#the texture in the robes in the last one really struck me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

juneknight · 7 months

Text

One and One and One

Kink: cuckolding

Layla/f!reader/Marc

Features: cuckolding, cumming untouched, strap-ons, oral sex, mentions of safewords.

“Can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Marc murmurs beneath his breath as you cuff his hands behind his back to the slats of the chair. One of his ankles are cuffed to the chair legs—though why he and Layla only have one cuff, you have no idea. This is the closest you’ve ever been to Marc. Close enough that you can see his every eyelash, the different dark hues in his irises, the little indentation in the tip of his nose. As close as you are, you know that he is scrutinizing you as well, dark eyes sweeping over the plains of your face. You wonder if he can feel the heat being thrown off by your cheeks.

“I didn’t talk you into this,” you remind him shyly. “Layla did.”

Marc’s mouth—full and pink and so fucking soft looking—quirks upward at the edges. “I can’t believe you let her talk you into this.”

“Me either,” you admit dryly.

You can’t, really. You and Layla had been friends for so many years—and yes there had been a few nights when you were younger that you had explored each other physically and romantically, but it had been so long. When she came to you and admitted Marc had this fantasy, and that her only caveat was that you be their partner. Did she know about your (harmless!) little crush on Marc? Surely she knew about your (even more harmless!) crush on her.

Regardless, if Layla’s stories were anything to go by, she and Marc got up to some very kinky stuff.

Have you ride Layla while Marc watched might take the cake, though.

“Getting friendly?” Layla asks when she comes in, wearing only one of her satin-silky robes, the hem of which brushes just above her knees. You can see her hard nipples through the fabric. Layla loves having her breasts stimulated—suckled, nibbled, fondled. Maybe she’ll let you do more than just ride her strap-on before the night is over.

“I’m having second thoughts,” Marc says lowly, eyes flickering back and forth between the two of you. “Mostly thinking that I’m an idiot for agreeing to let myself be tied up when you’re both in the room having sex.”

“You know your safeword,” Layla says with a grin. She looks to you and mouths ‘Moon’. You nod to let her know you understand. Her smile only grows at your obedience. Turning to face you head-on, she lets her hands fall to your hips. She ducks her head and kisses you, and you are already moaning into her mouth. Layla kisses like she does everything in life: with honed practice, with passion. You hear the cuffs rattle as Marc fights against his bonds, and it only makes you realize how wet you are, how wet you have been all night, so eager for dinner to be over so that the three of you could begin this.

“Fuck,” Marc groans. “Untie me. Let me out.”

“No,” Layla says after parting from you reluctantly. You chase her mouth a little and she laughs at how desperate you are.

“Fucking—I mean it Layla!”

“He likes to be a little brat,” Layla whispers to you conspiratorially. Her hand comes up to cup your cheek. “But you—you’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

You nod, feeling struck dumb by her.

“Let’s find you a nice big cock get fucked by, huh?” she says with a grin, her cheeks flushed warm and eyes glittering with mirth and mischief. She goes to the bed where the different dildos lay out like hor’dourves to be sampled. They are all of different length or girth or color, some textured, others smooth. Whispering just loud enough for Marc to hear, she asks: “Shall we choose one that’s bigger than his? So that we can feel what it’s like to really get fucked?”

“I’ll show you what it’s like,” Marc vows darkly.

“I wouldn’t know which to pick,” you admit. It’s not as if you’ve ever seen Marc’s cock.

“Hmm, my choice, then,” she says, tapping her chin. At last she settles on a monster—if she truly was trying to find one that was bigger than Marc’s and this was her last resort, then Marc must be pretty well hung. You can’t help but glance toward him, taking in the picture he makes. Dressed in only his jeans and the white t-shirt he had changed into after spilling soy sauce on his dress-shirt at dinner, his muscles bulge against his bonds as he tests them again and again. His eyes are unfathomably dark, his breaths fast and shallow.

His cock, hard and pressing at the denim confines. When his eyes meet yours, you feel liable to explode. You turn away quickly, just as Layle focuses on you. She undresses you with gentle, tender touches, pausing every now and then to stroke a new expanse of skin until you sigh with pleasure.

When she works the lacy little set of panties down your hips, she holds them up to Marc like a spoil of war, her expression smug.

“Be a good boy, or I’ll gag you with these,” she warns him. Marc opens his fucking mouth. Layla breathes an incredulous little laugh. “Oh, you want them anyway? Proactive. What a good little slut you make, baby.”

She goes to him and feeds the scrappy piece of lace into his mouth. Stepping aside, she rifles through the bedside drawer for a moment to find a ball with a bell inside. She presses it into his hand: a non-verbal safe word. His knuckles stand out as he grips the ball tightly, perhaps silently trying to show that he wouldn’t be dropping it—not for anything.

Layla comes back to you and kisses you until you’re dizzy. Her hands trace along you, relearning the plains of your body the way they did all those years ago when the two of you first explored each other and your sexualities. Her fingers are nimble when they find your nipples, plucking at them softly in a way that has you breaking from her mouth to gasp. Your head turns and you take in the sight of Marc: his hard cock an impressive bulge in his pants, your panties in his mouth, his eyes heavy-lidded and burning hot.

Then Layla’s hand slips down between your thighs and you nearly shout as two of her fingers swipe through your folds, finding your aching clit and smearing your own arousal against it. “Oh Marc,” says Layla, looking to him with a wide grin. “She is so, so wet.”

Marc makes a pathetic little sound. This bit of weakness is like blood in the water to the shark inside Layla. She slips away from you again, holding up her soaked fingers for him to inspect in the dim lighting. Then she smears them across his parted lips, knowing that he will be unable to taste you with your panties in his mouth. Marc’s eyes roll back; he is the picture of tortured ecstasy.

“Fuck, Layla,” you whine, rubbing your thighs together. “Come on, please…”

She slaps Marc’s chest softly. “See what you made me do? I’m neglecting our girl.”

You shiver at those words, at being called their girl. God, this is only meant to be a one-time thing, but you have known for so long that no time with Layla would ever be the last time. Flushed warm with her ownership, you drop down onto your knees and crawl to her, heart pounding at the way Marc groans at the sight. You sit on your heels and open your mouth, a silent invitation.

Layla’s fingers stroke your face softly. “I have two little sluts…you want to suck my cock, baby?”

“Uh-huh,” you breathe, mouth open. She rests two fingers on your tongue and you suck softly.

“I’ll let you suck my dick—on one condition.”

“Anything,” you mumble around her fingers. She removes them and takes your chin in her hand, your own saliva smearing across your cheek as she tilts your eyes up to her.

“When you suck my cock, I want you to pretend it’s Marc’s.”

Marc’s groan is mirrored by your own. Your eyes flicker to him, your face burning hot. His eyes are wide and dark, tracing over the plains of your face. Beneath the lust, you can almost see the question: would you do this? If you did agree to do this—why? Marc has no idea that feelings that have started to grow inside you the day that Layla introduced you both.

You didn’t know that Layla had any idea either. But when your eyes flicker back up to her, you see the warmth in them, the silent assurance. She wants you to do this. Almost as badly as you do.

Instead of turning away, you press out your tongue. The perfect place for her to rest the head of her fake cock. Your eyes flutter shut as you try to imagine it the way she says, to imagine that this is Marc’s cock you’re sucking. Instead of plastic, there would be warm, soft skin. Velvet overlaying steel. His smell would be all around you, that earthy shower gel he uses (and you use, sometimes, when you stay the night. Just to smell like him).

Marc would feed his cock past your lips til the fat head nudges against the back of your mouth at the entrance of your throat, and still you would want more, swallowing your drool tilting your head to hopefully be able to take more of him into your mouth. Fingers twine into your hair, and it only enhances your fantasy when they guide you up and down their cock, using your mouth for their own pleasure. That is how Marc would be; you’re sure of it: confident, entitled, even as he is gentle.

A choked sound catches your attention, jolting you from this little fantasy. Layla pulls your head back by your hair, and both of you turn to look at Marc whose head is thrown back, arms straining at his bonds. A growing stain at the tented crotch of his jeans…

“Oh my god, baby, did you just cum? Did you just fucking cum?” Layla asks, voice growing higher with barely restrained glee. Her thumb swipes over your swollen lips, but you can’t even turn to look at her, not when Marc’s face is red, his chest heaving, his cock still twitching in his pants as he just watched Layla fuck your mouth.

Marc groans, writhing more. His demand is clear. He wants out.

Layla turns your head up so that you meet her eyes again. They are warm, pupils huge with arousal and the dim lighting. She grins, pretty mouth stretching wide with joy.

“He wants me to set him free—but we’re not finished yet, are we love?”

You shake your head. No, the night is just beginning—even for Marc.

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x layla el faouly #marc spector x layla el faouly x reader

264 notes · View notes

jordanstrophe · 3 years

Text

War of Royalty

CW: Medieval whump, slavery, taken by royalty, manhandling, noncon holding, dragging, injured whumpee with a seasoning of angst

Masterlist

The slave stood trembling before the gates of the king’s palace, adorned in white silky clothes with their body soaked in the finest oils just for this moment. They bit their lip, their fingers woven together to hide their trembling.

They jumped when the gates creaked open, two guards ushering them in with urgency. Whumpee locked up, glancing between the two guards.

“Hey, you wanna lose your head? His highness is expecting you, get in there!” The guard barked. “Y-yes sir!” Whumpee gasped. They apparently took too long as their arm was grabbed by a cold metal glove and drug through the gates.

‘Could I really lose my head?...’ They thought. If they weren't frightened before, they certainty were now. They kept their head low, hating how their panicked steps matched the rhythm of their pounding heart.

They glanced up just enough they could see the King’s heels resting at the base of his throne. They reached the stairs, crumbling to their knees when their arm was released. They instantly pressed their forehead to the red carpet, shuttering when a wave of dread washed over them. They took a deep breath, holding it as they waited for the king's approval.

“Your majesty, your slave is presenting itself.” The guard hid a scoff behind his voice. “Ah! There you are.” The king spoke, shuffling a scroll back into shape. Whumpee’s head began to throb at the lack of oxygen, biting their lip as they refused to take a breath.

The king paused, noticing the slave's pale complexion. “Breath, little dear, you have nothing to fear.” He spoke.

Whumpee finally took a gasping breath, hearing the king let out that same old chuckle. As calming and light-hearted as it was, it still felt like a nail being hammered to their heart each time.

“Come now, I want a good look at you. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced yet.” He spoke. Whumpee slowly raised their head, staying on their knees with their hands folded in their lap. Their eyes didn’t go any higher than his knee, desperate to see his face, but not daring to test his patience.

The king stood from his throne, climbing down the steps until he was standing before the slave. Whumpee closed their eyes with a flinch when his hand came into view. The king hesitated at their reaction, but continued until he took both of their hands. The touch was gentle as they were lifted from their knees, his hold remaining in their grasp. Whumpee cringed to keep themselves lower than the king's shoulder, trying to show as much submission in hopes to keep their head...

Two fingers touched their chin, tilting their head up until they both saw each other's faces. “There you are.” The king whispered, moving his hand to cup their cheek. “It’s nice to finally see your face, especially not caked in mud now, hmm?” He smiled.

Whumpee was struck with awe, surprised to find the king had a soft expression. His brown hair swept back from his golden crown, a faint grey streak forming in the chisel of his beard. Whumpee instantly tore their eyes from his gaze, bowing with as much posture as they could muster with their torn whipped back.

“My lord... I am at your mercy. Whatever you will have of me, I will take it with obedience.” Whumpee pleaded, feeling like they were begging for their life.

They didn’t know why they were here, probably just another slave to tend the grounds. But they would be lying if they assumed the worst; to be nothing but an object torn to pieces, a broken toy to be abused by anyone who pleased.

“Oh, no no no. You’re not at my mercy, little one. You're at my hospitality.” He laughed.

“wh-... what?” Whumpee rasped, feeling a chill running up their spine.

The soft leathery glove squeezed their jaw, lilting their head up. “Do you have a name?” He asked. Whumpee gulped, shivering at their frozen blood. Traditionally, a slave took an abbreviation of their owner's last name. If they got sold or passed around, then their name changed with the household.

“My name is... Whatever my lord pleases it to be.” Whumpee instantly bowed their head, feeling the king sigh at their over-politeness.

“Well then, do you know my name?” He asked, his brow raising.

“Of course, your majesty. Your name is Arvand Otois Edetheirend the ll.” Whumpee glanced up with a tiny wince, hoping they pronounce it correctly. They had no other education aside from the chanting on the street.

The king smiled, the cup against Whumpee’s cheek turned into a playful pinch. “That’s correct! It’s easily mispronounced, It’s quite entertaining at banquets when the bellman's faces turn red when they struggle.” He chuckled.

His arm then wrapped around Whumpee’s back as they stiffened, guiding them up the stairs as he sank within his throne. “Come.” He waved, tapping Whumpee’s hand until they took it.

They gasped when their arm pulled them right into the king’s lap, enveloped into the soft fabric of his robes. Their cheek pressed against his chest with their hands resting on each of the king's shoulders, their body shot full with adrenaline.

“You’re alright, don’t be frightened.” He cooed, feeling the slave tremble in his arms, he curled his fingers in the soft texture of their hair.

“Your name is Edan, household of the king Arvand Edetheirend the ll. From now on, you will answer when I summon you, you will obey my every command and you will serve directly underneath me. Do you understand?”

No.

Whumpee didn’t understand at all.

“Yes, my lord.” He whispered quietly, softly closing his eyes.

(Last tag for prompts. Baby got a name, hence dunking them into the OC bowl :D)

ʕっ• ᴥ • ʔっ Thank you for reading!~ @tears-and-lilies @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @starnight-whump @bumpthumpwhump @a-series-of-whumpy-events

@grizzlie70 @alien-octopus @lave-whump @amethysts-sideblog @whump-it-like-its-hot @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight @yet-another-heathen @princessofonward @whatwhumpcomments @ill-eat-you-if-you-cross-me @mascmasochist @hamiltonwhumpdump @shokuhoemisaki @as-a-matter-of-whump @whumpasaurus101

#medieval whump #whump #whumpee #slavery whump #noncon carried #injured whumpee #royalty whump #adopted whumpee #forcefully held #royal caretaker #whump angst #creepy caretaker

171 notes · View notes

gusu-emilu · 3 years

Text

miscellaneous MDZS/CQL fic recs (AO3)

broken into sections: Character Study (-esque), Wangxian, Jiang Cheng ships, Yi City (or Yi City-adjacent), Humor/Crack, and Other

Character Study (-esque)

Wei Wuxian

my eyes got used to the darkness by @curiosity-killed (M, Sunshot Campaign era, 4.4k): The funny thing, the thing that makes his lips curl in a grin and his hands shake with laughter, is that all these cultivators with their lofty principles and noble ambitions can’t even notice the ghost among them. Sure, they shiver at his presence and flinch from his cold hands, but not one of them puts it together. Lan Wangji chases him with healing music and Nie Mingjue frowns solemnly at his dancing corpses—and he laughs and laughs and laughs because they just don’t get it. Emilu's commentary: CW for mild body horror.

