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thetorturerwrites · 4 years

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Lamb: Ch 2 - Someone Like You

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Previous Chapter

Summary: “You need someone in the middle—not dead, not alive.” You arched upwards, trying to get even a bit of slack, just enough to speak. “Someone like me.”

C/N: Look - If you’re new here, this is adult shit. If you’re not new here, you know what my C/Ns are about. Be warned.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: Did I ever think I would be writing about Kylo and babies? No. No, I did not. Am I writing about Kylo and babies? Maybe. Its a crazy, crazy world, y'all.

Special thanks to @kylorengarbagedump for helping me edit this asshole of a chapter.

***

“Retribution.”

The word sounded ludicrous on his lips, infantile and irresponsible. Abruptly, you had a clearer picture of what was happening. In this mesmerizing nirvana, his encapsulated kingdom, you were a child, stumbling into an adult’s arena to demand attention.

Your senselessness laid bare, you stared at him, adrift in the gleam of irises that never settled on one color. The pregnant moon overhead framed him, adorning his breathtaking face with a perfect, glowing halo. He was unnaturally beautiful, the kind of king women wept for.

“Father...”

He met your whisper with a sneer, and you recoiled. He, too, thought your trek here was juvenile; you were just a witless woman wrestling with her emotions. Your heart sank at his judgment, disappointed that he thought you naïve.

Ashamed, you fixed your eyes upon a creeping succulent. You traced thick, tear-shaped leaves and winced at inch-long thorns. You could all but feel the phantom pinpricks. The red and pink blooms made for a variegated shroud to decorate the otherwise plain shrine.

It was lovely in its lethality, a fitting summation of this place.

“The Resistance slaughtered my planet, my ENTIRE family.”

You licked your lips and tugged at his sleeve, pulling yourself up to sit. Recognizing what you had just done, you wrung your hands, as though he was a walking electric current. Even so, he was the only bit of warmth in this melancholy vale, and you subconsciously leaned into it.

“You’re a fool.” He rose to an obscene height and moved away. “I care less than a whit for your holy wars. You murder on fantasy, not truth.”

The absence of his body was nearly as painful as his lack of understanding, and the resultant shout erupted before you could stop it.

“IT WAS NOT OUR WAR!”

Your exclamation bounced off shedding trees to die away in spongy, mossy hills. Sniffling, you pressed the heels of your hands into exhausted eyes. Yelling at men was an awful idea; yelling at this specific man was the epitome of lunacy.

How were you going to explain the hole in your soul to a creature who had none? To Ren, your mourning and loss were just specks in eternity, but he didn’t spend his days loving the living only to lose them. If your grandmother's stories were true, he had been this walking void since his creation.

And the brothers made themselves a land with a great vault separating light from dark. In their wisdom, they decreed the living would gather under golden sun, and the dead would gather under silver moon. Grandfather Sky Walker gave his blessing: Let them rule over these lands through all ages. Let there be day and night, and let them usher in The Balance.

He was here. It was true.

That cast his indifference into an unusual shade of acceptance. Like this place, he existed outside of the universe’s organic stream. It wasn’t a lack of feeling; it was one colored by millennia of demise.

You were struck by the understanding that he made everything here in his image, all of it immaculate, alluring, and fatal. Just as he was.

“The Resistance decimated my planet on a rumor—a rumor that we were a First Order cult.” Your voice was steadier than you expected. “But my family, my friends and everybody I knew...We were just ordinary people.”

You lifted your eyes and found him examining you, a curious look playing across his striking features. You huffed a pained breath and looked away again, fearing you would shatter under his scrutiny.

“My grandmother believed in the Balance, not in some notion of wiping the Galaxy clean of Soloists.”

His silence was deliberate, aimed to unnerve, and you crumpled forward, bending as though you could implore his aid into reality. When he moved, it was to stalk a circle around the altar. His head cocked to assess your every angle. Captured prey, you could do nothing but watch, wait, wonder.

“Belief in the Balance will not return your family. Nor will I.”

His glorious voice had bite; but where there should be an echo, there was none. Every lilting tree, every swaying vine, even the very air enveloped him, moved with him, absorbed his energy.

Hugging yourself, you fought down your apprehension.

“No, it won’t.”

You looked past him to fat carmine leaves and marveled at how they turned their faces towards The Ren, their master.

He only understood in terms of the absolute.

“I came to ask you to kill them—the people who murdered my family. The Resistance.”

His circuitous pacing ended at your front, and he speared you with such a look you felt conquered. If he was the next crusade, the holy war renewed, you would fight for him, lay down and die for him.

His long fingers slid you to the altar's precarious edge. So near to him, your comatose heartbeat increased, thudding against ribs his knuckles skimmed.

“All of them?”

You nodded, meek and uncertain. He stepped in, spreading your legs wide just by his body’s substantial design. He was the epitome of domineering, his shape meant to terrorize the weak, to endure immortality.

Uncertain if you were allowed to put your hands on him, you braced against the slab, leaning slightly away.

The scent of this place, misty and piny and richly floral, was powerful, distilled to purity in his body. It seeped from his pores, the sumptuous belladonna curling around you like tainted tendrils. He obscured what scant light there was and blotted out your senses, filling your light head with dread and longing.

With one finger under your chin, he lifted your face and beckoned you into such a trance you didn’t notice how he lazily caressed your outer thigh. One by one, he tugged upon the plum, plump bows keeping the rest of you hidden.

“What price are you willing to pay for genocide, lost lamb?”

It was hypnotic—the timbre of his voice, the delicate dance of his fingertips, the starry shine of his eyes. You blinked at his question, too caught up in the slow drag of his knuckles along your sternum and down between your breasts.

Your lips worked feebly, discarding every suggestion your brain made. What could you offer a being such as this? Prayers? He would condemn them. Offerings? Paltry trinkets. Blood? You’d already given it. Pleasure? You weren’t sure he was capable.

It was a cruel game, and the realization burst over you like icy water, flooding your addled mind and shocking you back from stupidity.

You had nothing. Purposefully divested of everything, you sojourned here a destitute fool.

“There it is.” He brushed a thumb across your lips, smirking. “She understands now that she has nothing, is nothing, of value with which to bargain.”

He collected your silent tears and fed them to you, salt in the wound. Chidingly, he wrapped stiff fingers around your quivering neck and squeezed until you felt your supernaturally sustained pulse drumming in your ears.

“It is as I said. The dying lamb has no value to the shepherd.”

Fear licked at your nape, clamoring into the rational parts of you. Your mind whirred, desperately trying to unearth some kernel that would serve your purpose. There had to be something.

The memory struck you suddenly and at full velocity. Careening, your breath stopped. The lineage of Soloists was a pastime for your brother, who made you sit through innumerable sessions and lectures.

And Solo took himself a wife, making her flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone. Their union was prosperous, and she begat him many sons, the first being...

Your body shot into motion, vacating all self-preservation. You grasped his hand and pulled it to your chest. You were even so bold as to thread your smaller fingers through his. On instinct, both legs wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his legs in a feeble hold.

You were unwilling to renounce your argument without a fight. Hastily, the words spilled out, a wishful wine you weren’t sure he would drink.

“NowaitIcanbeyourvessel!”

A perfectly sculpted black brow rose over his eye. He untangled his fingers from yours, scoffing. Your face burned, impossible beads of sweat forming at your pounding temples. Not knowing what to do with your hands, you pressed them to your flaming cheeks and tried to calm yourself.

“Choose your next words carefully.”

Entertained by the toddler, he was indulging your delusions, but there was a limit to his patience. Sturdy hands slid beneath your thighs, parting and lifting them so he could draw your hips further into his. You couldn’t argue; you were the one who stopped him from leaving.

Was that an erection you felt there? Was this proof to your curiosity? The possibility sent goose flesh tingling to every inch of your skin.

“Your brother... Ah!”

Athame in hand, he gouged the tip into your unblemished thigh, raising a lone drop of blood.

“Your brother has many children; does he not? There are stories about his prolific family.”

Out sized, you spiraled into anxious desire. When he tired of your nonsense, pulverizing your bones would be little more than a snap of his fingers. Yet, here he was, still wedged between your thighs and feeling a lot like a man who could make you forget your name.

“Reminding me of my brother is not the way to make your case, lamb.”

He dragged warm lips over your pulse, lathing it with his tongue. His wide palm wrapped around your generous hip, and every single thought fled on bated breath. He was woefully seductive, a wolf in shepherd's clothing.

You licked your lips and shook your head, trying to agree and clear away cobwebs, but his hands and nipping kisses befuddled you so much you could only sputter half-formed words. Switching your concentration to the blade, you valiantly tried to keep track of it and tied yourself to it's path like a lifeline.

“But you don’t.” You splayed your fingers out wide, palms flat on the altar. "Your seed will kill a living woman, yes? But a woman already crossed over cannot carry a child."

You were about to launch yourself from the proverbial cliff. Regardless of what came next, you would be a splatter at its bottom.

“I- I can.” You begged the endless midnight sky to strengthen your resolve. “You can have me.”

He had been rubbing you up and down his rigid length, your body no more than an instrument to appease his ardor; but at your declaration, he gripped your hips painfully tight and bit your shoulder.

Attuned to his mood, the stars dimmed to a faint radiance. It was the one detail your brain could latch onto, the way even the greatest of them conformed to his will.

“You think that’s a novel gesture? That you’ll be the first person I’ve fucked here?” His voice was low but no less edgy. “How many would you wager have died screaming at the end of my dick?”

A pathetic whimper escaped your open mouth, and hunger set it to watering. The idea of him fucking you here, in this open clearing under his meticulously curated twilight, was salacious, tantalizing.

“Countless.” You couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your hips, trying to jump start his back into rhythm. “But I would wager very few of them have been willing to bear your children.”

He growled, a vicious, threatening promise. His soft touch turned angry, coiling into your hair and yanking your head back. Your throat seized, elongated by his grip and fully bared for execution. What had been a grazing scratch of your blade turned again to a harsh point dug into the skin.

You could hardly speak, reduced to gaping at his flashing onyx eyes. They blazed with a fiery hatred, and you knew it was because you were right. It wasn’t easy for him like it was his brother. He had spent eons alone whereas his brother wanted for nothing.

It infuriated him.

“You need someone in the middle—not dead, not alive.” You arched upwards, trying to get even a bit of slack, just enough to speak. “Someone like me.”

He curved around you so tight you could smell the deadly nightshade on his breath, every single part of him designed to snuff out life. You chewed the inside of your cheek, wondering how each part of him tasted.

“Someone like you?” He spat the words, fingernails digging into your scalp. “Impure? Spoiled by how many men in your lifetime? Cowed by a little death and stupid enough to make demands of me?”

He was so close to snapping your neck, and you itched for it. You would gladly die at his hand, reunite with your family. All of these morose colors blended with the sorrow in your heart, and you pictured your bones rotting to dust, anchoring you here forever.

But he held off, glaring down at you in barely-checked contempt.

Caught between wanting to die and wanting to murder, your breathing tilted into erratic, skirting panic so closely a fallen eyelash would detonate the bomb in your chest.

He looked at you in such a way, though, that your apprehension settled. He was angry because he didn’t know how to feel things. He was intended, to his very marrow, to only ever take. Anything else was uncomfortable and worthy of destruction.

You nudged his nose with yours, a mirror to his earlier gesture.

“Someone willing.” It was less than a whisper, barely a breath.

His calculating gaze roamed your face, judging the depth of your commitment. In seconds, the pointed extension of his anger sliced down your supple thigh, cutting open a large gash.

But pain wasn’t his target.

His aim was true. The rogue missile was expertly guided. And when the thing forced into your cunt, you screamed in unmitigated horror.

“I’m no gentle lover, and this is not your marriage bed. Willing or not, the lamb is meant to be slaughtered.”

You splintered into a wrecked and blubbering mess, heaving and howling. You clung to his shoulders, gouging little crescents into his neck. You had expected to die today but not by the blade cleaving apart your pussy. Offering him your womb seemed to make him only want to carve it from your body, a trophy to mark your idiocy.

“You should not offer things that don’t belong to you, lamb.” The vibration tickled your earlobe, drawing you down from your mania. “Your body was mine the moment you crossed into my land.”

You felt it then, the shift and nudge inside your cunt. Where you were certain there had been a sharp edge, there was only an ornately ridged column, handcrafted and safe.

It was the hilt.

The wave of frenzy crested, and you opened puffy, red eyes onto a lucent, luminous moon.

He had buried the knife’s handle into your cunt and was pumping it slowly. He held the traitorous blade without even a single red cell shed.

You wailed a halfhearted objection because this was a profane corruption of a consecrated relic. A particularly long drag of the makeshift phallus countered and shook loose a vulgar moan, and you squeezed tight around it.

It was shameless and sacrilegious.

And it felt so, so good.

You whimpered when he licked your lower lip, barely making contact. Your thighs splayed wide, eager, and an appreciative noise rumbled in his throat. He rewarded your responsiveness with another slow, deep plunge of the weapon, and your head lolled back.

“How is your religion serving you now, lamb?”

He shoved the handle as far into you as the guard would allow and worked it back and forth, rubbing the ridges and pommel against the sensitive spots inside. You moaned sinfully loud, and grasped at him.

He was ruthless, prodding the elusive bumpy patch until you bucked against his hand and watching you float through this immoral delirium.

You wished it was him. His mouth, his fingers, his cock. Anything but this false idol ramming into your pussy.

Your whimpers turned to pleasured cries. Your calves tensed and shook. Looking down on his blasphemous claim, you yelped and pushed at his arms, the torrent of blood splashed over your thighs and sex wrenching you from your high.

In your hysteria, you’d forgotten that he’d sliced open your leg.

“Father, please…”

He dug his thumb firmly into the wound, gripping nearly your entire thigh in the one tremendous hand. For a moment, the throb in your pussy traveled up to swirl around the intrusion, and you writhed to get away.

“If you call me that again,” he bit your jaw, raising a welt, “I will slit you open from cunt to crown.”

He played in the plasma, coating his fingers with it. You whined and grimaced, caught between salvation at your cunt and persecution at your leg. When his tacky thumb connected with your clit, you shouted, wracked with tremors. Like a savage, he masturbated you with your own blood, rubbing fast circles.

Rapture barreled down the length of your spine, working its way through every extremity. You were going to cum for him, at the end of your family's treasured athame, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

It was indecent, and you drowned in it. You collapsed back onto the altar, arching up into a delicious bow. Your knees drew up higher, and your hips worked for him, chasing what he dangled but never quite delivered. Your fingers scrambled against the uneven stone and fisted the velvet garment.

Your insides coiled, churning terror and thirst together until you couldn’t tell one from the other. Inching closer and closer to that crack of lightning, your cries built, a tumultuous, hoarse crescendo. You thought he would make you tow that line forever, so close to bliss but never allowed to feel it.

But finally, mercifully, it came.

A blistering exaltation slid over your every nerve. Your cunt clenched and quaked, gushing a lewd prayer. The knife in his hand was the center of all gravity, and every part of you swiveled around it, rolling and bucking and shaking. You hurled a string of curses no priestess should ever know, earning a derisive chuckle.

“Such filth from that pretty mouth.”

Spent, your back finally met the slab beneath, and you fought for breath, chest stinging and throat crackly. A pained whine escaped when his torture implement departed from your slick center, but he gave you only a brief reprieve.

He climbed above you, dropped his heavy knee onto your sensitive mound, and shoved the sullied hilt into your mouth. Your eyes flew open, but he captured your jaw and kept it in place, ensuring that you held the thing upright.

