quarter of this bug’s size, nor do they look remotely alike. Forgive me my skepticism.”
Ghost looked down at herself. It hadn’t occurred to her how different she looked now— she’d actually been enjoying her new height and shell. But maybe…
Ghost shrugged the vessels perched on her back onto the ground. The King and Lady snapped to look at her when she abruptly burst into Void, leaving scattered pieces of carapace in her wake, only to reform as her old self. It hurt, being in this ill-fitting shell again, but she stayed in it long enough for recognition to dawn on both of their faces, then snapped her new shell’s pieces back into place over her Void.
“Oh, stars,” the Lady gasped. “She looks just like she said.”
The King had gone paler than normal, if that were possible, and stood in silence, shaking.
“Dear Life, Calla needs to hear this. My Wyrm, you’ve sent for her, haven’t you?”
“Not… yet?” He choked out, remarkably undignified.
“Go, then, Oran, she deserves to know.” She watched him until he staggered out of the chamber, nodding once he left. And then those sapphire eyes were back on Ghost. “Is something the matter, child?”
“You… have arms,” she blurted out, recalling the White Lady’s bindings in the old world.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You can see us? And— and the room?”
“I’m not blind, little one. And I’d be rather disappointed if I were. I’m beyond relieved to see your faces.”
“And you know I’m impure?”
The Lady’s eyes widened, brows drawing up in concern, lips pressed into a thin line. “Oh, child,” she breathed. She reached out to Ghost, cupping the side of her mask with a gentle hand. “Child, you’re no less pure than I am.”
(The White Lady didn’t care much for Ghost’s presence beyond reminding her of the King. Ghost had gone through so much, traveled so far, fought so hard to be nothing like him, and the White Lady mistook her for her father the second that she entered the dusty chamber. The White Lady looked down on the Grimmchild with open disdain, told him that the very earth rejected him with good reason, and told Ghost to destroy the charm that gave him life while she still could. The White Lady didn’t see Ghost, she saw a vessel, and she told her to cut down Hollow and take the failure’s place.)
Yeah. Yeah, that was a wonderful compliment. Ghost took the branching-horned vessel out of her arms a little too snappishly to be subtle, and the vessel voiced his protests through the Void. Ghost ignored them. “Where will we be staying?”
“There’s a guest chamber in my and my Wyrm’s wing of the Palace. Though we’ll have to build more rooms so each of you have your own in the future, I’m afraid.”
“We’d prefer to stay together,” Ghost scoffed. Was it really not obvious with how the other vessels clung to her and each other?
The White Lady led them to a chamber that had obviously been tidied recently— everything inside glittering with cleanliness— and Ghost slammed the door in the Lady’s face.
(TPK ruminates on Hollow describing a sibling making the climb to reach him alongside her:)
Oran took the long elevator ride up the Watcher’s Spire in stride. He was handling this with inexplicable grace and majesty. And by that, he meant he was pacing circles in the narrow space and fighting off a panic attack.
Calla had spoken of a twin when she was younger and still learning to sign. It was difficult to understand what she was attempting to get across with such frantic, disjointed signs and spotty grammar, and in the years following she seemed to have either forgotten about the issue or given up on trying to explain it.
(But Oran wouldn’t— couldn’t— forget. Not the way the grub phrased it. “Calla-Two stop climb. Down. Big crunch. Quiet.” Confusing as it was, it settled like ice in his stomach. Something horrible had happened. He knew it. He found Calla drawing the next week, several pages of vessel-shaped blobs of colors scattered across the floor, and the room spun around him when he spotted a page showing a vessel very much like Calla clinging to the lip of the final overhang, Calla standing above them, and Oran himself off to the side. He was there when it happened. There was a vessel that nearly finished the climb with Calla, that he could have taken home, and he hadn’t noticed.
(And now that vessel had returned, and she hated him. Poetic justice, he supposed.)
The elevator stopped. He stepped into the Watcher’s office.
(The vessels explore the room they're staying in at the White Palace:)
The vessels took one look at the massive, fluffy bed in the guest chamber and decided they didn’t like it. The chorus of sleepy confusion that tumbled through the Void was as hilarious as it was exhausting.
“Why is it squishy?”
“It feels weird.”
“Why does it smell like that?”
“What’s it for?”
“I’m tired.”
“Can we go to the Abyss? I wanna sleep.”
“We are not going to the Abyss.”
“But I’m tired!”
“Me too.”
After watching her siblings toss and turn in a struggle for comfort, Ghost tore off the sheets and untucked the downy comforter and pillows so she could stuff them under the bed. When the comforter in particular brushed up against the weary group of vessels, she could hear them gasp in awe at how nice it felt. They chirped excitedly as they tangled themselves up in the blanket, squishing it in their hands as they marveled at how something this soft could exist. And then one of them touched the silk sheets and they all lost every last one of their collective marbles.
“It’s too bright in here.” Ah. That was a fair point. Even with the curtains drawn and the lights out, the Palace managed to be significantly lighter than the Abyss. She blamed it on everything being white. The vessels wandered the room for a while longer before deciding that the only logical place to sleep was on the floor beneath the bed itself.
(Ghost saves Tiso from an unexpected strike, and Tiso has no filter, much to Quirrel's exasperation:)
Ghost lowered her outstretched arm, waiting until the vengefly skewered on her claws stopped squirming to uncurl herself from around a stunned Tiso.
He looked from the vengefly, to Ghost, to the arm still wrapped around his middle, and back again. “Not gonna lie, that was pretty hot.”
“Tiso!” Came Quirrel’s exasperated shriek.
(Ghost stumbles across Hollow and TPK while walking around the White Palace, and Ghost has some emotions about the sudden reunion with Hollow and a revelation about TPK's character:)
The King halted abruptly when Ghost rounded a corner and nearly bowled him over, and she was so busy glaring at him that she hadn’t noticed the Hollow Knight in his shadow.
There she was.
Hollow— no, Calla. She was alive, and safe, and she had paint and charcoal smeared on her mask. Ghost hunched in on herself to be closer to her sister’s height (how weird it was, to be the tall one all of a sudden) and reached out shakily.
Then the Pale King stepped between them, and she was tempted to take off his head for that, until she saw his face. His jaw was set, and he tilted his head in such a way that showed… something. She couldn’t figure out what he was trying to communicate. But then a small hand took hold of his, and it became clear.
Calla had tucked herself behind him, peering out from his side, tightly gripping his hand, obviously frightened.
Ghost had scared her.
Ghost was scaring her.
She decided at that moment that she hated being the tall one.
She dropped into a shadow on the wall, mind alight with shame and anger at herself, shaking.
The Pale King said something to Calla. She nodded and left down the corridor on her own, a little too quickly to be at ease with her surroundings. And then the King turned to the shadow Ghost had tucked herself into. Apparently she wasn’t being as subtle as she thought with her shadow-travel if he knew exactly where she was then.
“I need some time to break the news,” he murmured. “She has a lot on her mind at the moment. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“If you wouldn’t show your smaller form, I believe it would be easier on…”
“It hurts to stuff myself back in there anyway.”
“Thank you.”
Silence.
“Is that all, or—?”
“You won’t show her that vision,” he said, voice suddenly sharp and clear and indisputable. Ghost hadn’t ever heard him speak as a king before, never heard him announce decrees and demands, but she could see him doing so in that tone.
“That vision,” she echoed.
“The one that I cannot sponge from my mind no matter how I try. The one that has haunted every last one of my waking hours. You will never show it to her, you will never discuss it with her, you will never so much as allude to it around her. If you feel so inclined to be cruel enough to touch on what happened in that gods-forsaken moment, you will choose me as your victim. Not her, nor her mother, nor the other children.”
“It affected you,” Ghost observed.
His glare was icy. “And how did you expect I would react, if not by being affected?”
“To shrug it off. To brush it aside. To ignore it.”
“She’s my daughter. My flesh and blood, pride and joy, and you thought I would ignore seeing her do that?”
Ghost let the light of her eyes shine through the shadow. “Forgive me, I should have spoken more clearly— I expected you to look me in the face and say there was no cost too great.”
He fell silent.
“I wouldn’t dream of doing what you described. I swallowed the sun, yes, but I didn’t inherit her cruelty, Pale King. I stitched this world together so my sister could be happy. Void swallow me whole if I’m the one to ruin that.”
He sighed, long and heavy, and strode away. Ghost slipped into his shadow as he passed.
“… I scared her.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t want to.”
He didn’t reply.
“If I can’t use my old shell, how am I supposed to not scare her?”
“Don’t approach her.”
“She’s my twin.” Ghost barely kept from wailing indignantly. “I can’t just sit here and… The last time I saw her, she was barely clinging to life, and not willingly. I want to talk to her!”
He paused at that. “She survived the…” He swallowed dryly. “The attempt?”
“We weren’t going to let her die before she ever had the chance to live. I channeled all the Soul in the area into healing her, and Hornet—”
“Hornet?”
“You might know her as the Gendered Child, depending how far along we are in this world.”
“No. Nettie— Hornet was with you when that happened?”
Oh. His voice was tighter than she realized. The clipped element of his tone wasn’t anger. It was fear.
Ghost squirmed. The shadows felt claustrophobic all of a sudden. “… She didn’t stay away. She said she would,” Ghost murmured. “She didn’t want to stand by like she did when her mother…”
The Pale King took a sharp left as he walked, locked himself in an empty council room, and sobbed.
Ghost began to understand, seeing his glow brighten and brighten until the whole room was nothing but white light as he choked on his tears, that this wasn’t her sire. He was a sire, yes, but also a father. One who wept at the thought of his children suffering and being abandoned, let alone dying or witnessing each other’s deaths. He was a sire so unlike hers. She’d been placing her grudges and burdens onto someone who didn’t deserve it.
(And that is why she was so like him. So like him that when she visited her mother that’s all she saw. So like him that his enemy thought her a disguise he’d taken on. So like him that she was following his every step.)
Ghost left him to weep.
(Ghost gets into a scuffle with the Nightmare King and wakes up with the same injuries she gained during her dream:)
Promptly expelled from the Nightmare Realm, Ghost jerked awake on the floor under a massive bed and curled around her little siblings as they snored softly. She reluctantly rose and walked the castle grounds, staring at the gashes, gouges, and burns running all the way up her arm. She’d have to explain this to someone at some point. How would she phrase it? Would she just bluntly state that her tendency to pick fights had risen to threatening gods now? Yeah, that wouldn’t send anyone panicking.
She was so numb with exhaustion that she didn’t notice the Pale King in the corridor across from her. They locked eyes. Neither moved until he glanced down at the arm she was favoring. He wordlessly reached out a hand in offering.
Silence.
She drew over to him and knelt closer to his height, then placed her arm in his reach. His brow knit together in worry as he traced his fingers over the wounds, never touching, just hovering over them. He reached for another pair of arms, and it was then that Ghost realized the palms of this pair were badly burned from when she strangled Nightmare. She hadn’t even noticed.
He spun Soul around his hand in a luminescent glove. The Pale King didn’t lift his head all the way to ask if he could help, simply glanced up warily. Questioningly. Ghost nodded.
He healed the wounds in silence. It was obvious what had inflicted them, and he couldn’t erase scars made by a god. They both knew that. But it was painfully clear that he was trying. He passed over the mended burns several times, and Ghost recognized the words he mouthed as a spell to change something’s colors. Nothing returned the singed-white claw marks in her shell to their original black. He tried so many times, but the spell bounced off the scars uselessly with each attempt. Finally, long after Ghost had accepted his efforts were futile, he tucked his arms back into his robes, shaking his head slowly, mouthparts working in frustration.
Ghost was the one to walk away. She could feel the King's eyes on her until she passed the corner, and it was only then that she heard him turning away.
(TPK and Ghost have a chat, and Sofie has a favorite trope that is totally not used here at all:)
“How old are you?” The Pale King asked.
That gave Ghost pause. “Strange thing to ask a god, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps if the god in question had ascended more than a few months ago, but not in this situation, no.” He looked her up and down. “This form looks significantly older than you behave, and it’s also the form every Lord of Shades would take while walking among mortals. It’s not clear what age you truly are.”
Ghost had to consider that. “I must be an adult by now. As for numbered years, though, I don’t know.”
“You don’t—? What do you mean?”
“Hallownest was in stasis when I entered it. There was no way to mark the passage of time, and it seemed like most things were… blurry. They could age, but not correctly. Some didn't age at all. And before I set foot in the kingdom, I was in the Wastes outside it. That lends itself even less to a good estimate of how old I am”
“If you had a caretaker, I’m certain they would have an estimate.”
“I was on my own until halfway through Hallownest.”
“Gods,” he hissed under his breath. “What world did you live in where a child was left to fend for themself and fight wars on their parents’ behalf?”
“Same world where a child cut down every last member of the Pantheons.” She gave him a narrow look. “I wasn’t an ordinary grub—”
“No, because you never had the chance to be one. I’ve heard of children being forced to mature too soon, but to ascend to godhood because of the pressure heaped on you…”
“I got the job done.”
“And what did you pay for it?”
“My life for the kingdom. It wasn’t very much.”
“I’d think that’s far too great a cost to pay from any child’s purse, even one capable of swallowing the sun.”
She froze.
“You were a child,” he murmured, “no matter how old that stasis made you. You were meant to laugh and play, and to be swaddled and doted on— not to kill a primeval goddess simply so others could have that basic right you’d been deprived of.”
#guys i SWEAR i'm not becoming an exclusively Hollow Knight-centric blog but the brain worms are looping the Mantis Lords Theme 24/7 rn#hollow knight#hk#hollow knight fanfic#hollow knight fic#hk fanfic#hk fic#stuff by sofie
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vampire ei x reader
Hey bro thanks for the request!!! I'm happy to share more thoughts on monsterfucking. It's a guilty pleasure…. 🤪
ao3 link
Content warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dubcon/coerced sex, mentions of blood/gore, mentions of r*pe
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Vampires are said to be elusive and highly territorial. That being said, it's not unheard of for them to live in pairs or more. It's just an extremely rare case.
You gambled that every time you took a bounty to wipe out a vampire that had been terrorizing a small town. Vampire hunting had its own merits, if the ring of harvested fangs hanging on your belt is anything to go by. It earns you enough cold, hard cash to last months, and the gratitude of locals wherever you go.
And with merits come dangers. Taking on one is enough to leave you scratched up for the worst. A lone human can't handle two alone, even with the best equipment or the most experience. Even if you managed to finish one, the other would tear you to shreds in an instant, and the blood from their harvest would be enough to undo the damage you've caused.
This is the gamble you took. And like most games based on chance, you're bound to lose the more you roll.
The info broker hadn't mentioned a second one when he sent you the files. All the locals told you the same thing- long, purple hair and a single pair of violet eyes that crackled in the dark like thunder and lightning. Adorns a stoic, yet somber expression, based on what survivors were able to make out. Not that you could really understand their babbling much more than that. Most trailed off into a religious chant you couldn't quite discern, but one thing's for sure- this fight wouldn't be easy.
On the ground is the Raiden Shogun, and a heavy wooden stake that took all your strength and fight to run straight through her chest. The browning blood splattered on her coat was yours. Vampires didn't bleed. Freezing black mist exuded around her wound, something you could never get used to no matter how battle hardened you've grown to be.
On your side was a borrowed cross from the local church that had been bent out of use from her strength. Your crossbow has been battered as well, strings frayed and definitely in need of heavy maintenance.
Legs pinning both of her sides down, you huff, giving the stake another push to drive it in further for good measure before cold, sharp fingers curl around the back of your neck.
Your breath stops, condensate disappearing into the frosty air.
"Mm. That's it. Now, up." You could feel the way her fingers slowly drag against your skin, pressing . "Slowly."
You move in tandem with her force, like a leash pulling you up until your back straightens, heart sized in your throat and nerves frozen shut. You don't dare to object. You couldn't. Or you could just die fighting for your freedom.
It's an instinctual fight or flight response. In this case, flight immediately leads to fight, so for a moment, you revel in the adrenaline pumping through your vessels, pray to the lord for strength and protection and pull out a hidden cross in your inner coat in hopes to repel the grasp on your neck-
Only for it to get fruitlessly slapped away by the vampire that shouldn't even be alive below you. It lands hopelessly far from your reach, and your wrists throb in punishing pain from the sheer force of her hands.
When your eyes turn down, not daring to move your head with how tight the grip on your neck has gotten, the Raiden Shogun's eyes glare violet as she pulls the stake out with a pained hiss. The only sound you've heard from her since the fight began.
"I must say, quite capable of you, to be able to land such an ugly gash on my beauty. Many like you have pitifully died by her hands, without leaving so much as a scratch." The lady behind you speaks in such an eloquent manner unlike the feral, bloodthirsty beasts you've slain in the past. "Oh dear,"
You can feel her other hand loop around your waist, fiddling with the ring of fangs you've once proudly adorned like a trophy. In one swift movement, she plucks it from your belt. Now, it's nothing more than a warrant for your demise.
"How very obnoxious." She hums thoughtfully. "Teeth, dull. Those lowlifes don't deserve to be displayed on this chain. They can't even maintain their fangs properly. Unsightly."
The ring rattles, and from the corner of your eye, you watch in silence as she flicks it off to the side.
"Now, I believe you took something that belonged to the Shogun." She continues. Her nails, like claws, press even further, daring you to swallow down your fear.
Below, while you were still straddling her hips, the Raiden Shogun sat up, one hand pressed against her wound in futility, and the other snaking around the small of your back, pulling you in closer.
She closes in so suddenly that you don't have the time to squeeze your eyes shut to brace for the terror of being eaten alive.
White, searing hot pain flashes through your eyes and your hands- moving on their own, instinctually latching onto anything as an anchor to keep you floating off into the abyss. Somewhere in the crevices of your panic-addled mind, you know it's your neck she's punctured, but it's almost as if every point of your body collectively decided to share the same caliber of pain.
Breathing is impossible, your mouth heaves dryly, begging for air that doesn't come, and your nose is assaulted by the tangy malodor of your own blood.
You can't say for sure how long the terrible experience lasted for. It felt like it had been hours and mere seconds simultaneously, but when she finishes- and you know she does because she licks your wound- your hands immediately fly to your neck as an instinct to apply pressure, only to find it clean and fully clotted like the puncture had been healing for days.
But wait, why were you still conscious? Were you dead? You could be, for all that mattered.
"The merit of proper maintenance. It keeps our meals' mess to a minimum." The voice behind you pipes up again, though it's significantly foggier, like your ears had been clotted. "And as long as you're alive, our saliva will help clot the blood at increased speed. But, most don't to live to tell the tale."
Words, words, words. She sounded like the lecturers at those fancy institutes. You couldn't respond anyway, the lack of blood finally catching up as the stimulant effect of adrenaline wears out.
"Now, stand and we will return to my estate at once. I would like to get to know you better."
You were then hoisted to your feet, much to your brain's weak protest. The moment they let go to let you stand on your own, the world swayed and swung upside down and you felt your head collide with snow and frozen dirt. It did not hurt, or if it did, you weren't lucid enough to feel it anymore.
As the rest of your senses dulled, your eyes managed to catch the faintest detail, though it's hard to discern if it's the lack of oxygen that blurred the lines of reality or if it really was the truth- the two figures standing before you looked nearly identical.
-----
You hardly dreamed, but when you did, you imagined retirement to be a well earned paradise by the beach, all on your lonesome, and a humble wooden shack sitting on the treeline, facing the waves. Your toes would sink pleasantly into smooth, ash-like sand, waves rolling in tantalizing motions off in the distance. The air would be salty yet brings a refreshing change of pace, and the only bits of life accompanying you would be oceanside critters.
But the sad reality is, most vampire hunters don't live long enough to watch their children grow up, let alone hit retirement age. It's a dangerous and thankless, commission-based job taken on because of family tradition or by those only desperate enough for mora. Anyone suicidal enough to face vampires head on signed their life away for every bounty they take. You're no different.
Then why dream of something so far out of reach?
To you, it was better than falling into the hands of alcoholism and tobacco dependence like everyone else.
When you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, the terrible, cruel world would melt away. Firstly, it was the salty, cold seaside air that would fade into a pleasant, smokey firewood scent accompanied by what seemed to be mild floral perfume.
Secondly, opening your eyes proved to be difficult with how lethargic your muscles felt. You felt your heavy eyelids twitch, slowly cracking open to adjust to the dim light, and though you knew it was merely a fire crackling away, to your pounding headache addled head, it was a million suns assaulting your senses.
Thirdly, when you craned your neck, everything in your body screamed for reprieve. But one thing is for certain: the gut deep fear that registered not a second after.
The bite, it's the after effects that nearly sent you back into shock. And before that, you had lost a fight against not one, but two vampires. Was it two, now? It sure felt like it.
You tell yourself that this very moment was a dream, but what was the fading memory of an oceanside retirement before? And the cold fingers that wrapped cruelly around your neck? The searing hot torment coursing through your nerves was enough to prove that this is reality. And if that wasn't enough, the same voice of the women that gripped your neck moments before flooded your ears.
"I must admit, I almost feared that you would no longer wake." She said. Soft, embroidered lavender fabric filled your limited, sideways view as she stepped closer. You felt a cold hand rest briefly on your cheek, lifting as quickly as it came. "I am not experienced in human medical knowledge, but your skin turned nearly as pale and cold as mine from the outdoors. I didn't think you would recover so quickly."
So again, despite having cleared up with yourself that this was reality, new information presented before you had flipped everything you thought you knew, right upside down. Vampires don't save humans. Vampires don't care if humans recover quickly or not from the cold frosty air of the northeast. Vampires don't fear, and frankly, they don't speak with such eloquence. And you certainly should not be lying on a vampire's couch across a fireplace, layered by thick, heavy blankets warmed by your recovered body heat.
She could have very well left your dying corpse to freeze outside. A vampire of her caliber could have very well hunted for other game instead of waiting for a vampire hunter, armed with crosses and stakes, to recover from blood loss.
You reached from underneath the blankets to see if they had disarmed you, only to find that not only have they disposed of your equipment, but they also likely have disposed of your clothes along with it. Not even a scrap of undergarments to preserve your modesty. You can feel the way the blanket rubs embarrassingly against your bare skin.
Despite your throbbing headache, you sat up with nothing more than your life to lose, yet shamefully still holding the blanket up to your chest. "Were you always this talkative?"
The lady before you blinked in surprise, stoicism replaced by what you could only interpret as wonder. She tilted her head curiously.