Jiang Cheng

in our respective ways by @veliseraptor (T, Sunshot Campaign era, 5.7k): Jiang Cheng has his golden core back. But he seems to have lost Wei Wuxian.

You Know I've Fallen, but I Know How High by villainais (M, Post-WWX's death, 2.7k): Jiang Cheng loses both of his siblings in Nightless City. Minutes apart. He trudges home to Yunmeng with one body, holds a private funeral with a single coffin, and allows himself to wear his mourning robes for ten days—permits himself not a single day more. He is still too young and inexperienced, an unfledged boy to the cultivation world, and he is rebuilding Lotus Pier on his own. He will not gift the other sect leaders the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable. Propriety be damned. Hanguang-jun emerges from his seclusion wearing white. He does not stop.

Nie Huaisang

it deepens like a coastal shelf by @wolffyluna (M, Post-WWX's death, 21.6k): When Nie Huaisang meets Mo Xuanyu, he realises two things quickly. One, this kid is so doomed. Two, this kid would be a great unwitting spy in his plans to bring down Jin Guangyao. It would be so easy to get into Mo Xuanyu's confidences, and so easy to get him to tell him anything he needs. ...only thing is, that wouldn't be very good for Mo Xuanyu's life expectancy. But he'll do it anyway, if it helps him avenge his brother. A fic about man handing on misery to man, the parallels and cycles in the relationships between Jin Guangyao and Nie Huaisang and Mo Xuanyu, and the lengths these characters will go to meet their goals and if there are lines they won't cross.

Lan Xichen

an old man in dried mouths by @tenacious-minds (T, Post-Canon, 3.3k): Xichen thinks. The tea had always stained the crockery red. Emilu's commentary: Lan Xichen and Jin Ling talk about Jin Guangyao.

can you be a quiet man? by @basket-of-loquats (Unrated, Post-Canon, 70.7k+) But something inside him snapped at Guanyin Temple-- and Lan Wangji watched it happen, saw the exact moment that Lan Xichen went from broken to shattered, when he buried his sword into Jin Guangyao’s chest, when his sworn brother stared up at him with wide eyes, blood dripping from his mouth, when he pulled himself closer and closer and closer-- When he whispered "Why don’t you die with me?", and Lan Xichen hadn’t argued. Emilu's commentary: Lan Xichen / therapy with a side of Wangxian.

Wen Ning

breathless (but i'll pretend to breathe for you) by swordsainted (T, Burial Mounds Settlement era, 4.1k): Wei Wuxian is silent for a long minute, and then he looks at Wen Ning, something raw and open and hurting behind his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time, and Wen Ning shakes his head, still smiling. “You’ve protected everyone. How could I hate you for that?”

Mo Xuanyu

stand at the pit's mouth by @eldritch-elrics (M, MXY's death, 9.3k): The dreams and regrets of a man on the edge of oblivion. Emilu's commentary: Surrealist/absurdist screenplay.

Wangxian

I would wait for a thousand years by bleuett (T, Immortality Post-Canon, 10.4k): During the worst of winter, a traveler comes to stay at Lan Wangji's inn. He wears a red ribbon in his hair. “Do you see the rabbit?” Wei Ying asks and points at the moon. “That’s the moon rabbit, he helps make Chang’e more immortality elixir. He keeps Chang’e company.” “I do not wish the rabbit for company,” Lan Wangji says tightly. “You are the one I want by my side.” “And I’m here, Lan Zhan. If you go to the moon, I’ll follow you, I’ll always be here now.” Emilu's commentary: Lan Wangji meets Wei Wuxian centuries later and does not remember the past. There is also an excellent podfic by @forgotten-envies

Look Not With The Eyes by Spodumene (G, Post-Canon, 28.1k): Wei Wuxian returns from his travels to join Lan Wangji on a routine night hunt, but when things take an unexpected turn, Wei Wuxian will have to fight for what he's really looking for. Emilu's commentary: Case fic.

All In A Good Time by bigboobedcanuck (E, Post-Canon, 8k): Lan Zhan is struck by a curse that brings him intense physical pain unless he's being touched. He is stoic and tries to hide his suffering. Wei Wuxian is worried and protective. Perhaps they will finally admit their feelings?

Across a Lake of Glass by Zizzani (E, Figure Skating AU, 92.2k+): Each year, Gusu Skating Club runs a camp for only the most elite athletes of each region. This year brings a new skater from the Yunmeng Club who wears skates lined with red and a smile made for war. He skates like a demon. Figure skating au featuring lots of healthy rivalry, pre and post-competition bonding, and an inexplicable fall from grace through the eyes of the media.

Jiang Cheng Ships

Chengqing

display my heart for you to see by @souridealist (M, Post-Canon Wen Qing Lives AU, 5.5k): Jiang Cheng has his own secrets. Some of them are part of the unburied past; some of them are about how long it's been since anyone has touched him.

while I'm in this body by @souridealist (E, Post-Lotus Pier Massacre, 3.9k): For just a few minutes, alone in her office, Wen Qing allows her self-control to slip enough to cry. It's just her luck that that's when Jiang Cheng comes looking for her. Emilu's commentary: Femdom.

Chengning

it may be that it doesn't matter by @wildehacked (T, Post-Canon, 6.6k) “Are you crying?” Jiang Wanyin asks him, and Wen Ning frowns. Pats his cheek with one hand. “No.” Emilu's commentary: Holy Grail of Chengning.

Whatever It Is by morau (E, Post-Canon, 20.5k): It starts, as with a lot of things, with a very poorly thought out prank, courtesy of Wei Wuxian. Emilu's commentary: A LOT of sex and even more emotions lol

won't run away (we're here to stay) by @qi-ling (T, Post-Canon, 3.5k): "Please don't feel any pressure to accept this, and you can take as much time as you need to think about it." It's a set of robes, in shades of deep purple, complete with leather bracers. Cut in a different style than that of the disciples or household staff, closer to the understated robes Wen Ning typically wears. He reaches out to feel the fabric. His deadened nerves can't sense delicate textures well, but even he can tell it's of a quality on par to Wanyin's own wardrobe. This is startling enough coming from Jiang Wanyin, but then Wen Ning notices the belt. In particular, the silver bell in the shape of a lotus affixed to it. Only recognized members of the Jiang sect may wear the clarity bell. Or, Jiang Cheng has an invitation for Wen Ning.

Zhancheng

By Proxy by @veliseraptor (E, Post-WWX's death, 12k): Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji, looking for comfort in all the wrong places. Emilu's commentary: Hate sex that made me cry

Yi City (or Yi City-adjacent)

Songxuexiao

Heaven Has A Road But No One Walks It by @silvysartfulness (M, Post-Yi City arc Canon Divergence, 123k+): One of the most complex spells of demonic cultivation the world has seen is brought to fruition, and Xiao Xingchen draws his first shaking breaths in over seven years. This, it turns out, is only the start of his problems. Emilu's commentary: Pretty sure everyone already knows about Silvy's happy songxuexiao road trip fic but it has to be here.

Xue Yang & Lan Xichen

Hours On Empty series by @lady-of-the-lotus (M to E, Post-Canon, 57.8k+): AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen. "Fractured Ice" - Xue Yang whisks a nihilistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? "Control" - "Fractured Ice" retold from Xue Yang's pov. "A Thousand Miles In Its Light" - Alternate ending to "Fractured Ice" and "Control"

Songxiao with Xuexiao Flashbacks

Nothing Beside Remains by @eldritch-elrics (T, Post-Yi City arc Canon Divergence, 21.9k): And Xiao Xingchen is dressed in dark clothing that is not his, and his sight is all of a sudden sharp in a way that it has never been before, and Xue Yang is not here. “He wouldn’t,” he breathes. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s too—” “He’s too what?” Wei Wuxian steps a foot closer, face hard-set. “Too cruel? Or too kind?” Or: Xue Yang uses the Sacrifice Summon on Xiao Xingchen. Xiao Xingchen lives with the consequences.

Humor/Crack

The Hangover: A pre-wedding Dramedy series by natcat5 (M, Modern AU, 51.6k): It is not a bachelor party. That was made clear on all the invitations. It is a congratulatory get together for Jin Zixuan, attended by his family, the family of the bride, and the young masters of the other two families in their circle. The gathering is not to go later than midnight, everyone must drink in moderation, and no one is allowed to be hungover tomorrow. Wei Wuxian had promised Yanli, three fingers in the air. Jiang Cheng had rolled his eyes, but promised as well. Saturday morning, Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng wake up alone in a hotel room, missing shoes, phones, and almost all their memories of what in the world happened last night. Also missing: Wei Wuxian, brother of the bride, Lan Wangji, esteemed guest, Lan Xichen, esteemed guest, Jin Zixun, cousin of the groom, Jin Guangyao, brother and best-man, Jin Zixuan, THE GROOM, who is due at his bride-to-be's house in six hours. That's plenty of time to find everyone...right?

Jiang Cheng Loves Jar Jar Bombad Mui by @lady-of-the-lotus (G, Post-Canon, 1.7k) Jar Jar Binks washes up on the shores of Lotus Pier. Can he win the lonely Jiang Cheng's proud heart? Neb neb answer is yesa. Emilu's commentary: There's also a podfic by @aowyn. Yes, with a Jar Jar voice.

Other

Nie Huaisang & Wen Ning

By Name by nirejseki (G, Post-Canon, 1.3k): After the traumatic events in the now-collapsed temple, Wen Ning lingered behind and unexpectedly saw Nie Huaisang, the undisputed victor of an all-around terrible evening, sitting on the steps of the temple, looking exhausted and miserable, as if he’d won nothing at all. Wen Ning found himself drifting over to him.

Jiang Yanli & Nie Mingjue

utility by magicites (G, Arranged Marriage AU, 2.3k): Jiang Yanli and Nie Mingjue's wedding is a political one — a gesture of unity between their Sects. A way for her parents to finally get some use out of the plain-faced sham of a cultivator they call a daughter. “Jiang-guniang,” Nie Mingjue says, and the formality in such a setting as intimate as their wedding chambers startles her, “I don’t wish to bed you. Or any other woman, for that matter. It isn’t fair for you to live alone because of my own preferences.” She rests her hand on his arm, cool relief flooding her body like water on a summer afternoon. “If it helps, I don’t feel desire for men,” she whispers.

Jin Guangyao / Nie Huaisang

Pulling Strings by @eldritch-elrics (E, Post-WWX's death, 5k): Nie Huaisang, quite drunk, turns up at Jin Guangyao’s door one night with an unexpected request. Emilu's commentary: Nie Huaisang knows Jin Guangyao killed Nie Mingjue. This interaction is more symbolic than anything else...

#mdzs #cql #the untamed #mdzs fanfiction #cql fanfiction #the untamed fanfiction #mdzs fanfic #cql fanfic #the untamed fanfic #fic recs #emilu talks #emilu creations

113 notes · View notes

thedevillionaire · 3 years

Text

Illusionary

Cerberus, Kia, domestic bedroom snz scene with a little magic, little romance? Hmm, yeah, sounds like me. 😏 --- Wrapped in a full-length darkest burgundy dressing robe, feeling somewhat refreshed but still more than a little coldhazy, Cerberus emerges post-shower to the sight of Kia, changed from her earlier black velvet bodice and jeans into a burnished deep gold satin negligee, lying on her stomach across the bed, head resting on her hands, attention fixed on the Testing papers in front of her. He pauses at the threshold, leans against the door frame to simply look at her awhile, silently enraptured, a soft smile on his face.

:Just so you know, babe,: Mindsends Kia, keeping her eyes on the papers, :it’s not possible for you to enter a room and not be noticed.: She glances back over her shoulder at him and grins wickedly. “You’d be a terrible spy.”

Cerberus chuckles, walking over to settle beside her on the bed. “Hard to argue given the circumstances, I suppose.” He toys with her hair, looking down at the papers. “Which Level are you applying for?” A light sniffle, and he frowns slightly, rubs his nose against an irritation rising anew.

“6.” Kia sighs. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I can get that, but…I don’t know, I’m not…evenly skilled across the options or something.” She rolls over to sit up, cross-legged. “There’s a bunch of stuff I can do really well, and some other stuff I’m…just not very good at, I guess.” She gives him a rueful smile. “But I think if I maybe…”

“What is it you’re not sure of?” Cerberus reaches across her and picks up the papers, flicking through them as he moves to sit leaning back against the bedhead, rearranging the array of pillows and cushions to suit. Another sniffle, more sharply this time and he recognises the battle as lost, his focus dissolving captive to undeniable need, and he turns from Kia in surrender to an adversary already his conqueror many times over today. “HHAHTSSCCHU! Damn it, I swear Healing deal in placebos. Comple…ehh-HH ..completely…hh… Ahh-HEHTSSCH-uu!” He sniffles again and fixes Kia with a look conveying irrefutable vindication, raises an eyebrow. “*snf!*Hm? As evidenced. Completely ineffectual,” he states with authority, and takes several tissues from the box on the bedside. “Excuse me a mome… hh-HH... Oh, for f… HHAHTSSCCHU! Ah, gods. *SNF!* Pardon me, love.” He blows his nose in an attempt to stop any further irritation, at least in the short term, though he holds very little faith in that regard, and incinerates the tissues in a flashblaze of aetherfire.

“Bless you, sweetheart,” Kia says, gently strokes his forearm. “I’m fairly sure the meds have helped a bit, though,” she suggests. “Compared to earlier, at least.”

“Oh, well, yes, I’m sure I’ve had at least ten minutes respite here and there,” mutters Cerberus sardonically, though he concedes to his bonded’s wry smirk quickly enough, places a kiss on her forehead. “Ah, I’m sorry, darkling. It’s just that as a rule, I’m rather fond of breathing.” Resting back against the pillows once more, he sighs again, absently rubs his nose, and returns his attention to the papers, making a quiet hum of thought as he flicks through them, in consideration.

“Sweetheart?” Kia, curious, shuffles up along the bed a little more to kneel beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, trying to read what he was reading. “What are you doing?”

Cerberus points to the skillset of Illusion, listed as a subcategory within Hypnotics, several thick and emphatic lines scrawled beneath it. “This is underlined because…?”