Copper tang pooled on your tongue and wafted under your nose. On a muffled whinge, your eyes rolled back into your head. Automatically, obediently, you rocked your hips under his trap.

“No less than you deserve.” He was all spite and venom. “Swallow.”

You couldn’t look at him, the stars in his eyes daunting and demonic. Your tongue moved around the hilt, licking away the remnants of your vulgar display. You curled your fingers into the hem of his shirt, exhaled slowly through your nose, and complied, gulping the taste down.

A timid glance found him studying you, but you didn’t know what he was seeking. Obedience? Passion? Reverence? The gravity of the moment was inescapable. He was deciding if you died here and now, and he gagged you from making any further entreaty.

Lithe for his size, he slid from the perch and pulled the athame from your mouth. Silently, he lifted you from the slab and dropped you on the ground. Not knowing if any of the flora was poisonous, you squealed, shot to your feet, and clutched the abused blade to your heart. A second later, you nearly impaled yourself with it when he threw the hefty book at you.

Grateful that he didn’t destroy your remaining link to your family, you sunk to the ground and dug aching fingers into the dirt. It was cool and soothing, and you wanted nothing more than to lie down in it and die.

Instead, you watched, benumbed and mute, as he punched a large hole straight through the center of the altar. It should have been alarming; the crash of rubble should have scared you, but your senses were far past overstimulated.

Silently, he manipulated a chunk of the altar into a slender loop.

It was astonishing. He was literally creating something from stone that should have been unyielding. Crouching beside you, he pushed your chin up to lengthen your neck. It was then you understood what was happening. The thing he was fashioning out of the imbrued marble was for you.

Without a word, he molded it around your neck, cementing it with a pinch of his mighty fingers.

His masquerade as a man fell away. That shrine had stood for a thousand years, likely more, and he demolished it as though it was parchment. He had desecrated the altar to enslave you, spinning an infinite bondage into existence with his very will alone.

The strength, the unfathomable power unleashed a yearning you weren't prepared to address. He was something wholly beyond what you'd been taught. He was profound, unknowable.

You ran your fingertips along the jagged edges and discovered his collar was perfectly measured to your size. His fingers would fit between it and your skin, but nothing more.

Every story you ever heard about this place rang in your ears, a raucous chorus of warnings. The living could not stay here, nor could they take anything from here.

But it was too late.

By your own hand, you now existed between life and death, trapped here by this pillaged, obsidian tether and it's king.

You didn’t know if he would do as you asked or if he would make you bear his children.

You did know that you would never be leaving.

#kylo ren #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #kylo x reader #lamb

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belladonnaandulriched · 3 years

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the dead of night | chapter eight

Frank's point of view

Syracuse looked very different that afternoon, as did Rochester. I never really went out that way that much, but there was always something about it that struck me sideways. Maybe it had to do with Joey hailing from near there, maybe it had to do with the ghoulish blue and green neon rising up from the tops of the buildings, maybe it had to do with the fact it was its own thing aside from New York City, but there was something precious about it to me. There was a part of me that said Francine hid out somewhere in there, somewhere inside of that donut surrounding the outskirts of the city.

I wondered if she knew that I wanted to find her after she went missing, and I wondered if she knew that I wanted to find her even after the trail fell cold. The murder trail on my brother fell cold, but I refused to let it go cold on her. She was my girl, my first girl, and she was Hannah's best friend aside from Joey.

But on the other hand, she might have been up in Canada. The only explanation for me was that she went missing in Canada, and therefore she stayed in Canada. There was no way she hid out there in upstate New York. And yet I knew it. I just knew it: she was there.

I peered over my shoulder to the car behind us. I thought about Hannah and her friendship with Francine: all I knew from Francine's account was she met Hannah when they attended school together and they just gelled like they were sisters. Both of them had no siblings so it made sense that they became like sisters: they also both had it rough a bit in life. Hannah was the California girl relocated to New York and grew up feeling like an outsider until she met Joey in her second year there in Oswego.

Francine had parents who wanted to separate but they stayed together for her. She sought solace in the arts from a young age and when she and Hannah attended high school in Rochester together, she took it to an almost cathartic. I recalled when first meeting her after Hannah introduced the five of us to her, that she foresaw everyone in Rochester knowing the combined force of nature that was Hannah Ellsberg and Francine Moody. And it almost came to a point shortly after Joey joined in the lead singer position.

We all saw Francine's agony in her artistry and yet she almost always checked out on a mental level most of the time. Hannah wanted her to be her manager for that reason: she could mentally check out and detach herself from the dark side of everything, and get a handle on everything. A great artist and protective of her best friend in her artistry herself, such that she was willing to promote it. She knew how to hook someone's attention, and it came to a point where she could by using nothing more than her own name. Maybe it was her last name: there was something memorable about the name of Moody, like Belladonna or even Bello, my last name.

I had just barely met Nancy but that was my assumption, too: who else would leave Seattle for the East Coast for anything, and strike up something with Geddy Lee among other things? All I could assume was these three women were sisters bonded by art and the scars of their own pasts.

I thought about Joey in that car with Hannah. Speaking of gelling... the fact the two of them had been able to bond and separate several times throughout the years always made me wonder abou them. Best friends since childhood and yet they managed to strike it up on a romantic level time and time again. It was something I had always wanted with Francine, and watching the Rochester skyline emerge through the darkening rain clouds made me wonder if it would even be possible.

She was out there somewhere and I had no idea if she had any time left.

Nancy led us to the first exit to the southern side of town, where I spotted a couple of people walking along the sidewalk as if it was a regular sunny day there in upstate New York, even though the rain was starting to come down in sheets upon our heads.

“Is that Alex and Neil?” Scott wondered aloud.

“No way,” Geddy said; his voice cut through me like a knife right there in the seat next to me. I took a second look at the two people there on the sidewalk, who appeared to be shuffling about the dampening concrete like a couple of puppets. A couple of puppets in short sleeved shirts and cut off shorts despite the cold rain. I swore I saw a bit of the neon glowing out from their heads, but then again, it could have been nothing more than my imagination doing that to me.

We reached the street corner and that was when the rain really began to fall upon us; Nancy flicked on the windshield wipers and they squeaked with each and every swish at the rain water.

“Okay—now if I remember where it's at...” Her voice trailed off as she hung a right around the corner. She ran into a puddle which had began to swell with the rain, but it wasn't large enough to warrant a huge splash.

“Do you even know Marcia and Sonia are in today?” Geddy asked her with a clearing of his throat.

“Positive,” she replied with a glimpse in the rear view mirror at him, “otherwise, I guarantee we wouldn't be going this way.” I noticed Scott peering out the windshield for himself, even though neither him nor I had any idea as to what to look for. “I'm pretty sure it's here—oh, wait, hang on, Hannah's flashing her lights at us again.”

“Sew Into You!” Geddy exclaimed right then.

“Oh, good eyes, babe!” Nancy followed up as she pulled up to the next intersection to flip a turn. She pulled up to the curb and yanked on the parking lever, and killed the engine right then. The rain pattered on the roof overhead; I watched Hannah and Joey park up ahead of us through the streams of rain water flowing down the outside of the glass.

Geddy and I climbed out of the backseat at the same time and onto the soaked pavement outside; he bowed his head and squinted his eyes against the rain. Nancy joined us outside with the hood of her jacket.

“I forgot my umbrella,” he confessed to her over the roar of the rain. Scott climbed out and led me to the car up ahead to join Hannah and Joey. There was a little bright lit shop behind us: tulles of fabric rested in the front window; beyond that stood a rack of tulles of thread.

“This is that upholstery shop we were talking about,” Nancy said from behind us.

“Let's go in and meet Marcia and Sonia,” Joey joined in right then. He lunged forward and held the door for us. We were greeted by the smell of clean brand new fabric and lemons; indeed, I spotted a pair of girls near the back of the front room both donned in heavy dark sweaters; they appeared to be talking about something about those fat quarters on the table in front of them. The one on the left had a hot pink headband across the crown of her head to separate her bangs from the rest of her straight jet black hair; while the one on the right had a messy head of hair to accentuate her round face. They both looked like twins regardless.

“Marcia, Marcia, Marcia,” Joey called out to one of them. The girl with the headband turned towards us, and her face lit up at the sight of us.

“Hey, you guys!” she declared as she set the two fat quarters on the table before her. “I was hoping you'd show up soon enough.” The girl on the left turned towards us and her eyes twinkled at the sight of Scott and me.

“Who are these two good looking bucks?” she asked Hannah and Joey.

“Scott and Frankie,” Joey replied with a running of his fingers through his jet black curls. “Two of the dudes from my gig.”

“Oh, the amazing Scott and Frankie,” the girl with the headband said with a toss of her hair back over her shoulder. She sauntered over to us, and towards Geddy.

“Hello, darling,” he greeted her with a little grin and a kiss on the side of the face, “good to see you again.”

“How's Alex and Neil?”

“Back home relaxing.”

“Please tell Neil I said hi,” Sonia said to him with a smile upon her face.

“Oh, you know I will,” he assured her as he gave her a kiss hello on the side of the face, “but I don't know if he will, though.” He turned his attention to the rest of the shop. “I never really saw the rest of this shop, if I'm honest.”

“By the way, Joey?” Marcia spoke up.

“Yeah?”

“How's that little outfit that I made for you?”

“Needs to be cleaned,” he said.

“She made you something?” Hannah asked him with a grin on her face.

“A little checkerboard thing.”

“We could make you two a quilt,” Marcia told Geddy and Nancy, “if you wish, anyways.”

“You guys are looking for Francine, right?” Sonia asked Scott and me.

“Yeah, we're—we're kinda helping,” Scott filled in.

“She was my girlfriend,” I added.

“Your girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip: she had these deep olive colored eyes that comforted me in the same vein Francine's baby blues always did. She then raised a finger at me and motioned for me to follow her. She led me to the right side of the room while Marcia talked to the others there; Sonia led me to a rack full of different types of buttons. She showed me a little packet of silver buttons about the size of silver dollars. I took a second look to see a vein of neon green inside of the four holes in the middle.

“Don't tell anyone about this,” she whispered to me, “but these are for fixing humans.”

“Humans?” I echoed in a hushed voice.

“They're special buttons crafted over in Schenectady. They're crafted so all the robots can stay within intact—at least, that's according to Lars.” She handed the buttons for me.

“Why do you think I should need these?” I asked her.

“Keep them just in case,” she advised me. “The way things are right now, it's best to go about well equipped.” I sighed through my nose and put the buttons in my coat pocket.

“The world's going to fall apart soon,” she said, “believe me when I say that, too. I'm just saying that right now—you're going to have to find Francine before it's too late.”

I thought about the pandemic, three decades after that moment of time. Like Scott, I had no idea what year it was, but other than the date itself. And yet, she could have been referring to something else.

Something about Joey having done something huge in Seattle when neither of us were looking…

Marcia called out Sonia's name and she strode past me to meet up with her. She left alone there next to the buttons, so I could eye the blue ones next to my knee. Baby blues, like Francine's eyes.

“I'll tear up the earth until I find you,” I muttered under my breath.

******************************

that final line is a quote from miguel hernandez's poem “elegy”

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ruckystarnes · 5 years

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Characters: OFC-Constance Wallace, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Sharon “Carter” Zemo, Helmut Zemo, OFC-Moira Wallace, Tony Stark

Words: 2,771

Pairing: OFC-Constance Wallace x Tony Stark

Warnings: drug use, swearing, mild violence, brief mention of arousal

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Constance sat on the burgundy crushed velvet couch, her back pressed against the hard backing, her eyes focused ahead, staring blankly at her sister, Sharon sitting next to her husband, Helmut Zemo, crowned prince and heir of Sokovia. Sharon was the one that would settle down first, her and Helmut been in love since she was five. Despite being ten years apart, their father encouraged the relationship when Sharon was fifteen, setting the who up on a date even though their mother protested. Constance smiled at the thought, the words her mother called Helmut: egotistical, tactless, spineless, and Constance’s favorite, lily-livered. Of course, Sharon didn’t know any of this as she saw Helmut to be a strong man who was charismatic and loving.

If only she knew he had seven mistresses, Constance thought bitterly. She will always care and love her little sister, but it didn’t mean she had to even like her brother-in-law in any degree.

That smug bastard was sitting there, arm around Sharon, consoling the weeping twenty-four year old, hand on her bulging stomach. The words “stress is not good for the baby” could be heard, a jab at Constance for sure. That man always had eyes for her, but Constance rebuffed his feelings because she knew how much her sister crushed on him, and her sister’s feelings use to trump hers. Since, Helmut made it his life’s purpose to make Constance feel insignificant at every turn, which most never even pierced her skin, but the baby thing, for some reason, did.

“Momma, please say you are doing an autopsy on him,” Sharon pleased through a series of sniffs and sobs, her eyes focused on Moira to Constance’s left, who’s hand was tightly clenching a baby blue handkerchief.

“Carter, you know our laws,” Moira replied softly, looking over at her eldest with pleading eyes. “No autopsy on any royal member without the ruler’s consent.”

How could Constance have forgotten that? Oh, because most noblepersons die of old age or something that was already confirmed to cause death while they were living. She felt sick of the idea of having to call the shot on it.

“She’s not queen until she is crowned,” Sharon replied, the tone was almost seething. “You’re still queen, why can’t you order it.”

“Carter, you know the law,” Moira replied, more forceful this time. “I am not of Wallace blood, therefore I cannot overtake the duties that your father had. It is Constance to make, and right now, she is grieving just like you, but she has more on her plate right now.”

“Daddy’s death isn’t the top priority?” Sharon screamed, standing up abruptly causing Helmut to blink at her slowly, trying to process what had happen. “Order the autopsy, Connie. Or don’t you love Daddy to know what happened?!” She was borderline hysteric, and it had to be because of the hormones.

“Sharon Carter Wallace,” Moira forced out, standing in front of her daughter, “we are all upset, and I think it would be best if you and Renard retire to your room for now. I will send in Diane with some tea to soothe your nerves.” The queen didn’t move nor dropped her steely gaze until Sharon accepted the fact that she wasn’t going to get her way. Constance watched Helmut put his arm around his wife and turned her to leave, whispering something in her ear that Constance couldn’t make out. Only once they were out of the sitting room did Moira settle back on the seat next to her other daughter with a sigh.

“Momma, I can order it,” Constance replied softly, her hand covering her mother’s and gave it a squeeze.

“No,” Moira smiled, turning towards her daughter, “that is not something you need to worry with yourself right now. I know how your father died, so does the physician. We have seen this coming for weeks now, we just never told you girls.”

“Momma?”

Before Moira could reply, the sitting room door was opened and Bernerd, the king and queen’s butler, entered.

“Ma’am, your highness,” he nodded, the first title threw Constance, but then she realized that her mother was no longer the crowned ruler. “Mr. Rogers has returned and he has a guest.”

“Show them in Bernerd,” Moira smiled, looking over at Jenessa, her handmaiden practically, and waved for her to get the tea.

“Momma, what do you mean you knew what was wrong with Daddy?” Constance asked, her voice low, but only was waved off by her mother as she sat poised for Constance’s guard to enter with his guest.

Steve brought a guest? Steve doesn’t have friends, none that he has ever spoken of.

“Ma’am.” Steve’s voice broke through her thoughts and she looked up to see the muscular blond, reddish brown stubble dotted his face and his eyes looked...tired. He must have not have slept since he picked her up at The Hive. Oh, how she longed to be there instead, high on Rapture and not giving a fuck with what is going on.