Dread pools in your stomach at the silence she answered with. "... I mean, you didn't say a word when I tried to…" Your nerves got the better of you, but perhaps it would be unwise to bring up past affairs that didn't work in your favor.
Her face then twisted into amusement. "Ah, but of course. Who you confronted was not me, but the Shogun. She is not the talkative type at all. Neither am I, but at least I can still make for better company."
Is this your purpose for being sustained alive even when vampires are known to dispose of dried blood bags after their hunts? So whatever this imitation of the Raiden Shogun could talk your ear off as you inconspicuously eyed windows and doors for escape routes?
When you searched her eyes for answers, she, yet again, returned void. In fact, it almost felt unreal how human the Shogun look-alike seemed to be with her composed, gentle demeanor. Whereas the one you faced in a life-or-death fight- she bore no traces of humanity, only brutal, mechanical movements with the singular objective of efficiently ridding you of your existence.
"While some vampires come to be by birth, some were… infected, as I would put it." She began, suddenly, circling a low table to feed more logs into the fire. "My name is Ei, and I was once human. I enjoyed sweets, then. But as you might know, human food does not hold the same taste nor nutrients as it would to a vampire."
Questions swarm your head like incessant flies, but one keeps popping up. Your mouth opens before you can think, "Why are you telling me this?"
"Hush, allow me to continue, if you will. Firstly, I feel that it is vital to inform you that you are not the first. You are free to perceive this as a threat or as consolation, though I greatly suggest the latter, for your sake, and, perhaps rather selfishly, for mine."
No matter how much solace she expected to bring you with such foreboding warnings, the fact that you weren't the first for whatever sick game she was about to instill upon you, in combination with the fact that you have not once heard any tale of the Raiden Shogun's identical double feeling inclined to impose sick games onto hunters after their bounty, drove you even further into a pit of worry and desperation. Her phrasing wasn't important- it would never be, because vampires posed a natural threat to your survival from the get-go.
"Secondly, you shall not reject any of my advances. Not that you would want to, of course, and I recommend that you don't, from my experience. But on the off chance that you do, my dear Shogun does not care for trivial matters such as sweets. Your pleasure will not dictate the measures she will take to ensure your compliance."
It's almost as if she were purposefully baiting you into folding. You almost feel foolishly inclined to insist that she hurries along her long, disconcerting list of terms, but the rational- albeit cowardly- side of you firmly argues to stay silent and entertain her with no pleasure of watching you tremble like a petal.
She takes your silence for acceptance, it seemed. “As I had said, I greatly adored sweets. It has been rumored by others of my kind that human pleasures tend to sweeten the blood for the better.” Her eyes flicker over to you. “I have sampled a multitude of different flavors myself, each with varying levels of sweetness and purity. But you,"
She circles back, not unlike a shark smelling fresh blood in the water. "Your blood is unblemished by tobacco and alcohol. Those impurities have always tainted my marks, no matter how much sweetness I wring out of them."
You've stopped listening at this, cringing at the implications of her absurd statements. Treating your predecessors like gourmet meals just as humans did with livestock. Most hunters drank and smoked- those vices greased the wheels for them. You either indulged, or you would succumb to the stress and anxiety that came as a package deal.
She must've known. She's a vampire, after all, and their heightened senses must have turned you into a mouth watering meal, comparable to ripe fruit kept free of disease and pests.
Your thoughts run back to the last tavern you drank at, that reeked of sweat and cheap beer. The alcohol was bitter and foul, so utterly indigestible that you gave the rest of your mug away to a drunk stranger and proceeded to rinse your mouth clean in the privacy of your own room. And before that, your mentor had offered a cigar after your first successful hunt, but the post-traumatic stress that poisoned your mind had you retching and regurgitating whatever lunch you had managed to stomach as soon as you inhaled. Even now, the consideration of downing a pint of beer or indulging in a smoke makes you shudder.
"So you're going to rape me?" You spit out, half considering her terms.
"That is putting it extremely. But I won't have to if you oblige. Perhaps I'll even spare you, if you behave." Her smile twists up sardonically.
"Would you let me go if my flavor is not up to your gourmet standards?"
"Hardly even a question. I would feed you to the Shogun. It would be up to her what she would want to do with you." Her honesty renders her fully transparent leaving no room for further inquiry. This is a waltz she knows well. You aren't sure if you should feel safe or terrorized by how casually she handled your interrogation.
"... Will you be gentle?"
For once, genuine surprise returns to replace her cold, distant resting expression.
"It's… I," Would it be better to keep this to yourself? Perhaps you could rouse pity if you were honest. "I've never been with anyone…"
"Not even yourself?"
You flushed at the implication of her rebuttal. Admittedly, you've tried before, in the safety of a rented room of a tavern. But judging from how little you've achieved by yourself, the safer answer would be no. "Look, if that's an issue, then just kill me right now and spare me the humiliation." You bite back. "It won't be pleasant for me regardless."
Ei leans over, fangs hovering just above the shell of your ear. "A rare purity of soul, body and mind. It seems I've struck gold." She whispered, sending cold, hollow chills down your clammy skin. "Do not fret, little lamb. I did hold a preference towards women before my time as a vampire. Your pleasure means all the more value to me."
If that was a lie, it did not matter to you.
-----
Ei reminded you of the noblewomen you've met in your time serving as a commissioned bounty hunter. They were regal, elegant and held their chin up high with unwavering confidence despite being overshadowed by their husband's status. To you, it seemed admirable, though you could never compare your social footing to theirs. Sometimes you wondered if they had always been the ones pulling the strings from the shadows.
But Ei- she was different. When she rose to full mast, her poster demanded attention and respect and you instantly knew she was the head of her own estate. Her height was overpowering and dizzying, and though her muscles were lithe, you had no issue accepting the fact that the vampire could fold you with ease.
When Ei peeled the sheets that held your warmth away, you did not dare to struggle, lest you incur her wrath. However, you did shiver from the sudden gust of cold air as your core temperature plummeted despite the warm fire nearby, almost immediately shriveling up like an insect. As soon as you curled in your limbs to protect your warmth (and modesty, though it was pointless, you knew), her strong, boney hands wrestled your legs open like a pliant play doll baring your holes for her to view at her pleasure.
And despite your bewilderment, she offered no words of solace, but only drank in the sight of your untouched pussy with animal hunger present in her eyes and an unfriendly, sinister smile. "Do not be afraid of me, my little lamb." She whispered, smelling the bitter musk of terror oozing from your glands. "It does you no favors to serve me such an unappealing meal." Her cold fingers trace around your untouched clit.
It's hard to teach yourself something you had no knowledge in. In your trade, every clever trick in the book you absorbed from observing your mentor, and if it didn't work, then you wouldn't live to tell the tale. Likewise, attempting to stimulate yourself without knowing what to do had gotten you nowhere, but when the Ei gathered up your slick and gently pressed into your pussy, it took you damn near everything not to combust on the spot.
"Poor thing, so desperate to seek the pleasure you could not find yourself." She stated cruelly, and it was like instinct, to allow such a monster to devour you whole. No one else's appendages, human or not, could ever provoke the same, blinding pleasure that spiked your core like fireworks. The expertly timed circles around your throbbing clit and the shallow dip of her fingers worked wonders on your rapidly deteriorating psyche.
It was not enough. It could not be enough because you could still see the rest of her pale, slender hand, resting just outside your greedy cunt when it should be buried deep by the innards of your burning flesh-
Sweaty hands immediately sought purchase on her forearm, hoping to pull her in for more. Cold, black mist seeped through your fingers, through her broken skin. "Careful now, you might be biting off more than you can chew." She warned you, but made no effort to pull away as you accepted more and more of her. Your stomach lurched, chest heaving to make up for it and throwing your head back as white flooded your vision.
Although your lips spasmed against the intrusion from overstimulation, your spine arched into her touch, hips greedily searching for more. Immediately, she forces down your entire body back into the plush comfort of the sofa. "What a pliant, little lamb you are. So willing to accept what most of your kind have struggled so valiantly against at first. Tell me, then, were you always this depraved?"
"Nu-ah! No, it's- I'm not…"
"Or, is it how I fuck this tight, little virgin cunt of yours?" Her wrists flick in tandem with your hips, easily matching your erratic pace. She must've felt the way you clenched up at her dirty words. Elegant, regal noblewomen wouldn't speak as such, but you supposed she was the lady of her own estate. And she was a different kind of beast. "You enjoy this, don't you, dirty vermin? Being stuffed full of me, put in your place. Nothing but a deviant that craves a vampire's touch."
You are not a deviant. You weren't succumbing to her pleasure because you wanted to. It was a matter of a prey's final, desperate attempt at survival, and your mind begged for that to be the case, but a further part of you had long conceded. Ei's touch numbed the bone deep ache, relaxing yet intense. You cried. You thrashed. Maybe you did none of that and took her fingers without trouble, or maybe she had to help you make it fit, but this moment was unbound to time and reality. It should be impossible, how well she worked into the crevices of your body and wrung you dry just as she promised.
Every word you tried to voice was caught in your throat as she diligently drilled in between your walls. The timing was too immaculate. She could have very well been reading your mind, and that wouldn't be the most absurd revelation you've had the pleasure of witnessing this evening.
"Little lamb, you should feel lucky that I am just as ravenous as you are." She damn near growled but you could only perceive the gentle rumble of her chest as she spoke. "That I did not expect of you to beg." Compared to your glazed, half lidded eyes and heavy breaths, Ei's movements did not seem the least bit influenced by exertion. The last of your sanity receded somewhere far into the back of your mind as her fingers pressed against a spot you could not have possibly imagined of finding.
"Come, now. Come for your master. Show me what a good, delectable treat you are for me, you little whore."
You didn't need your imagination to see the dominion she held over you. Getting fucked senseless by a vampire couldn't possibly feel this good, but it did. When you squeezed your eyes shut, you saw blackness but also blinding light. Whatever is left of your sanity fizzles away like beer foam and you wail (or maybe it was a soundless cry) because it was too much, too good, too overwhelming-
And something, perhaps her boney hands, gripped your jaw as you cried out, exposing your jugular, but did not feel agonizing when she bit down, reaping what she sowed. Your walls continued to spasm relentlessly around her fingers, leaving a slick mess all over her thigh and hand, knowing nothing but the sweltering ecstasy of being owned, filled and used so thoroughly that you could not possibly belong to anyone else but Ei.
When you crack open your eyes for a split second, Ei captured your lips. You didn't feel the sharp point of her fangs, and she did not open her mouth, but you could still taste the residue of your own blood. There was no sadism, no ownership to be claimed as she kissed you. It was just Ei- or rather, you knew, it was simply a human behind the embrace you sank into before sleep overtakes you.
-----
Warm porcelain pressed itself insistently against your lips when you stirred. Upon opening your eyes, you are met with a violet pair staring back earnestly. Obediently, you allow yourself to sip, careful not to choke. It tasted herbal, flowery.
"Paralytic?" You wondered out loud.
"Tea." The vampire answered curtly.
"Where did Ei go?" The Ei you've come to know despite having only spoken to her for a short while would have babbled on about the healing properties of the drink. "And why am I not dead?"
"Because Ei has more use of you alive than dead." The Shogun replied, settling the half empty cup on a tray next to you. "She went to deal with that incessant dog. Only she can handle Miko without trouble. I would advise you to steer clear of her."
"Werewolf?" You didn't miss the claw marks on the edge of the door of this room.
"Perceptive." The Shogun flashed a rare, small smile. "As expected of a seasoned hunter." She then moved to feel your pulse.
One two, one two. You felt it through her fingers, cold as ever. It's weak, your body dealing with the brunt of the effects, and the consequences are no less harsh on the headache you have to endure.
"Rest well. You are exerted. The tea has been steeped, you can use that to relax and recover." The Shogun stands up from your side and makes her way to the door. "Tomorrow I will take my fill. Do not expect me to be as generous as Ei."
She stopped at the entrance of the door, seeming to hesitate for a second. Then, more resolutely, she looked over her shoulder. "Like she said, I do not care much for sweets. However, you have piqued my interest."
#dead dove do not eat#genshin impact smut#raiden shogun x reader#dubcon/noncon#mild blood/gore#gourmet blood sucking#yeah that exists now
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God Is Good!
✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️
We have all fallen short of the Glory of God, not one of us has made it. Despite our accomplishments, we are insufficient on our own. Our righteousness is mere filthy rags in comparison to God's Majesty. There isn't a person that has mastered everything at every stage, we are all in pursuit of perfection. Life isn't something we've figured out nor have we garnered all of it's limitless knowledge. We are capable of learning something new everyday, with all that we've achieved there is still massive room for improvement.
When I consider all I've said before, I think of our Lord's reply to someone calling Him of all things "Good" Master. Seems safe enough right? Our Lord had a ministry doing good things but, His humility wouldn't let Him take the credit. The Lord handled it this way, "And Jesus said unto him, Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God"-Mark 10:18 KJV. The humanity that we live in love's to take the credit, but our Lord shows us a classic example of deflecting the credit. When we do things that cause the glory to be directed in our direction, it offers a peak into the condition of our hearts. You could be the biggest giver or support system known to man, but in reality the only entity that needs to know that, is God (Check Matthew 6 for further clarification).
When we engage in activities of self promotion or permit broadcasting of our "good" deeds we are actually placing the microscope on ourselves. I think of the sports athlete who after a game exibiting sportsmanship before the masses, gets an opportunity to speak into the camera. The sports man or woman gets up there after a polished performance. Everything didn't go their way but they got the victory and it thrills me to hear them say, "I want to first Thank my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ", it's all I truly came to see. This may not be the case in the natural, you probably tuned in to see a ball dunked or a football thrown, but the latter glorification of God does a soul good. This was an oppurtunity that could have been squandered in self-indulgence but that humble servant understood their role as vessel for God's Glory. The stages we'll grace serve as a place to lift up The Lord Jesus. When the opportunity comes and it will, we must represent well. One maybe wondering how is this different from someone exploiting someone in need? The plight of any individual shouldn't be a means for publicity, we don't want to ever strip someone of their dignity. I personally never saw our Lord via the word draw attention to anyone's delimna. If you were there and got an eye full good for you, but He never prolonged someone's deliverance until more viewers showed up.
We are going to give an account for how we treat people. In a time when the love of many is waxing cold and relationship maintenance isn't priority, God is taking an account of how we relate to our fellow man. I know we have our own way of doing things, but God has a good, acceptable and perfect way. For the mere fact that within us dwells no good thing(Romans 7:18), we've got to acknowledge God's right ways (His righteousness). I know this writing is taking a few directions but please bare with me. I believe its time we've returned the glory we have stolen. The other day The Lord allowed one of His mouthpieces to reveal our business (business pertaining to The Lord and I). I had never met this person before that day and they opened their mouth revealing secret gestures done unto others. Gestures that only God, the recipient and myself were privy to (I was blown away), especially by the intimate details. The size of the gesture doesn't matter to The Lord Jesus, but its the entire intent of our heart that registers in glory. The blessing to be had is the promise attached to what's done in secret, God promises to reward us (Matthew 6:4). Don't get caught up in Grand gesturing, although those gestures are big, they may lack true authenticity. I strive to live my life in the spirit of Matthew 6, I believe its the secret to true blessing. God doesn't need anyone outside our good deeds to be in on what He's doing through you and I. God says specifically, "Don't allow your left to know what your right hand does" (Matthew 6:3). What relationship is as close as your left and right hand? They happen to share the same body, there isn't anything you could naturally keep away from either hand. The level of secrecy is sacred to our God, He wants our deeds done in utter stealth, as to not draw attention to ourselves. If this could catch on, our worlds would be very blessed place.
This planet needs to receive the message that God is Good. We as believers have been tasked with this campaign. It will take sacrifice and self-denial, if we truly want God to get the glory He so deserves. I have always appreciated this verse as it pertains to the sanctity of our giving, "Let not then your good be evil spoken of:"
-Romans 14:16 KJV. The theme of this chapter is Christian charity and unity, so there is a lot being covered. You may not have considered how divided the body is on this issue, this fact is evident by the way we live. There is great disunity due to our willful actions in defiance to God's commands on the secrecy of giving. People can't speak evil of what they don't see. We may have grown tough skin to curtail the back lash, but we must question our methodology. Is God really being glorified? If people are beholding your alms unto men and they are berating it, God surely isn't being glorified. When it's all said and done, what we do unto brothers we do unto God (Matthew 25:40). Why is your sacrifice, your gift or deed done in God's name being attacked or insulted when its supposed to be kept safe from those things? Hidden in the sacredness of secrecy, a place where God's eyes alone can behold it. A Good God doesn't leave us to exploit or desecrate his loved ones, so why do we make God out to be something He isn't, a bad God. God has stated His preference and He prefers we prosper and be in health as our souls prosper (3 John 1:2). At every waking moment and in all of our circumstances, God is Good!
✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️✝️
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Cigar Smoke and Metal-Karl Heisenberg x Reader
Check out the Masterlist for the complete fic!
Chapter 2
Time passed. You didn’t know how much, or how little. After the veiled woman and her weird doll left, you were alone with your thoughts. You tried to block out the idea that there was a good chance you were going to die after you left this cell. Either die, or clean house for that greasy steampunk man. Neither of those options sounded very appealing. Then again, weird metal dude didn’t seem like he would seriously harm you. The other ‘people’ on the other hand… yeah.
After mulling over it some more, you decided if, on the slim chance you were given a choice, you’d go with the weird guy and plot your escape from there.
Some time after you had made your decision, Miranda returned. Restraints appeared on your arms and legs, and a gag was tied around your mouth. Miranda waved her hand, and you began to float, flailing wildly. She walked out of the room; you involuntarily followed her. You soon arrived at a strange room, where inhuman creatures forced you into a kneeling position and tied you down. Miranda stood at the front of the room. The weird fish man stood on her left. The veiled lady and her weird doll were on her right. Two others were present: a very, very tall, attractive woman wearing a large hat, and the steampunk man from earlier.
“My Children!” Miranda said. “It has come to my attention that there is a dispute over whether this vessel would be suitable for our purposes. Heisenberg. Explain.”
“Mother Mirander.” The steampunk man, presumably Heisenberg, spoke. “Although I do not doubt your… expertise, our experiments on outsiders have always gone… sour. We know she cannot leave, she knows too much, so I’d be willing to take her off your hands.”
“Mother Miranda, I must protest this proposal.” The tall lady stood, showing her full height. “My daughters and I are having more and more difficulty finding our prey. She looks healthy and full of blood that would sustain us for quite a while.”
“Oh please, super-sized. There’s plenty of girls in the village to get your food from.” Heisenberg also stood and leaned on his large hammer. “Miranda always gives you or Moreau the outsiders she gets. I think it’s my turn, don’t you?”
“You’re such a child. What use do you even have for a human? Besides… perversity, that is?” Big lady took a drag from her cigarette stick.
“Don’t I get a say in this?” You mumbled.
“Oh, come on, grow up, maybe one day your head may actually fit that ego of yours…” Heisenberg flipped his hammer around.
“Silence, children. I have made my decision.” Miranda raised her arms and flared her wings. “Heisenberg. The mortal goes to you.”
Heisenberg tipped his hat to Miranda. “Thank you, mother.”
Big lady sat in her chair. She was obviously displeased.
Your restraints disintegrated, and for a moment, you thought of running. You realized you had nowhere to go. You looked at your new captor, who was smiling almost sadistically at you.
“Alright, sweetheart.” He took your wrist and forced you to sit next to him for the rest of the meeting, where the group mulled over issues you didn’t care about. All you could feel is this man uncomfortably holding your wrist.
As soon as the meeting was adjourned, the man pulled you out of her chair and dragged you out of the room and out into the cold snow.
“Are you cold?” He asked after what seemed like an eternity of silence.
“Yes” You answered without hesitation.
“Get used to it. Oh, good, we’re here.”
You had arrived at a small carriage containing an absolutely massive man.
“Duke, I need a dress. What do ya’ got?”
“Why certainly, Lord Heisenberg. Let me show you my stock. For the young lady, I presume?” Duke leaned behind him and brought out a selection of dresses in several different colors and styles.
Heisenberg picked out the first one he saw without looking through the others.
“Oh, come now, Lord Heisenberg, I thought you would let the young lady decide. You wouldn’t want to waste coin on something she wouldn’t enjoy, now would you?”
“UUUGH. Fine.” Heisenberg shoved you forward. “Pick.”
You mouthed silent thanks to the Duke and looked through the selection. You ended up picking the warmest looking one-- a dark green, long sleeved, mid-calf length dress.
Heisenberg gruffly paid the duke, took your wrist again, and dragged you away. “Now, to the factory.”
“You’re going to leave a bruise, Heisenberg.” You spat, tired of the pain in your wrist.
“Ah, she finally speaks!” He tightened his grip on your wrist. “I’m sorry, I can’t risk my new little prisoner running away.”
“You honestly think I’m going to run away? Where would I go? I’m miles from home with a broken phone. I’m in a crazy village ruled by crazy people who wanted to do crazy occult experiments on me! I think after all I’ve been through in the past I-don’t-even-know-how-many- hours, I deserve a little respect!”
He paused for a moment and released your wrist. “Fine. But if you run, I’m going to chase you. And just to make sure everyone knows you belong to me…” He removed one of the pendants tied around his neck and put it around your own. “There. It’s not too much farther to the factory.”
“The… the factory?”
“Yup! My factory. That’s where you’ll spend the rest of your measly little life, cooking and cleaning for yours truly.”
Ew.
“Cooking and cleaning, huh?” You mumbled to yourself.
“I live on the top floor of the factory, so you’ll even get to see some sunlight. Better than ol’ super-sized woulda’ done.”
“... so was that like… the council?”
“Yup! Mirander oversees us all, and we all have some form of control over the village.” He sounded weirdly mad about being under Miranda.
“Miranda seems… interesting.”
“Don’t even get me started on Miranda, babydoll. You don’t wanna know.”
“My name is y/n. Not ‘babydoll’, Heisenberg.”
He smirked over his shoulder at you. “Whatever you say… babydoll.”
You rolled your eyes.
As you came to the top of the hill, a factory became visible on the horizon.
“There she is!” Heisenberg said with a laugh.
Thick, black smoke was rolling out of the chimneys, and the land around the building was bare and desolate.
Oh boy.
#Karl heisenberg#karl heisenberg x reader#karl heisenburg#resident evil 8#resident evil village#lady dimitrescu#Karl#Donna Beneviento#resident evil viii#reader insert
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what are some quotes that are so visceral they feel like a gut punch to you?