Kia scoffed. “Because I suck at it,” she says, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, I can do the basics, but…” She looks up at him, nestling into him, trailing absent patterns across his chest with her fingers. “It’s just…it’s like…you have to sort of direct what someone else sees, so it’s…putting your images into their eyes without actually seeingthrough their eyes, so you don’t know if it’s actually working, you just kind of have to hope for it, and I can’t figure out when it is working so then I get distracted and the whole thing pretty much falls apart.”

“It’s a skill Demonics covers as well.” Cerberus kisses the top of her head, draping an arm across her as he drops the papers in his lap.

Kia stares at him, taken aback. “You can do this?!”

“Well, I don’t use it widely, nor is it my forte, but…”

“Oh, oh, oh! Want to take my Test for me?” Kia gives him a playful entreating look. “Just, I don’t know, shapeshift or something. Is that a thing? You can do that, right? I’ll let you wear whatever you like. Oh my god, I bet you’d be super-hot as me.”

Cerberus collapses into laughter, and she laughs with him, her heart warming as it always does when he loses himself to delight, and particularly now, with him unwell. She repositions herself to settle beside him, kissing him tenderly as she does so, and picks up the papers in one hand, resting her other hand on his thigh. “Alright, alright, okay, I know. I’ll take my own stupid Test. It’s mostly Vampirism specific, anyway. But still…” A devilish grin darts across her face and she bats her eyelashes at him with exaggerated flirtation. :Super-hot.:

Smiling, Cerberus looks down and shakes his head in an ill-advised move that brings about yet another stark reminder of the throbbing sinus headache he’s only just managed to almost forget. He winces slightly and does his best to ignore it. Claiming the honeyed tea from the bedside tray, he reheats it with a touch, and takes a sip. “Well, darkling,” he says, “perhaps not quite that, um…absolute, but I certainly owe you any favours I can offer at this point, so if you’ll allow me—” He kisses her forehead. “—to revisit a request that you once asked of me… Drop your Protect.”

Kia’s eyes widen and she looks up at him, confused, curious. “Why? Do you even need me to?”

“No, love, technically I don’t. But I’d prefer to have your consent, if you’ll give it.”

“For what? I mean, sure, of course, babe, but…”

And then Kia loses her words, struck voiceless, astonished, and reaches her hand out to feel for a bed that is no longer there, finding instead only the soft moss and verdure of a rainforest glade, the gentle sensation of vivid greenery under her touch; lush, thick and rampant plantlife above her, beneath her, beside her, in sensory undeniability. She turns rapidly, looking everywhere around her, unable to comprehend what’s happening even as the very atmosphere changes, the dark, thick, wet scent of fernery, pines, rich soils, and peat surrounding her, immersive and entirely real, solid, incontrovertible. The sky darkens to gunmetal greyblue, stormclouded and windswept, and the crash of distant thunder seems to vibrate the air itself. Sky? But there can’t be sky. Where’s the…where’s the ceiling? What…

“Honey?” she asks, questioning, her own voice feeling like a foreignness, seeking her love who isn’t where he had been mere seconds ago, and she runs her hand along the bark of a nearby tree, one of several, the texture rough and actual, definite. She pushes it, pushes harder; it does not yield. The thunder echoes again, muted but resonant, a certainty, and the heavy cloudcover darkens with it, bringing further shadow to the dell. Shifting her position and reaching for familiarity does nothing to transform the verdant rolling hills back into the furniture she knows so well – oak and cast iron and ornate fabric lost to, consumed by, this wilderness she’s breathing. The landscape stretches out endless and impossibly vast; bedroom walls stay invisible, dissolved. There are no hard angles. No corners. Thunder once more but softer, as if moving away. Wisps of phosphorescence dartdance across thickets and brush, phantasmal. She curls her toes against some lichen at her feet.

:Know this, love,: Cerberus Mindsends almost as if in echo, in memory, to the bone, and Kia spins around to face him, seated beside her but on the opposite side to where she last saw him, dressed as if for a fog-covered moorside in a thick cable-knit sweater and fleecelined suede coat, which she knows is not possible this is not possible it cannot be possible how can he do this how can anyone oh my god definitely not reality but still the only tangible perception she can make, and she isn’t at all sure she can speak to him and she tries to see what she knows to be real, where she knows she must be sitting, but she simply can’t, and she plucks a honeysuckle flower off a nearby creeping vine that has to be fictitious and yet it somehow isn’t, marvelling as she turns it over in her hands, touching its petals, breathing its sweet perfume.

“You’re extraordinary,” she whispers, tears in her eyes.

:Close your eyes a moment, darkling, and immerse. Remember this. Understand this.:

And feeling the reassuring touch of his hand on hers, she closes her eyes as requested, reopening them after just a brief time to see again the bedroom that she’d logically known she’d never left, only then consciously recognising that he could not have taken her hand in that way from where she’d thought she’d seen him last, and she gazes up at him, open-mouthed in astonishment, for the shortest of moments before reaching up to trace her fingers along the contours of his face, almost as if to confirm his existence. “How are you even…” she murmurs in wonder, before calling herself back to reality somewhat.

She takes a moment to rebalance, breathes deeply, recentering. “Okay.” She exhales slowly. “Alright. Okay, that was…wow, that was completely amazing and… I love you but that was… If that’s what I’m meant to do… I mean, I could feel it. I held a flower. Fuck, babe. I have enough trouble even getting an image to form. A single image. You…you made a world. There’s no way I can do that.”

“You most certainly can, love,” counters Cerberus, “and, in fact, will. Should bring you up to a Level 8 grading, I’d imagine.” He presses his index finger then the back of his hand against his nose, frowning a little at a building itch, sniffling. “Excuse me. You just, um…recall the memory, enter in and redirect, adjusting for context. You’ll only be working with mortal capacity for resistance, also, if I recall the Vampirism protocol for this sort of thing correctly, so it sh…should be…” His breath hitches, the returning urgency stealing his sentence; he excuses himself with haste and turns from Kia, succumbing desperate, heavy, absolute. “AhhHEHTSSCHuu!”

“Bless you!”

He raises an index finger and gives the briefest shake of his head, brow creased, and frozen in thrall to the crescendo of oncoming need; he takes an imposed moment, expectant, and another, inhaling shallow scissored twice and over, then deep, deeper still.

And again.

“hh-HH… Hh-TSSCHhuu!”

And oh he does not want to concede, but again.

“HMPTch! HHKTchu!” His attempt at resistance proves no contest against the still insistent, overwhelming tickle, and he gives over completely this time, abandoning any further fight. “Hh-TSSCH-uu! ah-hh… AHHTSSCHUU! Ah, gods.”

Kia’s own breath comes a touch uncertain too as she purrs a honeytoned, “Bless you, sweetheart.”

Cerberus exhales tiredly, pushes silken ebony disorder back from his face with one hand while claiming several tissues with the other. “Thanks, love,” he murmurs, adding a sotto voce curse or two about the entire situation. “Pardon me.” He blows his nose, a little more gingerly now, sniffles again and sighs, repeats the process. Ridiculous.

A thought suddenly occurs to Kia that piques her interest far too much to not to ask it. “So, um…what would have happened if you’d sneezed during that whole…you know, ‘the bedroom is a forest now’ performance?”

Cerberus wipes his nose a final time before vaporising the latest used tissue collection. He chuckles quietly, clears his throat. “You’d best tell me, I think.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t, though. I would have…” Kia breaks off, examines her beloved’s expression with wary sidelong glance, considering whether there was any chance of...

No. With a faint scoff, she rejects the possibility, positive, confident. “No, you did not. There’s no way I don’t hear that.”

“If you say so, love.”

She frowns. “You’re right here. I am next to you in the bed.”

“Yes, it’s wonderful.” He flashes her a candid, disarming smile. “My favourite thing.”

Laughing, Kia pushes him in play. “Well, mine too, sweetheart, but that’s not what I meant and you know it,” she says before returning to her point. “You did not sneeze during that, though. No way. It just isn’t… Nope. You’re teasing me.”

“Well.” Cerberus once again brings newly steaming heat to the cup of tea with a touch, the very slightest of smiles crossing his face. “I admit that thunder is rather a cliché, but I didn’t have a great deal of time to consider intricacy of plot.”

“You di… But…” Kia stares at him in complete bafflement. “How?!”

“Illusion, darkling.” He stretches an idle arm across her shoulders, presses a kiss to her temple. “This is how it works.”

“Are you serious?!” Kia shakes her head in amazement. “God, do I even know what reality is?!” She gives a half laugh of incredulity, simultaneously astounded and utterly unsurprised at the variety of skills her beloved seems able to just call to command at will. “Okay, okay, and…so now because you…set me up, is that right, I can just, what, do that now? Oh. Ohh, whoa now, wait a second. Hang on.” She gives him a sly look, comprehension dawning. “Did you just do my homework for me?”

Cerberus laughs softly, a little darkly. “Consider it a crash course. Anyway, I know that you are in fact highly skilled in…not unrelated areas. I certainly know you can direct events. Your truly…outstanding talent with Immerse and Possess proves it. I suspect you just weren’t sure where to begin in this case.” He gives her a gentle smile. “You have an advantage, love. You should use it.”

Kia smiles back. “Oh, I’ll use you alright. I mean, use it.” She winks, laughing again. “I liked your mountain man look, by the way. Do you even have a cable-knit sweater?"

Cerberus raises an eyebrow. "What? You dressed me in a sweater?"

“I dressed you? What?"

“My direction only goes so far, darkling. Illusion involves a great deal of obfuscation, but it’s not a complete taking over. Some parts of it are nothing more than guidance, suggestions. And certain aspects are – I assure you – entirely of your own creation." He looks at her in nonplussed bemusement. “Really? Cable knit?”

“Navy blue, with a tan suede jacket,” Kia specifies with haughty precision before dissolving into laughter anew and doubly at the expression on his face. "I guess that’s what you get for setting everything in a forest. Come on, I was thematically accurate, at least.” She wipes away tears of laughter before meeting his gaze with conviction, points at him as if delivering an unarguable truth. “You looked hot as fuck, incidentally."

“I feel I’ve learnt something entirely new about you tonight,” Cerberus remarks, smiling briefly at her before suddenly turning away again, a couplet of fierce, unstoppable sneezes almost catching him unprepared absolutely, and he apologises with haste. “Hh-TSSCHH-uu! Ah-TSSCHH-uu! Goddamn it. *snf!* I have had more than entirely enough of this.” He sharply pulls another pair of tissues from the box, blows his nose again, immolates them afterwards with a burst of flame rather more emphatic than required.

“Aw, bless you, hon.” Kia tuts softly, strokes his hair back from his eyes, moves to sit across his lap, facing him. She traces a finely manicured nail down his neck, across his shoulder. “You know,” she nearwhispers, her tone softly teasing, “it wouldn’t kill you to wear a sweater once in a while.”

“I’m really not…”

Kia leans closer, purrs as if sharing the wickedest of secrets. “Denim jeans too.”

:Gods, love, who are you?: Cerberus Mindsends in shadowsnarl as he wraps a strong arm around his bonded and draws them together, claiming her mouth and kissing her with fire palpable.

:You know me, sweetheart.: With deft touch and feline grace, slightest shrug, Kia allows her negligee to smoothly fall away, returning her beloved’s kiss perfervid, wanting, infusing her reciprocal Mindsend with the same.

:Your favourite thing.:

----

#supernatural soap opera #cerberus #kia #cerbia #snzfic #sneeze fic #he will never wear denim jeans nope never not gonna happen #the sweater's not completely out of the question though #my writing #my OCs

60 notes · View notes

yespolkadotkitty · 4 years

Text

Fighting Blind, pt 19

Masterlist here ~ thank you @heatherbel for the beta!!

Warnings: shameless angst.

I sleepwalked back to my apartment. The noises of London made me jump at first, my movements jerky. Had I locked up the storeroom? The museum staff entrance? I didn’t know.

I didn’t much care.

I had lain on the floor of the storeroom for some time, clutching the axe. Sobbing my throat raw. Willing it to send me back to before. Willing it to let me look into Pero’s eyes just one more time.

Willing whatever magic that it had before to let me hold him, just for a moment, feel his heart beat, bury my face in his neck. Hear his voice.

Just one more time.

I didn’t remember taking off my filthy robes and changing into the spare outfit I kept in my locker for nights out. The nylon fabric felt incongruous; I’d become used to thick, soft robes. My bra chafed.

I let myself into my apartment. Everything was where I’d left it.

My phone chirped in my bag and I pulled it out to see a text from Emma: Don’t stay too late! Reality TV beckons.

It was our little joke since she had introduced me to Ru Paul’s Drag Race, six months ago.

It felt like five lifetimes ago.

I put the phone to sleep, dropped my bag in the kitchen, and dragged myself to my bed, looking ahead of me but not seeing.

I lay down, fully clothed. The date on my bedside clock showed that here, almost no time had passed. I’d been deposited back to almost the exact moment I'd left.

My gaze was unfocused as I stared at the ceiling. My eyes reported back a view of the plain plaster, but in my mind I saw Pero’s last moments. The length of thick red ribbon around my wrist felt unreasonably heavy. I twisted the fraying ends with my right thumb and forefinger.

If I could have cried some more, I would have.

I felt wrung out, a cloth squeezed too hard and then left out on the line until it sagged, dry as bone, moving only at the whims of the wind.

Eventually, I slept, and when I did, I dreamed of my husband’s big, soulful brown eyes, his scarred hands on my skin, the whisper of his melodic Spanish accent in my ear.

*****

I woke up in the middle of the night, shaking. My arm spread out across the cool, crisp sheets, reaching for the warmth of a broad Spaniard who had been killed in battle thousands of years ago.

I clutched desperately at a pillow that did not smell of him, and I waited for dawn to come, silent and dry-eyed, a husk of myself.

The next day, I called in sick.

Emma left me six texts and three voicemails. Marco tried to call all afternoon. I ignored them both, and I stayed curled up on the bed, staring at nothing, hardly moving except for water and bathroom trips.

Eventually, I slept.

No dreams came.

*****

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when a sharp rapping on the door jerked me from my half-sleep, half-grief stricken stupor.

“Fuck off,” I moaned to the empty room, my voice paper-dry, cracking. “You’re not Pero. He’s gone.”

The clock showed a whole day had passed. It was just after ten a.m.

The pounding got louder.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, got up wearing yesterday’s clothes. Walking felt like dragging my feet through a carpet of molasses.

I yanked open the door without checking to see who it was.

Emma stood on the other side, and she took me in with wide eyes, her lips parting.