“Steven,” Moira smiled, her eyes brightening for the first time. She was about to get up but Steven shook his head with a soft smile and walked towards them, taking her mother’s hand, kissing her knuckles as he knelt. “Steven, no need for formalities.”

Did her mother just giggle?

“There is, Ma’am,” Steve pushed up and moved to Constance, taking her hand just like her mother’s, and kissed her knuckles when his knee hit the floor. “We are trying to keep the rumors suppressed, but we do need to have something to give the media to satisfy your people and to ease their minds.

“What they are expecting is the truth,” Moira replied sadly, earning a nod from Steve, “is this why your guest is here?” Constance shifted her eyes over to the door, seeing a man dressed in a charcoal suit with dark hair that was pulled back and eyes that were bright blue that it wasn’t hard for Constance to identify from the distance. He was handsome in a rugged way, sort of reminded her of some of the guys she would hook up with at the Hive.

Wait, have I met him before?

He was familiar looking, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on where she had seen him before. God, she hoped it wasn’t a the Hive.

“James Buchanan Barnes, Ma’am,” Steve smiled, turning to hold his hand out to motion for the gentleman to approach. As he got closer, his face became even more clear, and she finally realized why he was so familiar.

“Holy shit,” Constance breathed, not realizing she had said her thought out loud and earned a glare from her mother.

“Mr. Barnes,” Moira nodded, her hand was in his, his knee to the floor as pressing his lips to knuckles.

“Ma’am,” he replied, voice gruff and almost like sandpaper to Constance’s ears.

“I understand that Steven had filled you in with what your duties are?”

Duties? What duties? Her mother had her own security detail and Steve was her own, and it was common knowledge that she would inherit her father’s.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Barnes replied, his blue eyes settled on Constance, making her feel uncomfortable. Why does everyone know what is going on besides her?

Moira finally turned her attention to Constance, which Steve took a silent permission to sit on the couch that Sharon and Renard previously occupied, and Barnes joined him. “Connie, there are a few things we need to discuss.” Her mother’s voice was low, soft, like the time she used when Constance’s dog, Kipper, died.

“Okay,” Constance replied slowly, her eyes shifting over to the two men on the other couch. It was then that she noticed that they were completely alone. “Are you going to tell me what happened to Daddy?”

Moira gave a sigh and curt nod but she didn’t answer. Steve did.

“He was poisoned, Connie,” he said softly, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “It as confirmed almost two weeks ago when his symptoms begun. The doctors’ were able to diagnose the poison that was administered: belladonna.”

“Daddy took that for his stomach issues,” Constance interrupted, not seeing how his medicine could have killed him.

“Yes, in the right doses,” Moira replied, settling her hand on her daughter’s knee.

“The first time he had a seizure, we just assumed that the dosage was miscalculated, but it started to happen more frequently, the seizures happening several times during the day,” Steve added, “and then he developed rashes and his breathing was labored. We took every precaution we could, even stopping the medication.”

“So, how did he die from it when he wasn’t taking it?”

Steve looked at Moira who hung her head as if it was shameful. “Your father loved his berry tea,” she whispered.

“So, you’re saying Daddy was assassinated,” Constance stated, anger in every word she spoke, “and you are just telling me this now? Why aren’t you telling Sharon this?”

“Because we don’t know who done this,” Steve said evenly.

“You think…” She busted out laughing, standing to shake her head and to back away from the group. “You’re fucking nuts.”

“Constance,” Moira warned.

“No mother, you cannot sit there and tell me that someone murdered my father and suspect that Sharon had anything to do with it.”

“Not Sharon,” Barnes spoke up, earning a glare from Constance.

“You...I don’t know you, so you don’t get a say. I know who you are and everything you do is just lies and ends in death.”

“Constance Reese.” There was that tone. The tone her mother used for discipline. The tone still made Constance flinch after all these years. She settled in the dark gray highback, crossing her leg and arms, but she remained quiet. “Your father has been receiving threats to abdicate his family’s title to the next.”

“Who’s…”

“Zemo,” Barnes replied, “your sister’s in-laws.”

“I don’t know you,” she replied evenly, “therefore I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true, Constance,” Steve replied in defense, “several letters the last year state the same thing. ‘Abdicate or else’ sort of meanings. But now that your father is gone, you are the heir to the throne. We suspect that this person…”

“Or persons,” Barnes interjected, making Steve nod.

“Might try to come after you so they can get what they want. Helmut Zemo on the throne of Ryfa and Lyorfa.”

I think I’m going to be sick, Constance thought.

“And according to law, you receive your father’s detail, but I am uneasy giving you to them,” Steve went on, “so that is why James is here.”

“To babysit me?”

“To take care of you. He’ll take my place essentially, since I have orders to cover your mother now.”

“I can take care of myself,” Constance grumbled, her eyes narrowed on the other man.

“That’s why you are at The Hive every week? Needing Steve to pull you out?” Barnes replied.

“How. Dare. You.” Constance stood and held a hand up to her mother. “I’m leaving.” Barnes rose with her, buttoning his jacket as he bowed to Moira. “Where do you think you going?”

“My orders are to be your close detail,” Barnes replied, a slight smirk dancing on his lips.

“You have no choice in the matter Connie,” Moira added, the mother tone making the matter closed. Constance growled and threw her hands up, storming out of the room, Barnes on her heels.

“Good luck, man,” Steve called back, and Constance could hear the delight in his voice.

The music was blaring, vibrating Constance’s bones and making her head buzz. She knew she shouldn’t be at the Hive, but everything was spiraling out of control for her. She wasn’t ready to be queen, she wasn’t supposed to ascend until she was at least forty. The need to have a place where no one cared who she was or what she did was a solace, like her dad’s need to drink rye at nine fifty-five every night. She didn’t care if James Barnes followed her to the club, didn’t care if he tried to remove her. She couldn’t believe her mother and Steve would trust him with her, after that man had done some despicable things while in the armed forces.

A hand rested on her hip as lips connected with the skin behind her ear, causing her to stiffen.

“Easy, Evangeline,” a deep voice rumbled against her chest and she instantly softened as she recognized it to be Anthony Stark. “You seem to be here to forget tonight.”

She spun to face him, pressing her body into his, as her hand went up to cup his face. “I always come here to forget, Tony,” she smiled sweetly. He held up his hand, a white pill between his forefinger and thumb, his brow cocking for the question. With no hesitation, Constance opened her mouth and he placed the small tab on her tongue before his lips found the spot on her neck that made her weak. They were in the sea of dancing people, a sweaty mix of high and horny surrounded them, and it brought her comfort knowing it will take James Barnes a long while before he found her. She could feel Anthony’s hands move lower on her hips, curving around to cup her ass to press her closer to him, making her feel his next question. Of course she wasn’t going to turn down the man. She nodded and he took her hand, leading her down the blue hallway and behind a black door. Anthony produced a small purple cloth from his pocket and smiled at her, which made her laugh. Ninth Cloud.

“What’s so funny, Vangie?” Anthony smirked, setting the cloth down on the glass table, sitting on the floor and started to open it.

“Ninth Cloud,” Constance smiled, “been forever.”

A smirk was her answer as she sat opposite of him, holding her hand out to him waiting for the object he held in his hand: a long white piece of paper. She busied herself rolling it up, her eyes watching as he pulled the purple stopper off of the glass tube of a lavender dust. Ninth Cloud, named after exactly what it does. Anthony made neat lines of iridescent happiness, holding his hand out for her to take the first hit. Constance leaned forward, putting the paper tube she made to her nose and to the first line. She passed the tube to him after she finished, sniffing the remaining powder that lingered, and when he was finished she pulled him in for a heated kiss, taking the tube from him.

The hit was enough to make her high enough for the night, especially with Rapture, but she wanted to forget. The next hit was more exhilarating for both of them, and she soon found herself in Anthony’s lap, her mouth hungry against his and he slipped a hand between her thighs, groaning to find her equally excited. Fingers busied with the buttons of his red button down, the need to have another drug coursing through her veins. Just as he was about to draw the zipper down of her dress, she was pulled away abruptly and was on her feet before she could even register what was happening.

“What the fuck man!” Anthony yelled, standing up, his shirt long forgotten.

Constance struggled to figure out what was going on, the high taking complete hold of her. Something happened, a tussle or a fight. Something. Her head was spinning and everything was vivid but blurred. A hand was on her arm again, pulling her out of the room and she had a glimpse of Anthony kneeling with his hand to his face, dark liquid covering his hand. Her eyes roamed up to where the hand belonged, and stopped walking when she saw his face. He didn’t seem to care that she had stopped, kept pulling her with him.

“Let me go, you monster,” she seethed, her hand moving to try to loosen his grip. It only made his fingers tighten. She then resorted to hitting his hand, cursing him more and threatening to call out rape.

“Does that even apply here?”

She was stunned, not saying another word or aimed to hit again. Before she knew it, they were in the alley, a black SUV waiting for them. She couldn’t see who the driver was as James Barnes shoved her into the backseat, and instructed the driver to an address she didn’t know. She could hear him talking but the high was almost at its peak, and she was soon soaring.

#star spangled bingo #mcukinkbingo #LDMWC #em's writing challenge #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x ofc

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horrorjapan · 6 years

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Hey Craig :)! I just got the Shudder application for my TV. I remember you mentioning it a couple of months back. Do you have any movie recommendations? They don't have to be Japanese or even horror (they can be thriller,psychological etc.). I noticed some Giallo films too (which I know you like as well). Let me know :).

Sure!

Ten of the Best Horror Movies to Watch on Shudder

Spider Baby

Maybe the best example of southern gothic horror by Jack Hill, the man who would go on to direct two of my favourite movies, Coffy and Foxy Brown. Updates the 20s-30s old dark house style plot for the 60s. It’s one of the most unique horror films I can think of.

Rigor Mortis

I know this has become my go-to recommendation, but it really is something people need to see. While it works that much better if you’ve seen the Mr Vampire series it still works incredibly well in its own right. Jiangshi are almost exclusively found in comedy horror films, so it’s great to see a film that takes them a little more seriously.

Return of the Evil Dead

My favourite of the Blind Dead series. This second entry does away with the slow, creepy pace of the first film and goes all in on creating a really entertaining siege film ala, Night of the Living Dead.

Turkey Shoot

Battle Royale before Battle Royale, Turkey Shoot loosely adapts The Most Dangerous game in typical 80s Aussie cinema fashion. Set in a dystopian future where the rich pay to hunt and kill social deviants with all the energy of Mad Max. It’s equally as grim as it is silly. Also, one of the hunters has a werewolf man as a pet.

Black Christmas

The original North American slasher film, and still my favourite. It might not be the right time of year to watch it, but Black Christmas is so much more than just a Christmas horror film.

The Evil Eye (The Girl Who Knew Too Much)

Not a horror film, but if you’re looking to get into giallo movies it’s a good idea to start with the first! More a parody of crime novels than the meaner edged psycho-thrillers that would come later, The Girl Who Knew Too Much follows an American girl in Italy who is actually quite excited to be caught up in a murder mystery. It’s worth watching for the style alone.

A Tale of Two Sisters

Probably a movie anyone following this blog has seen already, but if you haven’t it’s a definite recommendation and still my favourite Korean horror film. It also has maybe the best horror soundtrack since…

Tetsuo: The Iron Man

Again, another film followers of this blog have likely already seen, but an essential movie nonetheless. It’s up there with Evil Dead and Texas Chainsaw Massacre as far as brilliant independent horror films go.

City of the Living Dead

A few years ago I would have recommended The Beyond over this, but as I get older I find this to be maybe the best of Fulci’s 1980s output. Incredibly loose in terms of plotting, and defines dream logic every bit as much as Argento’s Inferno it’s a great atmospheric watch if you’re looking for style. While it is insanely violent, it isn’t guilty of lingering as long as some of Fulci’s other films from the period, which does wonders for its pacing.

Don’t Look Up

Not the best Japanese horror film ever, but as Hideo Nakata’s first feature-length horror film it’s an interesting part of Japanese horror history. Doesn’t quite come together, but has the same style Nakata would go on to use in Ring. At only 70 minutes it’s a really brisk watch.

Some Honourable Mentions:

Baba Yaga, Frightmare, Inferno, ISaw The Devil, High Tension, Pieces, Black Sabbath, Angst, Nosferatu, Belladonna of Sadness, ZombieHolocaust.

If you like the look of anything on this list, consider a trial of Shudder through this link. It’s an affiliate link, but every little helps me start my new channel. :)

#horror #horror movies #shudder #streaming #Japanese horror

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asrasleftnipple · 5 years

Text

First Meeting

... allegedly

Asra x Lyria (oc)

*It’s kinda like the first one in that I only use my oc’s name once so feel free to self insert! I do use she/her pronouns tho..

CWs: knife mention (for herbs), sex, swearing

She was a young herbalist who met Faust and then Asra at the market

She had fallen in unrequited love with Asra (he didn’t know). She hasn’t really been herself since he had left during the red plague.

She became Julian’s apprentice and worked under him until she was appointed court magician after the count was “murdered” and Julian fled.

She had grown very close to Julian and was devastated when he got sick and even more so when he left.

She ended up travelling around the country as a wandering soothsayer, providing remedies for ailing people she comes across.

She cut her long hair into an above-the-shoulder bob for easier maintenance on the road.

She eventually returns to Vesuvia and finds work at the palace as the court magician.

Spends the majority of her time as the court magician being a friend and confidant to both Nadia and Portia, as well as entertainment at the countess’s important events.

She didn’t know Asra had returned and also suppressed her memories of him so much that she forgot about him entirely

After a long day at the palace...

(NSFW under the cut)

‘Hmmmm,’ she falls on her back amongst the plush pillows and blankets of her bed. “Deft hands…” she whispers to herself as she begins to work her hands over her breasts and down her own body, “soft hair, plush lips” as she teases along her thighs, the image of a beautiful golden-skinned figure comes into focus, leaning over her. Their hand had replaced hers in their aimless wandering along her lower torso and thighs.

The figure tilts their head, curiously surveying the scene before them. With them, they had brought the scent of smoky herbs, cardamom and vanilla along with the sharp tang of sea salt and lemongrass. She goes rigid beneath them.

“I-it can’t- is it really you?” she whispers to the figure. They stare at her with a soft smile before leaning down to press a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth.

The magician’s eyes flutter shut as she lets out a soft whimper, arching towards the figure.

“Tell me what you want”, they whisper, pressing their fingers between her thighs, biting their lip as they watch her every change in facial expression.

“Ohhh more, yes, right there…” they deftly rid her of her underwear and push two fingers inside, making the magician gasp and arch even further into their embrace.

“What do you need?” the figure rasps, obviously getting off on this.

“Just you, it’s always been you” she breathed, head falling back. The figure smiles sadly and stoops to press kisses along her exposed jaw. The magician, amazed at the softness of their lips and the pressure building in her abdomen, let the sharpening pleasure take over her senses.

The figure groans softly while pressing a lovely purple bruise behind her jaw, making the magician moan wantonly as her orgasm hits her in waves. The figure drinks in the sight of the magician, working her down from her high, chest heaving, eyelids fluttering.

“You’re so…” the magician finally opens her eyes long enough to look at the figure dazedly “...beautiful”

She takes in the shirtless person still leaning over her, wearing the face of the one she loves; amethyst eyes with pupils blown wide and breaths deepened with lust, before flipping their positions.

Silently, she begins undoing their pants, focused. She looks up at the figure, who was watching her with hooded eyes, barely breathing and lips slightly parted. “May I?” she gestures towards their prominent erection.