“A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed. It won't stretch to make room for you.”
— Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns
“At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this?
And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?”
— Ilya Kaminsky, “A City Like a Guillotine Shivers on Its Way to the Neck”
“I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, and who to love, and how to tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong.”
— Phoebe Waller-Bridge, from Fleabag
“Les femmes de notre famille, nous sommes engluées dans la colère
J’ai été en colère contre ma mère
Tout comme tu es en colère contre moi
Et tout comme ma mère fut en colère contre sa mère
Il faut casser le fil.”
(The women in our family are all stuck in anger
I have been angry at my mother
As you are angry with me
And as my mother was angry at her mother
The thread must be broken.)
— Wajdi Mouawad, Incendies
“I know what I want: an ugly, clean woman with large breasts, who tells me: what’s all this about making things up? I won’t have any dramas, come here immediately!—And she gives me a warm bath, dresses me in a white linen nightdress, braids my hair and puts me to bed, very cross, saying: well what do you want? you run wild, eating at odd times, you could get sick, stop making up tragedies, you think you’re such a big deal, drink this mug of hot broth. She lifts my head up with her hand, covers me with a big sheet, brushes a few strands of hair off my forehead, already white and fresh, and tells me before I fall asleep warmly: you’ll see how in no time your face is going to fill out, forget those harebrained ideas and be a good girl. Someone who takes me in like a humble dog, who opens the door for me, brushes me, feeds me, loves me severely like a dog, that’s all I want, like a dog, a child.”
“I can feel myself holding a child, thought Joana. Sleep, my child, sleep, I tell you. The child is warm and I am sad. But it is the sadness of happiness, this appeasement and sufficiency that leave the face placid, faraway. And when my child touches me he doesn’t rob me of my thoughts as others do. But later, when I give him milk with these fragile, beautiful breasts, my child will grow from my force and crush me with his life. He will distance himself from me and I will be the useless old mother. I won’t feel cheated. But defeated merely and I will say: I don’t know a thing, I am able to give birth to a child and I don’t know a thing. God will receive my humility and will say: I was able to give birth to the universe and I don’t know a thing.”
— Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart
“I know that my phrases are crude, I write them with too much love, and that love makes up for their faults, but too much love is bad for the work.”
“I’m restless and harsh and despairing. Although I do have love inside me. I just don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it tears at my flesh.”
“But when winter comes I give and give and give. The excess of me starts to hurt and when I’m excessive I have to give of myself.”
— Clarice Lispector, Água Viva
“And that was what I felt when reading your book: that solitude.”
“Imagine the solitude of the person who wrote it.”
— Clarice Lispector, from an interview
“suppose the body did this to us,
made us afraid of love—”
— Louise Glück, “Crater Lake”
“When I put my hands on your body, on your flesh, I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake, but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organs gradually fade into transparency, leaving a gleaming skeleton, gleaming like ivory that slowly resolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight, the way your flesh occupies momentary space, the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth, to this present time, I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours, I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures, to reach up around my neck, to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain.”
— David Wojnarowicz, from The Half-Life
“A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.”
— Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects
“and cain said, There’s an idea I can’t get out of my head, What’s that, said abraham, There must have been innocent people in sodom and in the other cities that were burned, If so, the lord would have kept the promise he made to make to save their lives, What about the children, said cain, surely the children were innocent, Oh my god, murmured abraham and his voice was like a groan, Yes, your god perhaps, but not theirs.”
— José Saramago, Cain
“I’d like to jet-ski / straight out of this life because right now I am / way attached to real things like for instance / people how they are
all so tender how they / love to just go walk around and someof them are / wearing pink now and it hurts me and they / bathe their dogs”
— Heather Christle, “This Is Not The Body I Asked For”
“The idea of deserving love. And then watching love being given to people who did nothing to deserve it.”
— Anaïs Nin, from her journal
“And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it, for the ability, at last, at last, of believing a parent’s reassurances, of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness, because of all his mistakes and hatefulness.”
— Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life
“The veals are the children of cows, are calves. They are locked in boxes the size of themselves. A body-box, like a coffin, but alive, like a home. The children, the veal, they stand very still because tenderness depends of how little the world touches you. To stay tender, the weight of your life cannot lean on your bones.”
“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.”
— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
“I know we’ve just met but I feel like maybe / you’d feed me and tuck me into your big bed / and only touch me as you covered me with the comforter.”
— Kim Addonizio, “Party”
“The body has no thoughts.
The body soaks up love like a paper towel
and is still dry.”
— Kim Addonizio, “Body And Soul”
“I don’t know how God can bear / seeing everything at once: the falling bodies, the monuments and burnings, / the lovers pacing the floors of how many locked hearts.”
— Kim Addonizio, “The Numbers”
“I keep wishing for you, keep shutting up my eyes and looking toward the sky, asking with all my might for you, and yet you do not come. I thought of you, until the world grew rounder than it sometimes is, and I broke several dishes.”
— Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Minnie Holland
“The unknowness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met.”
— Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit
“I used to be a hopeless romantic. I am still a hopeless romantic. I used to believe that love was the highest value. I still believe that love is the highest value. I don’t expect to be happy. I don’t imagine that I will find love, whatever that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me happy. I don’t think of love as the answer or the solution. I think of love as a force of nature - as strong as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming, as drought-making as it is life-giving. And when it burns out, the planet dies.”
“As for myself, I am splintered by great waves. I am coloured glass from a church window long since shattered. I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.”
— Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping
“I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED
GENOCIDE TO STOP
I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED AFFIRMATIVE
ACTION AND REACTION
I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED MUSIC
OUT THE WINDOWS
I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED
NOBODY THIRST AND NOBODY
NOBODY COLD
I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED I WANTED
JUSTICE UNDER MY NOSE”
— June Jordan, “Intifada Incantation: Poem 38 for b.b.L.”
“Maybe when I wake up in the middle of the night
I should go downstairs
dump the refrigerator contents on the floor
and stand there in the middle of the spilled milk
and the wasted butter spread beneath my dirty feet
writing poems
writing poems
maybe I just need to love myself myself and
anyway
I’m working on it”
— June Jordan, “Free Flight”
“It’s not that I gave away my keys. / The problem is nobody wants to steal me or my / house.”
— June Jordan, “Onesided Dialog”
“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.”
— John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief As Photos
“I wept and wept. I had come to believe that if I really wanted something badly enough, the very act of my wanting it was an assurance that I would not get it.”
— Audre Lorde, from “Zami: A New Spelling of my Name”
“You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. / Only the sun has come this close, only the sun.”
— Shauna Barbosa, “GPS”
“It has to be perfect. It has to be irreproachable in every way. (...) To make up for it. To make up for the fact that it’s me.”
— Suzanne Rivecca
“I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love. I said no more severity. I said it severely and slept through all my appointments. I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad.”
— Richard Siken, Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper
“We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it.”
— Richard Siken, “Snow And Dirty Rain”
“Love, for you, / is larger than the usual romantic love. It's like a religion. It's / terrifying. No one / will ever want to sleep with you.”
— Richard Siken, “Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”
“The hardest thing still remains. It remains the hardest, to bear all the tenderness and only to gaze on.”
— Ilse Achinger, “Mirrorstory”
“i killed a plant once because i gave
it too much water. lord, i worry
that love is violence.”
— José Olivarez, “Getting Ready to Say I Love You to My Dad, It Rains”
“Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust,
bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy.
Sometimes the men - they come with keys,
and sometimes, the men - they come with hammers.”
— Warsan Shire, “The House”
“I’ll take care of you. / It’s rotten work. / Not to me. Not if it’s you.”
— Euripides, Orestes, tr. Anne Carson
“We have this deep sadness between us and it spells so habitual I can’t tell it from love.”
— Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband
“There is no question I am someone starving. There is no question I am making this journey to find out what that appetite is.”
— Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays
“I wish I could peel
all my sadness in one long strip off my skin
& toss it in a bucket. No one would have to carry it.
It would just sit there & be punished.
It would just sit there & think about everything it’s done.”
— Chen Chen, “Elegy For My Sadness”
“There is too much or not enough
room in my stomach
for everything we will do to each other.“
— Adriana Cloud, “Bento Body”
#i am SO SORRY I got excited and this got way too long#w#compilation#khaled hosseini#ilya kaminsky#chen chen#anne carson#richard siken#june jordan#jeanette winterson#clarice lispector#hanya yanagihara#ocean vuong#louise glück#audre lorde#john berger#josé saramago#heather christle#david wojnarowicz#gillian flynn#emily dickinson#kim addonizio
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The storm was their cover.
Under the curtain of silver grey rain, the Black Pearl approached the ship that had unwittingly crossed it’s path. They were not terribly far from the island where the vessel had surely just left. Barbossa could tell by it’s size it must be carrying sizeable cargo, and if it was fresh out of port then they had plenty of spoils for the taking.
The biggest risk they currently ran was not knowing how many guns were aboard the vessel. As large as she was, she had to be heavily laden. It would be foolish to assume otherwise. So they would have to approach with extreme stealth and caution. Luckily, The Black Pearl was built for exactly that.
With Barbossa at the helm, they fell upon their prey like a shadow in the dark. The seas churned beneath them, but the winds were not too terrible as to make it utterly treacherous.
“Steady now lads,” he called to the men on deck as they drew into firing range. One clean shot along her bow. Enough to get their attention. Too late for them to turn and fight. They’d cut them off, crossing T as it were, with their own guns primed to fire into the ship’s unprotected bow. If the larger ship was wide, it would try to turn, trying to bring itself into an arch to fire back with it’s broadside guns. If it was bold, it might try to ram them. If that happened, Barbossa had no problem sinking it before it could.
Two life boats loaded with armed men were ready to advance on the ship as it came upon them, sweeping up on them from below and overwhelming them from within.
As rain pelted them, Hector stood firm at the rail, his beloved beside him. In the mist, he slipped his hand over his lover’s and laced their fingers. Assurance. Good luck. Bracing for what was to come. He glanced at him, offering one of his sly smirk. “Ready for the squall, m’ luv?” he asked, his voice only carrying far enough for Percy to hear. His hand squeezed his again.
What they were doing was dangerous, yes. Life itself out here was to constantly walk the fine line between life and death. But Barbossa was one of the greatest plunderers of all the pirates. There had never been a ship that he could not overtake. Sometimes he was forced to sink them, yes. But he never left empty handed. Never. This would be no different, the pirate lord was certain.
Close as they were in the gloom, he lifted Percy’s hand to his lips and kissed it briefly. “When she starts to list, that’s when we’ll use the hooks and drag her in. Then we’ll board; take what we need and leave. She’s too slow to turn herself about in time to catch us. Disabling the rudder won’t hurt either.” Another devilish smirk. “Just another day’s work, hmm?” he mused, looking to his partner for approval.
@shipsdoctorforhire
#@shipsdoctorforhire#muse: Hector Barbossa#ship: Hector/Percy#new threads#starters#(haven't thought of a title yet!! open to suggestions if you have any lol)
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If Need Be
At this point I don't know if it makes sense to anticipate everything with a brief description of the plot, but for all the possible new readers who will run into this chapter and for some strange reason haven’t seen the previous ones, this is the story of Elva, a half-elf of Mirkwood, leaving with the Fellowship in place of Legolas. The actual tale begins shortly after Gandalf's death, and it all centers around how Elva's presence impacts not only on the mission but on Haldir's life.
In this part, the Fellowship finally leaves Caras Galadhon to resume their Quest.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Words: 2448
In the morning, as they were beginning to pack their slender goods, some Elves went to Haldir’s talan to bring many gifts of food, mostly in the form of very thin cakes, made of a meal that was baked a light brown on the outside and inside was the colour of cream, and a hooded cloak.
"For someone who spends most of his time at the border, you are very popular," Elva commented, after thanking yet another visitor.
"They fear I may not come back, and they tell me that my brothers will be helped in every possible way,” the marchwarden explained. “These are lembas, or waybread, more strengthening than any food made by Men and more pleasant than the cram made in Dale. It must be eaten little at a time, for these things are given to serve when all else fails and will keep sweet for many days, if they’re unbroken and left in their leaf-wrappings.”
“Those are fair garments, though,” Aragorn commented, stroking the light but warm silken fabric, the same the Galadhrim and the court wove. It was hard to say of what colour they were, as they seemed to be grey with the hue of twilight under the trees and yet, if they were moved or set in another light, they were green as shadowed leaves or brown as fallow fields by night; in the dusk, they looked like water under the stars, and even the brooch that fastened them, a green leaf, was veined with silver.
“They must be from the Lady,” guessed their host. “Yet, as you said, they are garments, not armours, and they won’t turn shaft or blade, only serve us well in staying out of the Enemy’s sight.”
"They seem to have done their work so far," Elva said, trying to cheer up the room and hinting that after all his wanderings he was still alive.
"Sure, and a considerable number of blades to the throat were also needed," he replied, after which silence fell, and was maintained as they walked through Caras Galadhon’s empty green streets. In the trees above them, many voices were murmuring and singing, and flashed of barely comprehensible words followed them to the lawn where the other members of the Fellowship waited and down the southward slopes of the hill, to the great gate hung with lamps until the white bridge, after which they took a path that went off into a deep thicket of mallorn trees and passed on, winding through rolling woodlands of silver shadow, leading them ever down, southwards and eastwards, to the shores of the River, laid in a shining lawn of grass studded with golden elanor that glinted in the sun. On the right and west the Silverlode flowed glittering and on the left and east the Great River rolled its broad waters, deep and dark, with woodlands still marching as far as eyes could see on the southwards shores, bleak and bare, as no mallorn lifted its gold-hung boughs beyond the Land of Lorien. On the bank of the Silverlode, at some distance up from the meeting of the streams, there were moored many boats and barges, some brightly painted, shining with silver, gold and green tones, and some either white or grey, like the three that had been prepared for the travellers. Haldir threw some coils of slender but strong rope in each, and Sam went to inspect the workmanship, similar to that of the cloaks they wore.
“They are made of hithlain,” their guide explained, anticipating his question. “Had I known this craft delighted you, I could’ve taught you much, but at the moment I think you’ll have to settle for a theoretical explanation during breaks.”
Sam seemed satisfied by the pact, and went to take his place with Frodo on the boat captained by Aragorn; Boromir thus settled for Merry and Pippin, and Haldir for Elva and Gimli, with whom he had most bonded during their stay in Lothlorien. The boats were moved and steered with short-handled paddles that had broad leaf-shaped blades. When all was ready, their guide led them on a trial up the Silverlode, where the current was swift and they went forward slowly. Sam sat in the bows, clutching the sides, and looking back wistfully to the shore, the sunlight glittering on the water dazzling his eyes. As they passed beyond the green field of the Tongue, the trees drew down to the river’s brink: here and there golden leaves tossed and floated on the rippling stream and the air was very bright and still, bringing only silence except for the high distant song of larks. They turned a sharp bend in the river, and there, sailing proudly down the stream towards them, they saw a swan of great size. The water rippled on either side of the white breast beneath its curving neck and its beak shone like burnished gold, while its eyes glinted like jet set in yellow stones; its huge white wings were half lifted, and suddenly they perceived that it was a ship, wrought and carved with elven-skill in the likeness of a bird. Two elves clad in white steered it with black paddles and in the midst of the vessel sat Celeborn, with his wife behind him, tall and white, a crown of golden flowers in her hair and a harp in her hands. Sand and sweet was the sound of her voice in the cool clear air as she told the story of gold leave shook by the wind. As if the first vision of the Mirror had awakened in Elva an ancient memory that didn’t belonged to her, she too sang of Lorien’s first winter with bare and leafless trees, but she didn’t have the heart to finish, because it spoke of the departure beyond the Sea, of that journey that tasted like defeat and she could never face, even if she wanted to. Haldir stayed his boat as the Swan-ship drew alongside, so the Lady could tell them she had come to bid their last farewell and to speed their boats with blessings from her land. The half-elf wasn’t quite sure their intentions were that noble, but she said nothing, and ate lunch with the royals on the grass, as Celeborn suggested, speaking again of their journey.
“As you go down the water,” said the Lord, “you’ll find that the trees will fail, and you’ll come to a barren country. There the River flows in stony vales amid high moors, until at last after many leagues come the sheep shores of the tall island of Tindrock, that we call Tol Brandir. With great noise and smoke, the waters fall over the cataracts of Rauros down into the Nindalf, the Wetwang, as it’s called in your tongue.; that is a wide region of sluggish fen, where the stream becomes tortuous and much divided and the Entwash flows in by many mouths from the Forest of Fangorn in the west. About that stream, on this side of the Great River, lies Rohan, while on the further side are the bleak hills of the Emyn Muil. The wind blows from the East there, for they look out over the Dead Marshes and the Noman-lands to Cirith Gorgor and the black gates of Mordor. Boromir, and any that go with him seeking Minas Tirith, will do well to leave the Great River above Rauros and cross the Entwash before it finds the marshes. Yet they shouldn’t go too far up that stream, nor risk becoming entangled in the Forest of Fangorn, a strange, little known land, but doubtless, you don’t need this warning.”
“Indeed we have heard of Fangorn in Minas Tirith,” replied the person most concerned. “But what I’ve heard seems to me for the most part old wives’ tales, such as we tell to our children. All that lies north to Rohan is now to us so far away that fancy can wander freely there, but it’s now many lives of men since any of us visited it to prove or disprove the legends that have come down from distant years. Anyway, I have myself been at whiles in Rohan, but I’ve never crossed it northwards, although, when I was sent out as a messenger, I passed through the Gap by the skirts of the White Mountains, and crossed the Isen and the Greyflood into Northerland. A long and wearisome journey it was, four hundred leagues I reckoned it, and it took me many months, for I lost my horse at Tharbad, at the fording of the Greyflood. After that and the road I have trodden with this Company, I don’t much doubt I shall find a way through Rohan, and Fangorn too, if need be.”
“Then I need say no more!” exclaimed Celeborn. “But don’t despise the lore that has come down from distant years, for oft it may chance that old wives keep in memory word of things that once were needful for the wise to know.”
At those advice, Galadriel rose from the grass and taking a cup from one of her maidens she filled it with white mead and gave it to her husband.
“Now it’s time to drink for our farewell,” she said, and when they had all done as she commanded, chairs were set for her and Celeborn. For a while she looked upon her guests, but at last, she called each in turn, offering them gifts, starting from Aragorn, whom she addressed as the leader of the Fellowship, giving him a great stone clear green in colour, set in a silver brooch that was wrought in the likeness of an eagle with outspread wings.
“This was left in my care to be given to you, should you pass through this land; I gave it to my daughter Celebrian and she gave it to hers, and now it comes to you as a token of hope. In this hour take the name that was foretold for you, Elessar, the Elfstone of the House of Elendil!”
Aragorn took the stone and pinned the brooch upon his breast, and those who saw him wondered how they hadn’t noticed before how tall and kingly he stood: “For the gift that you have given me I thank you, Lady of Lorien of whom were sprung Celebrian and Arwen Evenstar. What praise could I say more?”
The Lady bowed her head, and she turned to Boromir, giving him a belt of gold, similar to the silver ones Merry and Pippin received; to Elva, she gave a bow such as the Galadhrim used, longer and stouter than the bows of Mirkwood, and strung with a string of elf-hair. With it went a quiver of arrows, while Sam received no weapons or wealth, but only
a little box of plain grey wood, unadorned save for a single silver rune upon the lid, filled with earth from Galadriel’s orchard: “It won’t defend you against any peril, but if you keep it and see your home again at last, then perhaps it may reward you. Though you should find all barren and laid waste, there will be few gardens in Middle-earth that will bloom like yours, then you may remember Galadriel, and catch a glimpse far off of Lorien, that you have seen only in our Winter, for our Spring and our Summer are gone by, and they will never be seen on earth again save in memory.”
Sam went red to the ears and muttered something inaudible, as he clutched the box and bowed as well as he could.
“And what gift would a Dwarf ask of the Elves? ” said Galadriel, turning to Gimli.
“It’s enough for me to have seen the Lady of the Galadhrim, and to have heard her gentle words,” he replied, courteous.
“Hear all ye Elves!” she cried to those around her. “Let none say again that Dwarves are grasping and ungracious! Yet surely you desire something that I could give? Name it, I bid you! You shall not be the only guest without a gift.”
“There’s nothing, Lady Galadriel,” said Gimli, bowing low and stammering. “Nothing, unless it might be permitted to name a single strand of your hair, which surpasses the gold of the earth as the stars surpass the gems of the mine. I don’t ask for such a gift, but you commanded me to name my desire.”
The Elves stirred and murmured with astonishment, and Celeborn gazed at the Dwarf in wonder, but the Lady smiled. “It’s said that the skill of the Dwarves is in their hands rather than in their tongues, yet that is untrue of Gimli,” she said. “And how shall I refuse, since I commanded you to speak? But tell me, what would you do with such a gift?”
“Treasure it, Lady” he answered, “in memory of your words to me at our first meeting. And if ever I return to the smithies of my home, it shall be set in imperishable crystal to be an heirloom of my house, and a pledge of good will between the Mountain and the Wood until the end of days.”
So the Lady unbraided one of her long tresses, cut off three golden hairs and laid them in Gimli’s hand: “These words shall go with the gift: I don’t foretell, for all foretelling is now vain with darkness lying on one hand and only hope in the other, but if hope shouldn’t fail, then I say to you that you hands shall flow with gold, and yet over you gold shall have no dominion.”
Then she addressed Frodo, and gave him a small crystal phial, glittering with rays of white light from the Earendil’s star as she moved it: “May it guide you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”
Lastly, she looked at Haldir, giving him a sheath made to fit his sword, overlaid with a tracery of flowers and leaves wrought of silver and gold: “The blade drawn from this sheath shall not be stained or broken even in defeat,” she said, leading Elva to question again what their guide might’ve seen in the Mirror. Were those words a hidden condemnation? She couldn’t know, and after the gift that had been given to her, she couldn’t ask too. Haldir bowed, but found no words to say, so the Lady arose, and the yellow noon laid on the green land of the Tongue accompanied their last farewell, for so it seemed to them that Lorien was slipping backward, like a bright ship with enchanted trees, sailing on to forgotten shores, while they sat helpless upon the margin of the grey and leafless world.