“Um, oh my God,” she breathed, taking in my wrinkled clothes. I probably stank. “What happened? Flu?”

I gazed at her, my very best friend, trying to summon joy at seeing her face again, when I never thought I would. Instead, I just shrugged.

And then she moved forward and wrapped her arms around me, and I let my face fall into the familiar feel of her shoulder, and I cried.

Two cups of tea later, I had unloaded the entire story to Emma, who had listened without interruption, various expressions parading across her elfin face, but, who now almost certainly thought I had experienced some sort of intense mental break.

I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t.

“Well,” she said finally, with the tone of someone speaking to a very infirm person or a baby; “You can’t go back to work in this state, can you?”

I gaped at her. “You want me to go back to work now?”

She tugged my hand until I reluctantly stood up from the sofa. “You’ve not got a lot of choice. There’s a man in the staff waiting area and he says he won’t leave until he sees you. Came all the way from America.”

My heart sank further still. I just heard America, not Spain.

Emma herded me into the bathroom, stripped me off as I stared sightlessly at the wall, turned on the water, shoved me under it.

I watched, unfeeling, until the spray hit the red ribbon around my left wrist, and then a cry raked up my throat, and I slid down the tiled wall, curling in on myself, pressing the damp wedding bracelet to my lips, wishing myself back in China. Back in Pero’s arms.

Wishing I could hold him just one more time.

Just one more time.

*****

Emma didn’t say much on the way to the Armouries. What could she say? From her point of view, her colleague had called in sick one day and appeared to have suffered an intense psychotic episode.

I half sleep-walked off the tube, up to the museum. People passing probably thought I was taking very strong drugs.

Emma made me a very strong cup of tea, so strong that perhaps the spoon could have stood up by itself, and steered me to my desk chair. “Sit. I’ll bring the visitor.”

I stared into the mug. “Do I have to? Please don’t make me.”

Emma set her hands on her hips, her face creased in sympathy, brow pinched with worry. “You can go home right after. I swear. Okay? You get one more day of whatever... this is, and then I’m taking you out on the town. London at our feet. Or, you know, twelve hours on the sofa, with popcorn and Ru Paul. Okay?”

I nodded, just to get her to leave.

Time passed; I wasn’t sure how much. I stared at my PC’s Welcome to the London Armouries screensaver, and wondered how much trouble I would get in if I hurled my computer out of the window.

Then I remembered I didn’t even have a window in this office.

I smiled without humour.

A soft knock at the door made me look up. “Come in,” I called, with zero enthusiasm.

The handle turned, and I expected to see Emma, but I didn’t. What I saw made me topple off my chair.

A man with Pero’s face stood in the open doorway. His hair was lighter, cream caramel kissed with autumn, tousled. Scruff adorned his upper lip and the same strong jaw as Pero’s.

The same soulful, deep brown eyes.

The same striking profile, same nose I’d loved the hook of.

I stared at him as all the noise was sucked from the room. My ears rang.

He hurried over to me. “What the- Are you okay?” he asked in a husky-edged, drawling baritone, California with just a lick of Texas.

I stared at him wordlessly. My mouth opened and closed, until I finally squeaked out, “is this some kind of joke?”

The man stepped back, brows furrowed. “Funny. I’m pretty sure that's my line.” He rubbed a hand over his scruffy jaw, and that was when I saw it.

The circular mark on the root of his thumb. The depiction of infinity; the spiral, the serpent eating its own tail. Not black, like ink, but the colour of melanin.

My heart lurched into my throat.

This time when he offered me his hand, I took it.

Our palms touched, and something electric chased down my arm. The stranger jerked as if I’d struck him, slapping his hands over his face as he reeled back, hitting the wall and sliding down it. I rocked back on my heels, staying on the floor.

He held his hands over his eyes for a moment that stretched, shaking, his shoulders hunched in.

When he finally looked at me, his eyes had changed. Darker, somehow. His mouth just a little scowly.

My heart jumped like it had been supercharged, because there was my Pero. I was frozen to my spot.

“The dreams,” the man said, very slowly. “I’ve been having these crazy dreams. But they’re.. memories, aren’t they?”

Unable to speak, I nodded.

“They’re my memories. But also… not mine.” He stared into the distance for a long moment, his face pale, wonder sketched on his features. “And this.” He ran the index finger of his right hand over the birthmark on his left thumb. “You did this.” His eyes sparked hazel fire, accusing me of this insanity.

And he was right. I had done this to him.

I held his gaze, my heart in my throat, heavy. “I gave it to you. Before.”

The stranger’s hand eased over his abdomen, resting where Pero had been gored open by Tao Tei teeth. “It feels… fuck, it feels real.”

I swallowed, my eyes burning, stomach bottoming out. Tears streaked down my face and I let them come, my stomach cramping, and for an agonising moment, it was like losing him all over again. In my mind’s eye I saw the blood pulse from him, his life slipping away and me crouched over him, helpless to stop it. “It was real.”

We sat together in silence for, I don’t know how long. I both ached to touch him and feared it. Feared the modern texture of his open-flannel shirt over a white t-shirt. Feared the rough denim of his jeans.

And how would he smell? Not of lemon oil, leathers or woodsmoke. How could he?

“I’m Zach,” he said into the dragging silence. “Zachary Pero Wellison.”

My mouth dropped open.

Zach smiled lopsidedly, pushing a hand over his face. The face that was Pero’s, and yet, not. “So… I guess with the addition of…” He waved his hand between us. “...this, I’m sort of…. Both of us? I’m Zach, but I somehow have the memories of….. Pero.” He pressed a fist to his head and then popped his fingers in a “head exploding” reference. “Is this really happening, do you think?”

I laughed, without humour. “At this point, I don’t think I know.”

Zach huffed out what might have been a laugh. “The shrink sure as hell didn’t cover this in PTSD counselling.”

His deadpan delivery made me smile for the first time since I’d woken up back in 2019.

Footsteps sounded outside, followed by voices that lingered and then, after a minute, moved on. My gaze flicked over Zach, my stomach heartsick. Pero, my Pero, was in there, and yet, he wasn’t.

This was impossible. Everything I had ever learned told me what Zach and I were experiencing just did not happen.

But.

“You’re military?”

He nodded, shrugging off the shoulder of his flannel shirt and pulling up the right sleeve of his t-shirt to show me the bottom half of an intricate tattoo on his shoulder. “Semper Fi. Marines. Buzz cut grew out.”

I ate up the extra view of his body, greedy to know where he would be the same, and where he might be different.

“Glad I never saw anything like… the Tao Tei in Afghanistan,” he said shakily, a self-deprecating laugh escaping his lips.

I held his gaze. “It was an experience. Are you.. I take it you don’t still serve?”

“Nope. Three tours and an honorable discharge, two years on the street, but for the past five I’ve had a steady job. A roof over my head.” He summed up his life so flippantly; his delivery really reminded me of Pero’s nonchalance about death.

I sell my sword for coin, I sleep when fighting has exhausted me, and one day I will die and return to the earth. Simple, don’t you think?”

“Um, so... can I get you a coffee?” I asked, swiping my hands over my eyes. It felt like a monumentally banal thing to say seeing as this man now seemed to hold every memory my dead husband had ever clocked up, but I didn’t have anything else.

“Got any whiskey?” he half-laughed.

“I wish I did.”

“I’m good. Drank about a gallon of it at the hotel. Nerves. I, um…” He lifted those cocoa eyes to mine, and for a second, a heartrending second, it was Pero looking at me. My pulse tripped. “This is... fuck, this is a lot. I really…” He clenched his hands into fists, drawing my attention to that birthmark, the same lines, lines I had drawn, only in that brown shade of skin pigment. “I wanna touch you. Or he does. I don’t know. But… can I? Is that okay? I can’t think about anything else.”

Twin zings of excitement and fear skidded up my spine. “Um… okay.”

Neither of us moved.

Zach laughed nervously, standing. He towered above me as I sat in the corner next to my computer chair. I let my gaze travel up his body, long legs in faded blue jeans, a flat stomach under that white t-shirt, the lines of his torso delineated by the open plaid shirt.

His eyes were soft as he offered his hand again, palm out flat.

This time, when I took it, no lightning. Just a warm touch. His fingers sure and confident around mine.

He tugged me gently to a standing position, until we were only a foot apart, then he let our joined hands fall to our sides. We stood together like that for goodness knew how long, looking into each other’s eyes; his so familiar and yet so new.

Zach lifted his free hand to gently skim his thumb along my jaw, and just like that, the air changed. Each breath I took seemed supercharged as I gazed into his big, soulful eyes. “Zach,” I whispered, and it didn’t feel wrong.

He slowly lowered his head to mine, his eyes constantly flicking to meet mine, checking it was okay. Checking I was okay.

And then just before our lips met, a shudder went through him, and he whispered, “Cielo,” with just a hint of Spanish melody, and there was no way in hell he could have known that word unless-

And I yanked him down to me and kissed him with all the love and yearning and grief in my heart, and he kissed me back. His hands came up to spread over my back, and the warm, solid wall of his chest felt divine.

Perfect.

Bliss.

I opened for him, and he licked into my mouth, his teeth scraping just a little, and I welcomed the tiny hurt, pressing closer into his body. His lips were Pero’s lips, his little shaky inhale the way Pero would sometimes suck in a breath when we kissed. I shoved my hands beneath his open plaid shirt, felt the play of muscle on his back, under the soft t-shirt, and it was like holding Pero. I sobbed into Zach’s mouth and he drew back, frowning.

“Sorry,” I choked out. “I’m sorry. I -”

“I know,” Zach whispered, stroking my hair back. “I was there. He - I - loved you … He loved you. More than anything.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my lips together to stop them from trembling. “This isn’t happening. I would give anything to have him back. Anything. But this is… it can’t be real.”

Zach cupped my cheek, his eyes dark, stormy, and for a moment it was my husband looking at me. “Ask me something only he would know.”

I opened my eyes again. This was like living in an alternate reality of the film Ghost. But real. I felt the floor under my feet. I felt Zach’s palm against my skin, gun-callused, the same way Pero’s had been sword-callused.

“What did he say to me, when we... when I…” The words dried up on my tongue. Suddenly I didn’t want to share, which made no sense. “The first time,” I finished lamely.

Zach dropped his gaze from mine, a flush stealing over his cheeks. “Cielo. Heaven. I will not last,” he murmured, that Spanish melody sneaking, incrementally, into his tone.

My pulse spiked.

No one could know that.

He met my eyes again. “Fuck. I know. This can’t be happening. But it is. Unless we’re both suffering the same delusion.”

I half-laughed. “Unless. God, Zach. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about…. all this.”

“I’m not. I wanted answers to these insane dreams, to the burning feeling on my birthmark, and however absolutely batshit those answers are... I had so many moments over in Afghanistan, wondering what I was fighting for... where my life was going. Always thought - it’s so stupid, but always thought I was just waiting for something. And maybe that something is you.”

My stomach dropped. “Oh, Zach.”

He smiled lopsidedly. “Whatever this is, it doesn’t feel like just my twisted little secret anymore.”

“I-” My heart pounded. “Secret. Oh my God, secret. The axe.”

Zach’s gaze shot to mine, wonder sketched on his handsome features. “I know how to open it.”

*****

I’d never run so fast before. I skidded out of the office, Zach on my heels, past some very surprised visitors and down to the artefact storeroom. I could only hope that no one had been there since the day before yesterday.

Zach stood silently by, but I saw his hands clenched into fists by his side as I swiped my keycard.

It was still there.

The door slammed behind us as I lurched on to the floor, picking it up, uncaring about being without cotton gloves.

Zach held out his hands, and I passed it to him. He gazed at it in wordless awe, his eyes poring over it, fingers stroking reverently.

Then he turned it over, pressed his thumbnail into the slice representing Pero’s scar in the carving on the bottom, and the handle turned, loosening.

I gasped in shock, surprise, joy.

Zach gently pulled the haft loose to reveal a shallow compartment in the metal handle, two pieces of parchment and a loop of crimson lying inside, like the finest of treasures.

With hands that shook, I took out Pero’s handfasting bracelet. The edges were frayed, the fabric so old it had discoloured, but it was his. I lifted it to my lips, felt my heart wrench from my body.

Zach had set the axe down and held the pieces of parchment in his palms. His eyes were wide as he breathed, “I wrote this. I mean, he did. But I remember writing it.”

I paused, the dusty, faded bracelet pressed to my cheek. “What?”

He showed me the yellowed parchment, the writing faded beyond recognition. “The words are almost gone. But I was there. I - he - wrote it while you slept. On the handfasting night.”

The world spun. I braced myself up on one arm. “Would you read it? Please.”

Clearing his throat, Zach closed his eyes, and to my amazement and joy, to my sadness and gratitude, Pero’s voice left his lips.

Querida

You sleep as I write this. My wife, in our bed. Your body and soul more beautiful than I could ever have wished for, in this life certainly. I am not good with words, mi vida, but you must know that you hold my old, scarred heart in your hands.

I think perhaps, you always have.

If you are reading this then I have gone with God, but whatever He may have planned for my old bones, I will carry you with me always.

Until we meet again,

Yours,

Pero

When he’d finished, tears streamed unashamed down my face, wetting my jeans. I couldn’t have cared less.

Zach’s face was drawn, too. He set the two pieces of paper aside and opened his arms, and without a second thought, I crawled into them. He rocked me gently, and I pressed my face into his neck, breathing him in; he didn’t smell of Pero, he smelled of rosemary and sandalwood and coffee, but it wasn’t wrong.

“Thankyou,” I whispered into his shirt. “Thank you, for letting my hear his voice, just one more time.”

Zach said nothing, just nodded. He understood. He always would.

We sat that way for I didn’t know how long. Eventually I roused myself. “Zach?”

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest. “It’s still me. I think,” he drawled, American again, but that husky-edged voice curled its way into my heart.

“What’s the other piece of paper?”

He lifted one arm to pluck it from the floor. “It’s… what is this language?”

I recognised the penmanship. “Oh my God, it’s Gaelic.” I scrambled off his lap, reaching for my phone. This piece of parchment had been wrapped inside the other, and the words had been mostly preserved. I took a picture of the text, uploaded it to the translation app a colleague at the British Museum had developed. While still in beta, it nevertheless contained many ancient languages.

Within a few moments, a translation appeared, and Zach and I gazed down at the screen as I read aloud:

Jade

The thought that this message may find you in a future many, thousands of years from now gives me pause, I must admit, but since fighting those… Monsters, I find nothing surprises me.

We gave your husband a warrior’s wake. That I swear to you. Lin saw to many of the details personally. After your rooms were cleared I found a note in his hand and I enclose it here.