“Please”, the figure breathes, shifting their hips so the magician can slide their pants down to their thighs.

“... You’re so hard...”

The figure looks surprised and then amused, “Don’t sound so surprised.”

The magician smiles and kisses her way down their torso and over one of their hip bones then moves to straddle the figure’s hips, “Is this alright?”

The figure begins to nod only to throw their head back with a strangled moan as she sinks down on their length, their back arching to be even just a little bit closer and go just a little bit deeper.

She rides them roughly and sensually, their mouth slightly ajar throughout. Their heavily hooded eyes follow her hands as she runs them up their chest. She presses the tips of her fingers into their skin, dragging her nails across their chest, just hard enough to leave a mark.

“Shit, I’m- hng!” the figure spills without proper warning. The magician slides off them, pleased with herself.

Once she’s properly settled into their side, the figure finally speaks. “Can I see you again?” they breathlessly ask.

“You know I would love nothing more” the magician murmurs, eyes sliding shut. Next to her the figure disappears completely.

Asra bolts up into a sitting position in his bed. ‘Gods, I-I. That was…’ he shakes his head, fighting through the fog of sleep.

Too early!

“Sorry Faust”, he was still distracted. Asra hasn’t seen her in years, yet the dream felt so real, it must’ve been linked. The smell of white rose and musk stays with him as he nestles back into sleep’s embrace.

(NSFW over)

The magician wakes the next morning in a fantastic mood. She stretches languidly, reflecting on the strange dream she had before dressing to join the countess for breakfast. She stops at the entrance of the dining room, perplexed at the commotion of servants scrambling to prepare for some sort of event. She spots the countess in the center of the whirlwind and picks her way over to her.

“Morning, Nadia. Did I miss something?”

“No, not at all, I’ve been so stressed it must’ve slipped my mind. A dear friend of mine has a birthday tomorrow, I’ve planned a garden party to celebrate.”

“Oh, how lovely. Anything I can do to help?”

“There is the matter of the bouquets. It’s too late to order all of the flowers I need, so I need you to collect and multiply them for me. Horticulture is a specialty of yours, yes?”

The magician nods, “Which flowers?”

“Hydrangeas, peonies, and belladonnas, also known as deadly nightshade. Before tomorrow, if you will.”

The magician nods and eats quickly before collecting an herb-cutting knife and basket for the flowers.

She arrives at the edge of the looming forest, feeling it push and pull her, like it’s conflicted. She warily begins her search.

She lets the voices of the forest wash over her and she takes in her surroundings. Once she’s acquainted with her atmosphere, she begins to search in ernest.

Suddenly she hears quiet mewing from behind her. She turns to see a tiny black kitten stumbling out of the underbrush. Had it been following her?

“Hi baby, where’s mama?” the kitten just opens its mouth wide in a big yawn. “Are you sleepy? Hungry?” she reaches into her utility belt and pulls out a handkerchief, wrapping it around the kitten, she picks it up gently and tucks it into her cloak, snug and warm. She continues her search.

It’s only when she finds the flowers she seeks that she feels another presence in the woods. A predatory presence that doesn’t seem to belong here. She quickly scans her surroundings and casts a barrier that would alert her to any new presence in the area.

‘Ok, calm down, chill, you’re just being paranoid,’ she begins her collection, thanking each bush for the flowers. Once she’s finished her task, she gently plucks a few berries from the nightshade bushes. She puts them in a soft leather pouch, ready to return to the palace. Then she hears it. A shrill cackling echoes through the trees, getting closer as she tries to discern where it’s coming from.

“Fuck, shit, fuck, gods, please no.”

She begins to make her way back, aware she’s being hunted all the way. Soon she begins to hear branches snap and footfalls that are not her own. She increases her pace, carefully at first but accelerating when the sounds grew even closer.

She stumbles into a clearing, tripping on the gnarled roots of the giant tree that seemed to tower over the others. As soon as she hits the ground, it’s on her, a single clawed hand closing tightly around the front of her cloak, ripping holes in the expensive fabric. The magician yelps as she comes face to face with some kind of demonic goat.

“Now now, no need to yell, I know I’m gorgeous,” the goat thing’s voice seems to echo in her ears.

She wrests herself free of her cloak, dropping ungracefully on her ass and scooting backwards until she sat with her back against the massive oak.

He scowls and lunges towards her, clawed hand swiping at her, catching her upper arm and tearing the skin easily. She lets out a piercing scream and forces a shield up between her and the malicious creature.

In a hut in the woods:

“Did you hear that?”

“Stay here, I’m going to find out what that was.”

“Asra-”

“I’ll be back soon, Muriel.”

“At least take Inanna with you.”

“What the hell are you and why are you hunting me?!”

“You’ve taken my place. My wife, my toys, my servants. You act like it’s all yours and you didn’t even work for it!”

“What?”

Just then a figure bursts from the undergrowth, snarling at the demon and protectively placing herself between the magician and monster.

“Lucio.” The count whirls around to face the white-haired magician, who was also stepping between the count and his prey.

“Ah... Asra! I was just leaving. Sorry you couldn’t join in on the fun,” and with that, he turns on his heel and lopes into the trees.

“Bastard. Hey! Hey, are you alright?” he crouches next to the magician, who was checking over a small black kitten tucked in the crook of her uninjured arm. He repeats himself, slowly placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She flinches anyway. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you…” he eyes the purple bruise peeking out from behind her jaw.

“Ah sorry, I don’t usually startle like that…” she finally looks her savior in the eyes, sucking in a deep breath. “Asra.”

Asra’s eyes widen and he lets out a labored breath, “Lyria… fuck, are you ok?” He gently examines her injured arm, waving a healing hand over the torn skin.

“Y-you didn’t have to…” fuck, why was she acting like a shy teenager?! Asra helps her to her feet, checking her over another three times. “So you’re back…”

He finally looks her in the eye. “Yeah… so are you”

She takes a shaky breath, biting her lip and looking down at their feet. “I missed you,” she whispers.

“Then perhaps we should catch up,” he holds his arm out to her with a dashing dimpled smile and leads her back to the palace.

#the arcana game #arcana fic #asra alnazar #asra x mc #asra x oc #asra x apprentice #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #count lucio #muriel

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tender-rosiey · 3 years

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helow may I ask for u to do dazai and akutagawa and how they deal with a s/o who has adhd ? thank uu :3

❥ Dazai and Akutagawa with a s/o who has ADHD

A/N: I hope you like this dear! 🥺💘

Also please tell me if I wrote something wrong about ADHD :(

Dazai Osamu:

Little shit no.1

Anyways

LETS TACKLE EACH BEHAVIOR THAT OCCURS

So constant fidgeting

This Bish wont do anything but hold your hand and place kisses on it to distract you from anything else

Easily distracted?

That’s to his advantage bby

If for example you guys are in a meeting then you bet you will be pulled away from there and go somehwere

And if you space out while he is talking then he will giggle like a giddy school girl and kiss the top of your nose and just ask

“Do you want me to repeat or should we talk about something else?”

You lose things or forget them?

Dazai Osamu knows where they are cause he keeps track of where do you put your stuff

Because he doesn’t want you one day to lose something important to you and you end up being sad :(

Also

This a warning for others but like

If someone

Just

THINKS JUST THINKS

About making you feel bad or insulting you

Mind tormenting is Dazai’s first choice and god is it traumatizing 🥰

Lemme give you an example

Also you have a part-time job in a cafe cause I know none of my ADA babies would treat you in a bad way

“Can you seriously not pay attention for than five minutes?!” screamed out a man who was your boss in the cafe you worked in. You had explained before to your manager about having ADHD and he doesn’t seem to get it as he continued lashing out on you for forgetting the customer’s order.

Despite the customer themselves forgetting and saying that it’s alright, he still continued to scold you. He ,however, didn’t notice the tall brunette of man that just happens to be your lover.

Dazai put a hand on the man’s shoulder and gripped it tightly.

“Do you have something good to say to my love or are you going to hurt everyone’s ears with the trash and rubbish you are saying? I know that Y/N told you about having ADHD so don’t you dare talk to her about anything related to it or I swear to you.”

He got near to the man’s ear and dangerously whispered sternly “I will make you go through hell and back, you rat.”

Needless to say that the man pissed himself before apologizing like a little bitch to you

Also if you have the tendency to talk or rmable a lot then he really enjoys it actually

He loves hearing your voice

It sends him to heaven

He wishes for it to be the last thing he heard before he meets the “sweet release of death” in his words

Also if you feel bothered by the symptoms then

The great dazai osamu is there to support and help you

He will search for ways to manage them while them

And will make his support 100% known to you

Still reminds you that he loves you nonetheless

“You belladonna, even if this doesn’t have an effect, I don’t really mind. I love for who you are.”

He loves when you depend on him btw

Just laying that out there

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke:

The one who became a chaotic aggressive bby because little shit no.1 just loved breaking people

Mr I have no eyebrows

Now I think akutagawa would be pretty chill about everything you do really

If you space out then he will either snap his fingers or pinch your nose

If you can’t stay in place then how is he supposed to feel

It doesn’t change anything therefore a reaction to what you are doing which will make you feel different than others in a bad way is uncalled for

If you lose things just expect a very little scolding and about taking care of your stuff

“Y/N YOU CANT LOSE A 100,000,$ NECKLACE JUST LIKE THAT-“

“Fight me about it bIsH”

He will help you tho in a subtle way if the symptoms bother you

He is a great support but won’t say shit 👍

Like he would be beside you reading them and if something that does seem logical enough appear then he will point at it

If an option you want to try is somewhat dangerous or will make you uncomfortable then I want you to expect a phone broken in pieces if he sees it

Now aku is basically known for being an assassin with no care

Big softie inside for you tho

So I just want you to imagine wtf will he do to someone that makes fun of you

While Dazai is a little more merciful

Akutagawa is gonna murder them

No questions asked

Bitches have the audacity to make fun of you and still want to live?

Nah

Lemme give you an example of one dumbass that did it right in front of him as well

Btw he doesn’t care if it’s friend or foe

Maybe if they are from the mafia he will just slap them

You were sitting in the train with your lover beside you and a man on your other side. Your constant fidgeting was something that didn’t bother Aku so he paid no mind to it.

However the other man did and decided to be a bitch about it, “Could you stop moving? It’s annoying.”

There is his death wish.

After you guys went out of the train with the man following ahead, you were wondering why akutagawa did nothing but when you saw him pull the man to an empty hallway you knew what he will do.

“RASHOMOUN!” he screamed with anger painted all across his face. He kicked the body and muttered with pure disgust “filthy bitch.”

No y/n slander in aku’s area

So he will be the quiet over protective bf because damn he loves you

But will probably wear all pink and talk with a girly voice before he admits just how soft he is for you

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

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bobasheebaby · 6 years

Text

Rising From the Ashes

Pairing: Beth x Bastien

Word count: 1,262

Warnings: dark fic, dark Liam, angst

Summary: Bastien plans to expose Liam, and enacts his plan.

A/N: thanks to at @mrsnazario1223 for giving me the courage to write and post this

The days Beth spent in the hospital Bastien kept a close eye on her as he came up with his plan to deal with Liam. His nights he stayed close by her side sleeping in a chair until she convinced him to hold her in her hospital bed. He called for assistance from the one person he knew would be as appalled by Liam’s behavior as he was, in the meantime he had to wait, biding this time to make his move, to expose Liam for the cold monster he’d become.

Once Beth was released from the hospital, Bastien stayed with her in cabin, too afraid to leave her on her own before Liam was dealt with. He wanted to expose Liam right away, but he knew he still had to wait a little longer, wait on his help or his plan would fall apart. He was shocked when the person he sought gave into his plan so easily, they just knew making it work would take some time. Bastien just hoped that waiting wouldn’t cost him Beth.

In the time since Beth was hospitalized from the attempt on her life Liam became more sure of himself, with Bastien remaining quiet he was certain that nothing would come of Bastien’s threats. Still, Liam had to be certain that Bastien’s threats would never see the light of day, the only problem was getting him on his own.

Bastien could tell Liam was getting cocky, desperate, Liam was playing right into his hand, his plan would work.

Finally two weeks after the attack on Beth’s life Bastien was ready to enact his plan, with help from a most unlikely source. Beth was now twelve weeks pregnant and her bump was significantly harder to hide, which could only help their case. A public event, plenty of press present, his surprise guest hiding amongst the guests, waiting for their time to make their presence known. They were ready, completely prepared for any tricks Liam may try to throw at them.

Liam was droning on about his love for his country, his people, how he couldn’t wait to have a family with his future queen. Beth had to fight back a laugh as she rolled her eyes, her hand resting on her small yet visible bump.

“What about the heir already on the way? Do you have any love for them?” Their companion asked, shouting to be heard.

A hush fell over the crowd, eyes gazing at Madeline’s stomach trying to discern if she was pregnant. Liam’s pushed his lips into a thin line, his blue eyes hardened as he searched the crowd for the owner of the ever familiar voice.

“Or are you trying to claim that the baby is not yours when we know the truth? Is that how you try to explain your involvement in the attempted murder of the mother who is carrying your heir just two weeks ago?” The voice asked stepping closer, the crowd parting allowing him to become visible.

Confused glances and hushed whispers ran through the crowd.

Liam’s gaze finally fell on the figure he was looking for, Leo, of course he would try to expose him.

“I haven’t a clue what you mean dear brother, Madeline isn’t pregnant and no threat has come to her life.” Liam replied, his blue eyes dark with anger.

“I speak of Lady Beth, the suitor you arranged to be raped by Tariq, the one who is in fact carrying your heir, and was recently hospitalized after someone attempted to poison her with belladonna.” Leo returned, his voice hard yet calm. He never would have abdicated if he knew his brother would become a tyrant and use his power to harm an innocent young woman. He abdicated because he believed his brother would make a better king, he had been sorely mistaken.

The crowd searched for Beth, members of the press started screaming questions at Liam asking if these accusations from the former crowned prince were true.

Liam glared at Leo, his eyes narrowed slits, how dare he come and expose him, he slammed his fist on the small podium, causing those close to him to jump in surprise. “Enough!” He bellowed loudly.

“Oh dear brother, haven’t you learned by now that the press won’t rest until they get some answers. I for one would like to know what caused my brother to turn into such a cold tyrant who would attempt to kill his own child.” Leo countered, anger in his eyes but his tone even.

Members of the press could be heard echoing Leo’s sentiments, questioning if what he was saying was true, asking for Lady Beth to confirm the elder prince’s claims. Leo nodded and Beth stepped forward, her hand resting on her bump, Bastien standing by her side. Within seconds of stepping forwards a reporter noticed and the cameras started flashing, questions being fired at her so fast she couldn’t focus on the words.

Liam was seething when he saw Beth step forward, flaunting his bastard heir, ruining all his plans. His blue eyes were full of a fiery rage, his jaw clenching, she was supposed to be gone and now she’d ruined everything.

Leo took Beth’s distraction of the press and Liam and walked up behind Liam, “you have a simple choice to make brother, either you step down easily and leave Cordonia forever, or I will claim the crown by force and charge you with treason for attempted murder against your very own heir.” Leo whispered harshly into his younger brother’s ear.

Liam spun around, his eyes ablaze with fury, “I thought you didn’t want to be king.” He growled angrily.

“No dear brother, I thought you were better suited for the job, I was sorely mistaken. What will it be? Step down and leave or shall we charge you for treason?” Leo replied, not taking his eyes off of his brother, ready for any rage induced reaction possible.