#haldir of lothlorien#haldir x fem oc#aragorn#arwen#aragorn x arwen#sam gamgee#boromir#frodo baggins#merry brandybuck#pippin took#gimli son of gloin#galadriel#celeborn#galadriel x celeborn#lotr#the fellowship of the ring
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Remastered
Dhawan!master x reader
Chapter 3: New Earth
Summary: New earth, new adventures, but the return of a dreaded old face. You’d been acting strange all day, and despite the distracting wonder of the mysterious cures the sisters of plenitude were concocting, the Master had most definitely noticed. But when all is revealed in the hospital, things go from curious to complicated- especially when the sick break free, and the root of all the days problems decides she wants to try the masters body on for size.
Notes: At last! Another remaster! This time not a Matt but a David episode: loathed by some, but a guilty pleasure of mine! I mentioned wanting to write this fic while ago, and i finally got around to it on the eve of Doctor Who day! I hope you all enjoy!
As usual, this fic is dedicated to my dearly beloved queen @plethora-of-imagines. My watchalong companion, fellow soft dom lover, most trusted confident, and the most hat obsessed girl i’ve ever met. I hope it lives up to the hype!
They were surrounding you in droves.
The sick. The diseased. The nearly dead.
The filthy pipe covered walls of the hospital basement flying past your field of vision as you desperately raced towards salvation.
Or at least, the woman who was currently controlling your body raced.
Cassandra's presence in your head was agony- not just for the fact the woman was compressing you to death, but because she was so damn judgemental. In all of your adventures in time and space you’d never met someone so cruel, so self absorbed. And you travelled with the Master of all people, for crying out loud. You suspected the only reason you were being saved was because she was too self preserving to let herself, and by extension your body, go to waste. At least she had the common sense to keep up her speed, the Masters pace just in front of you as you bypassed the closing passageways of the intensive care unit and headed towards the room where she'd been hiding all this time.
“You’d better know where we’re going!”
The Master, for lack of a better term, was fucking pissed to say the least. The revelation that you weren't truly yourself was far more shocking than the revelation of the human farm the Sisters of Plenitude were hiding in their basement. He’d first accused the matron, who denied having any part in the ‘fuckery with your brain’, but it soon became clear who exactly had decided to hitch a ride inside your delicate human brain. The, as the Doctor's pet had once referred to her as, bitchy trampoline. You supposed he was also furious that she’d kissed him. You yourself were certainly boiling with anger at that fact. At least it was still your mouth, you reasoned.
“Keep a lid on it, handsome! This has been my terf much longer than its been yours!”
She knew the way well, the distance between yourself and the following lab grown humans strengthening as your feet lead you towards the dingy basement where your mind had been overtaken. Her assistant chip was long gone now, the boy probably dead from the swarming humans. All that was left was you, Cassandra, and the furious Master.
The pair of you skidded around a plethora of corners, the basement of the hospital built not unlike the elaborate mazes the Master would construct within the walls of the TARDIS. You very much wished to be safe in your home instead of running from manic nuns and the almost living dead, but you knew that travelling through time and space meant a girl couldn’t be picky. If only Cassandra also shared the sentiment
"THROUGH HERE!"
You still weren't used to the ridiculously posh accent coming from your mouth, her shrill yell guiding the timelord to the small door that lead to her chambers.
The Master huffed, following your guide as you crawled through the square metal hatch. You heard the door slam and latch shut soon after, the chambers flying past as the far entrance arrived into view. With a heave the hinges opened, Cassandra letting out another scream as the diseased loomed large in the doorway. The door slammed shut as she pressed your back against the rusting metal and pulled down the lock, her eyes meeting the deadly glare of the Master in the middle of the room.
"My god, we're trapped in here! What are we going to do?!"
The Master narrowed his eyes, leering at the woman with a cast iron gaze that made you even shiver.
"Get out. I want her back. Now."
Cassandra rolled your eyes, the woman matching the Masters stance. He let out a low growl, the Master stepping forward with gritted teeth.
"I know you've met the doctor, but you've never dealt with someone like me. So let me be quite plain: I'm not going to play your stupid little human games, Cassandra. I want Y/N back, and I want her back now."
"God, you timelords are all the same, so demanding! You do know it's just a title, don't you darling?"
The Master scoffed, pure fury evident in his sneering grin. Cassandra took a step back, arms dropping from their fold as he took a step closer. His presence was intimidating to say the least.
"This plan of yours, it had potential. A psychograft- I must admit, rudimentary but creative."
It was Cassandra's turn to scoff now. The pair of them practically circling each other, the Master watching her turn her back as the last human stepped towards the ruined remains of her rusted frame. The Master stood besides the psychograft, the TCE now in his grip as he gestured with the small device squarely at the machine.
"Banned on every civilised planet, I can relate. But you know why they were banned, Cassandra? They were sloppy, completely unstable."
"Another thing you can relate to?"
"You're compressing my Y/N to death!"
Cassandra sighed, venom on her tongue as she kissed your teeth, scrunching her nose in disdain. Your fingers carefully traced over the metalwork of her frame, the jarred brain she once used now beginning to wither as the suspension fluid leaked and pooled out onto the rank basement floor.
"And where do you suppose I go, hmm? My skin is long dead." Cassandra snapped, head whipping around to glare at the man in the purple coat. She smirked cockilly, tilting your head.
"You ought to play softer with your toys, time boy. This very sore little human of yours is my one ticket out of this shit hole"
"I'm afraid you'll have to deboard your vessel, Cassandra. You can float in the air- like dust, or a disgustingly persistent mosquito. Quite on brand, for you-"
"Very funny-"
"But your self preservation, Cassandra, is nothing but a big, fat you problem. That body you're in is precious to me and I'm not letting you get even a scratch on her."
Cassandra glowered, clenching her teeth as the Master gripped the TCE tight in his palm. She stared at him, lips quivering as she planned her next rebuttal. The Master held his nerve, unable to help the tightening of his chest as he thought of you, stuck inside your own body. He knew the feeling of being kept from your own being all too well from his little stint in utopia. Cassandra finally relented as the Master slowly raised the TCE to aim at her head.
"Give. Y/N. Back."
Cassandra carefully stood, slowly stepping towards the Master as he brandished his weapon in his hand. She teasingly began to twist the charm on the necklace around your throat, holding the pendant between her fingers. The Masters glare strengthened, eyes focused on the jewellery in her grasp.
"You know, once you were dead and this place far behind me, I was planning on dumping the meat and pawning the bling as soon as I could. But you, Master, are too stubborn for your own good."
The Masters expression reeked of confusion, his head tilting to the side as Cassandra squared off her shoulders. The time lord took this as a threat, tightening his hold on the TCE as he watched her every move. You could see it in his eyes- Thousands of possibilities processing at once, the gears of his mind shrieking as they grinded through his manic yet methodical systems of thought.
"You want her back? You asked for it."
The tremendous pressure on your head suddenly lifted in a whirlwind of overstimulation. Every sound screamed in your ears, the basement around you caught in a surge of darkness as your hazed vision was stolen from you. A loud ringing persisted, if only for a few moments, the muted and muffled existence you'd sat within ripped from under your feet. Your knees weakly buckled, shoulders slumping as you felt the ground connect between your feet. You let out a gasp for air, eyes scrunching shut as you shook your head. The basement slowly came back into vision, your head recovering from the imprisonment with a low groan from your throat and a palm to the side of your skull.
"Ow, jesus christ, my fucking head. Where did she go?"
You focused your vision on the man in front of you. The Masters back was turned towards you, the timelord almost bent in half. He didn't respond, body oddly still as you dared to take a step forward. You had a dreadful suspicion about where she'd run off to after leaving your head.
"Master?..."
"Dear lord, I'm a bad boy now!"
No way. No fucking way.
Cassandra turned around with a flourish, hands upon the Masters chest as she let out an excitable giggle. His eyes sat wide, a half smile upon his face as she familiarised herself with her new body. She stumbled on her feet like a newborn deer, inspecting her fingers and rocking on her toes as she rubbed at her chin. The presence of a beard under her fingertips seemingly blowing the woman's mind. You didn't know whether to laugh at her antics or cry at the problem that just emerged before you.
"I've never been a bad boy before! Bad girl, for sure, but this?! Isn't he just delicious!"
His usual northern tone was long gone, a fact that hurt much more than it should. Cassandra couldn't stop giggling to herself, her hands playing over his cheeks as he hurriedly raced towards the cracked mirror placed upon the wall. She gasped loudly, rippling with excitement as her hands roamed over the Masters body: Fluffing his hair, synching his waist, popping the top button on his shirt. Seemingly doing everything she could to fill you with jealous rage.
"Are you about done?"
The Master flapped his hand in your direction, shushing you as she childishly jumped up and down on the spot. You folded your arms, biting your tongue as she preened and primped in the mirror, pushing his face within her hands and posing with narcissistic delight. You'd seen the Master do this himself, on occasion. But this was a completely different beast- especially since you didn't enjoy where her hands were seemingly wandering to
"Oh hush, darling. I'm just having a little fun with all these new… graciously extensive parts- these have definitely been well worn in, the saucy little thing. I'm quite the handsome devil now, aren't I?"
You growled, nose scrunching as she hummed to herself, smoothing down his purple tweed collar as she began to prance and strut around the room. She lept over various apparatus and rubble, spinning and watching the purple material of his coat fly like a skirt behind her. Cassandra let out a satisfied cackle, sighing with up most content. Your rage was furiously simmering within your chest.
"He's quite the riot, isn't he? He's so feisty, I love it. So edgy, so... Naughty! He has lots of filthy thoughts about you in here, oh the pictures i could paint for you."
"Get out of my- the Master now!"
Cassandra cackled, leering in towards you with a torturous grin. You'd feel rather flustered if it weren't for the fact this wasn't the Masters doing. Cassandra held her hands to his chest, stalking forward as you desperately clung to your stoicism. You wouldn't give her the satisfaction of watching you crack.
"THE Master? Or were you about to say MY Master? You forget darling- i've been inside your head. You want this samba in his chest to only beat for you."
You rolled your eyes, leaning away as the Master giggled and leant in closer towards your face. If Cassandra weren't within the Masters body you most definitely would've punched her. But your growing level of rage meant that was a fact you would possibly be able to overlook.
"It's a shame, really. If it weren't for the fact he'd kill me on the spot, I think i'd like to keep him. He seems like a seasoned professional in showing a lady a good time, after all!"
You let out a scandalised squeak as Cassandra grabbed at your hips, causing herself to dissolve into stitches of laughter as you shoved at the Masters chest. A blush of embarrassment flooded your cheeks, your fists bunching together in furious resentment.
You sighed loudly, narrowing your eyes as you glared at the woman currently possessing your time lord. She was well and truly pushing your limits at this point and you weren't sure how much of her shenanigans you could handle.
"It's so easy to tease you, darling! You know at first, i just thought it was a personal interest of yours. But he actually calls HIMSELF the Master!-"
"Cassandra-"
"How fabulously kinky! Lucky girl, you did find an exciting bedfellow. How you kept hold of him i'll eternally have no idea."
"ENOUGH!"
The timelord paused from playing with his hair, turning to look you up and down with widened eyes. Cassandra took in your heaving chest, the tightening of your jaw as you glared daggers into her forehead. She raised his eyebrows, raising his hands in mock surrender. You could feel the sarcasm dripping from her actions, which served to infuriate you even more so than before.
"Struck a nerve, did I?"
"We're stuck in the basement of a hospital in QUARANTINE, chased by INFECTED LAB GROWN HUMANS! All of which, by the way, is ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT! And you think the best use of ALL OUR TIME is to play a game of musical bodies and piss off the only person able to help you out?!"
Cassandra pouted childishly at your words. You let out a frustrated huff, causing her to almost recoil in shock.
"We're short on time and big on problems. The last thing I need is you making this situation any worse than it already is!"
A thick silence sat between the pair of you. It was almost a dare to see who would attempt to move first, Cassandra's lips pursed and quivering as if the sarcastic retort was planning itself behind the Master's teeth and upon the timelords tongue. Your determined stoicism was completely abandoned in favour of indulging in the buttons Cassandra had been desperate to push. At this point all you wanted was the Master- not the stuck up snob currently cursing you internally in several languages.
You wanted to be out of this hospital and back in the TARDIS, to lay together and laugh at how a crazy old human who didn't know when to die decided to prance around inside the pair of you for an hour or so. But you couldn't. Because that crazy old human was ridiculously persistent. You thought her and the Master could possibly get on if it weren't for the current predicament you'd found yourselves in.
It seemed Cassandra had finally found her argument. The Master stepped towards you, hands on his hips as he sneered up and down your body. You opened your mouth to speak, ready to smack down any argument she could possibly have against common sense and decency, until a loud crash suddenly broke the pair of you from your standoff.
"Please… Help us!"
The far door to the basement slammed open, the sound of metal ricocheting against the aging stone wall. The diseased clawed and clamoured, spilling into the dingy room with a surge of newfound freedom.
The Master let out a petrified scream, hands flinging to your shoulders as he yanked you forwards to act as his human shield. Cassandra cowered behind you, peeking over your shoulder in terror. You could most definitely slap that woman, you decided. Guilt be damned. He let out a shrill yowl of panic, jutting you forward towards the oncoming hoard.
"TAKE HER, SHE'S LESS VALUABLE THAN I AM!"
Yep. Guilt be most definitely damned.
"Cassandra we have to work together!" You pleaded, turning over your shoulder to face the terrified Master cowering behind you.
"The Master would know what to do but since you won't leave his head you have to trust I know what he'd say!"
Cassandra whined, roughly pulling you backwards as she stepped away from humans that were slowly beginning to close in.
"And what would he say?!"
You assessed your options. The sick were surrounding you from most angles, your entrance still sealed from your previous escape. However, a possibility caught your eye.
A slender black ladder. Your way out.
You turned once more to the woman, confidence finding itself back in your stride.
"UP THERE!"
The Master screamed once more, heaving you forwards with a weak shove as he scrambled up the stone steps that just emerged behind him. You yelped, gathering your footing with haste as you saw the purple of his coat flail behind him.
“Out of my way! Pretty people don’t die first!”
You followed Cassandra's path, clambering through the remaining metalwork of her skin frame and heading towards the metal ladder that sat flush against the wall. The basement supposedly lead towards all manor of places within the hospital, this upward ascent leading you towards the hollow insides of an abandoned elevator shaft. You watched the timelord hesitantly grasp hold of the flaking and rusting rungs of the ladder, disgust evident on his features as he retched at every climb. You couldn't be dealing with any more of her antics today.
“WHAT’S THE PROBLEM!?”
“THIS LADDER IS FILTHY!”
“SO!?”
“I HOPE YOUR MASTER HAS HIS TETANUS SHOT!”
You shrieked in frustration as you shoved Cassandra further up the ladder, your wafer thin patience having been tested today by that woman more times than you ever thought you could possibly muster. Your time was very much running out, and getting a disease from a ladder was of more concern to the woman than obtaining every single disease on new earth. The audacity of that woman astounded you to a completely new degree.
“IT'S EITHER THAT OR PLAGUE!”
“STOP YELLING AT ME, I CANT COPE WITH ALL THIS PRESSURE!”
“FUCKING CLIMB, CASSANDRA!”
A metallic thunk erupted from the bottom of the ladder, the blistered fist of one of the lab grown humans clinging tight to the first rung of your escape. The flustered cry of Cassandra floated further up the length of the ladder, your stomach filling with pity as you watched the pained glances and heard the pleading cries of the sick. You only hoped you could get the Master back and figure out a way to help them.
“Please… help us!”
“I’m sorry! I’ll try, I promise!” you called in return, before turning to face the panicked clambering of the Cassandra possessed Master up to safety.
You could do this. If you were lucky, you reasoned. It was possible.
If you were truly lucky you could get your Master back, lift the quarantine, save the sick, and escape this dreaded hospital. Only four things. You could do this.
But first, you had to deal with Cassandra:
And judging by the fact she was still screaming, several rungs up the ladder, you needed all the luck you could possibly get.
#dhawan!master x reader#dhawan!master#doctor who#sacha dhawan#The Master#BBC Doctor Who#doctor who season twelve#spymaster#Sacha!Master#fanfiction#fanfic#remastered#dhawan!master / reader#the master x reader#the master x you#master x reader#reader insert#x reader#reader#new earth
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Spn 12x11 “Regarding Dean” Canon Divergent Destiel Fic
Suptober20 - Day 26 Walk of Shame
Notes: Dean and Castiel both get a chance to ride the mechanical bull in this canon div fic.
Dean feels a cool breeze and reaches for a blanket to wrap himself in. But his hand finds nothing but... grass? His head pounds and his eyes protest as he wills them open. So, at some point his latest escapades got him passed out in a field. He pushes himself up into a seated position. The feral bunny that had been nuzzled into his side gives him a look of reproach.
“Hey little buddy,” Dean tells the bunny. “Do you know how I got here?”
The bunny hops away. Dean realizes he is missing some things like his phone, car keys, and clothes. He just has his brown bear boxer-briefs on. So last night either went really well or really bad. Sam would know. Just gotta give him a call. Dean walks in a random direction hoping to find someone for help.
Dean doesn’t have to look long, as he almost trips over a dude sleeping along the trail. This guy is following Dean’s trend of wearing underwear as sleepwear for the great outdoors. “Hey,” Dean reaches a foot out to tap the sleeping dude.
“Hey yourself,” a deep voice groggily answers.
“Cas?” Dean questions.
The not quite awake Castiel rolls over and squints at Dean. “Hello Dean,” he says. “You aren’t wearing any pants.” Castiel informs his friend.
“Yeah Cas,” Dean responds. “I’m not the only one.”
“So it would seem. Let me know when you solve the mystery of our wayward clothes.” Castiel yawns and begins to nod off again.
***
“Cas, what are you doing? You don’t sleep remember?”
“That does sound like something I’ve said,” Castiel admits.
“Come on buddy. Let’s try to find someone that can help us.” Dean tells the nearly comatose angel.
Castiel moans in a way that Dean decides is unfairly pornographic. Dean then finds himself staring as Castiel performs a full body stretch by reaching his arms back behind his head and stretching his feet out in the opposite direction. This maneuver causes all the well toned muscles on Castiel’s body to flex. Damn, Dean thinks, walking with Castiel in his underwear just got way more awkward.
“I’m going up the trail. Catch up when you can,” Dean tells Castiel as he hastily retreats away from his friend.
After a few minutes, Castiel has caught up to Dean on the trail and they see a park up ahead. Dean would rather not get arrested for public indecency, so he tries to think of a plan to somehow get a phone without exposing himself.
“Cas we can’t just walk into a park in our skivvies,” Dean says. “Do you have any ideas?”
“Um... if Sam was an angel we could pray to him to bring us clothes.”
“Do we know any angels that aren’t dicks and could help us?” Dean asks.
“No,” Castiel admits. “Networking has always been a challenge for me.“
“No worries Cas, nobody’s perfect.” Dean responds. As Dean considers their next move, he notices a runner in the park. The runner is the size of a small giant, and he has his trademark long, flowing hair partially covered by a beanie. “Hey Cas, look we are saved!” Dean shouts, “SAMMY!”
Sam turns at the sound of his name and runs up to Dean and Castiel. “Uh, why are you guys wearing nothing but your underwear in the woods?”
“I don’t know Sammy. Cas and I just woke up here. I can’t remember anything from yesterday.” Dean tells his brother.
“I know what happened. Apparently the memory curse doesn’t affect angels.” Castiel tells the brothers. “Dean and I went to a bar last night, and the bar had a mechanical bull.”
“Oh, wow a mechanical bull! How awesome is that?” Dean says excitedly.
“Yeah, you said the same thing last night, Dean. Anyway, Dean dared me to ride the bull. I knew if my vessel had full range of motion I would have more success at riding through the bucks.
“So I removed my trench coat, suit jacket, tie, and shirt. I still had my wifebeater on to preserve my vessel’s decency. I also removed my shoes and socks and hiked up my pants to help with gripping the bull between my legs. Dean must have been impressed with my performance because I could feel his eyes fixed on me while I rolled my hips through every buck that bull took me on.
“After my turn, I asked Dean what he thought of my riding. He responded with some unintelligible swear words. I went to grab my shirt, but Dean grabbed me by the arm before I could put it back on. I turned to look at him, and Dean fixed his eyes on mine.
“Dean had lowered his voice to barely a whisper when he told me I made him jealous of the bull. I have heard trillions of romantic declarations during my existence, but Dean’s utterance was easily the most romantic thing ever said by your species. So I kissed Dean. I haven’t kissed a lot but I thought the kiss was good, and that I would like to keep kissing Dean for the next several eons until the Sun consumed the Earth and we both became stardust.
“I was relieved to find out Dean seemed to also have a good opinion on the kiss, because we kept on kissing. We let our tongues lazily discover the sensation of slowly tracing out each other’s mouths. The sensation was very enjoyable.”
“That’s nice, Cas. But I think we should focus on the part of your memories that deals with you guys getting cursed,” Sam tells Castiel.
Dean gives Sam a bitchface and then tells Castiel, “Just ignore Sammy, Cas. I want to hear more about the things we did last night,” Dean says with something that sounds like longing in his voice.
“So eventually,” Castiel continues, “Dean wanted a turn at the bull too. He decided to follow my method and also stripped down to his undershirt. Dean hopped onto the bull and then waved me over asking me to join him.”
“Um... is this really relevant to getting cursed?” Sam asks.
“Shhh, don’t interrupt Sammy,” Dean says. “How did things go with the two of us on the bull Cas?”
“It was a little different from riding the bull solo,” Castiel reflects. “I got in position in front of you. And we leaned into each other in rhythm with the mechanical bucks. Our legs tangled together as we thrust through the motion. Dean wrapped one arm around my waist, and I gripped his arm back with one of mine.”
“My vessel began getting aroused from the whole experience. And I could feel evidence of Dean’s arousal each time he rolled his hips behind me. Dean suggested we go to the Impala at this point.”
“Holy shit Cas! I do not want to hear about you and my brother having sex in the Impala,” Sam complains.
“Well, then you are in luck Sam because we did not get that far. We had stripped off everything left but our underwear. I hadn’t realized what a brilliant construction the human somatosensory system was before last night. Every nerve receptor was set on fire from the feel of Dean’s finger tips touching my skin. Dean asked if his touches felt good, and I tried to make the most eloquent response possible with a ragged moan. I had once thought soulmates spending eternity in Heaven with just each other for company probably got boring. But last night I felt like spending forever in the Impala with Dean would be the most wonderful thing imaginable. And that forever wouldn’t be nearly enough time.