We captured a Tao Tei in the days following Tovar’s death. We fed Ballard to it. A fitting end for such a waste of air, I think you’ll agree.

And after that, the strategists found the Queen. We think we’re halfway to learning how to be rid of them. Once and for all, I pray.

A year has passed since you and Tovar left me. As I write this, Lin sits beside me with our twins, Jade and Pero, named for the man who saved Lin’s life, and the woman he loved beyond the boundaries of time.

I don’t know what will happen when we die, but we will keep Tovar’s axe in our family as best we can. Lin says she trusts the spirits to take care of it, and after all I’ve seen here, I can’t disagree with her.

She wouldn’t listen even if I did.

We miss you.

With love,

William Garin

*****

A/N: One more chapter to go on this journey. Thank you, thankyou, thankyou for all your love, comments, messages, reaction gifs, theories, THANKYOU x 1000000000. Thank you for indulging my insanity.

Tagging: @babybelou @theravenreads @vanillabeanlattes @alienprincesspoop @knittingqueen13 @lackofhonor @holographic-carmen @thewayofthemandalorian @buckstaposition @thegreenkid @agirllovespasta @chews-erotically @apples-of-february @mstgsmy @songsformonkeys @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @buckysalefty @readsalot73 @restingnurseface @opheliaelysia @emmy-dandiliom918 @prdsdjarin @a-seeker-of-imagination @havenforafrazzledmind @badassbaker @thewaythisis @kindablackenedsuperhero @keeper0fthestars @starlight-starwrites @agentpike @alldatalost @littlemissthistle @cryptkeepersoul @stylelovechild @maryan028 @seawhisperer @emesispo @beccaplaying @hdlynn @jaime1110 @marydjarin @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @mrsparknuts @pinkzsugar @cutepurplehedgehog @ksgeekgirl @skdubbs @roxypeanut @usernameistooshort @tortles

#fighting blind #pero tovar fic #the great wall fic #the great wall au #pero tovar au

182 notes · View notes

holyfool-arcana · 4 years

Text

The Holy Fool: Chapter 1

What the Waters Giveth

Word Count: 1.7k Warnings: Mentions of infant death, murder, and infidelity Rating: M Description: An Arcana AU set in a Vesuvia that is half-noir and half-fantasy.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

When Liuyin Mei nearly kicks down the door to the shop at dawn, Asra Alnazar immediately sensed, deep in the dregs of his instinct, that something foul was afoot.

For one, they were dressed, not in the high-collared and pale blue blouse that at this point was customary of them, but rather, in clean, simple linen, a pale figure outlined by the light of early morning. They were wearing white-- funereal colors, though on Liuyin, the veil and robes made them look like one of the immortals or angels or gods that lived atop the snowy mountains, aloof from worldly troubles.

For another count, it was dawn, when Liuyin was a habitually bad sleeper and a chronically late riser, and every moment before the sun was in the midst of the sky that they spent awake, they also spent cursing and looking like an alley cat rescued from the rains.

“Asra,” the white-garbed sorcerer had said, and in that space between sleeping and waking that he was surfacing from, the sound of his voice in their accent made his heart leap into his throat and stick there for a beat, two beats, before the rhythm reestablished itself in the wake of the tension held in those two syllables.

“You need to come down to the docks with me,” they’d said instead-- and turned to walk out the door entirely-- detained only by Asra, who’d reached out, clutching at the wide hem of their sleeve and feeling the fabric texture beneath his fingertips, magic rising to meet it-- magic seeped with death and decay, smelling faintly of that incense Liuyin sometimes burned.

“Have you eaten yet?” He’d asked, a question wholly unnecessary, a token of his concern nonetheless.

Liuyin shakes their head, and he’d nearly offered to take them to the bakery, before he recalled the urgency in their voice. “Let’s go.”

He’d tugged on a shawl and stumbled out into the streets in the early morning mists blanketing the town, distorting everything into a fanciful version of itself. Meanwhile, Liuyin forged on ahead, floating almost like a ghost in white.

For a moment, his heart was struck by a hidden foreboding, redoubling his pace and walking closer to his companion, letting the warmth radiating from their figure and the bitter-sweet scent of herbs reassure him.

As they paced down the street, only their breathing and the sounds of their shoes against cobblestone and the rustle of fabric to accompany them, Liuyin spoke up.

“My aunt received a client last night. Very wealthy, with stress on discretion being of utmost importance,” they’d reported.

“What services?” Asra couldn’t help but ask, but seeing Liuyin in their current garb, he had a good clue as to the nature of the house call.

For divinations, charms, and funeral rites, visit Liya Zheng and Associate’s today!

Namely, Aunt Liya and Liuyin ran a business that did some work on the side in blessing, cleansing, cursing, or otherwise invoking the spirits for their clients. Of course, this expanded into burial rites, especially for those matters that were more tinged in scandal-- a jealous lover shooting someone’s husband, a bastard daughter who’d been offed by the stepmother, the such. Said rituals were meant to prevent the deceased from coming back to haunt the wrongdoers.

(“That seems terribly corrupt,” Asra had declared, making a face.

Liuyin laughed. “No more than politics is. And it brings in better money, too.”)

Liuyin threw him a sidelong look that indicated the fact he ought to already have an idea. “Someone died. A child or baby, I believe, from the size of the coffin. Either that or there wasn’t enough of them left to bury-- we were tasked with banishing any traces of resentment or lingering malevolence it might have had on its person. I’m assuming a rather abrupt death, and the secrecy of it makes me suspect foul play in some form or another.”

“But you’ve no leads?” Asra asks, raising a brow. That was unlike Liuyin, who could suss things out with unerring accuracy akin to a bloodhound, as his own master, Old Fox, had once mentioned.

Liuyin shook their head. “I didn’t have the chance to-- someone stole the coffin before I could.” Their face took on a grim set, like one of the marble statues of the Scourgelander family.

“Then,” he drawled, the key points coalescing into a simplified timeline in his mind, “I suppose they recovered the body at the docks, then, if we’re headed in that direction?”

Liuyin let out an involuntary shudder, and Asra made to tug off his shawl and drape it around their shoulders instead-- before they’d given a tiny jerk of their head to reject this help. “They recovered more than that.”

The briny scent of the sea air was clearer now as they made their way down the empty streets of Goldgrave. “How many?”

“Not a body, just an arm,” Liuyin corrected. “A metal prosthetic.”

Involuntarily, Asra felt his eyes widen, thinking back on a visit to his offices three nights prior, the sharp scent of lavender lingering, the amused, wine-dark eyes and the silhouette of an elegant figure. “Do you think it might be…?”

Liuyin’s answering glance was grim. “Extremely possible. Who else around these parts has a metal prosthetic?”

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

Three days prior

Old Fox had gone travelling again, Asra noted with half a spark of annoyance after he’d returned from another house call-- someone wanted him to look into their husband, having gotten suspicious of his hours kept in the commerce district, and he’d taken one glance around the man’s study before he’d informed the lady of the house that Lord Sforza was having an affair.

It was really, nearly tragically obvious, and he didn’t even need to pull the tarot deck from his pocket to confirm this suspicion. The clashing notes of perfume were not a smoking gun, it was a crater on fire that someone had fired a cannon at.

Sometimes, he lamented the fact that his business had evolved from “Asra Alnazar, Magician and Diviner” to “Asra Alnazar, reader of tarots for bored nobles and finder of unfaithful spouses and eloped heirs”.

At least, as Liuyin had quipped, it brought in good money.

He’d slung his shawl over the coatstand by the door, and his satchel on top of it, then pauses when a figure rises from the chaise in the corner. “Asra Alnazar, I presume?” a silky voice accompanied the movement.

“Who’s asking?” Asra calls, a bit hesitantly, given the unanticipated nature of this visitor.

The woman inclines her head towards him as he snaps his fingers, illuminating the shop with a few dim lamps and allowing him to see the elegant planes of her face, furrowed with worry. “Nadia Satrinava.”

“Young Miss Satrinava,” Asra had bowed by reflex, in a gesture of courtesy.

The youngest daughter of city councilwoman, Secretary Nasrin Satrinava, their family was as wealthy and powerful as they came-- of her six sisters, all were exceptionals-- one was their mother’s aide, one was an ambassador, one was a silent film actress, one was a naval lieutenant, one a philanthropist, another a doctor, the list went on and on…

They were a veritable political dynasty that had their hands in every aspect of the public affairs in the city, how could one not know about them?

Speaking of which--

“Miss Satrinava, what brings you here today?” Asra asks as he rounds a counter and takes a seat in the chair opposite Nadia. “Is it not the day of your engagement party?”

And then there was Nadia, the youngest of seven, a journalist who, till recently, had been more or less out of the public eye, all of it thrown out the window when an engagement was announced in the Vesuvian Star, the premiere morning news of the city.

Nadia Satrinava, the youngest daughter of councilwoman Nasrin Satrinava, was to marry Count Lucio Morgasson.

As soon as the news broke, the rumor mill positively churned, from speculations of a passionate young love, to more outlandish rumors such as political alliances and scandalous accusations of premarital pregnancies. Asra was too polite to inquire into any of them, but the look on Nadia’s face spoke volumes.

“It is,” the woman confirmed hesitantly, almost diplomatically, before she scrunched her nose and curled her lip in something akin to distaste. “At least, till we couldn’t find my darling fiancee in time for his speech. You see, we’re pretending nothing is amiss-- my mother claims that if it were to come out the Count’s vanished, the ensuing panic cannot be a good thing. I left the party discretely to find you. My driver is parked in a secluded front a few stores down.”

Something in the intonation with which she’d said fiancee made him inclined to think it wasn’t an arrangement of love.

“Have you gone to check his residence? Or any of his usual haunts?” Asra asks. The Count’s reputation as a carousing hedonist was well-known throughout the city, another reason why the sudden engagement was so surprising to so many people.

“His servants said he’s left two days ago, and hasn’t returned since…” Nadia says, pauses, and then frowns deeply. “And all his companions with whom he usually revels with were all present at the party…”

“Is it possible he’s merely gotten cold feet over the betrothal with the engagement party drawing so near?” Asra prompted delicately. “A case of a runaway groom-to-be?”

“I’ve learned over the years to never ignore my intuition,” Nadia replies with a good deal of confidence. “And it’s telling me something is very wrong, Magician.”

Asra worries his lower lip in between his teeth absently as the woman stands, the folds of her velvet gown rippling out-- indeed, it looked as though she did come directly from her engagement party, or at least, there was no time to change before coming here.

“I’m willing to pay handsomely for your services and discretion, of course. Name the price and it will be yours. Think on it, Magician,” she’d said, draping a houndstooth jacket over her shoulders. “I leave the decision in your hands.”

With that, she departed into the night on a lavender breeze.

#Arcana: The Holy Fool #The Holy Fool: Chapters #The Arcana #The Arcana Fanfiction #The Arcana Fanfic #The Arcana AU #The Arcana OCs #The Arcana Original Character #The Arcana Fan Apprentice #Asra The Arcana #Asra Alnazar #Nadia Satrinava #Nadia The Arcana #Countess Nadia #Willow's Shadow #Liuyin Mei

10 notes · View notes

peachesandfiction · 4 years

Text

Blazing Love

Pairing: Chaeyoung x Female Witch (healer) Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

The sky turned red as another blaze of fire was shot towards the village. You and Chaeyoung were surrounded by your fallen team, fighting to shield each other as death grew closer, it’s cold hands reaching for your ankles from the ground below.

You were exhausted as your magic was used so much to only end in death.

Quiet fell over the battlefield as the enemy grew closer and closer, their army a dark color against the now orange sky. You could feel the fear seeping into your bones like the tea leaves in the hot, steaming water that had fallen off the table this morning when the first explosion shook what felt like the entire universe.

You remember rushing to the bed room where you pushed Chaeyoung out of the way of a falling book shelf, papers and books flying everywhere.

Your voice had been panicked, almost squeaking as you asked, “are you alright?”

Chaeyoung had just nodded before the two of you hurried out of the house to see what was going on.

The village had broken out in terror.

Your sad eyes scanned the field now, there was no village to even be terrified. Just the two of you. You let your eyes fall onto Chaeyoung, hers were wide, but her jaw was set. It was almost as if she were ready to take on this army alone. Your hand slipped into her’s, squeezing in reassurance before pulling her further into the woods.

She stopped you for a moment, pulling her hand out of yours, “what are you doing?”

“Saving us, Chae. Look around you, we can’t take them on. I don’t want you to die.”

“So we are just going to leave,” Chaeyoung asked, her voice rising in a wave of confusion and determination.

Instead of answering her right away, you pressed your lips against hers. The taste of smoke and battle filled your lungs as you pulled away, “I don’t want to leave either, but we really need to Chae. There’s no other choice, we will just die and then there will be nothing left of the village to even save.”

“I can stay here. Stall them,” She suggested, her tone desperate.

You shook your head, “no, Chae-” A bright ball came out of the sky, landing onto Chae’s back. Her screams filled your ears as you quickly took her into your arms, landing into the bushes near-by. Your hands pressed against the hot skin of her back, not even wanting to look as you pushed the last of your magic onto her, healing the wound as quickly as you could before you let the darkness that had begun to shadow over your sight take over.

When Chaeyoung awoke, there was the sound of wood scrapping against metal and the smell of broth filled her nose. She looked around. The room was small as a thin cloth was draped over her torn clothes. There was still a faint burning smell drafting off of them under a small open window. The scenery outside was beautiful as green bushes and colorful flowers rested under the light blue sky, “where am I,” she mumbled but then the wooden door slammed open.

A small, old lady stepped in, carrying a tray with a small bowl and cup on it. Her eyes widened at the sight of Chaeyoung awake, “good morning! You’ve been out for a long time now.”

“Who are you,” Chaeyoung asked, her instincts pushing her towards the open window, ready to escape danger, but the old woman just set the tray lightly down on the table near the bed.

She nodded, “I can see why she chose you. I am Y/N’s old master, Wander.”

“Old mater…” Chaeyoung was struck with curiosity because you had kept so much of your life hidden from her.

Wander laughed, “I guess she never talked about me. She always did keep more to herself. I told her that might end up her down fall, but I think she might have found something else that can do more damage than that.”

“What?” Ignoring Chaeyoung, Wander turned to leave, but she was stopped, “where is Y/N?”

“Follow me,” the old woman exited the room, the short train of her robe pulling behind her. The hallway was small and crowded with shelves full of bottles and colored liquids. Chaeyoung found herself trying to shrink, worried about touching any of the potions as Wander stopped in front of a blue wooden door, “here she is.”