“How do you even know the child is mine?” Liam asked cockily, a last ditch effort at reprieve.

“She’s twelve weeks Liam, we have proof that she wasn’t raped by Tariq under your order until Applewood Manor a good three weeks later. Bastien explained the situation to the doctor and he assured him the baby was conceived before that date and was unharmed. You are lucky you didn’t harm them when you poisoned her.” Leo replied disdain dripping from him lips.

Liam scoffed, moving to walk away, Leo grabbed his arm, “you aren’t going anywhere brother.” Leo said, he looked up spotting Bastien moving closer he nodded, “take him away Bastien.”

Bastien smiled as he reached the two men, grabbing Liam’s arms roughly he cuffed his hands behind his back, “gladly.” He said as he led the former king away.

Bastien led Liam away from the crowd to an unmarked SVU, “you know Beth is nothing more than a whore who sleeps around.” Liam taunted over his shoulder.

“That’s funny as the only other man she had sex with while in our country forced himself on her on your order.” Bastien replied coolly ‘accidentally’ bumping Liam’s head on the doorframe as he helped him in the vehicle.

Bastien drove Liam back to the palace, leading him down to the holding cell for the royal guard located inside the old dungeons. He harshly shoved the Liam into the holding cell, “enjoy the rest of your life behind bars.” Bastien said as he walked away after securing the cell.

He smiled to himself knowing Beth was finally safe and free.

From the Wolves Masterlist

Masterlist

Tags: @itsstillnotwhatyouthink @whimsicalrobots @speedyoperarascalparty @imafictosexual @stopforamoment @asherella-is-a-dork-3 @umccall71

@3pawandme @boneandfur @scarlettedragon @mrsdrakewalkerblog @katurrade @endlessflame @hdcathcart @indiacater @hopefulmoonobject

#from the wolves #darkfic #dark au #dark liam #choices the royal romance #trr au #bastien lykel #bastien x mc #beth x bastien #beth talbot #king liam

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thaliaarche · 6 years

Text

Baby’s First Assassination

Posted for Day 4 of Sebaciel Week (prompt: “First Times”).

@sebacielthangs, @chromehoplite, @lovemyciel

“I do hope this is your first assassination.” A slight young man, barely more than a boy, blocks the entrance to the Queen’s private rooms. “Otherwise, this is just embarrassing.”

The invader’s just slunk up a sheer metal wall and is currently straddling a windowsill; he kicks the outer leg up and swings it inside before dropping to his feet with a dancer’s grace. He lingers there a moment, leaning against the ledge, and then speaks, his voice little more than a purr. “Tonight’s Watchdog, I assume.”

“Surprised I’m not dead?” The guard jauntily tosses his head and more subtly reaches for his knife. “I’m far better acquainted with poisons than the rest of my . . . peers.” He laces the word with a sneer before adding. “I caught the taste of belladonna in my wine, and I took the antidote before a single symptom struck.”

The trespasser receives the speech in silence. He stands still except for the slight tilt of his head; his face is masked except for his growing smile, teeth glinting in the torchlight.

The silence stretches on.

“Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“It’s your move, Watchdog.”

Ciel lunges. He snarls, pinning him against the window, snapping at him with his teeth, letting him feel the sharp edge of his knife against his tender, delicate neck. “How’s that for a move?”

The scapegrace replies by laughing. “It’s most entertaining.”

“Watch your tongue!” He digs in the blade a little harder, molecules away from drawing blood.

The trespasser inhales sharply, and their eyes lock, blood-red and blue.

“Won’t you search me now?”

After a moment, the guard blinks and breaks away. As brusquely as he can, he says, “But of course.”

He keeps one hand on his blade, and with the other he pats down the trespasser’s black suit. It’s indecently well-fitted, and he quickly finds there’s nothing hidden any place obvious, not even--

“That’s not a sword in any but the metaphorical sense.”

The guard narrows his eyes. “Don’t be obscene.”

He promptly thrusts his hips forward in an exceedingly obscene manner, and with a grimace the guard jumps back. Despite the blade still pressed to his neck, the trespasser steps forward and leans down, his black bangs forming a veil around them.

“Haven’t you ever wondered about obscenities, hm?” He chuckles deep in his throat. “Haven’t you wondered what it’s like to do what you want, not what the Queen wants, not what your parents want? Don’t you wonder what it’s like to be a real person, someone other than the younger son? Someone other than not Ciel--”

“Shut up,” he growls. “You know nothing about me.”

“Don’t I?”

“Ah!” His eyes light up. “Are you trying to make me kill you before the torturers get their hands on you? There’ll be quite the investigation, you know, into which anarchist cause you’re championing—“

“As if I care about people,” he sniffs.

“So you’re in it for the money.”

“For the power, more precisely, but money’s not a bad way to obtain it.”

The guard draws a line in red along his collarbone, not enough to do real damage, but enough to hurt. The trespasser winces— at last, a genuine reaction.

“Tell me,” the Watchdog murmurs, his tone still decidedly conversational, “what madman’s paying you off to kill the queen? Or madwoman, I mustn’t discriminate.”

“No one is. I dislike assassination, it’s so inelegant.”

The invader whips his hand up, and inexplicably the guard’s knife flies into his grasp. No, not inexplicably— he must have strong magnets sewed into his gloves, which might also explain how he scaled the wall outside.

Though it can’t explain how he bypassed the other seven layers of security.

The guard has only a split second to contemplate all this until his blade is at his throat.

“I’m not above common murder, though,” his attacker says thoughtfully.

The Watchdog spits on his mask.

He breaks out laughing again. “You aren’t scared, are you?”

“I would not thus disappoint the Phantomhive legacy,” he replies stoically.

“Only the legacy, hm? No mention of the queen?”

“What good is it killing me? I’ve already raised the alarm,” the Watchdog retorts, pointedly ignoring the question. “All the Queen’s guards from all over the castle are running here to capture you.”

He doesn’t laugh at that, only smiles slyly. “I was rather counting on it.”

With one strong kick he sends the Watchdog stumbling into the opposite wall. After a moment of deliberation he throws the knife to his left, casting it far down the hallway. “You owe me.”

The words echo through the room with supernatural resonance.

“And,” he adds flippantly, “I’d recommend pretending you were poisoned, if you’d like to save face.”

With one graceful flip he somersaults back out the window, again disappearing into the darkness.

The Watchdog scrambles back to his feet and checks his pockets and— damn. His copy of the key to the Queen’s Vault, the protection of which is the main duty of the Phantomhives, has been lifted from his pocket, likely while the bastard was misdirecting him with his flirtation. He runs to the knife and begins carving up his armor, not to hurt himself but to at least leave evidence of a valiant fight, even as he tries to choose his words for explaining they’re dealing not with a assassin but with a particularly clever cat burglar.

How lucky the Vault is his brother’s responsibility now.

As the other guards at last burst into the room with a shout, he leans out the window, finding nothing but darkness, and wonders how his new acquaintance will come to collect.

#summersebacielweek #sebaciel #kuro

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lowkeyjustvibing · 3 years

Text

Guess what :)

Chapter 3: Hey There, Pal

Datura P.O.V.

I took out my watering can, and went to the small lake near my home, and collected some water. I then climbed up the tree as I prepared myself to water my beloved plants. I finally arrived at the room with the trilliums. They looked so lovely! I adore them so much and I can’t wait to take care of them! I’m hoping I can get a bulb to give to Germ. After all, she did help me get them. I hummed to myself going about watering my plants, my babies.

Wack. I thought to myself. How could they grow in this environment? I mean, trilliums are already delicate and fragile, susceptible to cold and being devoured by wildlife. They usually grow in densely wooded areas, where they’re less visible to threats, but for them to just be out and about in the open? Now tha-

I was snapped out of my thoughts by something furry, my cat, Belladonna, rubbed up against my ankle and meowed. She was a calico and a very sweet baby. I ran my nails through her soft fur still thinking about the flowers, and gave her a small pat on her head. She let out a satisfied purr.

I walked back down to the lake to collect more water. I returned to my home but I noticed something was off. Belladonna was staring at a corner intensely.

“Pspspspsp, what’s going on baby?” I whispered softly patting at my knees to ask her to come forward.

Belladonna then launched herself at the corner of the room. Moving just as quickly as her, a dark figure jumped over her and pulled out some catnip. Belladonna immediately calmed down after that. I then looked at the dark figure. And there she was. That bitc- I mean... I was familiar with who this was. She wore a plain white shirt underneath some dirty blue overalls. She wore work boots and gloves. She had dark skin and black hair that was tied into low-pigtails. Her brown eyes were like caramel and on the top of her was a newspaper boy’s cap with goggles. This was the appearance of the Engineer.

“What do you want?” I asked, as much venom in my voice as the ivy growing in the Ruins.

She leaned up against the wall, “I’m here to tell you that the other 09’s want your help with something.”

“And why do you think I want to help?”

The Engineer only smiled, “Well, I’m sure there could be quite a nice reward for helping us out.”

I turned around, going back to water my plants, “I have no interest in your ‘gifts’.”

“I always knew you were a stubborn one. Lucky for you, I know a way to get you to our meeting!”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I noticed that you seemed to be fond of a certain short girl with a gas mask. I believe that her name was Germ, right?”

I was shocked, “How did you-?”

“A little K1T told me. Speaking of K1Ts, I decided to send some of them to say hi to her and her friends.”

“You stinky mother fu-” I growled and began again, “You did not-”

“I did it! My adorable little K1Ts always get the job done! So here’s my deal, if you come to the meeting, then I will allow you to go and rescue them. If you don’t and try to kill me, well, we both know how that will end.” She crushed one of my vines to make her point and I winced as I felt a small prick.

I hesitated before sighing, “Fine! I’ll go to the stupid meeting. Now call off your metal demons before I poison you in the most painful and unbearable way possible.”

“Oh Gardener, you already know if you kill me, the K1Ts will automatically know and will follow through on Code X.”

“Whatever, just get out of my house, you disgrace to our already dreadful race.”

The Engineer simply smiled as she jumped out of the window. I ran towards it to see if she hit the ground. Sadly, her stupid K1Ts caught her. I hate those things so much. The K1Ts were a bunch of small, mechanical, anthropomorphic foxes. Despite their cute face lies sharp teeth and claws. I respect nature and am fascinated by it, but those, unnatural monsters, gave me the creeps. Most of the time, when they are not on duty, they’re off terrorizing people, especially me.

I muttered a few curses and glanced at my grimoire, considering trying to hex that disgusting grease ball, but decided not to. Better to take care of her myself instead of leaving it to magic and possibly getting karma. I could barely tolerate the rest of Class 09. I can’t even remember a time with them before the world ended. Even if I could, I assume I wouldn’t entirely enjoy those memories. Life before the other 09’s brought humanity to its knees wasn’t as fun. I didn’t have as much power. There were hardly any plants or animals. I know the Engineer loved it but I always felt confined.

Now that the world is crawling with life and not covered in cement, I can finally enjoy myself. The fresh air, the wildlife, being wild, it all made me so happy. The clean water, the smell of chaos, and murderous intent in the air. The world was free and glorious! I couldn’t care less about the people that lost their homes to nature. I never really liked people in the first place so it didn’t bother me. People were always destroying the things I loved. The things I cared about, the only things I had ever cared about…

Whoa there, Datura, that’s a little heavy you wacky little weirdo. Slow it down, ‘my chemical imbalance’ I thought. No more emo-ness for now you spunky little fu-

I banished my thoughts as Belladonna began to meow.

“Pspspsps baby gorl!!!! What’s wrong Belle?” She glared at me as if I had been starving her and she nudged her bowl, I sighed and got ready to prepare food for us both, “Ok, it’s dinner time!”

#To The Ends Of The Earth #Original Story #This chapter is literally just a s//tpost tbh

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shockcity · 7 years

Text

Bagginshield #14 - in a fairytale

Rating: M

Summary: for the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Detective Inspector Durin has been trying to put Smaug behind bars for years, but something almost...supernatural keeps getting in the way. Bilbo Baggins has been running since he was a kid, but no matter where he goes he can't escape his curse. Maybe they can help each other. Alternate Universe - Modern Setting/Magical Realism

Part II

Also on ao3

second note: ummm I think this was difficult for people to read cuz it's like 18k words and the app dies when you try to bring it up (/ω＼) so im reposting this in two parts sorry for the technical problems~ this is part II!

It was tempting to simply besiege the warehouse right that very moment – to run out and recklessly challenge Smaug with their oh so intimidating team made up of one magical hipster, a sort-of-but-you-had-better-not-ask wizard, and a disgraced detective inspector. But food and rest could not wait, and took priority over even the destruction of a great evil.

Bilbo was more than happy to just sit back and eat, and Thorin couldn't help but goggle as he gorged himself on an entire loaf of bread, three thick chunks of cheese, and a whole sleeve of chocolate digestives.

"Don't stare," Bilbo said, swallowing his mouthful and giving Thorin a bashful look. "Doing magic makes me hungry!"

"Do you do a lot of magic then?" Thorin couldn't help but tease.

Bilbo's jaw dropped. "Are you calling me fat?!"

Thorin bit back a smile. "Plump," he said. "That's what I thought when I first saw you...that you were pleasantly plump."

"Yeah, sure," Bilbo said skeptically. He finished off his cup of tea and leaned back in his chair a bit despondently.

And now Thorin felt bad.

"It's true!" he said, before pausing to find the right words. "I...well, to be honest, I thought you were lovely. And I...was very disappointed that you were a suspect in a murder."

He made a face at his own awkwardness but Bilbo was extremely amused. "And now that I'm not a suspect?"

Thorin raised his eyebrows. "And now that I know that you're just a magic man with a guitar, you mean?"

Bilbo smiled. "Yeah," he said, motioning for Thorin to answer.

"I...." He blew out a breath, realizing that Bilbo was just teasing. "You're a menace."

Bilbo cracked up. "A pleasantly plump one, though!" he cackled. "Hey, I'm flattered. Sincerely flattered. Still, I don't think it's a good idea to start dating each other while people are trying to kill us."

Thorin nodded sardonically.

"But once this is over I think we should probably have lots of sex."

Thorin's eyes widened, which only set Bilbo off again. Thankfully Gandalf decided that they were all in need of quiet time and herded Bilbo into Radagast's room to sleep. The wizard came back a little later and joined Thorin at the table, pouring himself a cup of tea with a sigh.

"You should sleep too, you know," Gandalf told him, watching him intently over the rim of his teacup.

Thorin considered him for a moment. "You knew my father well," he said, after a short silence. "You know about our...ancestry. About this whole world I'm supposed to be apart of."

Gandalf hummed in agreement.

"Why did my father never tell me?"

The wizard shook his head. "That I cannot answer, Thorin. I don't know why he kept it a secret from you. Perhaps he sought to keep you away from the danger that comes with knowing. Perhaps he thought you wouldn't want to know. I can only guess."

Thorin stared at his hands. "Then can you tell me this," he said, looking up and into Gandalf's eyes. "Who really killed my father?"

"Ah." Gandalf rubbed a hand down his face tiredly. "I suspect you met him tonight."

"After you get me what I want, I will kill you slowly."

Thorin raised his gun.

"Like I did your father."

"His name is Azog. He is the leader of a Warg pack, one of the many that work for Smaug on occasion. Now be aware, I am not entirely sure what happened, but Azog's kin fought your grandfather at one point, and many of them were wiped out. Azog swore an oath that he would destroy the line of Durin, and avenge his fallen pack. That is why he hunts you now, and it is likely what killed your father, in the end."