“But then this drunk guy stumbled and bumped into the Impala. I recognized him as the witch we were hunting. Dean and I burst out of the backseat to run the witch down. We ended up chasing him into these woods, but we both ran a little slower than usual because we didn’t have any footwear protecting our feet.
“Our delay gave the witch ahead of us enough time to cast a spell. The effects of the spell caused us both to go unconscious, and apparently also caused Dean to lose his memories. But I know all the witch’s info, so we should go to his family’s home to break the curse. Then Dean will get his memories back, and we can pick up where we left off.”
“Fuck yeah, let’s go already,” Dean agrees.
“Okay, okay just meet me by the road up 1/4 mile where it stays close to the woods. You can jump in the back seat of my rental car without being seen by anyone.” Sam says.
“Awesome, Sammy we will see you in a few minutes then.” Dean tells his brother. Sam nods and turns away to walk over to the parking lot on the far end of the park.
Dean and Castiel begin to walk further into the woods in the direction Sam pointed to them. Dean looks over at his friend and smiles at Castiel, and Castiel can feel the heat rushing to his vessel’s face. Dean reaches a hand out, and Castiel smiles softly back to Dean as he tenderly entwines their fingers together.
Dean thought about how he had been wanting to kiss Castiel ever since he had met him, and now he was pissed that some asshole witch had taken that away from him. But holding Castiel’s hand helped simmer the rage building in his blood. Castiel always helped ground him when everything else seemed to spiral out of control. He wished he could remember the feel of Castiel’s lips on his own.
Dean pauses on the trail, and he looks at Castiel and says almost shyly, “Cas, I was thinking we could try another first kiss before I get my memories back.”
“I would like that, Dean,” Castiel says with a smile.
“Only thing is, I should have asked Sam for a mint because I’m sure I got some wicked morning breath,” Dean laments.
“I’m an angel of the lord, Dean. I can fix morning breath,” Castiel says. Castiel continues to hold Dean’s hand with one of his own, and reaches his other hand towards Dean’s face. He then traces a finger over Dean’s lips. Dean playfully catches Castiel’s finger with his mouth and sucks down on it. Dean is rewarded with a sexy moan from Castiel, and the feeling of clean, minty freshness on his teeth and tongue. Castiel’s finger is let free from Dean’s mouth, and Dean resolutely determines to give Castiel a kiss that an immortal being would remember for the rest of their existence.
~~
Sam has been waiting on the side of the road for the past 45 minutes. He figures he knows exactly what is happening in the woods, and although he is happy that his brother and best friend found love, having to wait while they are hooking up is not how he wants to spend his morning. He considers driving back to the motel and leaving Dean and Castiel to walk back on their own.
And Sam chuckles at the thought of a billion year old angel doing the walk of shame with his brother. Fighting the supernatural takes a lot more away from the brothers, than it ever gives. But sometimes the universe conspires to make everything fun and ridiculous again. Sam checks the trunk for a duffle bag with a couple sets of spare clothes. He drops the bag and a burner phone in a place where it seems obvious from the woods, but isn’t visible to passing motorists.
Sam gets back in the driver seat and starts the car. As he drives back to the motel, he enjoys laughing to himself every time he thinks of Dean’s face when he realizes he’ll be walking back to the motel.
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Part 2
read part 1 here
I want to go home.
Yuri sighed as she tapped her pencil along the side of her notebook. A full page of her small handwriting outlined sketched pentagrams, a protection sigil, and the translations from Latin for the key words of a standard summoning spell. All in just the first half of class.
As the black sheep of a well to do catholic family, demonology had always fascinated her, but as an exchange student learning amongst the very demons that the priest had warned her of, the lore was no longer a novelty. Now hexes, charms, and rituals were just another subject to pass.
The latest topic of conversation fell to the four horsemen of the apocalypse, and she was beginning to realize that all her knowledge of this was wrong.
She eagerly scribbled names of the first recorded hosts of the powers, rules of the energies and how they possessed human vessels to do their bidding.
This wasn't so bad. If only her gnawing fatigue would go away.
It had been Mammon's fault, this time. He had a bottle of Demonus and wanted to split it with her.
C'mon Yuri, what's a drink between besties?
She knew she wouldn't get drunk off it, but didn't anticipate a party-animal like him to be so bad with alcohol.
Two glasses in and he was curled up in his bedroom floor, sobbing into her lap about how mean Asmo had been to him that day. She caressed his white hair until he started snoring in her lap, followed by a night of broken sleep with her head tossed back onto the edge of his bed.
She sat up straight just as a piece of paper landed by her. It startled her, and as she glanced around the room, she smiled as Solomon waved.
Want to go shopping with me and the angels after class?
An innocent enough invitation, she smiled, quickly nodding as she returned to her notes, knowing that class was beginning to wind down.
"Don't forget about the presentations due next week." The professor announced as they stood behind the large desk by the chalkboard.
Yuri knew that her group was just about finished. Just needing to cite their sources, “Team 268” as Mammon had proclaimed, was sure to pass this one.
As she stood up, gathering the notebook and pencil, she turned, watching the flash of white hair zoom out the door.
So much for chivalry.
“Hey, Yuri!” Mammon jeered as he grabbed her from behind. Lifting her off the ground for a moment, before setting her back down, he straightened his back, leaning in with an elbow on her shoulder. “You coming with me and Levi today? We’re hittin’ the arcade.”
“Not today, Mammon.” She replied. “Solomon invited me to go shopping with him and Purgatory hall. Exchange student hangout or something.”
“Cool, so where are we shoppin’?”
“No clue yet,” she replied “But us exchange students get to hang out, and I’ll bring you back something, promise.”
“You’re doin’ me dirty Yuri!” He whined. “Don’t forget, I’m your first!” .She looked up to meet endless blue eyes and a wicked sneer.
“ Not the first for everything, sweetie...” She whispered.
In his shock, he let go of her shoulders, and she quickly used it to her advantage, ducking from his grasp, bowing her head to Beelzebub on the way out of the classroom, and down the stairs where she could just make out the floppy little white hat that Luke wore.
“Hey you two!”
A pause to catch her breath.
Simeon turned around and put a hand out, placing it gently on her shoulder as she doubled over.
“There you are, Yuri,” He smiled.
“Are you coming out with us today?” Luke asked. She nodded, standing up and grinning.
“You guys don’t mind right?” She asked. “Solomon invited me during class.”
“Not at all,” Simeon replied. “We’re always happy to see you!”
What she figured would be a quick trip, ended up becoming a visit to every shop lining Silent and Mystrum Avenue.
Ever the perfect angel, Simeon carried as much as he could, until he was no more than a pile of shopping bags with legs, even offering to take the burden off Luke who carried three pint sized bags from the small grocery store close to their dorm.
“No way, Simeon!” Luke argued, holding the bags closer to himself. “I can carry them myself!”
Yuri felt a little guilty, knowing that Simeon was now carrying her two new notebooks, a pack of new pens, and the expensive looking, but cheap duplicate, of a pair of earrings Mammon had pointed out to her the last time they’d shopped together.
All while she carried nothing.
“Sorry, I need to make one more stop!” Solomon said, dashing off to the left and disappearing into a sentient building with blinking eyes.
Looks like a toy store… Yuri thought. She followed Luke’s lead as he trudged over to a nearby bench and took a seat, and sat down beside him, leaving enough room for Simeon to follow if he chose, and then sharply pointed at the vacant spot when he didn’t.
Together they stretched their legs, lifted their sore feet, and relaxed; waiting for the silent sorcerer to finish his business.
“Solomon’s a nice guy,” Luke said. “But my goodness, he doesn’t know when to quit! I swear I must have burned all the calories from breakfast and lunch in the last two hours.”
“It’s only been two hours?” Yuri asked. “Here I thought I was going to miss dinner.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Simeon added. “Would you like to join us for dinner?
“Are you sure?” She asked.
“Of course, we can cook together.” he smiled.
“You just don’t feel like cooking by yourself tonight.” Luke sassed. “I’m already making dessert…”
“Oh, really?” Yuri asked.
“Yeah!” He replied excitedly. “Barbatos taught me how to make blackened pudding parfait and it’s really good!”
“That sounds nice!” Yuri grinned. “Maybe I--”
“I thought my horns were burning.”
Luke jumped in his seat, glancing up behind himself as Yuri followed his gaze. Barbatos bowed deeply, rising just as Diavolo approached from behind him.
“Hey there you guys!” he said. “Yuri, little Luke, Simeon, how wonderful it is to see you three together!”
“Hey you guys, I’m good to…” Solomon paused, seeing the Demon Lord leaning against the light pole talking to the trio outside, walking up quietly so as not to interrupt.
“...In fact, I was just looking for you, Yuri.” He said.
“Really?” She asked.
“Yes,” He replied. “I have some business to take care of and I could use your help with it. Do you fellows mind if I take Yuri from you for the evening, I’ll make sure she returns to The House of Lamentation safely tonight.”
“It’s no problem to us,” Simeon offered, keeping a hand on Luke’s shoulder to keep him from speaking. “As long as she has no problems with it.”
“If it’s something I can help with, I’m happy to.” She replied.
“Perfect!” Diavolo smiled. he lifted his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, and easily guided Yuri under one of them as he led her away.
“I’ll text you guys when I’m back tonight.” She promised.
With waves and goodbyes called out across the ever growing gap between them, Yuri turned to face forward, walking where Diavolo led her.
“Thank you for assisting me, Yuri,” He said. “Now, have you eaten yet? I was thinking we could discuss things over dinner.”
“I haven’t,” She replied. “Oh! I’d better message Lucifer and let him know.”
“Good idea, I know he worries for you.”
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Her Angel Chapter 3
Lady Belle runs from her wedding and seeks the help of a poor spinner.
Originally written for the Rumbelle Showdown under the pen name “Ercnal.”
Read on AO3
“Open in the name of the Duke!”
Lady Belle of House French and Rumpelstiltskin, the spinner who had saved her life, sat in the darkness of his hovel. For a brief eternity, both of them stayed frozen in fear, their hands clutched together.
“They’re here for me,” Belle whispered. “Gaston is going to take me away and force me to marry him!”
Another knock thundered at the door.
“I-I have to open it.” Rumpelstiltskin didn’t let go of her hand.
“I know,” she breathed. “Go ahead.”
Thinking fast, Belle broke from Rumple and turned to the hearth. She’d slept the first part of the night on the packed dirt in front of the fireplace. Her golden wedding dress was lost in the river. The shift she wore was muddy and wrinkled. But she still wasn’t dirty enough!
She stirred the embers into a blaze, as she had seen the servants do back home. Then, as Rumpelstiltskin hobbled over to the door, she took a handful of cold ash and rubbed it over her face and neck. She grabbed the blanket off of Rumpelstiltskin’s bed and threw it over her head and shoulders. Maybe it would look like a peasant woman’s shawl. It covered her clean hair and hid the shape of her young body.
Maybe this would work.
Before he opened the door, Rumpelstiltskin looked over his shoulder at her. They had known each other for less than a day, but already they understood what the other meant without saying a word. He was asking, Was she ready?
She nodded and he opened the door.
Two men stood in the doorway. At least, one was a man--a big, burly fellow in a sergeant’s uniform. The other figure was hidden in a darkness inkier than the night, face obscured by a rich cloak. The figure was roughly the same size as the sergeant in height and breadth of shoulder. But there was an air of power about this person. Something great and terrible was wrapped around him just as much as his cloak.
“G-good evening, milords,” Rumpelstitlskin stammered. “W-what can we do for you?”
The sergeant pushed past him to enter the hut. The figure in the cloak followed, gliding smoothly over the ground like an eel through water.
The sergeant spoke. “By order of His Grace, Duke Gaston de Trousdale, every house must be searched for a runaway girl.”
“We’ve no girls ‘ere, dearie,” Belle garbled her voice and took on the accent of a peasant. It sounded terrible, but she pressed on. “Just a fine little boy. He’s asleep in the ‘ayloft and I’ll thank you not to wake ‘im with your noisy ‘orses!”
There were no lies in what she had said. Rumpelstiltskin’s son Bae was in the hayloft and Belle did hope that he stayed asleep. And she was not a girl. She was a woman who could decide her own fate.
The figure in the cloak said nothing, but silently turned his attention to her.
The sergeant looked around the little hut. There wasn’t much to see. Certainly no place where this poor spinner might be hiding a future duchess.
“You two are married, are you?” he asked.
Belle drew herself up to her full height and began to bluster. She had seen this sort of thing in a play once. “Whot kind of question is that, dearie? Whot kind of people do you think we are?” She marched over to the shocked Rumpelstiltskin and grabbed his hand. “I’ll ‘ave you know I owe this man my very life! I would never disgrace him by ‘aving loose ways! ‘Ow dare you, sir! I never in all my days!”
The sergeant took her ranting in stride and kept looking. When he came upon the pallet in front of the hearthfire he kicked it. “So if you two are married, and your son is in the hayloft... who’s sleeping here?”
Belle opened her mouth and then shut it again.
Drat.
“We were,” Rumpelstiltskin came to her rescue. His hand around hers was warm and soft. “I mean, we weren’t sleeping. But… certain things… are better on a firm surface. I’m crippled, you see, and that is… more of a comfort on my back.”
The sergeant began to laugh. “Is that why it took you so long to open the door?” His sniggers became guffaws. “Did we interrupt a moment of ‘marital bliss’?”
Rumpelstiltskin looked at the ground and didn’t say anything. Belle felt him trembling beside her, about to cry. The sergeant chuckled at the idea that a man like Rumple and a woman like her could ever be married, could ever desire each other. How many other people had laughed at the angel who had saved her? How many other people thought it ludicrous that Rumple could be loved?
Belle’s pretend bluster exploded into genuine rage. “Whot’s so funny about it?” she screeched. “This is a good man you’re laughing at! He’s a loving father and generous to strangers! If I ‘ave a chance to give ‘im otherworldly delights, why shouldn’t I take it?”
The color rose in Rumpelstiltskin’s cheeks, but his smile was lovely in its gratitude.
The sergeant was polite enough to hide the rest of his laughter behind his hand. “All right,” he conceded. “They do say there’s someone for everyone.”
For the first time, the cloaked figure spoke. His voice was deep, with strange rumbling echoes.
“Very well, goodwife. You have proven that this is indeed your hearth and home. Come, Hordor, we best continue our search elsewhere.”
Once again, the figure floated instead of walking to the door. The unnatural smoothness of his movements was unnerving. But at least he was leaving and taking the sergeant with him. For just a moment, Belle felt her heart lift.
Then the dark figure turned around.
“Before we go, may we have some tea? Our journey has been long, and we must fortify ourselves. And did I not hear that you are generous to strangers?”
“O-of course,” Rumpelstiltskin began to hobble for the fireplace. “Allow me to--”
“Is it the custom in this land that the man of the house tends to domestic duties?” It was a polite question, but the dark figure intoned his words like a final judgement.
Belle and Rumple exchanged a look. They both knew that she had never made tea for herself in her life. She had watched him make tea after dinner, but how could she make it look like this was her home? That she was making tea for her own husband as a wife might do every night?
She would have to try.
“I-Is there water in the kettle, love?” she began as she walked back to the hearth. The fire was going nicely now, and the heavy black tea kettle hung from an iron bar on a hinge.
“Yes,” Rumple said. “The boy filled it before he went to bed.”
“Good,” she said with a false smile. That at least would spare her having to go out in the dark and find the well to get the water.
“And he put the tea leaves in the wooden box on the shelf beside the fireplace, just like we told him too.”
With that hint, Belle found the tea leaves easily. “He is such a good boy!”
The sergeant and the cloaked figure sat at the long farm table and watched her work. The hut was so quiet she could hear Rumpelstiltskin gulp before he spoke.
“So you’re looking for a girl?” he said. “Who is she? What did she do to offend His Grace?”
“Lady Belle of House French,” the sergeant answered. “She ran away from their wedding--at the very chapel door. Our lord don’t take kindly to being…” he searched for words, “dismissed, rejected, publicly humiliated.”
“But if she didn’t want to marry him--”
“The maiden broke a contract.” The dark figure cut off Rumple with tones of doom. “She made a promise to my master and she must fulfill her end of the bargain.”
Belle’s heart raced. Teacups. Where were the teacups? There were three mugs on a low shelf. Were those the same vessels they had taken tea from after dinner? Was that all Rumple had? Would that be good enough to give to company? The water inside the kettle bubbled noisily. The tea would be ready soon, but where were the cups to serve it in?
And they would probably want sugar too, wouldn’t they? And cream. Where did Rumpelstiltskin keep cream? She had heard of peasants putting jugs in streams near their houses to keep things cold. Did he do that? Where was the stream? Where was the sugar? The rest of her life hung in the balance of how well she could make tea!
“Do you need help, darling?” Rumple called over to her. “I know ever since we moved things you’ve had trouble remembering where they should go.”
“Moved things?” the sergeant spoke before Belle could. “What things do you have that would be moved?”
“Well, the treacle, for instance,” Rumple said. “We had kept it near the oat bin, but now it’s on the third shelf.”
There were quite a few things on the third shelf. What in the name of all the gods was treacle? It had to be important, or Rumpelstiltskin wouldn’t have mentioned it. But what was it? Belle ruled out the herbs and dried fruits she recognized. There was a small earthenware crock that seemed to be full of some kind of sticky brown syrup. And there was a little bowl that contained a mound of fine white crystals.
So that was the sugar at least! Whatever treacle was, she could worry about it later. The mugs were the best she could find, so she put the tea leaves and sugar into them.
“And where have we put the cream, love?”
She panted, as she held the iron kettle. It was heavier than anything she had ever lifted in life. She wrapped the handle with a rag to keep it from burning her hands. Pouring the boiling water into the mugs, Belle prayed that she wouldn’t spill. Peasant women were expected to be a lot stronger than she ever had been.
“W-we’re all out of cream, sweetheart,” Rumple said softly.
“Funny that you don’t know that, mistress,” the dark figure said. What was visible of his mouth held no amusement at all. “And odd that you would have cream at all, impoverished as you are.”
“Aowh!” Belle exaggerated her fake accent even more. “Sorry, dearie! I fort we ‘ad put some by, for when important people came to call.”
“Oh yes, everyone knows you can keep cream for months to save it for special occasions.” The sergeant snickered.
Cheeks blazing, Belle handed the mugs of tea to the three men. As she gave Rumpelstiltskin a mug, his fingers brushed against the back of her hand and he caught her eye. His gaze was warm and hopeful. For a moment, her heart calmed, and her panic dissipated. For a moment, when she looked into his eyes, she was home and everything was all right.
Then the sergeant spat out his tea.
Time froze. An arc of liquid hung in the air between the sergeant’s lips and the tabletop. Each brown drop showed an image in the firelight. Belle saw her own dismay, her knowledge that she had failed, reflected in the tea. Rumpelstiltskin’s sorrowful eyes lit up with shock, even as his lips grimaced around the rim of his teacup. And by some strange trick of the light, Belle could see the face of the dark figure, but only in the tea drops. Dark eyes gleamed with self-assured malice, something almost like amusement.
He had known who she was from the beginning.
Time started. The sergeant’s tea splattered to the table and he spat the rest out onto the ground.
“I-is something wrong?” Belle asked lamely. She was caught, but she couldn’t back down.
“Salt,” Rumple looked down as he put his cup on the table. “You put salt in the tea.”
“That wasn’t sugar?” Her voice was normal. All the pretending melted away in the face of her honest mistake.
The sergeant stood up. “Why would a poor spinner have sugar, my lady? Why would you expect fine sugar and rich cream in a miserable shack like this?”
“I…” Belle backed away from the two men so she was near the hearth again. Maybe she could grab the kettle. If she swung with all her strength she might be able to hit one of them. But which one?
Rumpelstiltskin stood up quickly on his bad leg. “Please, milords! We are just a humble family. My wife doesn’t always know what she’s doing, but that isn’t a crime! Please…” Trembling, he clung to his staff. “Please just leave us be.”
“Do you think we’re stupid?” the sergeant sneered. He lumbered around the table to grab Belle.
Kettle in both hands, Belle planted her feet in the dirt floor and prepared herself to heave. She managed to lift the iron thing over her head. It was on a clear course to collide with the sergeant’s beefy face. With any luck, the blow would knock him out. They could figure out what to do with the other man after that.
The kettle went up, but it wouldn’t come down. It wasn’t falling. Belle pulled on the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. It seemed to be frozen in mid-air.
There was a glow around the kettle. The purple light was unlike anything Belle had ever seen, but she knew what it was.
Magic.
The man in the dark cloak stood in front of the table. What was visible of his face was calm. He had only one finger extended. It seemed to cost him no effort at all to destroy every hope Belle had ever had of happiness.
“No!” Rumpelstiltskin shouted. In one quick motion, he swiped his staff toward the dark figure. The movement knocked over a teacup. It fell to the ground and chipped.
The dark magician only had to twitch his hand to push the attack away and leave Rumpelstiltskin a crumpled heap on the floor.
“No!” Belle shrieked. “Don’t hurt him!”
The sergeant grabbed her by both wrists and pulled her away from the floating tea kettle. “Why should we spare him, my lady? The man did impede the Duke’s servants from their duty. Do you want to make it worth our while? Do you want to make a deal with me and my friend here?”
“Enough,” the dark figure intoned. “We have our quarry. Let us be done with this.”
“Please!” Rumple reached up from the ground,
“Apologies, ‘dearie.’” The cloaked man looked down on Rumpelstiltskin while the sergeant hoisted Belle over his shoulders. “It is the Dark One’s magic that binds the girl now. And only the Dark One’s magic will ever free her.”
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Goraciar Eaxian, Dragonborn Cleric (He)
(Credit: Kyle Smith https://www.instagram.com/somecallmekyle/)
I was again a dragon on my dream. Flying I traveled through the islands of the far sea, fought the monsters of the frozen lake, fed on the remnants of a colossal monster and flew so high that the world below looked no more than an illusion. I was a high lord of the sky, the land and the seas, beyond the petty struggles of mortals, rival to the gods themselves. But the mist came, as it always does, and its tendrils were inescapable, no matter how fast I moved. They caught me and brought me back, my crying echoing through the universe itself.
The ship moved stronger than normal. I could feel, even lying back on my bed, the strength of the wind and the rain: My type of weather. I got out of my room and saw big waves cradling my small ship, endless clouds and storms on the horizon. I had no fear but respected this display and bowed my head recognizing the all mighty gods and goddesses below. I casted a small prayer for Umberlee and promised her a small bounty on her name; she might have been curious as the seas suddenly grew calm. Or maybe she just wanted to see how far I would get on this quest of mine.