Wander stepped out of the way, scooting past Chaeyoung and back towards the front. Chaeyoung stood in front of the door, her hand pressed against it as she took in a deep breath. She worried about what she might see.

Letting her shoulders fall, she pressed against the door, letting it gently squeal open.

Inside was a room that was similar to hers, but it was full of shelves. Some had bottles of similar colored liquids to those outside, others had jars full of unimaginable things. Chaeyoung kept her eyes off of them, looking over at your slumped figure. Your body laid haphazardly sprawled on the straw mattress, her eyes watched your chest rise and fall. She didn’t remember or even feel her body walk over to your form, her arms wrapped around you as tears covered her cheeks.

She woke up again, the sun now set, the sky dark. Her eyes felt as if they pulsed along with her heart while her head hurt. She put pressure onto her head with the palm of her hand as the other still lay on top of you, feeling your heart beat.

When the pain ceased, she rested her head on your chest, watching you, “I’m so happy you are alive.”

“I don’t know if she will be alive for much longer,” Wander’s voice came from the open door.

“What do you mean,” Chaeyoung asked, sitting up.

“When a witch, especially one that is a healer, uses up her power. She basically ceases to exist. That’s why she has been asleep this entire time. I’m sure her body is basically hibernating until her power is restored,” Wander walked more into the room, a bowl of water swooshing in her hands before she places it on a stand near-by, water splashing over the edge of it.

“I knew that she needed to rest after she exhausted her power, but I always thought it was limitless,” Chaeyoung said, playing with your hand unconsciously. Suddenly her grip tightened on your hand, “I’m sure she will wake up just fine. My girl is strong.”

“Having trained her myself, I can’t disagree with you. Y/N has been one of the most powerful witches I have ever seen, even more powerful than the duchess herself.”

Wander reached up to the shelf above her, pulling down a green and orange potion before making her way over to one of the jars across the room. She plucked out what looked like a part of a dead rat from one of them. She dropped them all into the bowl, a brilliant chartreuse colored smoke blowing from it. Wander sighed, picking up the bowl and bringing it over, but Chaeyoung stopped her, “what is that?”

“It’s to help speed up the process of her power..” she paused, “at least I hope it does, I never had to use it before.”

Chaeyoung watched as the liquid was poured between your lips. Wander didn’t say anything as she turned to walk out, but Chaeyoung called out quietly, “thank you.”

“it’s no problem dear,” Wander said, “it would be a shame to lose her.”

It was hours later when Chaeyoung finally emerged from your room and made her way over to the kitchen. Wander was bustling about, tossing potatoes up and Chaeyoung watched in wonder as they peeled on their own before floating over to the huge pot. The same happened for carrots and green onions that chopped within the air as well.

Wander, with her back still turned to Chaeyoung, asked, “are you hungry? The stew should almost be finished.”

Chaeyoung nodded, before clearing her throat, “yes, please.”

“Take a seat then darling.”

Chaeyoung sat down at the small wooden table, watching the wooden spoon in the pot turn on it own as the fire turned green. The smell of it all filling up the room and causing Chaeyoung stomach to grumble in impatience.

Distracted by her want to eat, she hadn’t even noticed Wander sitting across from her now. Chaeyoung lightly smiled at her, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Wander said nonchalantly as she snapped her fingers, and two bowls full of the stew floated over to them.

“How did you get us here? How did you find us?”

“The two of you appeared on my doorstep. I guess Y/N not only used the last of her magic to somewhat heal your back, but also teleport the two of you to safety.” Wander suddenly got up, feeling Chaeyoung’s back, “how are you feeling by the way?”

“I hardly notice the pain, Y/N is in a worse spot than I am.”

“If you saw your back, you would think otherwise. I did my best to replace skin, but I can’t do anything about the scarring that occurred.”

“I just want Y/N to wake up, I could care less about scars.”

Wander nodded as the two of them finished their soup in silence.

In the darkness of the room, Chaeyoung felt movement next to her and a groan. Her eyes fluttered open against the sleep as she looked over at you. You were shaking, your arms twitching as your head twisted from side to side. Then the shouts came, “no! Stop! Give her back! Stop! Never!”

Chaeyoung was quick to throw herself at you, running her hands down your face and along your body, “baby. My love, wake up. You’re alright.”

Your eyes shot open, falling upon the beauty of your girlfriend before your sight began to blur from tears, “Chae.”

Chaeyoung began to shush as she whispered, “you’re okay. I’m here… Wander! Hurry!”

“How do you kno-”

“I’ll tell you later. I need to know you are alright and going to stay awake.”

There was a slam and then suddenly the face of your old master was before you, her eyes searching yours. A sharp nod, “she’s alright Chaeyoung. I’ll fix her up another potion quickly.”

Chaeyoung’s body slumped as she held your hand, tears rolling down her cheeks. Your arm weakly reached up, wiping a few away before you couldn’t hold it there anymore. Chaeyoung had found her way to the crook of your neck, nuzzling into it as she whispered, “you’re okay. You’re okay.” over and over.

“Of course I am okay,” you joked, your voice weak and straining from lack of use.

“Chaeyoung, move,” your old master’s commanding voice called and then a slimy texture was crawling down your throat as you did your best to force it down. She nodded before patting your shoulder, “good.” She then turned to Chaeyoung, “keep her awake for the next twenty four hours.”

“I will. Thank you,” Chaeyoung said before pulling you up from the pillows and into her arms. “Don’t you dare ever scare me like this again.”

“Scare you,” you laughed weakly, “sure miss. I want to stall an entire army.”

Chaeyoung couldn’t even be mad as she looked into your eyes, amazed and joyful to see their beautiful color once again. She didn’t even say anything and instead, she just pressed her lips against yours, a hunger moving them as she pressed you back onto the mattress, her body reacting to your hands slowly moving over it. Her stomach as full of excited butterflies, happy that you were alive, but nervous that something can happen again. Even when she felt you try to deepen the kiss, the potion helping build strength back up into you, she pulled away. The two of you were breathing hard as she looked at you, her stare hidden to the outside world by the curtain of her hair. A grin spread across her face, “I love you.”

You answered back with a kiss, it becoming sloppy as you tried to say, “I love you” in between her lips, wanting to breath the words into her.

For the rest of the night, restless hands roamed as awakening laughs were exchanged. The joy of the two of you being alive, even if the weight of the destroyed village rested on your shoulders, for the moment you were just enjoying that the love of you life was alive and right there. That’s how you were determined to keep her, no matter what.

3 notes · View notes

fvckyouimaprophet · 6 years

Text

All Summer Long | Chapter Two

Summary: AU where Draco Malfoy gets stuck in his Animagus form, and Harry Potter unsuspectingly takes him in. Set post-war. | Prologue | Chapter One |

Draco woke up with sunlight in his eyes. After stretching, Draco’s eyes caught the room, and he felt a lurch in his stomach. It took a moment to remember where he was and why, and once he remembered, he flopped back down. His eyes glanced around the room, glowing in the sunlight.

There was no doubt that this was where Harry spent the majority of this time. While the rest of the apartment was messy in a way that bled an “I’ll get to it later” attitude, his bedroom had an organized chaos. The stacks of paperwork on his desk, however precariously balanced, clearly had some organizational method behind them. And even Harry’s bedside table had was relatively clean.

When Draco’s stomach growled, he decided it was time to get out of bed. Harry was likely at work, and he just hoped that he had left something for him. Draco’s mind immediately went to foods he could eat straight out of the fridge if the occasion called for it. Maybe some bread would be reachable. All I’m asking is for a semi-adequate meal, Potter. Don’t fuck it up.

But when he got to the kitchen, the sliding door that led outside was cracked open. Draco stepped forward and glanced outside. Harry stood in the center of his small backyard, clothed in his blue bathrobe. Judging by the way he held one arm around himself, Draco figured it must be a brisk, cool morning, and upon stepping outside, he was proved correct.

When he was halfway to Harry, Draco noticed the cigarette dangling from Harry’s fingers. Draco couldn’t help but think that it didn’t seem like the sort of habit the Golden Boy would have. But sure enough, Harry raised his hand to his mouth before letting out a large puff of smoke. Draco padded up to him, and Harry jumped.

“Didn’t see you there, boy.” Harry crouched down, but Draco took a step back before Harry could pet his head. “Okay, no touching. Sorry.” He smiled at Draco and pulled his bathrobe tighter around himself. Draco stared at Harry for a moment, noting the black bags under his eyes and the wrinkles on his forehead. After a few moments, Draco huffed and turned around, making his way back into the apartment.

He heard Harry following him, and he sat in the kitchen, staring at the fridge. Harry shut the door behind him and leaned back against the glass. His hand covered his face, and he sighed. “Fuck. Okay, you can do this.” If Harry didn’t look so genuinely haggard, Draco would have laughed. Or, well, as close as he could have considering the circumstances. But with his shoulders hunched over, his eyes puffy, it didn’t seem like much of a laughing matter.

After another moment, he straightened himself up and reached for the fridge. From his fridge, he grabbed milk and set it down on the counter hard. He flinched at the sound before moving over to the cabinet and grabbing Weetabix and a bowl from it. This may be the saddest thing I've seen from you yet, Potter. Weetabix? Harry set them to the side before reaching tentatively toward the bag of kibble he had left in the corner. “Should I even bother?” he asked. Draco just had to bare his teeth for Harry to stop. He lifted his hands up and sighed. "When we find your owners, I'm gonna have to ask them if they realize that you're a dog and not a person." A jolt went through Draco, but there was no way to tell him that he couldn't be more wrong. The most he could do was bark. He barked several times and walked over to Harry, pushing him. I can't believe I'm stuck with you. As it turned out, this did nothing more than starling Harry, who jumped back. “I got the message! No kibble.” Harry shook his head and pulled out his wand. “Tempus.” It was 8:40 AM, which was apparently not the answer Harry wanted to see. He put the Weetabix in a bowl and poured a little bit of milk over it before setting it down in front of Draco. You have got to be kidding me. Draco whined as he stated at the bowl in front of him. “No can do, buddy. If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me. I gotta get ready.” With that, he left the kitchen. Draco heard the door to the bathroom open and slam shut. It must have been a weekday if Harry was in that much of a rush. It was yet another week he wasn't going to show up for work. At least all would be explained when someone eventually realized who he was and changed him back. He just wasn't so sure what that all would entail. There was no way the Ministry wasn't going to get involved, and that was the last thing he wanted. One step at a time. He took a deep breath. Draco stared forlornly at the bowl in front of him. This was not what he'd wanted when he refused the kibble. But at least it wasn't dog food. He sniffed it before conceding. If Harry was running for work, that meant he wouldn't have any food until he came back. After one final glare at the Weetabix, he began to eat. As he'd waited, the bottoms of the Weetabix had gotten a little soggy. As distasteful as the texture was, he was thankful that it wasn't too hard. Breaking it apart and eating it without a spoon was proving to be harder than he thought, and he could feel it getting all over his face. When Draco finished, he picked the bowl up between his teeth and stood on his hind legs, letting his front paws rest on the counter. He gently – or as gently as he could – set the bowl down on the counter before making his way over to Harry's room. He'd only just settled on the bed when he heard the water turn off. Another minute passed before the door opened, and Harry walked in. Holy shit. Draco jerked his attention away from Harry. Harry had one towel, which he was using to dry his hair. The rest of him was exposed. Harry's bathrobe and boxers fell on bed beside Draco, and Draco shut his eyes as he tried to calm himself down. It made sense that Harry wouldn't feel the urge to cover himself up in front of him. After all, all Harry saw was a dog. Nonetheless, he hadn't expected to look over and see all of that. Harry laughed. “If I didn't know better, buddy, I'd say you were embarrassed.” Draco felt a hand on his back, and he gritted his teeth, knowing better than to turn around and snap at Harry. Draco waited until he was sure that Harry had gotten dressed before opening his eyes and tentatively glancing over. Harry was in the process of putting on his robes and trying to run his fingers through his hair. When he was done, he motioned for Draco to follow. “C’mon.” When he left the room and Draco didn’t get up, he came back in and motioned again. Taking pity on him, Draco got up. He walked over to the door to his backyard and cracked open the door enough that Draco would be able to walk through before performing a spell to keep bugs from being able to enter.

“I promise we’ll work out a system to make this easier for you and so that you’re not all cooped up,” Harry said, reaching over and ruffling the top of Draco’s head before he could duck away. “And when I get back after work, we’ll get started on strategies to find your owners.” Leave it to Potter to talk ceaselessly to me. At least it was somewhat useful. When Draco looked up at him, he couldn’t help but notice that despite his smile, he seemed exhausted and defeated.

However, Draco didn’t have much time to dwell before Harry stood up and made his way toward the door. He grabbed the satchel by the door off the floor and slung it over himself. “See you later!” The door closed behind him. After he’d locked it, Draco heard a loud crack – likely Harry Apparating.

So that was that, Draco supposed. When his stomach cramped up, it struck him just what that open door meant. Fuck. He was gonna find a way to use the toilet if it killed him.

Harry had said that he wasn’t coming back until after work, which meant he had a few hours to himself. He supposed it would be nice to relax for a day, but upon glancing across the apartment, it struck him just how cooped up he was.

The days at the Leaky Cauldron at least left him with the option to move around more outside and see more people. Here it was just him, and even with the back door open, there was little space to do anything. This form wasn’t really conducive to reading any books or doing anything outside of walking around or laying down.

The last time he’d felt this cooped up in a house – Eight hours. I can make it eight hours. He headed to the kitchen to see if there was any other food within reach that he could use to hold himself over until Harry came back.

- - -

Draco was on the couch somewhere between sleep and consciousness when he heard the keys go into the lock. He jerked his head up just as the door opened and Harry stepped in. Must have been a bad day. Harry slammed the door behind him and lay back against it. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment before straightening himself and looking over at Draco. He offered Draco a small smile and dropped his satchel.

“How do you feel about –” Harry rummaged in his robe pockets and withdrew a collar and leash from his pocket “—going for a walk!” Draco plopped himself back down on the couch. No way am I letting you put a collar on me. Only in your dreams. Nonetheless, Harry didn’t appear too deterred by Draco’s less than enthusiastic response and began to walk toward him. Draco jumped down and backed away, but Harry still didn’t stop.

They went like that for a while. Harry followed him where he went with the collar in hand, and Draco stepped back. Before long, Draco began to run. He figured that eventually Harry had to run out of steam. Especially considering how tired he looked, he couldn’t imagine he’d have much stamina to chase him. Thankfully, Harry must have agreed that it wasn’t worth the effort because with a final frustrated huff, he gave up.