"Azog," Thorin said, repeating his name like a curse.

"Don't let vengeance cloud your judgement," Gandalf warned him. "You will meet your father's killer in battle soon enough."

He took the advice to heart and nodded. Gandalf pulled out a pipe from his robes (the man looked absolutely ridiculous in them, and Thorin wondered what normal people would have to say about it if they could see him) and packed it with tobacco. He puffed until the leaves smoldered, looking tired but peaceful.

A bit like Bilbo, in that he was excellent at pretending to be unfazed. Which reminded him....

"Can I ask you something?" he said, breaking the silence.

Gandalf eyed him amusedly, chewing on the end of his pipe. "You want to know about Bilbo," he surmised.

Thorin dipped his head somewhat sheepishly.

"You would not be the first, nor will you be the last, to be fascinated by Bilbo Baggins." Thorin started, having not known Bilbo's last name. "He is truly a one of a kind creature that never fails to surprise me."

Thorin's mouth quirked. "I don't know him that well," he admitted. "But somehow I understand what you mean."

"Yes, I dare say you do." The old wizard winked at him.

Trying not to blush, Thorin shook his head and turned serious again. "What I want to know is what his connection to Smaug is...why does he want Bilbo?"

Gandalf, whose face had grown more and more resigned as Thorin spoke, let out heavy sigh. "It's rather a long story."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere," he said, accidentally sounding a lot like his bobby alter-ego. "I want to know."

"Alright. I suppose...I suppose it starts with his power."

Thorin leaned forward.

"Bilbo's power is quite singular," said Gandalf. "Words have weight, and with the right words, well – you've seen what he can do; call up storms, ward off enemies, cause terrible destruction – I have also seen his influence on the mind. He can...persuade people to do things. Sometimes without him even realizing it. The point is, Bilbo has an extremely useful gift. Useful...but dangerous if uncontrolled, and Bilbo struggles with restraint."

"What about that other minstrel in England?" Thorin asked. "Bilbo said there was two. How do they control their powers?"

The old wizard sighed again. His favorite thing to do tonight, it seemed. "There is no second minstrel," he revealed. "There's not another minstrel in all the world. I made it up, to convince our kind that Bilbo is not as special as he truly is. I thought the existence of another would lure Smaug into seeking this fictitious person out, but alas, I underestimated Smaug's obsession with the boy."

"What is that obsession? Why does he want Bilbo so much?"

"Partially for his power." Gandalf shrugged. "But also because of his mother."

He frowned. "His mother?"

"Yes," Gandalf paused and relit his pipe, his expression reluctant. "What happened was this: one day, Bilbo's father got very sick, and Belladonna, Bilbo's mother, could not cure him. They had only been married six months...and here was Bungo at death's door. She was heartbroken. Bella worked night and day to find a cure for him, but nothing helped. It wasn't until another apothecary told her of the healing power of dragon scales, that Bella considered approaching Smaug. Unwilling to lose Bungo, she took the risk and begged the dragon for his help. Most likely finding her amusing, Smaug gave her one of his scales and simply told her that all he asked for in repayment was the fulfillment of a request at a later date."

Thorin winced.

"Yes. Terrible mistake. Bella returned home, and of course the scale worked, and Bungo was back on his feet in no time at all. Three months later, Bella realized she was pregnant with Bilbo, and he was born a healthy baby in late September. As the years passed little Bilbo was a delight to his parents and his extended relations; a bright star in an otherwise murky sky, one might say. And then one day, when Bilbo was six years old, Smaug finally called upon Bella for his favor.

"I think that he probably meant to ask her to do something cruel and humiliating for him. Yes, he no doubt had some form of torment in mind. But then, of course, he met Bilbo, and immediately knew that the boy had immense power. So he asked Belladonna for repayment...in the form of her firstborn son.

"As you can imagine, this didn't go over well. So Smaug made her a deal (he likes his games, if you recall). He would give them three chances to find a better form of repayment than the little boy. Once a year, he would visit and ask what they had for him instead. Three chances. Three years.

"The first year they presented him with their wealth. They'd worked endless hours, and saved and scrounged for months, feeding only Bilbo, until they'd collected a good sized fortune. This they offered to Smaug, but the dragon only laughed, and kissed and hugged Bilbo, who did not know any better and showed Smaug open affection (and I must say, I have always wondered if that had ever affected him; there were many times the dragon could have simply killed the boy, and yet...) in any case, he did not accept their offering, and went away until the next year.

"When he returned the second time, Bella and Bungo offered him something far more precious: their blood. Magical blood is extremely potent, and with it other magicals can, for a time, harness the other's gift. It cannot be donated by the very powerful, I'm afraid (and Belladonna was indeed, quite strong) so it was Bungo who stepped forward in exchange for his son's freedom. Smaug claimed that he would first try a taste of the man's blood to see whether or not it suited him. But a taste was not what he had in mind. He killed Bungo; tore him limb from limb as his wife watched, and after it was over, he announced that the blood was not good enough, and warned Belladonna that she had but one more year before she lost her son forever."

"He killed Bilbo's father."

"Yes. Now it was in the third year that everything changed. I never learned what Bella had planned to offer Smaug, for in the end it didn't matter. Smaug had something he wanted this time. A request that would void out his earlier claim on Bilbo. He had heard from some other calamity – some evil whisper somewhere – of words that could bring him unimaginable power. Of words that would give him dominion over the entire world. All Smaug needed was a wordsmith, a minstrel – a creature whom, at the time, was considered only a myth. But Smaug had suspected for a while that Bilbo was of the Words, and so he came to the Bagginses with a plan...and a curse.

"What he had with him was unspeakable. They were Words that should never be said aloud; should never be read, or even written down. Words that only Bilbo could invoke. But what Smaug did not realize was that though the power was within the Words, it also came from the wordsmith. That is to say, unless Smaug himself possessed Bilbo's gift, it could not be transferred. And it could not be stolen."

"So Bilbo has this...unimaginable power?"

"Perhaps," Gandalf muttered noncommittally. "Perhaps not. All that is known is that after it was Said, Smaug went off believing that it had worked. By the time he realized that he had been given nothing, Bella and Bilbo had already fled. From then on they moved about the world, helped by me and other enemies of Smaug. Kept secret. Safe. Smaug took her defiance very personally, and part of the reason he has searched so obsessively for them was because he believed that he had been tricked. They were truly lucky to have lived undetected for so long. Then, when Belladonna fell ill and died, Bilbo wanted more than anything to return to his home. And well, you see how that turned out."

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment. "Then he is in great danger.”

"We all are," Gandalf agreed, and then gave him a pointed look. "But that's where you come in."

In the next room, in a dream that he would not remember come morning, Bilbo stood in front of a roaring bonfire on a white cliff that overlooked an endless black sea.

"Alright, little one, you know what to do."

Bilbo smiled up at the nice man and turned to face the fire. He inhaled, slow and deep, and with considerable power collected on his tongue, he said,

"One ring to rule them all...."

"Do we even have a plan?"

"Of course we do, weren't you paying attention?"

"Yes, but I thought you were joking."

"Quiet."

They fell silent as Gandalf glanced around the warehouse from their hiding place behind a shipping container, his eyes roving over the men that prowled around the yard. Bilbo fidgeted beside Thorin, his guitar on his back, and Thorin almost laughed aloud when he realized that, in this case, his gun was completely outclassed next to a acoustic guitar. Bilbo caught him staring and gave him a 'what?' look.

"There," Gandalf suddenly spoke. He pointed his staff at a large tower crane just as its engines fired up. Lorries beeped as they backed up out of its way, and a man in a hard hat suddenly shouted and made the universal sign for OK. The crane rose, and on the end of it was...a rock?

"What the hell is that?"

But it wasn't Gandalf that answered. Instead, Bilbo got a queer look in his eye, and whispered, "there hammer on the anvil smote, there chisel clove, and graver wrote. There forged was blade, and bound was hilt; the delver mined, the mason built."

"Durin's axe," said Gandalf.

Thorin frowned at the rock attached to the end of the crane, until suddenly, he caught sight of something glinting in the sunlight. He then realized what he was looking at: it was a hilt. The hilt of an axe – which was firmly lodged in stone.

"That belongs to you," Bilbo told him, turning to him with a smile.

Thorin smiled back fondly.

"Now is our only chance," Gandalf interrupted, getting to his feet rather nimbly for an old man. "Thorin, you must get to the axe. No matter what happens, this is your task. You cannot fail."

"What am I supposed to do after that?" Thorin demanded, rattled by Gandalf's intensity.

The wizard stared into his eyes gravely. "You will know," was all he said. "Bilbo, with me."

"What? Wait!"

Bilbo put a reassuring hand on Thorin's shoulder. "It'll be alright," he told him. "We're just going to cause a distraction. It'll be fun."

Thorin wasn't fooled for a moment.

"Be careful," he said worriedly. "I mean it, Bilbo."

"I will," Bilbo promised, and then flashed him a wicked grin. "After all, I'm looking forward to all that sex."

Thorin blushed, and Bilbo laughed into the back of his hand as he moved away and ran off after Gandalf.

He turned his attention back to the axe. The workers were slowly lowering it onto the back of a flatbed lorry, and it didn't look as though they were in any sort of a hurry. As he waited, he checked his magazine before clicking the safety off his gun.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as a cacophonous screeching sound suddenly split the air. Forgetting what he was doing for a moment, he looked about wildly until he spotted the source of the commotion. A stack of shipping containers had toppled over, hitting another stack and causing three more to fall like dominoes. And there...there was Gandalf standing on top of a high platform, his staff glowing white.

Thorin heard a deep and guttural growl, and saw that the workers had abandoned their human skins for fur. Wargs. At least thirty of them. They snarled at Gandalf, half-crouched like sprinters at the starting line, ready to tear the wizard apart.

But then something sweet whistled through the air – something soft like a slow breeze at dusk, whispering:

come and see come and see what's hidden underneath come and see come and see my great big teeth.

Bilbo. Thorin spotted him on another container, perched like Gandalf and glowing – a smile on his face.

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

The ground exploded. It cracked and rose like a rocky wave, striking out at the Wargs and knocking them off their feet. Thorin himself was unaffected, and he knew that it was now or never. He tore off toward the stone as fast as his feet could carry him.

Rock and dust flew up around him as the Wargs yelped. Another pulse of Bilbo's guitar ripped through the air, propelling a Warg away from Thorin. He managed to get a few shots off, taking out two men coming for him head on, and then he made it to the lorry and slid behind it for cover.

His breath caught as he looked up and saw the axe in the stone. His birthright.

He knew what to do.

With a grunt, Thorin climbed up the side of the lorry and onto the bed. Around him the fight carried on, but he paid it no mind. He could not tear his eyes away from the axe.

Thorin reached forward. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt. He lifted.

The axe slid out, and the world trembled.

For a time Thorin wasn't aware of where he was, of what he was doing, or even who he was. There was only light; the light of the axe in his hand which shown bright enough to blind him. But it wasn't only coming from the axe, for it also grew out of Thorin's own body – enveloping him in warmth, and in courage, and in strength. It was a feeling reminiscent of being reunited with a long lost love. Of becoming whole.

This light had been in him all along, and all that was needed to summon it was his ancestor's call. A call he could hear now. And this time, he didn't need Bilbo to craft the words for him.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk; Beneath the mountains music woke: The harpers harped, the minstrels sang, And at the gates the trumpets rang. 5

Thorin could see something above him, hovering in and out of his mind's eye, and real, if one chose to look. It was bright and big, and strangely familiar to his heart.

It was a crown of stars.

The image shattered, and in its place was a shining helm, slowly descending toward Thorin. When it came close enough, he instinctively straightened his neck, letting it fall onto his head with gentle finality. It was then that Thorin came back to himself. He looked at the axe in his hand and touched the helm on his head, and felt content for the first time in a long time.

There was a growl - too close - and a Warg pounced on him, throwing them both over the side of the lorry. Viciously it snapped in Thorin's face with its sharp teeth and putrid breath. He struggled to get the thing off of him, using both hands to push the hilt of the axe into the Warg's neck to keep it from biting him. Thorin managed to get a leg underneath him and he shoved as hard as he could.

The Warg fell, but another one came for him from the opposite direction. Thorin breathed hard, glancing down at his weapon. He brought it down to his side, took a deep breath, and sliced upward.

The ground rose with it, summoning hot rock and spitting magma. Black stone bloomed at his feet, cracked with crawling lava. He suddenly registered the screams – the Warg, blinded by Thorin's strike, was now writhing in the dirt. He turned to see the other gain its feet and charge him, and this time Thorin made contact. The axe cracked into the Warg's chest and sent it flying.

Before he could marvel at its strength, he was being attacked again, and this time he noticed that Bilbo and Gandalf were facing the Wargs too, and that their numbers had grown.

It was a veritable army that marched toward them now, all of them glaring with bright eyes full of malice. Thorin fought off the Wargs closest to him and stopped to think for a moment, breathing hard.

His wandering gaze found the tower crane.

It was risky, but there were too many for Thorin to take on by himself, and Bilbo and Gandalf had to be tiring.... He made his decision and sprinted over to its base, quickly judging where he should strike.

Please let this work, he thought, before using both hands to draw back the axe and chop at the base of the crane, almost as if it were a tree.

He'd figured it would take a couple of hits, but this was also one hell of an axe.

The base exploded as if Thorin had launched a rocket at it. There was an ungodly, groaning screech – one of the strangest and most frightening sounds he had ever heard – and then the crane was coming down. The Wargs in its path didn't stand a chance, for there was nowhere to really run. The steel rained from the sky and landed with a tremendous crash.

Thorin watched, wide-eyed, as the dust cleared. He caught a glimpse of Bilbo hopping up and down on his container, cheering, and couldn't help but smile.

They had won.

And then there was pain.

"Thorin!"

From far away he heard Bilbo call to him, but there was something wrong...his arm –

He opened his eyes just in time to dodge Azog's mace. Rolling to his feet with a pained moan, Thorin held his axe and his aching arm close to his chest. The pain was horrible, and he could feel warm blood trailing down his fingers.

Azog did not wait for Thorin to gain his bearings. He charged, swinging his mace toward Thorin's head. He let go of his arm and brought the axe up to parry, dragging the mace to the side. Thorin backed away swiftly as Azog moved to swipe at him again. He heard a frightened yelp coming from where Bilbo was, and he turned to see...he wasn't sure what he was seeing.

Giant...trolls?

The earth trembled as they moved toward Bilbo and Gandalf, the wizard raising his staff high into the air. But then Thorin had no time to watch his companions, because Azog was lumbering toward him with a cruel smile on his face.

"Durin," he growled, and there was amusement in his voice. "Durin the Deathless. King Under the Mountain."

Thorin frowned, keeping his axe up as Azog circled him.

"That right is mine," said Azog, pointing his mace at Thorin's helm. "That is my crown."

"This is the right of Durin's folk," he snapped, angry that Azog was even looking at the weapon of his ancestors. "Not filth like you!"

"Durin's folk," Azog laughed, his scarred face deforming grotesquely. "Dead folk. Unworthy. Not even Thrain's pride could inspire your ancestors to crown a new king."

Thorin went very still. "You killed him – " he said, shaking with fury. "It was you, wasn't it? You bastard – "

"I thought the old fool would pull the axe from the stone, and then I would harness its power." Azog eyed the weapon and helm with envy. "But it seems your father was not good enough for the crown. It seems he wasn't a true king."