We dragonborn were borned from Brahma, the all-father. Created from the bodies of discarded dragons, given intelligence by him and all-mother, Tiamat. Bound to cross the earth. Bound to be excellent. Bound to live and die by our clan. But when your clan is also bound by dreams, the madness has a way to infect you. Madness becomes reality.
In our clan, Nemesis, we have always believed, from time immemorial, that we are memories. The faded colors of our scales, the power of our breath, the roughness of our skin, the intelligence of our eyes, all of them are no more than memories from others, those who lived fuller lives with the wing below their wings; we believe that our families all come from a single dragon, a mythical beast that protects us and grants us wisdom. This wisdom comes from dreams. Dreams where a selected few can see this world through the eyes of the dragon, feel their power, see their achievements and sometimes, have a glimpse of the future that might help the clan. That is how it has always been, how it will always be.
My family, all of us dragonborns with different tones of blue, were not originally blessed with any dreams and therefore, we were unnamed outcasts, still part of the clan, but not allowed to take any decisions for ourselves. We were expected to obey the will of the many, led by Vastrae, the matriarch and ruler of our clan, a beautiful silver dragonborn with many of her colors still bright enough for us to see. But that all changed with my dreams.
The dream has always been the same, from the very first moment. I am a dragon, flying, my blue scales shining bright in the morning. I fight, I eat, I laugh and I sleep. But whenever I feel myself secure, a black mist comes, and follows me, trying to grab me, trying to take my essence. And then, the dreams always end. When I first had this dream, my brothers and sisters had no guidance on its significance, but glad that at least one of us had received the blessing, they led me to Vastrae. But far from being happy, and welcoming, Vastrae listened to the story with a mix of horror. This hasn’t happened in 50 years or more, she said, and this is never good. Your dragon, your blue dragon, is being hunted. And is up to you and your family to save her.
All 4 of us, brothers and sisters, met at dawn outside town. Vastrae gave us all a talisman, so that we would always know how to come back home. And convey the significance of our quest. Because if a mist dares to hunt a dragoness, wouldn’t it hunt the rest? Wouldn’t the rest of our forefathers and foremothers be in danger? So we all left, each to a different path, all uncertain of what our quest would mean, where our dragoness was and what we could do to save such a mighty beast with our feeble powers. But our family and our clan was more important than our doubts and with a heartfelt goodbye, we all left.
It has been 5 years since that day. Each of us found a calling in our travels, a special bond that we didn’t know existed but was there nevertheless. Hifras, my older brother, became a fighter, and his multiple swords have carved him a path of blood and reputation. We travelled towards the east, to the ice; Queltrina, my older sister, became a thief, her small size perfect for the cover of the night and constantly raided nobles and historians, in search for information of our dragon; and Raipora, my little sister, she became a prodigal sorcerer, commanding forces way beyond our comprehension, searching on her soul the source of our history in the huge cities of Baldur’s Gate and Neverwinter. And I, with my boat traveling the isles, ended up finding my calling in the Typhon, the unpredictable, the angry, the storm lord.
6 months after we departed from our clan, I found myself on the coast. I knew my brother and my sisters would travel in the continent and also knew it was up to me to travel the sea. But I also knew I lacked the skills required to command such a vessel in the uncertainty of the sea and therefore, found myself as the unlikely apprentice of an old couple of the sea, husband and wife both sailors at heart. Ike and Magda they were called. They didn’t even ask any questions, they didn’t stare at my scales. They simply appreciate the help that my strong body could give them and started with their lessons.
Months had passed and we sailed everyday, for fishing and for treasures. The boat big enough for all 3, named Sea Miracle, would quickly travel through the strange sea of the west and together we stayed from dawn ‘till dusk fishing. But there was this day that the sea was particularly violent, and not even their prayers to Umberlee were heard. The sky was angry, a thunderstorm as I have never seen. Ike and Magda were brave and I had never seen them scared, except that one day; maybe they felt that the storm, more than nature, had a divinity on it and without a word, they both entered the small cabin, leaving me outside. I was in trance, the power of the thunder called me in a way nothing else could, and there was such a beauty there, in the rage, in the destruction, that I couldn’t resist. It was as if my dragoness was calling me in each of these flashes and without knowing what I was doing, I started a prayer.
My prayer was born in pure devotion, a poem that came from my heart and my soul. Even with my eyes shut, I could feel the tension in the air, as each thunder came closer and closer to our boat, the sea still angry but expectant. I didn’t even notice when I started levitating but I did notice when the thunder hit me, with its full power, and the voice that came upon me at that moment.
Thunder is destruction. Is Chaos. Is Rebellions. Nature is all-mighty, Nature is uncontrollable. The sky is aflamed with fire and blood and wind and power. Not all have learned to see both its power and its beauty. I am TYPHON, god of Dragonborns, god of rage, of lightning. My power, either die or accept it, go forth as a cleric of the storms. Bring word of Typhon to the ignorant, convert your clan to me and show the world the fury hidden between the clouds.
At that moment, I accepted the power and the thunder hit me with so much force, as electricity travelled through my veins, filling them with a purpose I never knew I was missing. And with it, the thunderstorm disappeared and I fell into the boat, where I was cradled back to life by the couple, taken back to our home.
2 weeks I spent on the verge of death, with fever and delusions. But I also dreamt of my dragoness. I understood that Typhon had selected me as the plight of the dragon was his plight as well; the black mist that continued to pursue her was threatening more than I could ever understand and Typhon had seen in me an avatar to his rage and to his justice. So when I finally recovered, I knew what I had to do. The couple, Magda in particular, also knew the resolve in my eyes and that day we all three started building a new boat, just for me. When we were done, I hugged them both and thanked them, and was greeted with a beautiful boat with a freshly painted name on its bow. The name was perfect, I told Magda, the only name the boat might have. So we parted, me and “Blue Chaos”, to the unknown.
I have been sailing for a long time now, docking on islands for rations and gossip. I have battled creatures from the depths, with the powers given by Typhon; I fought a chimera on an island, protection a treasure and found a lance with the inscriptions of the thunder, which I knew was a gift from Typhon to me; I have battled and befriended pirates, and joined them in their ships, at nights of gambling and drinking; I have circled the same islands over and over again, always discovering something new, some new clue that I am still on the track of my dragoness, that she is still out there, looking for me and my sisters and brother. I don’t know how well my family has done it, how close they are to discover their own truth. Sometimes I will receive a magical message from them, informing me of their latest exploits and I will reply always the same. The dream is still there, our dragon as well. The gods have blessed us, but the hunt must continue.
The sea is calm, the night is beautiful. I can feel that same tension in the air, as a thunderstorm approaches. I will need a sacrifice for Typhon, I think, looking in the horizon for inspiration. A mile into the west, I see a battle between two ships, a slaver ship and a pirate; I have always hated slavers and I know Typhon does too. I invoke a little power to fill my sails with wind and I approach the ships, my lance in my hand, my shield in the other, a spell already on my lips while a heavy cloud magically appears on top of the slaver ship. Thunder rumbles and the slavers look up, in confusion and fear. Yes, let them fear. Fear is always welcome, I think, while a thunder falls upon them and I jump from my ship to theirs, my lance already caving a way of blood. This is for you Typhon, I finally whisper.
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Beautiful, Beloved (3/8)
You had met three times: The first, an introduction. The second, a lunch. The third, your wedding. Can bonds be made in such short a time as a week long honeymoon aboard the immensely impressive RMS Titanic?
Yes, yes they can.
Kylo Ren x Reader
Word count: ~4k
Warnings: NSFW content
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The train ride to the port was one filled with so much anticipation you were sure you would simply burst. The small sectioned off room where you and your husband sat was lavishly decorated with beautifully dark wood walls and paneling, brass fixtures, and blue velvet cushioned seats. There was a small table between you where Kylo sipped a drink and you lightly picked your fork at a warm cranberry muffin that you really had no interest in actually eating, your stomach too unsettled from the nerves of embarking on such an adventure as this, your honeymoon.
America, sailing to New York aboard the Titanic of all things! Never in a million years would you have ever dreamt that such a vacation would be yours.
You sat with your hand twined with Kylo’s, as you looked out the train window. True to his word, your husband rose exceptionally early, waking you with him. In no time at all, you found yourself dressed and eagerly making the journey from the estate to the docks of Southampton.
Dopheld and Rose had both joined you, although they sat in the next room over on the train, which was reserved for the servants of the first class passengers. You and Kylo were exchanging knowing smiles and excited glances as the overcast sky was broken by patches of sunshine. You longed to rest your head on his shoulder, but you had been done up completely in all your new finery from Paris, and the hat atop your head was so large that you’d most likely accidentally hit Kylo in the face with all your feathers, if you were to try.
So instead, you looked out the window, completely entranced, and Kylo looked at you, his free hand that was not being held by your own reaching up occasionally to brush against the soft skin just below your ear. It was a tender touch that had you smiling, a smile which only grew as the train chugged its way through the town, officially drawing the journey to a close.
“Kylo! My darling, is that it?” You asked, nearly plastering yourself to the window as a great ship came into view.
You were not the only one who had noticed or anticipated the arrival, and as the train got closer and closer to the port, there was a very palpable energy that could be felt throughout the entire room.
Kylo nodded, gave your hand an affectionate squeeze as he sipped some brandy he had ordered from the food service aboard the train.
“I cannot think of anything else it could be.” Kylo said, peering around your hat to get a look at the ship, the RMS Titanic, “Isn’t she grand?”
It had to be nearly a thousand feet long, and it felt just as tall, the way the great smokestacks protruded into the air, only contributing to the England-typical foggy weather. Birds swirled around the cables and squawked and cawed, and you could see the small dots of crewman wandering the ship, preparing it for all the new passengers which would board it on its maiden voyage.
You were giddy from the size of it alone, wishing the train would finally come to a stop so that you could get off of it and onto the vessel.
“Oh Heavens it’s enormous! Absolutely enormous. I’ve never seen such a ship in all my life.” You grinned, and such a reaction made Kylo smile softly at you.
“Do you like it?” He asked, kissing your satin gloved hand, and you laughed brightly, for that would truly be the understatement of the century.
“Like it? I adore it! I have no idea how such a thing can float, surely it would be too heavy and sink – yet here she is, a true marvel.” You cannot stop looking at it, at this feat of engineering.
“The only thing worth marveling at, is you my sweet.” He said, making you blush and duck your chin just so, unused to such blatant confessions.
When the whistle of the train blew and the brakes came to a squeaky halt, it took everything in you to calmly stand and collect yourself, arm looped through Kylo’s as you made your way out of the train hall and down the stairs where you met up with Dopheld and Rose as the two handled your baggage.
Speaking of baggage, you cannot help but stare in wonder as great mechanical cranes lifted platforms piled high with trunks, high into the air and onto the ship from right there on the port. You thought of all the things they had to build specifically for this ship, for the whole of the White Star line. You imagined that the berth had to be custom built as well, not believing that any port could accommodate a ship of this magnitude with ease.
Being that it was the Titanic, the port was simply packed, swarming with people. From all walks of life and classes, passengers dressed in their absolute best awaited entry to the ship. The noise was practically deafening, between the overlapping conversations of a thousand men women and children, that you were so surprised that through it all, your husband’s name was uttered in a tone that offered nothing but suspicion and disrespect.
As you, Kylo, Dopheld and Rose made your way through the crowds of people who were disembarking from the train, you could feel the judgmental stares from higher society who had come off of the first train only moments prior.
“Look – everyone look it’s Lord Ren.” One of them, a woman wearing a fashionable black and white striped dress whispered loudly, not doing anything to really conceal her disdain.
“Oh and that must be his bride, wonder how she hasn’t hanged herself yet.” Her companion, another fashionable young woman in deep purple silks laughed behind her fan.
“Wonder how he hasn’t yet killed her himself.” A third wearing such a largely feathered hat that you wondered how she did not topple straight over, glared harshly in your direction.
Your grip on Kylo’s arm only tightened, and you take it upon yourself to put them in their place.
“Pay them no mind.” You said loudly to your husband, more so for the benefit of them hearing you say it than anything else, “One would think being in the presence of such breathtaking sights would inspire more stimulating conversation than this vapid group is spewing.”
The women gasp in shock, offended, affronted, and you only smirk to yourself and to Kylo, as he fights a smile of his own.
“I am sorry my darling, that you must bear witness to such frivolity. Shall we explore the docks?” He offers, going along with you, but you only shoot the women a look.
“Please.” You say, making a point to dramatically turn your back to the women, your own ruffles and lace and feathers coming across much more elegantly than their ill-fitting garments.
You don’t get too far, before other people begin to take notice.
“Lord Ren!” One of the crewmen came running up to you and Kylo, “Sir I beg your pardon, it is an honor to be in the presence of such nobility. Please, may I take your bags?” He asked, and Dopheld was more than eager to hand them all over, the many trunks and boxes that Kylo had packed for you.
“Oh yes thank you my good sir, I am putting my trust in you, these are mostly belonging to my wife, and we don’t dare want to misplace them.” Kylo slipped him a large note, and the man’s eyes widened, bowing in respect.
“No sir, not at all sir, right away sir!” He said, before disappearing towards where those large electric cranes were, no doubt knowing exactly which room would be yours to put them in.
Kylo leads the way through the people, and you can’t help but feel so excited, a true sense of adventure at this moment. You had never been to America before, never left the continent at all – and what a grand first journey this would be!
Suddenly, you are nearly knocked into quite harshly a young man with a shock of blonde hair comes darting between you and Kylo, whooping and cheering like he had just won the lottery. He’s shouting, held a big sack over his shoulder, and waves a slip of paper in his hand as he and a friend cut through the crowd.
“Watch it!” Kylo barked, immediately righting you in his arms, helping you regain your footing from where he had nearly made you go crashing to the ground.
“Sorry mister!” The young man tossed over his shoulder, but Kylo is far more interested in you.
“Are you alright?” He asked, checking you over, searching your face for any signs that you had been harmed. Instead he finds signs that you are on the verge of panicking – for you are, and you’re finding it difficult to breathe just from the sheer spectacle of it all.
“Yes, yes of course. Just a little overwhelmed is all, there are a great many people.” You tried to explain, but Kylo shushed you gently, held you close as he took your fan from your free hand and waved your face with it.
“You are in dire need of fresh air, Dopheld please, would you help clear a path for (Y/N)?” He asked, and the boy immediately nodded, more than willing to help you.
“Make way!” He shouted, parting a path like he were some prophet.
“Could we please just go onto the ship? I apologize, I didn’t realize how crowded it would be.” You tried to apologize, feeling terrible for ruining the good mood of the afternoon.
The clock was striking a quarter until noon, leaving only fifteen minutes before the ship was set to depart, and you very badly needed to lie down. Kylo thankfully was in no mood to argue with you, as he seemed to never be, and instead was leading you through the path that Dopheld had cleared.
“You have nothing to apologize for, the gangplank is right this way.” He kissed you, square on the lips, making those around you gasp at such a display of affection.
You smiled at the show, face hot from a slight embarrassment at being the center of such attention, but Kylo paid no one any mind as he kissed you and kissed you and kissed you some more, to help calm you down.
As his tongue slid against yours, his arms wound around you and you sighed into his embrace. The poor man had to tilt his head awkwardly to avoid knocking over your hat, but you were thankful for such the large brim, as it concealed just how passionate the kiss was – concealed it from one side of you, at the very least.
When the disgruntled men and women gave way to wolf-whistles and jeers from those of the lower classes, did Kylo then pull away.
“Perhaps we should find our cabin straight away.” You suggested, and he only laughed loud, the sound of it unfortunately swallowed by a great big horn that was blown from the ship.
Feeling a new sense of invigoration, you and Kylo ran towards the gangplank up the gangplank, and onto the ship.
You passed the third-class passengers who were getting their health inspection, men and women and children all opening their eyes and mouths and ears for doctors to ensure that no disease or illness could be spread to the others aboard, crew and passenger alike.
A few people were turned away, and you felt a pang of sorrow for them, for how must it feel to be denied entry to such an incredible ship as this?
If you were afraid of heights, you did not look down, but it wouldn’t have even occurred to you to do so, to look back at the hundreds of faces who were waving the ship off. No, you were far too occupied with looking forward, up at your husband, at his handsome face in the sun which had finally managed to beat away the clouds.
Once aboard the deck of the ship, you gasp, hand covering your mouth, at the view.
It was, in a word, breathtaking.
The sunshine really had transformed the entire ship, the white paint practically glittered and shone like the diamonds which were scattered atop the water of the English Channel, casting a bright glow over the entire port.
The deck was a flurry of activity, those very same cranes you had seen were now swinging over your head as they lowered all manner of things aboard – luggage yes, but also great cars which were highly polished, sending a sparkle of their own. There were all sorts of men doing inspections all across the ship, and you spotted one man entirely in white doing such checks as well.
“Do you think that’s the captain?” You asked, excitement showing through your voice and general demeanor.
“I do believe so my dear.” Kylo followed your gaze to the man in white, a thick white beard to boot, “Would you like to meet him?”
“Meet him! No, no we couldn’t possibly. He must be so busy.” Your eyed widen comically as you wave off your flustered appearance. Only Kylo would be so bold as to make introductions to someone so important as the captain of all people.
“Perhaps another night then, we have all week, after all.” Kylo said, making you only shake your head.
The ship had begun to set sail, and you were thrilled by this, by the cheering, the fanfare, the orchestra playing up grand music, until you saw something of a pitiful sight.
“Why do you suppose there are so many of the same ship, over in the berth?” You asked, gesturing to the row of nearly identical boats docked in the harbor, all laid up against one another, listing from side to side.
“Lack of coal,” Rose piped up, her eyes bright as she offered the information she had read in the paper only that morning, “The miners have just finished their strike, there isn’t enough coal yet for all the ships to set sail. I heard they’re consolidating the passengers from the other ships onto the Titanic.”
“Will there be enough space for them all?” You asked, but Rose nodded happily.
“Of course, there’s no sense in overloading a ship with passengers she can’t hold. It will all be fine. Besides, we are not going to be seeing them much anyway, as we’re on the top deck.” She said, pride clear in her voice.
“First class is such a luxury.” You sighed dreamily, proud in your own rights as well.
Kylo kissed your knuckles, before kissing your lips once more out in the open, like the right scoundrel he was.
“It is one that I hope you grow accustomed to, for from now on you’ll never travel with anything less.” He murmured against your lips, no doubt earning him some dirty glares from the elderly passengers which were making their way out and about on the deck.
“I would like to just go to our cabin, if we might?” You asked, lowering your voice as you pressed your lips closer to his ear, “I’m afraid I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t get my hands on you this instant.”
Kylo only chuckled, and looked around as if he were a spy, searching for someone who might be after them. When he found no such pursuer, he pulled you back around one of the structures which housed a room you did not know. All that you knew was there was shade here in the back, and as Kylo pressed you up against the cool wall, you let yourself be kissed once again.
You had hoped that Rose and Dopheld had taken the hint, had gone to find the cabins themselves, or at the very least busy themselves while Kylo worked very hard at getting the bodice of your dress undone. It seemed to be a quiet corner of the ship, an intimate oasis where there was nothing but the wall, you, and the railing which gave a spectacular view of the port, of the channel beyond.
Kylo was not so concerned with the view, and was much more concerned with freeing your chest, with pulling your breasts up out of your corset so that he could bury his face between the cleavage. He sucked and kissed at your flesh, and you gasped lightly when you felt his fingers ruck up your skirt and petticoat, when you felt his hot hand branding your thigh as he searched through all the fabric to find the smooth skin between your legs, the wet slick of your pussy.
He truly was unashamed, as he released your cleavage from his mouth only to seal his lips over yours as you moaned into him, those deft fingers of his working you open more and more. It was entirely inappropriate, to do such a thing so out in the open, but there were no one around to judge you, not unless you counted the gulls which circled and flew low on the water.
“I am going to ravish you tonight.” Kylo promised, his fingers slowly pumping in and out of you, “But I made a promise to myself to make you come as soon as you stepped foot on this ship, and that’s what I aim to do.” He grinned, those crooked teeth of his which you found so endearing shining pearly white.
“Kylo – ” You laughed, a laugh which turned into a long and low moan, such a thing he had to capture in his lips so that no one would find you, would see how he was touching you so, with your tits out as they were.
“Shh, shh just enjoy it.” Kylo said, a third finger joining the others in your pussy.
You leaned all of your weight against the wall, and held his arm in place as he made out with you, eliciting the sweetest sounds and sighs of pleasure. His wrist was turned just so, that he could rub his thumb in lazy little circles on your clit, make your chest heave.
Your hips were unable to sit still, pelvis thrusting down onto his hand, and you were so close to reaching your climax, so close to coming – when all of a sudden the sound of gunshots rang clear and bright through the air.
Kylo moved faster than you had ever seen him, pulling his hand out from between your legs, out from under your skirt, arranging your breasts so they sat comfortably back in your corset and buttoning you into your bodice in record time. He grabbed your hand and the two of your raced from the side of the boat where you had been hiding away, into the fray of scrambling passengers who had all heard the same shots.
“Get down!”
“What was that?”
“Does anyone know?”
“Can someone tell us?”
In all the confusion, dogs began to bark and children began to wail, but you only clutched onto Kylo until crewmen came pouring out of the ship onto the deck, blowing their whistles to gain attention. They were giving no information however, only blowing their whistles, and that wasn’t helping anyone, wasn’t making anyone calm down. You ran to the side of the ship, and watched with fear as more and more gunshots sounded.
“(Y/N)!” Kylo chased after you, holding onto your hand as best as he could while you maneuvered your way through the gathering which had amassed on the side of the ship to listen to the gunshots, to look for the criminal.
Except they weren’t gunshots at all, what everyone was hearing was the sound of cables snapping, of chords and wires tearing apart, breaking free from the hull of those ships which had been laid up in the port, those same ships which had donated their coal in exchange for the Titanic accepting their passengers for this voyage.
The other boats belonging to the White Star line had broken free from their moorings and were heading right for you.
“My god, the ships are turning this way!” You shouted, causing an entirely new panic all your own.
The force from the propellers of the Titanic had caused such a stir in the waters, that it had rocked and swayed those boats docked in the port until they had come breaking free, and now they were being sucked towards the Titanic due to the sheer size of the ship.