When Draco peeked out from under the bed, he saw Harry looked at him curiously. “You’re a weird dog. Like a really weird one.” He shook his head and set the leash and collar down on the table.

Harry took off his robes and grabbed jeans and a t-shirt from his chest of drawers, and Draco knew it was his cue to leave the room unless he wanted to see Harry change yet again. He waited in the kitchen, and Harry eventually stepped out.

For whatever reason, it soon became apparent that Harry was cooking a fancier meal. Draco wasn’t entirely sure what possessed him, but he wasn’t complaining as long as Harry was planning to share. Harry kept looking at some strange Muggle device that looked like the TV in his living room but smaller and with a bottom half perpendicularly attached to it and muttering the steps of the recipe to himself.

In any case, Draco figured it was best to stay out of Harry’s way. He stayed mostly in the corner of the kitchen, resting his head on his paws as he watched Harry dart around the kitchen.

The pie – steak and kidney it seemed – had barely gone in the oven when there was a knock at the door. Harry turned on the faucet and ran his hands under water before running towards it, wiping his hands on his pants as he did.

Who’s the lucky guest?

Draco stood up and peered out from the doorframe as Harry opened the door. “Hermione!” He hugged her, but something about it seemed off. Tense. “Where’s Ron?”

“He… I think he needed a little bit more time to himself,” Hermione said. Although Harry was blocking her, judging by the tone of her voice, his suspicions were confirmed. What’s going on?

Harry rubbed the back of his neck as he stepped to the side to let Hermione in. “That bad, huh?”

“Well, it’s not great. He’s pretty upset.”

Hermione stepped inside and caught Draco’s eye. “And who’s this?”

Goddammit.

Hermione seemed eager to change the subject to anything else, but Draco wasn’t ready to move on. What had Harry done to make Ron that upset? If he was here, he might as well hear gossip. Draco wondered if whatever had happened had anything to do with Harry’s moodiness, but upon glancing to Harry, he realized he’d get little else out. Harry seemed relieved and welcomed any change to their conversation.

“I found him at the Leaky Cauldron. He’d been there for a little bit, Tom said. I thought I’d help him find his owners.” Yeah, good luck with that, Potter.

“What were you thinking of doing?” Hermione asked.

“Not sure yet. I was going to ask you if you had some spell in mind – something that might give me a name or a general location or just something to work off of.”

“I’ll do some research into it.” Hermione walked over to Draco and bent down, stretching out her hand.

For Merlin’s sake… Draco dodged her hand and moved back into the kitchen, out of her direct line of vision. “Yeah, he’s not really social.”

“Well, if he’s been living on the streets for a while, no wonder. He must be traumatized!” Hermione said.

Draco snorted and settled down onto the floor. Traumatized by your incompetency.

“I guess. He doesn’t seem particularly traumatized, and I swear that he can understand what I’m saying. If I just mention kibble, he practically attacks me. He’s the most spoiled.”

“Yeah, well, judging by the look on your face, you don’t mind it all that much.”

“It’s just nice to have someone around, even if that someone is a dog. He kind of reminds me of Sirius too.”

So close and yet so far, Potter. “Oh, Harry…”

Draco closed his eyes and did his best to block out their conversation.

At one point, Harry took the steak and kidney pie out of the oven and cut three slices out of it, serving one to himself, Hermione, and Draco. As much as he hated to admit it, while it looked like a mess, it tasted rather good. I guess you’re not as much of a mess as you look, Potter.

Unfortunately, the meal was the only exciting thing that happened over the course of the next hour. While he was mostly successful in that, the kitchen floor eventually became too uncomfortable. He padded into the living room and was about to head down the hallway to the living room when he heard –

“But Hermione, really, how is Ginny doing?”

Draco stopped and changed his way toward the couch in the living room as well. The only space available was next to Harry, but he figured it was worth any pets that would be forced on him. He leapt up and stretched himself out, pushing Harry to one corner. Despite that, Harry looked genuinely happy that he was even sitting next to him.

“I think you gave up your right to ask about her,” Hermione said quietly, staring into her lap. “But… she’s okay. She’s taking it one day at a time. We had to convince her not to come over here and hex you the other day when she got drunk, but I think Ron almost wanted to let her do it.”

“I’d have deserved it.”

You don’t have to be so cryptic about it.

Hermione sighed, still staring down at her lap and picking at the skin around her fingernails. Harry reached out and lay a hand on Draco’s head, trying to place his attention anywhere but at his upset friend. “I’m not going to argue with you, Harry, but you’re not doing anyone any good by beating yourself up this much over it.”

“I didn’t mean to fuck things up this badly. I loved her. I did.”

“You don’t do that to someone you love.”

Harry’s hand stilled for a moment, and when he began to pet him again, Draco could feel a slight tremble. He just continued to pet Draco in silence. Under normal circumstances, he would have pulled away or done something to keep Harry’s hand off of him, but Draco felt a surge of pity. Besides, he had to admit that it felt a little nice. The silence – not so much.

Please someone say something.

Hermione eventually cleared her throat. “So, Malfoy.” Draco’s head flew up, and he made eye contact with her. Are you in on it? Motherfucke—

“We still are looking into it. He disappeared, Hermione!”

“Yeah, well, I hate to be that person, but you have to consider…” She trailed off and looked at Harry with a furrowed brow. “I know you want to believe the best in people.”

“Just finish your thought.”

Yeah, Granger, finish it.

“You know where I’m going with this,” Hermione said.

“I do, but I want to hear it.”

“Like father, like son. Maybe the stress got to be too much, and he just wanted an out. I’m sorry, but he was a terror in Hogwarts.” Well, fuck you too. Draco barked, but they both ignored him.

“It was my first thought too, but they say he’s changed.” Draco barked again, but neither of them glanced in his direction.

“I know.” She shook her head. “It’s just hard to imagine anyone other than the Malfoy we knew.”

“Considering what happened to his father, I wouldn’t blame him if he did run away.”

“I just don’t get it. Have you talked to his mom?”

“She looked genuinely concerned. I don’t think she was lying when she said that he hasn’t been in touch with her in a while, and we put tabs on the house in case anyone tried to use Floo or Apparate there, but… nothing.”

Draco’s stomach fell out from underneath him. Mother. The last thing she needed was for Aurors to be standing watch over her all day. And he was sure they were just making her more worried. If only he could tell them that he was okay.

Draco let out a frustrated yelp before standing up. There has to be some way to let them know. He barked several times, nudging Harry with his front paws at each bark for added emphasis. Harry pushed Draco off after a few seconds of it and stood up. “Bad dog!”

Draco growled. Please, Potter, it’s me. How thick can you be? He looked to Hermione for any sort of help, but she seemed just as surprised by Draco’s outburst.

“I think he wants you to take him for a walk.”

Draco snarled, and Harry wildly shook his head. “Tried that earlier. He doesn’t want to be walked.”

“Doesn’t want to be – Harry, who is this dog?”

Who indeed!

“I don’t know, but he looks angry, right? I’m not crazy?”

Draco let out another bark and glanced between them. You two are hopeless. He jumped off the couch and walked to Harry’s room. It was about all he could take of them staring at him obliviously. I hate both of you. The clues were right there. Hermione didn’t think he acted like a dog, and Harry didn’t believe that he could have disappeared for no reason.

Draco jumped up on the bed and spread out with a whine. This was going to take longer than he’d hoped. He just had to come up with a more foolproof way of letting them know. Or maybe I’ll just bark every time they say my name, and then they’ll have to start asking the right questions.

Draco put his paws over his face and closed his eyes, drifting into a light sleep that was interrupted by the sound of the door closing. Draco jerked up for a moment before kicking his legs out and stretching across the bed. It’ll be the couch again for you.

When he heard the door to Harry’s room crack open, he closed his eyes. But after stepping in, Harry just stayed quiet. He didn’t move, didn’t try to get on the bed or get out of his clothes. He just stood there. After a few moments, Draco looked up, his curiosity piqued.

Shit.

Draco wasn’t sure how Harry was managing to be quiet with tears streaming down his face. His shoulders shook, and he bent his head down after a moment. Draco’s eyes fell down to his hands as Harry’s hands balled up into fists tightly enough that his knuckles turned white. When he let go, there were little red indents from his nails, but he had stopped crying. Harry reached up and wiped across his eyes with his arm.

He ran a hand through his hair and took a long breath in and out before taking off his shirt and pants. Draco went to look away, but his attention snapped back onto Harry when he heard Harry sniffle. This was not how he had expected the night to end.

When Harry moved toward the bed, Draco begrudgingly moved over. I suppose it’d be a dick move to kick you out of your room now.

Harry lay down next to him and wrapped an arm around him. The movement was sudden and surprised Draco. Harry leaned in, nuzzling himself against Draco’s chest, and Draco stiffened. Just because you’re so clearly a mess…

Harry’s hands ran through his coat haphazardly, and as much as he hated to admit it – for the second time tonight – it didn’t feel half bad. Still, they slowed down and eventually stopped as Harry fell asleep. Draco waited until Harry’s hand had slid off of him and he was snoring deeply before jumping off the bed and making his way to the couch in the living room.

Considering that Harry hadn’t gone to work yesterday, that meant the week was only beginning. What a rotten Monday.

But tomorrow was a new day, and if he wanted to get Harry to take him seriously, he had to start playing nice. Besides, it looked like the poor guy could use a break judging by how today went. But it hadn’t been all for nothing. Harry was working on his case. That meant that, if nothing else, maybe he could find out what Harry knew. He talked a lot. And it meant he’d be looking. You may not be the best at piecing together the clues, but I’m not going to stop until you realize who I am.

Draco stretched out on the couch feeling much better about tomorrow than he had felt about today, and it was with dreams of his apartment that he eventually fell into a deep sleep.

- - -

Chapter Three

#drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #harry x draco #hp #my drarry #my fics #fic: asl

37 notes · View notes

happyorogeny · 6 years

Text

The Gossip, Chapter 3

(3607 words)(Kaelthas, Rommath, Illidan, Vashj, Akama, Maiev)(alcohol mention, death mention, animal death)

Wakefulness crawled over Kael gently, like the whisper of the wind before rain. The morning was dark yet. Outland tended towards very sudden changes in its cycle, day turning to night as if someone had blown out a candle.

Rommath grumbled as the windows rattled in their panes.

“Those are poorly fitted.”

“The guildmaster of the glassblowers is dead.” Kael’thas pulled one of his many blankets around his shoulders, seeking to block out a sudden chill. “The apprentices did their best.”

Rom elbowed his pillow into a more suitable shape and curled into it with a sigh.

“Claron, is it? The closest thing they have to a master now.”

“Aye.” What a horror, that they should be so reduced that each survivor could name every other. They needed to rest and be safe, not launch themselves into a hopeless war against demon hoards-

His grim thoughts were interrupted by a soft snore, more like a purr than anything. He turned his face into the duvet to hide a grin. Rom had the right idea. They needed all the rest they could get.

When he woke a second time it was to the numbing roar of rain.

It was rare that he woke up so gently. No startled cries because the gate was under attack, or hesitant servants knocking at his door. It was a different thing indeed to wake up in slow stretches and sleepy twitches of the ear.

Last night had been merry. His feet still ached from dancing and he seemed to have stolen a pillow from the Den. Ah yes, to give Rom a chance to distract that magus he’d taken a shine to.

They’d both gotten lost on the way back to Kael’s rooms, raided the kitchen in time honoured tradition, and then realized that they’d managed to lock themselves out.

Fortunately, Rommath had learned how to pick locks with his knitting needles.

“Since when can you do that?”

“Knit?”

“No!” Inspiration struck him. “This is a Lor’themar thing, isn’t it?”

“Tis a disgrace how a young man can end up in the prime of life without essential skills, but do not worry, we shall rectify this.” Rommath really had gotten good at mimicking the voice.

“A young man? You’re two years older than him!”

“I know!”

Once they’d actually gotten inside Kael’thas had made the executive decision to pull out all his blankets, for the purposes of not freezing to death. Rom promptly became incredibly sentimental because Kael still had the old patchwork quilt he’d presented him with many birthday’s ago. Unseemly for a royal, perhaps, but it was one of the few genuine things he had ever received. The nobles brought him gifts meant to display their own wealth and power. Jewellery, weapons, fine artistic pieces that belonged in a museum rather than a private collection.

Amidst all that, a blanket carefully stitched together from fabric scraps seemed a poor thing indeed. But Rommath had been the one to notice that Kael preferred shades of orange to shades of red, had been the one to stitch pockets into the inner lining so that Kael could carry books with him.

Speaking of Rom, he could hear wood scraping over wood, glasses clinking and the spell-weavers sleepy grumbling. He lifted his head just enough to peer out at him.

"That root to the far left is the nicest, if you’re looking for coffee-type things.”

“Root?”

Kael sat up and immediately regretted it. The room was damn cold. Gooseflesh prickled along his arms and shoulders.

“We experiment with alternatives to beans. But Do’rai will arrive any minute now. She insists on making breakfast."

Rommath paused, well aware of how particular Kael’thas got about his morning meal. During their time abroad Kael had happily gotten up even when the morning was yet dark in order to make fresh flatbreads and season the morning chocolate.

Even now he tended to rise with the sun, for it gave him time to seep heat and magic into the stones of the Temple. The Sin’dorei wing was always wretchedly cold in the morning. There was supposed to be a constant low fire deep in the pits of the Temple that would warm the walls and floors, provide smoke for the kitchens to preserve meat and fish. But Akama often let it lie fallow, perhaps encouraging them to leave.

Kael’thas knew a brief twinge of shame over that. It hadn’t quite being his intention to move into the shaman’s ancestral home and it was most unseemly for them to squat here, the proud Sin’dorei, in a place that wasn’t even theirs. It seemed an ill-omened way to begin their rebirth, with the theft of hearth and home. Father would have looked poorly upon this.

But there was nowhere else for them to go. The Temple was the most fortified structure for miles, the only thing that the demons couldn’t dig them out of.

Once they had constructed and secured a home in the Netherstorm, the Sin’dorei would move on. The thought never failed to brighten his mood, a fine catacomb palace of purple and orange crystal, high ceilings and open balconies. No more dust or darkness, no stench of blood and death in the walls. The magic there could sustain their severely depleted populous for generations to come.

Kael’thas wasn’t so sure what Illidan intended on doing. Illidan himself probably wasn’t too sure. All he really seemed to desire was a secure place to store his army and his artifacts, somewhere to fall back and lick his wounds.