Thorin attacked, bringing up his axe and striking at Azog over and over. The Warg managed to block, but something else was happening – heat rose from the ground, blackening everywhere Thorin stepped, and embers rose from the hot blade of his axe, creating a burning gust as powerful as the strongest bellows in the largest forge.

Rage raised the fire higher, and rock and ash burst from the ground and pummeled Azog from every side. Still Thorin pressed him, roaring as the earth shook and flames leapt from the edge of his blade. Azog cried out and smashed to the dirt after a particularly hard strike, and Thorin stood over him panting.

Azog cackled, blood on his teeth.

Father, thought Thorin. He raised the axe....

There lies his crown in water deep, i> till Durin wakes again from sleep.

....and brought it down.

"Whoa, there," he said, catching Gandalf as he swayed from side to side. "Alright, old man?"

"Old!" Gandalf coughed, giving Thorin a one-eyed glare. "Old enough to take care of those!"

He waved his staff in the direction of the giant, ugly....

"What are these exactly?"

"Trolls!" said Gandalf, stretching his back with a pained groan. "Dimwitted creatures with terrible hygiene."

Thorin's mouth twitched. "Well done, then," he said. "Where's Bilbo gone?"

"He's around here somewhere." Gandalf waved a hand vaguely.

"I'll get him." Thorin moved off once he was sure the wizard wouldn't fall over, and walked toward Bilbo's container. He looked up as he came to it, but didn't see him.

"Bilbo?" Thorin called, but there was no answer.

Frowning, Thorin walked around to where he'd last seen the man, standing tall and invincible and laughing in the face of an army. But Bilbo wasn't there.

Thorin squinted, catching sight of a trail of blood. His eyes followed it from the top of the container to the bottom, where it pooled sickeningly. He quickly followed it around to the other side, and then gasped.

On the ground beside where Bilbo once stood – was his guitar.

Thorin plucked at a few strings listlessly, staring off into the distance. He heard Gandalf arguing with someone in the next room, but couldn't be bothered to listen. He kept seeing Bilbo's quirky little smile, and he swore he could hear his sweet, understated voice singing words filled with affection and good humor. It was strange how much Bilbo being gone affected him – Thorin not only felt paralyzed with guilt and worry, but his heart was hurting too.

" – matter of great importance! I would not ask otherwise!"

There was a low murmur as whoever it was they were talking to responded to Gandalf. Then there was silence. Thorin looked toward the door as Gandalf came thundering out of the room. He caught a glimpse of a glowing orb and a timid looking Radagast, before Gandalf's terrible temper demanded his attention.

"They refuse to help! Insufferable creatures!"

"Who?"

"Your subjects, that's who! Our fellows who are too scared of calamities to fight them, and much too stupid to understand that they haven't a choice! Evil such as this can never be left to its own devices!"

Thorin scoffed. "And they won't answer to me? To the king of...whatever?"

"They need proof first," explained Gandalf, his face stormy. "And they will get it, but not now. Now we must rescue Bilbo from Smaug. Do you remember what I told you, Thorin, of Bilbo's story?"

He met Gandalf's eyes, recalling the details now...realizing that things were a lot more dire than he thought. "Bilbo's power...."

"Yes," Gandalf confirmed gravely. "Which is why I must go with or without the help of my peers. Without you, even. I cannot leave Bilbo to this horrid fate, nor allow this world to suffer the spread of so great a darkness. Smaug must be stopped."

Thorin swung the guitar around his back and stood up. He faced the wizard determinedly, jamming the helm onto his head and holding onto his axe with both hands.

"Let's go," he said.

But Gandalf did not move, and instead looked down at Thorin gravely. "It is very dangerous," he warned. "We may very well die."

Thorin shook his head. "I don't care."

The wizard nodded. "Good, nor do I," he agreed, and they set off into the night.

Thorin had never technically been to Smaug's penthouse. He'd certainly staked out the outside of it, but he didn't think that counted. Getting a search warrant from the magistrates had always been like pulling teeth, but in Smaug's case it was nearly impossible. He was a man of means and shamelessly unethical, and approaching the courts with a blank cheque was not above him, nor would it be a surprise. All this meant was that storming the flat, as it were, was made doubly difficult by Thorin's not knowing the place he was walking into.

"What should we do? Is there a way in? Should we climb up the lift shaft?"

Gandalf stared at him dubiously. "Don't be ridiculous, we need only convince the security guards to let us pass. I don't imagine it will be very difficult. Though your appearance leaves much to be desired."

"My appearance?" Thorin said. "You're wearing a dress and a pointy hat."

Gandalf narrowed his eyes at him, but Thorin pressed on. "Can't you do a spell? Make us invisible? Bilbo mentioned that he could do something like that."

"Yes, but that is Bilbo," the wizard told him. "My magic is quite different from his, I'm afraid. Spells like invisibility are too subtle for me to do with any sort of precision, I would only blow you up if I were to attempt it."

Thorin did not want to be blown up.

"Right." He nodded. "I'll hide my axe and take the helm off if you'll at least give up the cap. I'm assuming the staff is staying?"

Gandalf scowled at him – so yes.

Without further delay, Thorin and the wizard made their way to Smaug's building. His flat was at the very top, and Thorin eyed the lifts behind the front desk determinedly. A security guard stood by, watching them.

"Can I help you?" said the concierge.

"Yes, I'm afraid I've locked myself out of my flat," Gandalf lied, and not very well. "I'll just be going – "

"I'm sorry, sir." The concierge frowned. "May I ask your name?"

Gandalf looked from side to side, as if thinking over his options. Thorin covered his eyes with his hand.

"Smaug...?" said Gandalf.

The concierge raised both eyebrows and looked the old man up and down. "Sorry?"

The security guard was stepping forward.

"No, no," the wizard said hastily. "I mean that Smaug is my nephew. Yes. My favorite nephew. Although perhaps not."

"I'll go ahead and phone Mr. Smaug, sir, and see if we can't clear this up," offered the concierge, his expression bemused.

"No!" Gandalf said. "There's no need for that, surely? Can I call you Shirley?"

Thorin groaned aloud this time.

"It's a surprise visit! Yes. For his...birthday."

The concierge hung up the phone. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Oh, but...." The security guard was coming over now, and there went their chances of remaining inconspicuous. The doors to the lobby suddenly crashed open, and Thorin and Gandalf turned to look.

Blocking their exit was a group of truly bizarre looking creatures. They were humpbacked and bald, their pallor a sickly grey and their eyes too big for their face. They snarled, showing off rotted, blackened teeth, and began to prowl closer.

"What are these things?" asked Thorin, slamming his helm on his head and taking the axe out from under his coat.

"Goblins," said Gandalf. "Very fast. Man-eaters. Quite unpleasant."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, and then prepared to defend himself as the daywalkers shot toward them. Thorin swung his axe and two of the creatures went flying. He saw the wizard point his staff, sending three into fits of pain. They screeched and drooled on the floor, but their fellows did not stop to help them. There were so many, coming from out of nowhere – Thorin struck out over and over but saw no end to them.

"Enough!" said Gandalf, clearing a space around himself. "Keep that helm on your head, Thorin Durin, or perish with them."

"What?" Thorin shouted, but Gandalf was already raising his staff.

He brought it down and a blinding light filled the room. Thorin slammed his eyes closed, listening as the snarls abruptly stopped and a car horn went off before there was a loud crash. Then everything went silent.

Oddly, it was difficult to reopen his eyes, but he managed with a great deal of willpower. He immediately saw that Gandalf was surrounded by collapsed goblins. Then he looked at the security guard and concierge, who were similarly knocked out.

"Have you killed them?" Thorin yelped.

"Of course not!" Gandalf denied defensively. "They are merely asleep."

Thorin saw now that people on the street had passed out as well, a few at the wheel but miraculously crashing without hurting themselves or others. Thorin gaped at Gandalf accusingly.

"How many people did you do this to?" he demanded. "And why wasn't I affected?"

Gandalf turned toward the lifts impatiently. "Your helm, of course. There is little that can penetrate it. I am unsure just how many people were put to sleep, but I wouldn't worry so. It's a relatively harmless spell, I assure you."

That didn't reassure Thorin at all, but there wasn't time for getting angry at Gandalf. "I doubt the spell managed to reach the upstairs," the wizard said. "We'd best hurry."

They quickly sprinted for the lifts and crammed in, awkwardly adjusting axe and staff so as to not hit each other. Then they pressed the button for the top floor. They had just made it past the sixth when they stopped and the doors popped open. Thorin quickly pressed for them to close again but nothing happened.

"Bugger," he said when a horde of Wargs appeared in the hallway.

"I suppose we'll take the stairs," said Gandalf, a bit sadly. He quickly left the lift, his staff held high, and bowled over the Wargs at the front of the pack. Thorin followed with his axe, striking down the second wave.

The last two were bigger than the others, and Thorin faced them warily as they stepped up and over the downed members of their pack. Then they transformed, and Thorin saw a true Warg for the first time.

They were massive, rather more the size of a bear than a wolf, and their jaws looked so powerful that Thorin was sure they could cut him in half with one bite. Their fur was a thick brown and a bit mangy, and their eyes were yellow-red.

As they prowled closer, Thorin raised his axe and wished he knew more about using it in combat, and just more about combat in general. So far he'd been holding his own, but these were also really big wolves.

He had no time for fear, however, because the Warg was coming for him, and he was suddenly using his axe to keep those teeth away from his throat.

The Warg snapped and spat, and then clawed down Thorin's side. He yelled out in pain, cursing as he used his upper body strength to shove the thing off of him. He felt something strain in his already injured arm when he did it, and seeing as the Warg had to be over three hundred pounds, it was no wonder his arm felt useless when he managed to get back on his feet. The Warg came for him again and he cried out in agony as he raised his axe and brought it down on its head.

There was no strength behind it, Thorin's arm was shot and his speed was dismal, but the moment it touched the Warg's head the axe seemed to sense its master's desperation and gathered its own power. It slammed into the Warg and drove its head straight into the ground, breaking apart the carpeted floor and leaving a Warg shaped hole. Its bum and legs stuck up a bit, and Thorin couldn't help but laugh a little.

He turned and helped Gandalf finish off the last one (nearly getting singed by one of the wizard's spells for his efforts) and by the time the pack had been defeated they were in pretty rough shape. Thorin panted, checking his bleeding side and moaning every time he moved his arm.

"Come, I can help with the pain," said Gandalf, motioning to him.

Thorin gazed at him skeptically, but handed over his arm for inspection anyway. It hurt too much not to. "You said you couldn't do subtle magics."

Gandalf sent him a disgruntled look. "You may be a bit giddy afterward, possibly even for a day or so, but you shan't be in so much pain. Now which is it? Yes or no?"

"Yes."

The wizard's spell did indeed make Thorin feel giddy, and also extremely refreshed. With a new energy he took his arm from Gandalf and hefted up his axe.

"Your arm is still injured, Thorin, so mind how you use it," Gandalf warned him, watching as Thorin tried the lift again. They made for the stairs when it refused to work.

They climbed as quickly as they could, the axe heavy and the miraculously unharmed guitar bumping against his back. He counted the seventh, eighth, and ninth floors before losing track. The penthouse was on the fifteenth, and to Thorin that seemed thousands of miles away.

It was on the thirteenth floor that something strange started to happen; there was an odd scraping and tapping noise, as if thousands of needles were falling onto metal. The unseen thing hissed like something slithering, and Thorin slowed in order to listen closer.

Then something came down the staircase. It was black and spindly, and made of what looked like tendrils of writhing vines that slowly inched toward Thorin and the wizard.

"Don't let them touch you!" cried Gandalf. "They are probably poisoned."

Thorin swallowed around a groan of frustration and began to hack away at the vines, but like a hydra, the more he cut the more they seemed to multiply.

"How exactly am I supposed to kill this thing?!" Thorin asked as the thorns continued to advance.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," Gandalf said unhelpfully.

Thorin continued to hack and slash, getting nowhere. "Can't you use light or something? Like from the movie?"

Gandalf's head shot up. "What movie?"

"Harry Potter!" Thorin yelled.

His expression grew thunderous. "That isn't real magic!" he snapped. "And I am not that Dumbledorf person!"

"Oh for god’s sake!" Thorin shouted in frustration.

He purposely recalled the sensation he had felt the first time he had used the axe – the moment when he'd called up the hot rock and flame – but this time he wished for searing light to accompany it.

The axe came down and flame spread out in a fan, electricity running ahead of it like foam on a wave. It crashed into the thorns and incinerated them, sending a strange sulfuric stink into the air.

Thorin coughed and looked around at Gandalf. "See?" he couldn't help but needle. "Are you a wizard or not?"

Gandalf scowled. "Yes, well, fire tends to work most of the time," the old man grumbled.

They ascended once more, climbing up to the fifteenth floor at long last, but wary of what they would meet there. The door to the stairwell swung open easy enough, and Thorin saw a long hallway before him. At the very end was a door made of textured glass.

Thorin and Gandalf walked toward it cautiously, the eerie silence of the hall a large difference to the chaotic noise of before. Thorin's ears were even ringing.

When he reached the end, he hesitated.

Despite his fear for Bilbo and the adrenaline coursing through him, he had to stop and take a deep breath before touching the handle. When he finally did it clicked open easily.

"This is absolutely a trap," Thorin hissed, looking around.

The room was painted a deep gold, with red neon lights lining the high ceiling. A large tube-like structure made of the same textured glass as the door sat in the middle of the otherwise empty room.

Thorin moved forward cautiously, peering around it. That's when he saw the opening, and that's when he saw Bilbo.

Thorin immediately ran to his side, calling his name. Bilbo was laid out on a gold colored bed, looking just the same as when Thorin had last seen him. His ugly yellow cardigan and maroon knit cap were slightly askew, but otherwise...he was completely unhurt.

And yet Bilbo would not wake.

"Bilbo? Bilbo?" Thorin shook him a little. "Bilbo, wake up."

"An enchanted sleep will not hold his power for long," Gandalf suddenly said. Thorin turned around quickly, spying the wizard looking at someone standing in the doorway.

"No, but it will keep him quiet," responded Smaug, and of course it was him.

Thorin stepped away from Bilbo, removing the guitar from his back and gently placing it on the floor beside the bed. He left the glass circle, creeping out until he caught sight of Smaug.

The dragon faced them calmly, his sharp gaze finding Thorin before flicking back to the wizard. He wore a fitted black suit, and his long, chiseled face, was as hard as stone. As usual, his full lips were turned up in a cruel smirk.

"You cannot take the power of the ring for yourself. It is lost to you now," Gandalf said, leaning on his staff.

"Then I'm sure I can...persuade him to work for me," Smaug replied, shrugging. "He's always been such a gullible little thing. So eager to please...."

Thorin's face grew hot with fury. "You'll have to kill us first," Thorin snarled. "He's a wizard, and I'm a king. How good do you think your chances are?"

Smaug raised his eyebrows in amusement.

"A king, are you?" he said silkily. "So quick to take up that honorable mantle, Detective Inspector! Could it be you enjoy the power that axe gives you? It feels good doesn't it? To destroy. To command. To be more than just human. What makes you so different from me?"

Thorin glared. "The biggest difference is that I don't do monologues," he replied, and raised the axe. To his satisfaction, he saw Smaug's eyes widen as the weapon came down, striking the floor with a boom.

The dragon was thrown off of his feet and into the door, which shattered on contact. Gandalf shot a bright, pulsing light from the end of his staff, and it slammed into Smaug, who screamed in pain. As Thorin advanced, he felt the hilt of the axe heat and looked down as sparks came off of its straight edge. It must have been hot enough to burn, but Thorin's hands remained unharmed.