No sooner than those words had left your lips, did tug-boats pour out into the water from the docks, armed with many experienced crewmen who seemingly were prepared for an event such as this.
The presence of the boats must have done something to displace all the water, to set the gravitational pull to rights once again, because as one of the ships came ever closer, as the people gasped and backed away as quickly as they could, suddenly it was all still once again.
“All clear!” The foreman blew his whistle, trying to calm the mass of people who were now shouting and yelling, demanding a refund or to be let off the ship immediately. You didn’t blame them, the boat was close enough that you could probably reach out a hand and smack the hull. “Everything is fine! Passengers please being to settle, we will be departing in half an hour.”
Your heart was beating hard in your chest, but Kylo was right there, right there behind you, holding you tight.
He held you in a way that said, ‘I will never let you go,’ and that reassured you more than words probably ever could.
Once the initial shock of the almost crash had passed, you began to laugh, the anxiety bubbling up out of you in a hiccupping chuckle that had nearly everyone around you confused, concerned.
“What a dramatic start to the trip!” You explained to the questioning eyes, and only then did they all nod in understanding, letting out a few laughs of relief themselves.
Kylo wasted no more time in getting your party together, leading you and the servants inside the main area of the ship, away from the deck. He was not laughing, a dangerous, angry glare cast over his features that had you worried.
Was it the interruption of your moment of intimacy? Had you reacted poorly to the near-crash? Or was he simply worried, and this was how he showed it? You didn’t know, you’d have to ask him when you were both safely tucked away in your cabin.
“Could you imagine if the boats had crashed, right here in the harbor? What a waste that would be.” Rose tutted, but Dopheld only shook his head.
“I wouldn’t be worried, she is unsinkable after all.” He pointed out, echoing the same slogan which they had been advertising this ship under for so many weeks now.
“Right you are, Dopheld.” Kylo replied, opening the grand doors to the first class reception lobby, “Right you are.”
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Tagging some pals! As always if you’d like to be taken off or added to the taglist, just send me a message <3 @adamsnackdriver @dreamboatdriver @plomblooms @kylo-renne @callmehopeless @imaginedreamwrite @formerly-anonhamster @kyloxfem @tinyplanet-explorers @zaneholtzwrites @heldcaptivebychaos @inkstaineddaughter @venusianmaiden @thepilotanon @solotriplets @autumnlovesadam @punk-in-docs
#reader insert#kylo ren x reader#kylo ren/reader#kylo x reader#kylo/reader#kylo ren imagine#titanic au#my writing#historically accurate
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Part 90 Alignment May Vary: Pieces of the Past
There is an adventure for 4th Edition called something like The Return to the Tomb of Horrors. It is an adventure centered around the infamous lich Acererak and his various Tombs of death. One of the more fun parts of the adventure takes PCs to the Tomb of Horrors... only it’s decades after the Tomb’s first opening and the tomb has been raided and destroyed by the thousands of PCs that have come to it since that time.
I mention this, because ever since I read that module, I’ve wanted to do something similar: bring players back to a place that was familiar to them. The Tomb of Haggemoth, which featured so heavily in our campaign and plot, was the obvious choice and there was at least one loose end left in the Tomb that I felt would serve as a good hook: an ancient celestial being, trapped in a rock. Around the time of this session, I had finished working on a revival of Haggemoth, bringing it into 5th Edition with its original creator, Robert Kendzie (you can learn more about that here). As we updated a lot of the final dungeon, it felt like I now had an appropriately “changed” setting to bring the players back to.
So for this next section of the adventure, we return to the past. We return to Haggemoth.
New Waterdhavians
The set up for this return begins in Waterdeep, with Imoaza and Milosh morose after the failure at Maakengorge and the sacrifice of Ruze. Milosh especially, has lost his entire sense of identity and nearly quits the group entirely. His only consolation is that armor has been left for him by Vraath Keep’s smith, who had promised to build him a new face. It is a wonderful piece of armor that gives him a humanoid looking face shield to cover up the damage done by Dragon fire back on the asteroid. But he also saw that smith dead in the Maakengorge temple. Everything reminds him of his failure at this point. Only one thing keeps him involved: Illrastayne.
This is the blade he took from the Abyss, the blade which contains the soul of the bard-turned-warlock Bitterberry (and his Demonic patron) and which Milosh used extensively in the Abyss but has shunned since. He decides to rid himself of the blade, almost on a whim. He is aware that it has a demon inside of it and wishes to have no connection to anything which might impede his freedom, whether it be Surveyor, Primus, or this accursed sword. But when he tries to rid himself of it, he finds he cannot. The sword will not leave him. More than that, it taunts him, telling him in a demonic voice inside his head that in his despair, the blade has latched ever more deeply onto his heart and soul and that soon it will have him completely. Determined to find a way to destroy the blade, Milosh seeks out the Shaman from the ice tribe, who survived the events at the Maakengorge and is with the refugees in Waterdeep. The Shaman tells him there is a place called Rori Rama, where the first contract between the Demon was struck and that is the only place now where the blade can be destroyed.
It is around this time that Carrick returns to the party. Yes, Carrick! If you don’t recall him, he was the prior character that Ruze’s player had created and played for many many sessions, finally losing him in the Abyss during Esheballa’s insane game. But that was only the end of the original Carrick. Carrick’s backstory involved the inadvertent merging of his soul and personality with the energy of the final Surveyor, and so when Carrick died, his soul was borne back to Faerun to awaken in the last vessel the Surveyor had left there: a final body left safely in the ruins of the Fane, whose Yuan Ti temple had been reduced to rubble by the actions of Imoaza, Aldric, and the original Carrick during the final campaign of the Red Hand.
Carrick comes to Milosh and asks him to accompany him on a final task. You see, Carrick has worked out a good portion of the prophecy and its meaning. He believes that the players haven’t actually failed to stop the prophecy. Instead, he tells them that this is what HAD to happen in order to stop it: the three had to be one. Only when together could they be defeated. To recap, according to the prophecy, the PCs will need to bring together four objects to destroy the three and halt Chaos’ advance into the world. The pertinent lines are thus:
Four things must gather to alter fate’s course
The Sword, The Shield, the The Stone, The Source
Then upon the throne the three must be
Before they can meet their destiny
Carrick says the sword is almost certainly Imoaza’s Black Razor. The Stone he believes is a piece of the Surveyor’s Jade stone that caused so much trouble early in the campaign, years ago. He went out on a mission of his own to retrieve it (one that wasn’t played in the course of our adventures, but was occurring while the players were at the Sea of Moving Ice). In speaking with Imoaza and learning what she found out from the library on the iceberg, Carrick now believes the Source is a piece of Primus himself. Karina, before her demise, had spoken to him at length of her past adventures and mentioned that Abenthy had begun calling himself an “Inevitability of Justice” after surviving Haggemoth’s tomb. Carrick, with the knowledge of the Surveyor living within his own memories, knows of the creations of Primus, and Abenthy’s wording stands out to him: “Inevitability.” Carrick believes an Inevitable is still in Haggemoth’s Tomb and that Abenthy encountered it. The Inevitables are celestial beings, created by the hands of Primus itself in the plane of Mechanus, where Law and Order is unquestionable. And there is one being, Carrick believes, who can channel the power of that Inevitable.
“Oh great,” Milosh said, seeing the visage of the surveyor looking down at him from the alley’s entrance. “This again.”
Years ago, a surveyor had taken Milosh from the depths of failure and despair and built him a new identity. But now Milosh had remembered, remembered everything, and again he had failed. He didn’t want a third chance. He wanted to go away. He wanted the world to go away.
Carrick knelt beside him. “We’re not very different, you and I,” he said. “Both of us have experienced death. Each has had our own failures. And we’ve been brought back to do more. We have been brought back to save the world.”
Milosh scoffed. “I have no world.”
“No. You have a million. Every world is yours to protect. That was your mission. It is your mission.”
“I’ve lost a lot already.” Milosh paused. “You remember Aldric, right? Did you know Imoaza killed him? I found it out from a book we got, from this old elf in a frozen library. You trust this group to save a world? We can’t even trust each other.”
Carrick stopped and considered what Milosh had said. “We all have to answer for our past actions,” he said. “Some answer in different ways. I believe Imoaza is going through her own changes. And I... I am no longer exactly who I was before. I am not Carrick. But I am not the Surveyor, either. But I am both. Do you remember the sacrifice I made as Carrick? Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Sometimes we can avoid them. But if you walk away here, you walk away from the sacrifices we have all made.”
“Maybe I don’t care.”
“You’ll also walk away from yourself. You want freedom? Then you need to face what it is that you are afraid of. Or else you’ll never be free from it.”
While Milosh is struggling to come to terms with what he should or should not do, Imoaza begins to investigate the politics of Waterdeep, concerned by the boast from Nazragul that he had agents in Waterdeep’s council, planted there to change the teleportation destination from Vraath Keep to the Maakengorge, which is how he trapped Karina. Her investigations, which involve her ingratiating herself to certain people in disguise and exploring the homes of certain nobles, reveals to her that Yuan Ti have infiltrated Waterdeep and are turning its citizens and lords against the cause for which Imoaza and the companions fight.
These discoveries will have importance for upcoming sessions, but for now they linger as unresolved hints of danger, for it is time for the group to head to the tomb.
Return to the Tomb
“The island was warded against dragons,” Argent explained, as the bronze dragon circled down towards the island of Rori Rama. “We knew where it was, we could practically taste the magic and gold Haggemoth had accumulated, but we couldn’t get close to the island. Like an itch you couldn’t scratch. Even now, this is as close as I can come.”
For three weeks, the companions (plus Breath Giver, Milosh’s personal healer from the ice tribe) had flown via dragonback away from Waterdeep, across the Moon Sea, and towards Rori Rama, to find the Inevitable trapped inside the old tomb. They had stopped at several locations which would have been familar to Karina. They had stopped to buy provision in Ottoman’s Docks, which had changed little in a hundred years, except that it had doubled in size. They had roosted one night on a beach of a deserted island with a huge spire rising out of its middle (the site of the LaCroix mansion, though they didn’t know it). They had flown to Celaenos and spent a night as guests of the Sisters, the Keepers of the Library, who had taken over the monastery after the Knights had been murdered decades earlier. They spent a night at the island of the Oracle, and though they lacked the money to see the ageless Oracle, the monks who protected her let them at least stay on the beach for free.
Eventually they reach Rori Rama, but the closest Argent can get them is at the base of the inactive volcano which contains Haggemoth’s tomb. Breath Giver stays with Argent while the three companions use fly spells to reach the volcano’s crater and there find a way down a mysterious shaft delved into the mountain itself. The shaft takes them directly into Haggemoth’s inner sanctum, skipping the first level of the tomb entirely (I intend this to be a revisit of this infamous area, not a full rerun of it).
This high ceiling of this long chamber is held up with stout columns and the floor is tiled in marble. The rotting remains of a pair of couches can be seen towards the center of the room, along with some long-dead potted plants. Several doors lead off of this room, though some are damaged. The space is lit by arcane-looking lanterns hung from the columns, but the far end of the hall is lost in shadow where part of the ceiling has collapsed and the lamps have failed. Strange sounds echo in the distance – sounds of movement and the occasional animal like cry.
I am not going to detail all of the explorations the players make of the old tomb. There are many little rooms and surprises the players encounter, but only a few are of key importance to the plot, and I want to focus on those, the things that have changed for the worse since the last time they were here.
First, there is a new character that makes his appearance in this ruined tomb. His original name is unknown, if in fact he ever had one, but the group comes to know him as “The Painted Mummer.” He lives in paintings left behind by Haggemoth, and takes multiple disguises, different for each painting, from a feasting king to a hunchbacked dwarf. He interacts with the PCs as they explore the Sanctum, sometimes giving them dubious advice, at other times leading them through interactions with some of Haggemoth’s left over magics. For instance, they try to make a potion of invulnerability in his old study, guided by the Mummer in the guise of a twitchy scholar in a painting in the room. This ends in disaster as the potion explodes, due to them not identifying the proper heart needed for the potion (they use a Grell heart instead of a Hook Horror heart). They do get some hints that not all is well, such as when they identify some dead bodies hidden in a painting of a snowy mountain, and occasionally even get a glimpse of the Mummer’s real persona, a gaunt, tall figure dressed in skin tight black and wearing a theatrical mask, one half of which is sobbing and the other half is giving a menacing and angry snarl. Eventually, they learn to be wary of the Mummer and start burning his paintings whenever they find him in them. This only angers him the more and he begins to stalk them from room to room, not always able to do anything to them, not always even seen by them. But he watches, and he waits.
Cliff notes: The Mummer was an idea Robert and I came up with for the 5th Edition version of Haggemoth. He wanted to do more with the Inner Sanctum and was interested in maybe using the paintings to have some effect on the environment. I was thinking of GladOS from Portal, and liked the idea of an insane groundskeeper, something which was initially built to be helpful but has become broken and corrupted by time.
Secondly, while they explore, the PCs are occasionally accosted by otherwordly purple tentacles, that seem to sprout from the air itself, or the floor. The Ethereal, they discover when Milosh tries to enter it, has been completely dominated and overtaken with these tentacles, and they attack the PCs on two major occasions, sucking out not only their life, but their spell power, draining their spell slots and destorying their magical shields and other effects. The most memorable fight against them takes place in the old dining hall, where an unnatural darkness forces the PCs to fight blind against the tentacles, all the while looking for a key to a special door in Haggemoth’s Sanctum. The PCs get very creative here, with Milosh destroying parts of the ceiling to drop on the tentacles, Imoaza using the Weave Sight to be able to locate the Tentacles, and Carrick using fire and ingenuity to set up a kind of napalm effect that he uses to keep the Tentacles away from him. The scariest part is when the Mummer causes dozens of animated knives and dishes to animate around the room and swarm the players, only to have the Tentacles latch on to this living magic and erupt from the cutlery and dishes, surrounding the players with swarms of essence draining tentacles!
Another scary room involves an illusion created by the Mummer with the aid of some hallucinigenic spores. This grabs Milosh especially, and he runs into what he thinks is a vision of his old life on Eberron, where he is at a ballroom dance. He happily joins in the merriment, and takes a bite out of a thick pastry of some kind, bursting with whipping cream and flavor.
Only, what’s really happening is that he’s surrounded by Rust Monsters, absolutely attracted to his metallic form, his addled mind showing them as laughing and dancing humans. Imoaza and Carrick see through the illusion before he does, and watch as he takes a bite of what he thinks is a pastry... it is actually a larval Rust Monster, its guts and ichor spraying across his face as he bites into it.
Suffice it to say, this is not an encounter that the PCs end up liking, but it is a memorable one. By the time it is over and they flee the room, Milosh has had half his face (just restored!) eaten off.
They eventually discover a scrap of painting in a room which also contains the broken summoning circle Haggemoth used to summon the Inevitable of Justice, centuries ago. The painting shows a gnome, who swears he is not the Mummer, but seems terrified of the Mummer. He tells them his name is Lhu-Ee and he is the last surviving painter dweller, aside from the Mummer, who murdered all of the others. He explains that the paintings were created by Haggemoth to hold his knowledge and to keep him company. They are like phylacteries, holding the souls of creatures Haggemoth pulled from beyond the grave to shape to his purposes. When he prepared to depart this plane, he “turned off” the paintings, intending to let the souls rest forever. But something went wrong. Others (Karina, Abenthy, Xaviee, and Bitterberry) came into the Sanctum and their presence awoke the Paintings again. But with no Master to direct them, the Mummer went mad. Originally designed to entertain Haggemoth and be a companion for him, in his absence he declared that the paintings had failed their master and needed punishing. Only Lhu-Ee escaped his wrath, by hiding in a torn scrap of painting. He offers to go with the party in his scrap, if they’ll keep him safe from the Mummer.
Lhu-Ee knows more than just the history of Haggemoth. He is an expert on the Abyss and the Ethereal, filled with Haggemoth’s knowledge of those planes. He tells them that what’s happening to the Ethereal now is a sign of a being trying to weaken the boundaries between this plane and the Abyssal plane, with disastrous results.
“Why,” he says, pushing his oversized turban back up on his head, where it promptly falls down again. “It could be the end of the world!”
* * *
This is part one of a two part post. There’s a lot that needed to be set up this time, so I wanted to break the posts up to make it a little more manageable. And ya know, maybe also stretch this blog out just a little more. We are coming close to the end.
But not quite yet! Haggemoth’s final resting place still awaits the players, and more beyond that!
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The Night of a Hundred Poems
I survived the #HypMicRarepairWeek2020! I would like to thank all the people who accompanied me on this strange journey. It was quite an experience writing about rarepairs, but I survived it!
Genre: Romance, Drama.
Fandom: Hypnosis Microphone.
Word count: 4314
Prompt: Day 7 - Free day/AU
Summary: Izanami is the most important tayu in Yoshiwara. Gentaro is the Imperial Court's favorite playwright. Without knowing why, every time Gentaro visits Izanami, he writes a poem. And tonight, to make a wish, he will write his hundredth poem... on Izanami's skin.
[Courtesan AU - Edo Period]
Please send your love in form on Kudos and Comments on AO3 (・ω・) /
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The symmetry drawn in his mind was slowly translating into delicate flowers arranged even more delicately in a black lacquered vessel. Anyone observing them would say that this was going to be a great work, even more so coming from its author.
Hifumi's hands never worked quickly on an ikebana, for he liked to take his time to see how best to arrange all types of flowers on the display. When he arranged them, he breathed slowly and rhythmically, as if in a trance, feeling their scent fill the air. When his hands touched the dew on the flowers, he felt at ease, for he too considered himself a flower. He had born with the destiny of a rose, he knew that he would slowly shed his leaves in Yoshiwara, the capital of pleasure. Just as the beauty of the rose would one day end, so would his, for such was the life of the tayu: to live intensely and be stripped by others. And that's how Izanami, the most important tayu in Yoshiwara, would end up.
The thoughts and silence of the night were torn apart by the sound of the inkstick against the stone, a rhythm that he had learned long ago. Looking over his shoulder, he could see how Gentaro was focused on making enough ink, mixing everything in the right amounts. Brushes of all sizes were arranged in front of him. A small smile appeared on his face as he found himself accompanied by him. Even in the silence, he felt attached to Gentaro.
Their meeting had not been by chance, or at least that was what he wanted to believe. Master Yumeno Gentaro was the trendy playwright. His kabuki plays were the delight of all Edo. Anyone who knew about culture would know his name. The bad tongues said he came from a noble family fallen from grace. Others said he was an illegitimate son of the Fujiwara clan. But the playwright, who had somehow been favored by the Imperial Court, made everyone forget the details of his private life. Unlike him, Gentaro could go wherever he wanted and do whatever he wanted. And what Gentaro wanted was to spend his time with him, saying soft words in Hifumi’s ear, who was his muse. When Izanami played his long ballads in shamisen for him, he noticed how his eyes glowed with pleasure as he looked at him. Art brought them together, but even more so, love was what kept them together. Hifumi wanted to believe that the red thread of destiny was entwined between his fingers, letting him know that they were meant to be.
As he walked through Yoshiwara with his entourage, the slow, sensuous figure-8s he formed with his feet as he walked made everyone sigh. Sometimes his feet hurt from the weight of the countless layers of silk. Oh, how he wished to get out of his high wooden sandals and run down the street without looking back! No one would care if Hifumi escaped because he did not exist. There was only the beautiful tayu, Izanami.
But not Gentaro. Only when they met in public did he call him Izanami, since image was everything. In the solitude offered by four walls, Gentaro sometimes made him believe that his heart had been transformed into a butterfly, for when he heard him say Hifumi he could feel it fluttering. His real name had become a sacred prayer for both.
His hand rested gracefully on an azalea waiting to be placed in the vessel, but his mind was somewhere else. He still remembered the author's first visit, when he asked his name. In that moment, Hifumi's redlined eyes narrowed in a classic kitsune expression as he covered his mouth with his sleeve. From his lips came only a “people call me Izanami”. However, that was not the answer the playwright wanted.
“How exquisite! Just like the goddess, with a poetic and delicate countenance like her. However, what I asked, my dear, is what your name is, not what the masses call you.”
For a few seconds, he didn't know what to say. No one had dared to treat the rest of his clients as "the common people", especially since Hifumi chose them all conscientiously. No one had ever wondered what was underneath the silk that covered him. But he would not be easily caught. The mystery could only be maintained by himself, playing his cards as he had been taught, without revealing anything, always making the other one want more.
“If my lord wants to know my name, he will have to visit me again. I shall be grateful for your company and patronage.”
The memory was interrupted by his name, when Gentaro called him. As he emerged from his reverie, he turned to see what he wanted, lowering his head and awaiting his command.
"Hifumi, didn't you hear me when I called you?" Gentaro's head tilted to the left, wondering how he hadn't heard if he had been at it for a while.
“My most sincere apologies, Gentaro-sama. Perhaps I was just distracted and that’s why I did not answer your call.”
Gentaro's chuckle could not be stopped by his hand. It was not often that Hifumi was so distracted, and in some ways, he thought it was lovely.
“It’s all right. Don't worry. It is just that I need help with a poem I’m finishing. Would you please look in your tansu chest for all those poems I have given you? I know you kept them, but I need to check something first.”
Swiftly, Hifumi rose to attend to his request, approaching the drawers and taking out several manuscripts he had made. A full drawer was waiting for him and he started to take them out one by one to the desk, where Gentaro kept looking at a blank paper, not paying attention to how the rolls were accumulating around him.
Once Hifumi had carried the last one, Gentaro took his wrist and brought Hifumi's hand to his mouth, to kiss the tips of his fingers gently. Hifumi trembled with pleasure, thinking of the intimacy of his touch. His fingertips, his fingernails, his long fingers, everything belonged to him with every kiss he deposited.
“You haven't looked at any of the poems I gave you, have you? They must still remain unread.”
Hifumi shook his head. He still remembered how Gentaro, one spring night, had started to write the poems when he came to see him. The summer was already over, and the scrolls were piling up on the chest of drawers. He had been tempted many times to open them and read them one by one, but he knew it would break his confidence.
His refusal was rewarded with a shower of kisses on his wrists and hands, a devotion that Hifumi was not accustomed to, because he was the one who used to deliver it. He closed his eyes enjoying the touch, feeling the warmth of Gentaro's lips on his own skin.
Once Gentaro gave him one last kiss, he smiled at him and ended the moment. Hifumi, for his part, kissed his cheek in gratitude and returned to his own place to continue working on his ikebana.
The azalea settled comfortably in the place Hifumi had arranged for it and now it was the turn of a few small bouquets of forget-me-not.
"Don't forget me," thought the tayu as images popped into his head. The times he had danced with his fan for Gentaro. The way his body would adjust to Gentaro’s body every time they lay on his bed. The way Gentaro enjoyed seeing him practicing his calligraphy. The way Gentaro’s eyes shone like the spring dew. The languid way his eyes opened at dawn. So many things, so important to Hifumi... And he just wished he wasn't forgotten by him.
In the pleasure district, rumors were spreading fast. And his heavy heart cried every time he thought that days ago, he heard that Gentaro was preparing to marry. He had been told that he had already asked for even a shimmering white kimono, with the most beautiful fabrics that could be found. He had even requested permission from the Imperial Court for the ceremony. Just when Hifumi thought he would have to share the playwright, his lower lip, covered with lipstick, looked even redder after he had bitten into it. At this point, jealousy was his worst enemy.
Certainly, Gentaro was already of marriageable age. He had never asked him, but he knew it was obvious that he was getting marriage offers. Being one of the Emperor's favorites, everyone must have considered him a good match. The only thing missing was a partner who could reciprocate, a sort of political move. Whoever he took for a lifetime partner would probably be very happy. And what about him? The only way out of Yoshiwara was to buy his freedom or die.
It was at those moments when his mind began to travel far away, suffering at the thought that his destiny would be to be Izanami forever. Izanami, the castle destroyer. Izanami, the one who could make the clans fight with one look if he wanted to. Izanami, the one who only by lifting his kimono slightly and showing an ankle could make men and women burst into lust.
And what did lust matter when, at the end of the day, he was faced with loneliness?
A kiss on the nape brought him back to reality. There was no need to turn around as he knew who it was. The warmth of Gentaro’s lips on him drove away all those negative feelings that clouded his mind and heart.
Gentaro's hands traveled deftly to his abdomen, touching the bulging obi tied to the front. With a whisper, he asked, “Can I take this off?”
Hifumi's yes was barely audible. Behind his closed eyes, there was only the ecstasy of knowing he was so loved. Even if there was another person to take his place in society, the way Gentaro's hands rested on him made him think that it was impossible for the playwright to love anyone but him. Only in a moment like this, they could be who they really were.
Meanwhile, his heavy obi was falling apart in the expert hands of Gentaro, who was placing feather-like kisses on his neck and shoulders. The silk of his heavy garment was lifted layer by layer, until it left him naked on his torso.
Hifumi never fully cared for his nakedness. It would be hypocritical to think so if the life he had was based on that: on provoking the desire of others and seducing them until they could no longer pay. But today everything was different. Gentaro's look on his skin made him feel shy, for his emerald eyes could penetrate his flesh and see what was inside his soul. He felt the blush creep up his cheeks and he couldn’t help himself. Ah! How strange it felt to be the seduced person for once.
Would Gentaro be able to look at another person the way he looked at him? He implored to all the gods he would not. He didn't want to share those emeralds with anyone else.
“The best poem of all is about to end, Hifumi. I would write it for you. Could you please lie down on the futon?”
He slid gently into the white sheets and stretched his delicate body over them. His passivity today surprised him, but it must have been the sadness that had taken hold of him. Bending his arms, he formed a rectangle where he placed his head. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Gentaro’s silhouette picking out one of his brushes and touch its bristles to feel its softness. He smiled half-heartedly, trying to cheer himself up when he knew this poem would be his.
“Hmm, and I thought that lyrics were your thing, Gentaro-sama. Do you wish to paint an ukiyo-e image?” Hifumi laughed openly, partially hiding his face in his arms. His eyes were dreamy, but his voice took on a seductive tone as the night progressed. “If you keep looking at me like that, your work will be transformed into a shunga image, darling.”
Gentaro laughed beside him as he approached, ink and brush in hand.
“Ah, how obscene you can be sometimes, Hifumi. I couldn't share your naked body with anyone else, even if it was only an image.”
Once at his side, Gentaro arranged Hifumi's clothing on his lower back until it bulged to form a pillow for himself and sat astride him. “If I knew how to portray, I assure you I would make only bijin-ga images of you, dressed in your beautiful kimonos and surrounded by flowers and birds.”
A kiss on his hair made Hifumi feel complete. He closed his eyes, giving his body and soul to the art of Gentaro. He felt tickled and shuddered the moment the icy ink touched his back. The playwright chuckled again but said nothing. Hifumi's back arched at his touch, and he sensed Gentaro looking at him with a sultry smile adorning his face. The brush moved slowly, as if the artist wanted to breathe life into the characters on his beloved's back.
With each character finished, a kiss landed on the nape and shoulders. If he could have done it, Gentaro would have slipped much lower, but he couldn’t. Not now, when the message was so important. The rewards could wait, for the night was still young.
“My dearest, have you by any chance heard of the Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai?”
"Well, of course," replied Hifumi. “Personally, I haven't played it, but I know it's very popular. It's that game where people get together and tell stories of suspense or strange events in a room, then they go to another room where they blow out a candle and look in the mirror, right?”
Gentaro listened carefully to Hifumi's voice as he continued to draw strokes on his back.
"Yes, that's correct. You're supposed to open a door to the Afterlife after telling the hundredth story and blowing out the last candle. Maybe someone or something terrible is waiting for you in the dark, but what happens next?"
Gentaro left the brush away from Hifumi's body to go to his ear and whisper “what happens next is a mystery.” Gently, he breathed out behind Hifumi's ear, who shuddered.
"Hey, Gentaro-sama! That's enough! You're scaring me."
Gentaro's laughter was loud given the position he was in and Hifumi hid his face in his arms. From above, Gentaro couldn’t see his expression, but he knew that the courtesan had been embarrassed because his ears were red. As a way of apologizing, he kissed his hair again, which received only a grunt in response.
Silence fell between the two of them and Gentaro picked up his brush again, not yet bringing it close to Hifumi's body. Before Hifumi could turn his head to look over his shoulder, the playwright interrupted him.
"What would you say...?" Gentaro stopped before he could talk any further and swallowed. He took a deep breath before continuing. "What would you say if I told you I had been playing my own version of the Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai? There is something I wish. You don’t know how much I wish it... and I have been working hard to make it happen."
Hifumi didn't know what to say. Somehow, his intuition told him it had to do with the rumors in town. He opted for the elegant silence, not judging or approving of what Gentaro had said. In his mind, he wondered what kind of desire it was and why the playwright decided to do it.
The brush was part of his skin again for the second time tonight but Hifumi's mind was not present. He would have done anything to help Gentaro fulfill his wish. It would have been wonderful if he could have trusted him and told him what it was. But he dared not ask, for he feared the answer. He didn't want tonight to end, because he didn't know what would happen to him tomorrow. The promises in Yoshiwara do not exist. And depending on what Gentaro would say, he didn’t want to think of the tears of ink that would adorn his back after the night ended.
The movement stopped and he felt the brush slowly being lifted out of his body. Gentaro looked at his work for a while and smiled, for he knew it was perfect. Hifumi couldn’t see anything, but he imagined the satisfaction he must feel. It was the same feeling he had felt the moment Gentaro's mouth touched his skin. He was blowing gently on top of the ink, as if to make it dry faster. It tickled him and he moved as he laughed. His laughter nearly drove Gentaro away from his body. To steady himself, he placed his hands on Hifumi's waist.
The laughter stopped immediately. Only the distant footsteps of those night creatures who still believed in the pleasure offered in Yoshiwara could be heard. Gentaro's fingers pressed against Hifumi's skin, who was left only to his touch. Once again, he could feel his lips on top of him, but this time they marked his shoulders with kisses and small bites.
Gentaro stood up, and as soon as Hifumi felt a change in weight, he missed him. When his visits began long time ago, he had no way of knowing he would be so intimate with him. No one else would be allowed to sit on top of him and write a poem on his back. Only someone he trusted could do that. And Gentaro was the chosen one, only he could see him like that: so open, so vulnerable... so real.
"Come, let's go see it."
Hifumi firmly took the hand offered by Gentaro and stood up. They walked hand in hand in front of the mirror. Facing him, Hifumi's paleness was reflected, and by his side, the emerald eyes sparkled with joy as he looked at his creation. Hifumi smiled at the image of both.
It was almost like a sign. Gentaro took Hifumi by the shoulders, turning him gently, and placing his back in front of the mirror. He reached over to the tansu chest to find another smaller mirror to let Hifumi look into what he had transformed.
Gentaro reached out with the small mirror, but before he could hand it over to Hifumi, he regretted it and put his hand back. His eyes fell to the ground, unable to find the words he wanted to say to him. But what also rested on him was Hifumi's hand, silently caressing his cheek, encouraging him to continue. He no longer had any doubt that the poem had to do with the rumors he had heard, and if Gentaro had paid more attention to the sounds, he would have been able to hear Hifumi's heart crying with anguish, for not knowing what would happen to him.
"If you could have one wish granted, what would it be?"
Gentaro's eyes rose as he asked him this. His face reflected confidence, for he knew there was only one answer. Instead, it was Hifumi who hesitated. He wanted to tell him about the red thread that bound them together and that he hoped he could always be with him, but he didn’t want to compromise him. What good would it do to tell him what he really thought? He thought again about the damn rumors. A political union would probably help Gentaro quite a bit in his career. The courtesan, more than anyone, understood this. Sadly, he shook his head back and forth.
"I do not understand your question, Gentaro-sama."
Gentaro's willing hand traveled swiftly to his cheek, caressing each other, encouraging the other. There was no need to trying to listen to his heart, for his eyes told him everything. He could see the sadness and loneliness of Hifumi, and his own face reflected in them. For a moment, Gentaro wanted to be unaware of his sadness, as he couldn’t understand the reason for it. Nevertheless, he only thought that he wanted to see himself reflected in his eyes a thousand times more, but he couldn’t until the answer came from his lips.
"Hifumi, there is something I must tell you.”
Hifumi's breathing stopped, holding himself to face the blow, unwilling to listen because of fear. He closed his eyes tightly, hoping it would be quick and painless. There was no time to close his heart and put on a shield, he needed to face everything with dignity.
"I have been playing my own version of the Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai. However, I have finished everything. It is said that if you tell a hundred horror stories, you can open a portal to the Afterlife. But this is not a horror story," Gentaro's temple settled on Hifumi's, lowering his voice to be heard by him alone. "It is not of terror, but of love. Of the love I feel for you. This is my hundredth poem to you. You are the poem; you are the art and passion that moves me. And what I want to open is a door to your heart."
Hifumi's body released all the tension that had built up during the night. His legs were shaking. The knot that had formed in his throat once Gentaro said they must speak was also released.
All night long, Hifumi had moved around in the darkness, thinking of the times he had lived with and for Gentaro. Thinking of how he wanted to live with him from now on, in the same light. And the path just had opened up before him. His eyes could no longer see anything in front of him, only the candlelight reflected through his tears, making everything blurry. It was Gentaro's voice that reached to his mind clearly, even if his sobs threatened to drown out his words.
Gentaro's soft hand caressed his hair, as he continued to speak to him amidst the soft kisses on his cheeks, trying to drink the pearls of joy that streamed from his eyes.
"If I could wish for anything, it is your freedom. The freedom for you to leave Yoshiwara and to love me freely as I love you. So that you can be mine. And the Imperial Court accepts this, they will welcome you with open arms at my side. My wish is for you to be Hifumi and not Izanami anymore.”
He finally found the mirror in front of him and Gentaro's hand guided his chin to look straight ahead. The mirror in front of him reflected the other one even bigger, and on his back, the hundredth love poem.
Unknown to all
Within my heart
Stained with passion’s hues
A thousand times over
I could hide no longer!
A hundred poems, Hifumi thought. They meant at least a hundred nights and a hundred days together. Gentaro had never written a poem outside this room. It meant that the red thread existed between them. The clear crystals in his eyes kept falling away, but his smile was even brighter.
Excellent, magnificent, exquisite. The most beautiful poem they could both create. There would be nothing to fear anymore. There was no longer any doubt.
Without thinking much of it, his arms were thrown around the playwright, who staggered backward at the surprise attack used by the courtesan. Still, he was warmly received, his arms holding him firmly.
"You don't know how much I love you, Gen-chan."
They were both smiling when their eyes met. Hifumi's eyelashes fluttered like a butterfly, moving closer to Gentaro and tickling his cheek. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, their lips met tenderly, first with reverence and then with passion. Hifumi's hand rose to caress the back of Gentaro's neck with soft fingers, drawing him in. It was a tender but slow kiss, for they knew it was no longer necessary to leave each other ever again. They would have all the time in the world to keep it up, loving one another.
Gentaro parted gently. His hands traveled to Hifumi's waist, where he took his clothing and began to pull it up to his body, dressing him placidly in front of the mirror. Hifumi smiled at his image, thinking that from now on he would be Gentaro’s princess.
And before his eyes, he appeared wearing the purest white kimono they could find. It would symbolize a new life, the true Hifumi. Best of all is that white could be dyed. He could no longer wait to dye himself with all the colors offered by Gentaro.
As he took a deep breath, only one question remained.
"Gen-chan, if I have the hundredth poem, what about the other ninety-nine?"
Meanwhile, Gentaro had approached his unfinished ikebana. His light hand touched the petals of the flowers until it landed on the forget-me-not that wasn’t on the vessel. Taking it firmly, he reached out to Hifumi, arranging the stem behind his ear, causing his hair to glow beautifully in the candlelight. When he had finished putting the flower in his hair, his kind voice told him all that he needed to know.
"I can read them to you as the nights go by. Would you like to hear one every day? Before they run out, you will see I will have written more of them."
Wearing his best smile, Hifumi immediately nodded. There would be only ninety-nine nights left to make another wish. That meant ninety-nine nights to think of a new wish because, for now, he couldn't wish for anything else but his fiancé at his side.
And the night was still young.
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Notes:
1) Ikebana: Japanese art of flower arrangement.
2) Tayu: Oiran were historically high-ranking courtesans in Japan. The highest rank of courtesan was the tayū (太夫), which had sufficient prestige to refuse clients. Since they were expensive, they were the courtesans of daimyo. An oiran's outfit would consist of a number of layered silk kimono, made of heavily-decorated silk, and belted with an obi tied at the front. When outside, they used 20 cm tall paulownia wood clogs, so they have to walk making a figure-8 with their feet. Oiran didn't used socks. Please, don't confuse them with geisha.
3) Kabuki: Japanese dance-drama. It is characterized by its stylized drama and the use of elaborate make-up by the actors. Kabuki was a common form of entertainment in Yoshiwara, the registered red-light district in Edo.
4) Shamisen: A three-stringed traditional Japanese musical instrument.
5) Tansu: The traditional mobile storage cabinetry indigenous to Japan. In this one, I admit I took an artistic license. Tansu were not used as stationary furniture, and in the Edo period were highly related to the profession of the person (merchants, apothecaries, etc)
6) Ukiyo-e: Japanese art technique consisting of woodblock prints and paintings.
7) Shunga: Japanese term for erotic art. Most shunga are a type of ukiyo-e, usually executed in woodblock print format. While rare, there are extant erotic painted handscrolls which predate ukiyo-e.
8) Bijin-ga: Generic term for pictures of beautiful women in Japanese art, especially in woodblock printing of the ukiyo-e genre.
9) A note on Gentaro's poem: This poem is actually a Waka poem that belongs to Fujiwara no Takanobu. He is not known for being a poet (as his half-brother Fujiwara no Teika is even more popular) but for being a skilled portrait painter.
#hypmic#gentaro yumeno#hifumi izanami#hypmicrarepair2020#romance#drama#happy ending#Courtesan AU#Edo Period#I MADE IT#FINALLY#This is the fanfic I wanted to write since the year begun
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This is, according to everywhere I’ve seen it posted, “from an article by James Richards”, which I eventually traced to the Sydney Morning Herald, 1992. It’s a hilarious read about Royal Navy naming conventions.
I NAME THIS SHIP
Research, even into the most mundane subject, can sometimes bring unexpected rewards. Recently, for reasons too dull to explain, I was attempting to discover the names of battleships which served with the Royal Navy during the Second World War. The reference librarian hopefully provided me with a huge volume which listed the names of every British warship ever built, and as I leafed through the index, I was impressed by the quality of the names that the British have given their warships. HMS Relentless, HMS Repulse, HMS Resolution; fine names, names to gladden the heart of every true Brit and dismay any foreigners with a grasp of English. Names redolent of courage and firm-jawed determination - HMS Sceptre, HMS Scimitar, HMS Seadog, HMS Spanker -
HMS Spanker? it had to be a misprint, but when I looked at the relative page there it was, HMS Spanker, minesweeper. I turned back to the index and soon discovered that HMS Spanker was not the only warship to bear a silly name. A quick check unearthed the destroyers HMS Fairy and HMS Frolic, the light cruiser, HMS Sappho and the corvette, HMS Pansy.
My first assumption was that these names had been chosen by some fresh faced innocent unaware of their connotations, but a careful reading of the index suggested that the choice of such names was deliberate and malicious. I have no proof for my theory, but I strongly suspect that they were the creations of an embittered clerk.
He was a minor bureaucrat who had once dreamed of becoming a naval hero, a second Nelson or Benbow, but had been turned down for active service on the grounds of flat feet and myopia. The Sea Lords, kindly and foolishly, gave him an office job in the Admiralty. There, as he brooded upon the shattering of his ambitions, his envy of the jolly Jack Tars serving in His Majesty's ships turned to hatred and then into a desire to humiliate those who lived a life on the ocean wave. His big break came when he got a job in the Ship's Names Department and he set to work with a will.
Having started with HMS Pansy, HMS Fairy and HMS Spanker, he moved into sexually suggestive names - HMS Teaser, HMS Tickler, HMS Torrid, HMS Thruster and HMS Thrasher. Not content with the damage to morale that these names must have caused he followed up with HMS Inconstant, HMS Insolent, HMS Truant, HMS Dwarf and HMS Doris.
The man must have been twisted, but he was no mean amateur psychologist. Would an hard pressed admiral be cheered by the news that HMS Doris and HMS Dwarf (a cruiser and gunboat combination that sounds like an avant-garde cabaret act) were steaming to his aid? Could he be certain that HMS Truant would turn up? That HMS Inconstant wouldn't change sides, or that HMS Insolent wouldn't reply to his signals with a stream of abuse?
This evil minded functionary worked hard to destroy fighting spirit, carefully calculating the result of call a ship HMS Hazard. The cry, "Hazard to port!" must have disrupted countless naval exercises and I strongly suspect that he tried to name a destroyer HMS Mutiny, thinking of the chaos that would result from the signal "Mutiny in Portsmouth". Someone spotted this and changed his proposed name from the English Mutiny to the French Mutinè, hoping that the ship would stir up trouble on courtesy visits to French ports.
If my theory is correct, that someone was Clerk No 2. he worked in the same office as Clerk No 1, but his history and beliefs were very different. He had been invalided out of the Navy after a distinguished career and was a ferocious xenophobe who believed that the British had the right to intimidate and bully anyone who stood in their way. His existence is demonstrated by further study of the list of names.
Most people would consider names like HMS Conqueror, HMS Terror and HMS Vengeance adequate for the purpose of frightening Britain's enemies. Not Clerk No 2, he though them namby-pamby and decided to rectify the situation. He wasn't as prolific as Clerk No 1, but he did his best christening such vessels as HMS Arrogant, HMS Imperialist, HMS Savage, HMS Spiteful, HMS Surly and HMS Tyrant. His finest hour came when he got the job of thinking up names beginning with V, he came up with HMS Vandal, HMS Venomous, HMS Vindictive and HMS Violent. He too was a good psychologist - nobody who had dared to challenge Britain could fail to be moved by the news that HMS Spiteful, HMS Violent and HMS Vindictive were turning up to sort them out.
In later years, as he sat writing letters to the Eastbourne Gazette demanding the introduction of public flogging for litter louts, he must have regretted not calling a ship HMS Vicious. However, he probably consoled himself with the thought that Clerk No 1 didn't get much of a look in on the V's. He would have christened the ships Vacuous, Vile, Verminous and Venereal. As it was he only managed HMS Vanity, which was presumably a sister ship of HMS Narcissus. Though Clerk No.2 no doubt deplored the behaviour of his colleague, he, too, allowed the problems of day-to-day existence to intrude into his work, though only after rows with his wife, hence HMS Termagant, HMS Virago and HMS Tirade.
I don't know for how many years they worked in the same office, but it must have been a fraught relationship. Each probably spent most of his time trying to trump the names of the other. Clerk No 1 christened HMS Pansy, No.2 responded with HMS Manly. No 1 - HMS Fairy, No 2 - HMS Virile. And so it went on until they retired and the ships they had named were either sunk or scrapped.
Now our ships have boringly correct names, which is a pity, for names could make a difference. A truly chauvinistic government would do well to study the names dreamed up by Clerk No 2. If we can no longer terrify opponents with the size of our navy, we could try to frighten them with aggressive nomenclature. A good start would be to retrieve the name HMS Violent and call sister ships HMS Psychopathic, HMS Blood Crazed and HMS Criminally Insane. The Vandal class could include HMS Ram Raider, HMS Headcase and HMS Terminator.
Of course, a more progressive government might go for names which reflected the concerns of the Left - HMS Black Sections, HMS Stop Clause 28, HMS Unilateralist and HMS Binding Decision of the Party Conference. Perhaps not, the Daily Mail would have a field day if HMS Unilateralist was ever sunk.
In any event, the name of the ship doesn't appear to have affected its ability to fight, HMS Truant sank the Karlsruhe, HMS Wallflower and HMS Inconstant accounted for several U-boats and I've do doubt that other ships with ridiculous names had excellent war records.
But it is hard not to imagine the crew of HMS Narcissus leaning over the side to admire their reflections in the water, or the crew of HMS Spanker being accosted by leather-clad masochists in dockside bars.
The crews of such ships must have been relieved when security considerations temporarily ended the practice of having the ship's name emblazoned on the cap-band. Even so, the change didn't come quickly enough for the unfortunate University Naval Reserve Unit which, when the orders for mobilisation came, was sent en masse to join a battleship. As they walked up the gangway the regulars on deck burst into hysterical laughter. The full name of the unit was the Cambridge University Naval Training Squadron, which was, of course indicated by the initials on their caps..........
Then again, it might be apocryphal.
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