Gandalf's spell ceased, the old man seeming to tire a bit, and Thorin stepped forward and slashed his axe across his body with one hand. The ground rumbled and turned to hot black stone, from which bright orange magma bubbled and hissed to the surface. He marveled for a moment at the magic it took to summon a veritable volcano in a penthouse flat, before he was distracted by the liquified floor. It had turned to lava, and Smaug was sinking into it with an ungodly screech.

And then those pained eyes focused on Thorin, and his porcelain skin began to change. Black vines, reminiscent of the thorny creature that had attacked them on the stairwell, crawled out of Smaug's eyes, which had turned the color of fire.

Then Gandalf stepped back. "Oh, dear," he said.

Thorin looked at him quizzically, not liking the sound of that, but he understood why the wizard was wary when the strange vines around Smaug's body began to pulse.

"You will burn," the dragon hissed, and then exploded into darkness.

Writhing clouds of pure black smoke flew up into the air, congealing to form a hulking, massive shape. The roof groaned and broke open, and Thorin tripped over his feet to get away from the falling debris.

Smaug the dragon, the actual dragon, came out of the smoke head first; his snake-like neck curving back as if he were stretching after a long time trapped somewhere small.

"Our little game ends here," Smaug rumbled, his voice was like thunder. "Now you die."

Thorin dove out of the way just in time as Smaug let loose a ball of fire. He moved quickly out of the dragon's reach, stumbling into the far wall, and too late realized that he was close to the sleeping Bilbo and probably putting him in terrible danger.

And yet Smaug did not attack. He eyed Bilbo as well, his head swaying from side to side in agitation, and Thorin understood that the dragon would not risk hurting the minstrel with his fire.

That did not stop his teeth, however, and then Thorin was moving again – this time away from the dragon's snapping jaws.

As he dodged and ducked, he heard Gandalf call out from above, and Thorin looked up and saw that the wizard had escaped up to the roof. He seemed to be chanting and slowly gathering light at the tip of his staff. Smaug narrowed his eyes at the wizard and slithered through the hole in the ceiling, completely distracted by the foreboding shine of the spell.

Thorin followed, nearly tripping over bits of plaster, and managed to pull himself up to the next floor with the help of some stacked debris. On the next level he immediately saw a stairwell to the roof, and he sprinted toward it and up to the outside. And just in time too – for Gandalf's spell had only made the dragon angrier.

The night was brisk and windy, and Thorin could see twinkling stars behind Smaug's red-scaled bulk. Gandalf glowed a bright white, and in solidarity the axe in Thorin's hand pulsed with heat. He watched as Smaug reared back, the scales on his chest beginning to ignite, and did something he had never done before. He held the axe securely by its hilt, reached back, and let it fly.

It was aimed straight for Smaug's chest, but the dragon had seen him prepare to throw it, and brought up his wing just in time. Miraculously, the axe did not bounce off of the armor-like scales, and instead sunk deep into his hide.

Smaug roared in pain and fury, clawing at the axe until it fell to the ground. Thorin watched it with despairing eyes, swallowing as the dragon angrily crouched and made ready to pounce.

Thorin had no choice but to run, but where to run to? He took off for the other side of the roof, listening as Gandalf shouted in some other language and the wind suddenly grew stronger. He had to find his weapon –

The floor cracked beneath his feet and collapsed, and Thorin's stomach dropped as he fell, his hands reaching out desperately for something to grab. He landed bum first on the next floor, which crumbled apart but thankfully slowed his fall, and before he knew it he was crashing back into Smaug's penthouse.

He groaned, feeling blood roll down his leg and side, and reached up to wipe the dust out of his nose. The ground shook as he crawled blindly toward the wall, frightened of falling again.

He heard the dragon roar and knew he should get up – he knew that the wizard needed his help – but his axe was gone and though his helm protected his head it didn't do much else. He took a second to catch his breath, riding out the pain from his injuries. He turned his head tiredly, looking around at the destruction, when his eyes caught sight of the large glass circle.

"Bilbo," he murmured, starting to panic. How had he forgotten about Bilbo? The room was trashed, the roof was falling down, and the dragon was crashing around and setting fire to everything and poor Bilbo was, was –

Completely fine.

"You lucky sod," he laughed, quickly moving to Bilbo's side. It must have been some magic spell that kept him from harm, for everything within the glass circle was relatively unscathed, though a bit dusty. Thorin put his hand over Bilbo's, feeling tired and sore. He needed to finish this, for Bilbo's sake.

And apparently Smaug agreed; the dragon crashed through what was left of the ceiling and braced his forelegs on the floor, the rest of his large body coiled on the roof.

"Thief!" rumbled Smaug. "You will take nothing from me! I laid low the warriors of old, and now you shall meet the same fate, o' Son of Durin!"

The dragon opened his jaws, showing off his terrible teeth, and Thorin looked around desperately for something, anything to use as a weapon.

His eyes found Bilbo's guitar.

He dove out of the way of Smaug's reach, wincing when he heard his huge jaw snap closed, and crawled quickly toward the instrument. Thorin picked the surprisingly heavy guitar up just in time, swinging it around to hold in front of him as Smaug thankfully bit into it instead of Thorin.

The guitar splintered and then broke apart, the wooden top separating from the whole, and Thorin felt bad for a second until he realized that there was nothing else to use to defend himself but the remains of the guitar. It wouldn't do much, but he grabbed the wooden top anyway and held onto it by the hole, using it to cover most of his arm and face as Smaug attacked, and this time with his skull.

And surprisingly, the top didn't break. Instead, the force of Smaug's head butt pushed Thorin back, his feet sliding along the ground until his heel caught on a chunk of concrete. He went down hard but forced himself to keep moving, to keep rolling away and to run, run, run to who knew where....

The axe.

He spotted it underneath a large piece of the fallen ceiling, and he ran full tilt for it. Smaug slithered after him, but Thorin was faster now, for there was at last an end in sight. He crashed into the wreckage and reached beneath it, feeling the hilt and wrapping his hand around it. Smaug took a breath.

The world was fire, but Thorin wasn't burning. He had thrust the guitar top and axe in front of him without thinking, and the flames crashed into the shield and axe and fanned out around him. Thorin knew then that this was his only chance; that his body simply could not take much more of this. So he closed his eyes and listened to the call.

The King beneath the mountains. 6

....began a voice not unlike Bilbo's. The dragon's deadly fire ran out, and Thorin brought his axe close to his lips. He said the next verse, this time.

The King of carven stone.

Smaug was preparing another strike, but Thorin knew what to do. Thorin was ready. He reached back with his axe in hand, feet staggered and spread apart.

The lord of silver fountains.

His whole body twisted forward, and with stunning accuracy, he threw the axe straight for Smaug's heart.

It met its mark.

...shall come into his own!

Smaug roared and writhed in pain, the axe lodged deep within his breast. From where the blade had punctured him, cracks soon appeared – Smaug's chest glowing as the axe worked its destructive magic. Then the great lizard bellowed one last time, and his body cracked like broken glass – and finally shattered.

Golden sparks burst from where the dragon once stood, and Thorin covered his eyes as they went every which way. When all was done and the room had fallen silent, he looked up cautiously...and saw that the dragon was gone. That Smaug had at last been defeated.

Out of breath and hurting worse than he ever had in his life, Thorin stood there in disbelief. A smile slowly spread across his face, and he couldn't help but laugh when he realized that the danger had passed, and that against all odds...he had survived.

Then he remembered Bilbo.

His breath caught and he spun around, seeing Bilbo there still fast asleep. Thorin stumbled over and leaned heavily against the bed, wondering if Bilbo should have woken by now. He heard grumbling and the sound of falling concrete as Gandalf jumped down from the floor above and back into the room.

"Why isn't he awake?" Thorin said, turning to glare at Gandalf.

Gandalf brushed off his robes and glared back. "How would I know? The enchantment should have ended. Perhaps if you give it a moment? So impatient!"

But Thorin was remembering something. It was a wild theory and unlikely to do much of anything, but all he could think of was leaning down and kissing Bilbo lightly on the lips. And so he did it.

It lasted only a few seconds, but it was the sweetest few seconds Thorin had ever known.

And then Bilbo's eyes fluttered open.

"Hmm?" he inquired, blinking the tiredness out of his eyes.

Thorin flinched backward, putting up empty hands in surrender should Bilbo be cross. But the man only yawned and peered at Thorin happily, looking for all the world like he had just woken from a rather pleasant siesta.

Then his smile vanished, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Hold on," he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "Was that a kiss? Were you just kissing me right now?"

"No!" Thorin answered automatically, and then he winced again. "Yes. Sorry."

Bilbo stared at him for a moment before grinning slowly. "That's alright," he said cheerfully. "I'm just sorry I missed it. But where on earth am I? Was I asleep? Holy shit, what a mess! Ooh, wait – "

Bilbo leaned into Thorin's space excitedly. "Was that true love's first kiss?"

Gandalf, who had been shuffling around in the wreckage, threw them both an irritated look. "Of course not," he said crossly, kicking a piece of broken plasterboard away. "This isn't a fairytale!"

Bilbo made a face. "Spoilsport."

"Another gas leak! The world is just falling apart," said Bilbo, slapping down the front page of the newspaper. A picture of the ruins of Smaug's penthouse was on the cover, and Thorin couldn't help but shake his head. Had he truly been that oblivious once? How many gas leaks had really been gas leaks, anyway?

The morning after the battle with Smaug was horrid for both Gandalf and Thorin. Gandalf was still asleep, snoring away in Radagast's room, while Thorin had been up at the crack of dawn as always, unable to ignore his internal clock. His whole body protested any and all movement, but he'd made it to the loo and the kitchen well enough, and then couldn't find the energy to slouch back to bed after that.

Bilbo had taken the initiative and had made him some porridge and tea, and then happily hovered around him like a mother hen.

"At least no one was killed," Bilbo said thoughtfully, popping a piece of toast in his mouth. "You two got the worst of it. How's your arm by the way? Should I change your bandages?"

"In a bit," Thorin told him, smiling softly. "I'm glad you're alright, you know."

Bilbo nudged him with his shoulder playfully. "Me too! And thank you for saving me," he said. "I can't believe you defeated a dragon all by yourself! It's very cinematic!"

"Stupid more like," Thorin scoffed, taking a sip of his tea. "We nearly died multiple times. But it was worth it, in the end, to see you safe."

Bilbo looked at him for a moment, his expression terribly fond. Then he leaned over and kissed Thorin on the cheek.

"Finish your breakfast," he said, and got up to refill the kettle.

Thorin took a few more slow bites, his gritty eyes fixing on the axe and helm leaning casually against the wall. And next to it was the remains of Bilbo's guitar....

"Bilbo," he began, feeling positively wretched. "I'm so sorry about your guitar."

But Bilbo only smiled. "Oh that's alright!" He waved it off. "I can make another. I didn't much like using oak for it anyway. Too heavy...."

He cast a curious glance at the splintered pieces. "Made a great shield though," he added cheekily.

Thorin snorted. "That it did."

After he finished eating he let Bilbo pile gauze and sterile pads on the table, watching as the man bustled around the kitchen. He carried over a round bowl full of hot kettle water, and Thorin obligingly removed his shirt. Bilbo hissed in sympathy when he slowly removed the soiled bandages.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he said, and began to clean the wound.

Thorin's arm would need to be re-wrapped, as well as his leg, and he felt a bit guilty about enjoying Bilbo's ministrations, despite the pain it brought. He liked having Bilbo close, and he especially liked the coddling. Who knew Thorin was so fond of being fussed over? He couldn't help but gaze at the man affectionately as he worked.

"So, I don't mean to be that person," Bilbo began, his attention on Thorin's wound. "But someone has to say it: what now?"

Thorin frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Smaug is gone, and half the hunstman in England are dead. All that's left are people like us. And we still don't have a leader."

Thorin looked away.

"Once word gets around that Smaug isn't in charge anymore, someone or something is going to rush to fill that void. I'm not saying it should be you – "

"But shouldn't it be me?" he interrupted, meeting Bilbo's eyes. "Aren't I...king now?"

"Well, I didn't vote for you."

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he said in amused disbelief.

Bilbo shrugged, a shit-eating grin on his face. "Couldn't help myself. But yeah. I guess you are king. King of...I don't know, a load of people with bizarre talents, probably. But hey, you know what? I think you'll make a splendid king for us. Best we've ever had."

"You haven't had any."

"Exactly!"

He shook his head at Bilbo, but he was smiling. "What about my life, Bilbo? I don't...want to leave it behind. I like my job. I worked hard to get where I am. But most of all I just still want to help people."

Bilbo bit his cheek and looked away thoughtfully. "Well, there's no reason you can't be a king and a cop."

"You're not serious," Thorin laughed, though he didn't find it funny.

"Why not? At least for now you can keep that part of your old life." Bilbo secured the gauze around his chest and sat back with a sigh. "We've got lots of work to do before you're even considered a real king anyway."

Thorin nodded at the table. "That's right, whose to say the magicals will ever acknowledge the crown? Might be a lost cause."

"Not at all!" Bilbo wrapped a gentle arm around his shoulders, hugging him. "People talk, you know, and they'll be talking about this battle for a long time. 'King Thorin' they'll say, 'wielder of axe and broken guitar! A most excellent detective and surprise kisser!'"

Thorin groaned. "I'm never going to live that down."

"Aww, but it was true love!" said Bilbo, giggling. "You woke me from an enchanted sleep and now we're obligated to give it a go! In fact, we can just skip the courting and get right to the se – "

He cut Bilbo off with a kiss. Thorin had to live up to the legend, after all.

"Got one for you, detective," said the desk sergeant, poking his head into Thorin's office.

"Yeah, I'm coming."

Thorin pushed aside his paperwork and slipped on his blazer, walking idly toward the interrogation room. "What's this?" he asked Bofur.

"Lady come in asking for you," Bofur shrugged. "Said she wanted to speak to you alone."

Thorin sighed and nodded, taking the case file Bofur handed to him. He opened the door and slipped inside.

"Heard you wanted to talk to me," said Thorin, cutting to the chase. "What seems to be the problem?"

The red headed woman sitting at the table had an earnest look about her, and her green eyes were bright as she solemnly said, "I'd like to report a crime."

Thorin frowned. "Alright...?"

"It's to do with...one of ours."

His stomach swooped nervously, and he titled his head at her in confusion. "One...one of ours?" he repeated.

"Yes," said the woman. Then she eyed him speculatively. "You...you are King Thorin Oakenshield, aren't you?"

Thorin inhaled, mouth moving but nothing coming out.

"The detective?" she pressed.

He let out a long breath. King Thorin Oakenshield, he thought with an laugh. That was Bilbo all over. And...she had called him a king and a detective. She knew of him. Bilbo was right...word was spreading.

And now it sounded like she needed his help.

He turned his attention back on the woman, who had been waiting very patiently.

"Yes..." Thorin said, smiling a little. "I suppose I am."

Notes:

(1) The Old Walking Song (original)

 (2) derivative of “or so sworn, good or evil, an oath may not be broken, and it shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end.”

 (3) “Down the swift dark stream…” from The Hobbit

 (4) literally what the legend says

 (5) “Song of Durin” from The Fellowship of the Ring

 (6) “The King Beneath the Mountain” from The Hobbit

#30 day otp challenge #bagginshield #hobbit fic #part II #ugh tumblr app why

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