There was no reason that place couldn’t be with his people, surrounded by purple storms and magical flux strong enough to dazzle a demon and confound even the Wardens. They could build themselves right into the rock and have half the new palace open to the sky, so that winged couriers and demon hunters alike could come and go as they pleased. Surely the Sin’dorei seemed half-way familiar to him, echoes of the Highbourne.

It might raise issues of hierarchy and subservience. Kael’thas had no intention of being overruled in his own house. But that was a thought for the future. For now, other grapevines needed tending.

Rommath heard footsteps approaching the door and opened it as Dor’ai raised a hand to knock. The poor woman almost fell into him and it was only by Rom’s quick reactions and the grace of the Sunwell that the coffee was saved.

Dor’ai peered at Rommath. She was extremely near-sighted and took advantage of it to pretend she didn’t see people coming with work for her.

“I’ll fetch a second cup.”

Dor’ai had, unfortunately, also brought him paperwork. Kael’thas schooled his face to neutrality. Scouting reports, logistical notes, petitions, military advice…

Rommath put a hand on his arm.

“I’ll sort them by topic if you want to wash.”

You want to see what’s going on. Kael’thas hated himself for thinking it, and hated even more that he was probably right. Worse again, he ought to keep Rommath out of the loop on certain things. There was a rank to their interactions, one that hadn’t existed before. The Prince ought to know more on certain things than the Magister. Kael’thas might well have to make choices that would affect the magi badly. It was best to keep things like that to himself, least he be influenced unfairly by sentiment.

Well, damn that. He started to smile and then stopped himself. It felt false, the smile he used for the crowd.

“There’s a quill in the drawer to your left.”

…

It was all far too pleasant to last. Kael’thas supposed he should be thankful that the daily disaster waited until after his bath.

He had just finished pinning his hair in place when the mind-message struck. The magical call hit them both like a slap in the face, crashing easily past their wards. Rommath instinctively summoned a protective bubble around them both and Felo’melorn dropped into Kael’s hand as easily as he might take a breath.

Come to me. Illidan's voice was as clear as though he were only in the corridor outside, and surprisingly calm. Fragments poured across his minds like water from a bucket. Darkness rich in texture, outlining shadowy mountains, scrubby trees, a deeper shadow of the sky. Ten pointed talons curled in front of him, made visible only by their coating of neon blue blood. Pain pulsed from green slashes gouged into his stomach, burned from his left wing. The membrane was shredded, bleeding and aching.

Come to me.

Rommath had grabbed onto his elbow in case he staggered and now shook his head as if to clear it.

“What the blazes was that?”

A part of him was mightily pleased that Illidan had reached for Rommath too, despite barely knowing the man. He clearly knew a trustworthy soul when he met one.

Kael’thas straightened himself, smoothing his robes and took in a breath. Rommath looked as if he would speak again, then put his ears back and strode to the door, snatching it open. Do’rai didn’t quite straighten quick enough to hide the face she had been eavesdropping.

“If you could run to the kitchen and fetch another pot?” He pushed it into her hands and glared at her till she left. Kael’thas waited.

“You need better servants,” Rommath said as he turned, clearly angry.

“I don’t have other options.”

“What about Mel’ia?”

“She had no desire to trade silks for statistics.”

“Very well, I’ll send you one of my secretaries. I have five and need only two, and they are savvy creatures all.” Rommath didn’t need to say that he had so many because their former masters were dead.

“It seems as though our Lord may be imperiled.” Kael’thas took care not to show that had shaken him. He had never seen Illidan in pain before. He stood stoic and indifferent to injury and blood alike, as if he were a statue.

“I saw only darkness, punctured by two points of light.”

He fetched paper and held it out.

“Show me.”

They weren’t the only ones to hear Illidan’s call. Vashj startled them both by leaping thirty feet from the moat as they moved along the outer wall of the Sin’dorei wing, cutting towards the upper command room. She landed before them and heaved herself upright, panting in a manner very unlike her usual dignified bearing. Kael’thas helped her adjust her shawl so that the seaweed-fronds didn’t tangle in her lower arms.

“What did you see?”

“Not see. Smell. Demon blood and rust, and an east wind carrying snow.”

It was superstitious to see snow as a bad omen. Kael’thas hadn’t even been in Quel’thalas when the grey snow arrived, a cruel warning of the Scourge to come. But nevertheless he knew a coldness in his chest at her words.

He had never being so cold before. His magic had protected him.

Rommath automatically fell back half a step behind him as they entered the council room, boasting a massive war table at its centre. Technically it ought to have been two steps, but Kael had always found that unnecessary. Besides, they were in a hurry.

Oddly enough, Illidan had called Akama as well. Kael set his teeth as the shaman arrived at a shuffle. He knew the broken could move faster than that.

He had tried oft enough to shift Illidan’s dependence off Akama to himself- partially for political reasons and partially because he knew damn well Akama didn’t necessarily want them hale or healthy. But he simply knew so much of the surrounding lands and their history, of demon gates and their locations, of magics new and old alike. His rheumy eyes fell on Rommath and narrowed. The mage immediately bristled back.

“Is it wise to have your…underlings here?”

Well, it looked like he was going to have to get princely about things. Kael’thas ignored this weak attempt to put him on the defensive.

“Tell us what you saw.”

“Naught but darkness. Plainly his sight cannot translate to my mind.”

Kael’thas sidestepped so that Akama had to look at him or look away. Meek though he acted, Akama scorned him and had an argent sense of pride as yet. Sure enough he glared back. Kael’thas moved his hands inside the loose sleeves of his overcloak and heated the air around them subtly but surely. Rommath eased with surprising grace to the opposite corner of the room and hooked his enchantments into Kael’s, molding it into a self-propagating circle. They would sweat this out of the man if he had to.

“Tell us again.”

Akama relented, shoulders drooping.

“Not an image. A map, with an ancient temple of my kin at its centre.” He banged his staff on the stones beneath them. “Doubtless he intends to fill it with demons, too.”

Kael’thas held his gaze.

“Am I a demon?”

Akama pressed his lips together and said nothing. Vashj shifted so that she reclined upon her many coils like a queen on her throne.

“Am I?” she asked, her voice sibilant and dripping danger. But Akama didn’t seem intimidated- in contrast he seemed to swell and the air around him grew heavy. His teeth ached in his head and Rommath tensed behind the shaman, gathering himself.

“Of course you aren’t. Are we not all leaders of our people?” Akama’s voice had gone from a breathy rasp to a low, smooth rumble. “You know what it is to be driven before a cruel enemy, to have those you know and love cut down as if they were no more than an errant tree.”

He ought to stop this. Akama had no right to speak to him or Vashj in such familiar terms. But his tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t speak in a fashion that would defeat Akama’s words, and a prince did not lower himself by arguing with those who ought to take orders. Unfortunately, Akama took his silence as a chance to continue.

“You know what it is to crave safety, shelter, for more than just yourself. Illidan lied to us. He brought demons to the door, and he cannot hold them at bay. A mighty warrior he may be, but a leader he is not.”

Kael’thas thought of a flame, smooth and yellow and neutral, so as to keep his expression bland. Akama had a point in regards to Illidan’s talents. Had Kael’thas not thought as much himself, in the darkest hours of the night? How much easier it would be if he led the coalition and Illidan was merely an independent, some kind of privateer and consultant on demonic affairs? Surely he would even be happier like that, free and lonely and unfettered as a cloud in the sky?

“The storm out there is a violent one. Even the strongest fighters can fall prey to a freak accident.”

How were they ever going to defeat the Legion, really? Only gods and angels and great heroes of legend could afford personal crusades. Not princes, not kings. They struggled through the murk of duty and responsibility and had to struggle to maintain stability.

Illidan was neither a hero nor a god. An ancient and eldritch creature perhaps, but one with a taste for strawberries. Almost mundane.

“Lord Illidan may be blind, but you are short-sighted.” Vashj’s voice was every centimeter that of a highbourne lady disgusted by what she surveyed. “Shame on you!”

Akama sighed and turned to Kael’thas.

“And you? I would parley with a prince before a demon.”

They could do it. The two of them could side together against Vashj and leave Illidan to whatever fate came to claim him. Their peoples could both recover, not get dragged into some hopeless war against an unrelenting enemy.

Kael’thas hesitated.

Illidan had never demanded an oath of loyalty from him and gave no explanation for the huge risk he took in freeing them from Dalaran. He had made more enemies than friends with that gambit. He had acted when every other party seemed content to watch them die a slow and miserable death. He’d noticed Kael didn’t tend to laugh anymore.

Besides, Illidan would probably arrive back in a week either way. He had a remarkable capacity to survive. Politically, this wasn’t the time for a takeover.

Kael'thas didn't tend to show his teeth when he smiled. He retained the sharpened, pronounced canines of his Kaldorei ancestors and an unfortunate angularity of face that became sharp when he grinned. In the last few months his eyes had gone from grey to blue to vibrant green. The whole thing came together to look just a little deranged.

He leaned into it now.

"Are you sure about that, Akama?"

Rommath eyed him sidelong and then straightened.

“I’ll fetch a map.”

…

This seemingly barren mountainside would make a fine test, Maiev decided. It was damp from that wicked storm yet, enough that she could see a dry patch in the lee of this great boulder. She turned to Kira.

"What do you see here?"

She froze in alarm, as was her way. Not a good habit. But the girl was brave and adept enough and set about investigating quickly, dropping off her nightsaber and trotting forwards.

"A bird plucked with the teeth, like as with a fox or a saber." She frowned. "That kind isn't a plains bird. Maybe it got blown in by the storm."

Maiev waited, running a hand along Swift’s neck. Her saber purred contentedly and swung her blocky head back to lick her gauntlet. She had taken great care in Swift’s breeding and training, and was eager indeed to see how the blocky, speckled saber took to mountainous terrain.

"The teeth are sharp like those of a cat, but the jaw structure is all wrong." Kira frowned. "They disdained the entrails but ate everything else. The liver, the lungs, the heart."

He had always favoured the heart, as if seeking to make up for a deficit in himself.

"What else?"

"The moss is flattened down, although I could be imagining it."

"You aren't." Maiev could see a familiar curve there where someone had slept and then tried, ineffectively, to cover it.

"Scuff marks on the rock itself." Kira hesitated. "Forgive me. I don't know kind of animal this is."

"You aren't looking at the leavings of an animal." She rolled her shoulders till the joints popped and hopped down off her mount, scratching her behind the ear as she stepped forwards.

"A demon?"

"Something like. These broad scratches are where he scraped his hooves." She placed one armoured foot against it to demonstrate. "Here, these are from the claws of the hand. Up here, these are from the sharpening of the horns."

All of them suggested something smaller than a Natrizhiem. That bizarre storm had reeked of fel, likely some nefarious spell gone awry. It seemed Elune had blessed them with opportunity even in this dreadful place. It had been some time since the Goddess had spoken to her directly but she supposed that was to be expected. Maiev had never needed much guidance and she was sure the gods had their own affairs to keep them busy, much as mortals did.

Elune had ultimately done her a favour in setting her free from her role as high priestess. Now she had a demon to catch and all the freedom with which to do it.

Her girls, bless them, smelled of excitement rather than fear. Pride bloomed in her chest. She pointed to the ground next to the boulder.

"Anything else?"

This one was tricky in fairness to them. Most of them had never been beyond the forest and reading dry soil was a difficult prospect.

Pia leaned forwards, purple eyes wide. She seemed to spot the tiny ridge in the soil almost immediately.

Looking at the draenai always startled her a little. But she had proven herself a good healer even if she had no idea what they were saying. Why, Myr was back on her feet with barely a scar to show where that wretched little blood elf had gouged her. Maiev bristled at the thought of him. Prince, indeed. Hah! She'd known something was amiss the minute she met him.

She ought to have known Dath’Remar in his foolery would establish something like a monarchy. As if blood lent itself to leadership.

She gestured with her foot, outlining the ridge.

"The sand was freshly wet after the storm. He dragged his wings along it to hide his footsteps, but you can see where the takeoff pushed the soil together."

Kira sagged.

"How can we know where he went?"

Nail looked up along the mountain side sprawling before them. In truth it was strangely shaped, ascending layers of flat plains and sharply slanted rock that almost looked like giant steps.

"He'll need water. The rock here is porous. It will gather in some pools. If we can find those…"

"Will he need water?" Someone asked near the back.

"He will." Maiev crouched and mounted Swift in one smooth motion. "He is mortal flesh, despite what he would have you believe. We know he’ll fly for home. We can map the most likely routes."

She could barely repress a tremor of excitement. For a creature that swore he would never be caged again Illidan had sequestered himself away behind some very secure walls. But now he was alone and perhaps weary, perhaps injured. Somewhere up that mountain side he would have to land and drink. Better yet, she had seen no birds fly over the peak itself. It might be too high for him to pass over, forcing him to land and make his way on foot.

They'd captured him before. They could do so again.

If she was clever about it, he wouldn’t get the opportunity to kill anyone else.

"Bring me a map."

Find Chapter 1 and 2 Here!

#world of warcraft #fanfiction #Kael'thas sunstrider #illidan stormrage #maiev shadowsong

20 notes · View notes

colpeia · 6 years

Text

I Forgave You

(( Continued from here. DISCLAIMER: Brief mention of violent themes. I have to admit this was intense for me to write. 7-8 years of playing this character have ultimately led up to this. So, fair warning, this will be an emotionally heavy read. ))

Blood and water. A bed of teeth.

No one came. She was gone. Something in her couldn’t accept that. In blind desperation, with a ragged, animalistic roar, Colpeia threw herself into one last illusion spell - which faded the moment it appeared. It looked predictable when she lost balance and slipped over the cliff’s muddy edge.

A tree root gave a sickening crack - she felt course textures scratching into her palm. Colpeia had latched on by some uncanny miracle.

Shuddering from the gore that now permanently stained her memory, the traumatized Tanari forced herself to peer over her shoulder, down at the river that fed into the ocean.

Tildalune’s jaw was agape as she stared up at Colpeia. Then her lime-green embers dimmed, rolled back, and closed. She went limp. Satisfied by its catch, the shark dipped its head into the red water, the young woman’s legs and long braid trailing behind.

She shifted forward to cast an empty gaze at the dirt of the cliff face. Her eyes were stale. Her skin was a pallid canvas of raised hairs. Another subtle crackle protested her weight.

There she hung, debating whether or not to climb back up.

Tildalune was dead. She had just helplessly witnessed a fellow Sin’dorei eaten alive like a common seal. Colpeia could live with the trauma of what she saw, knowing that her classmate might still be alive if she’d done something different. Or she could fall.

She decided to live.

About 20 years later

Coiling fog swelled her senses. None of her dedicated attempts to reach beyond the grave had been successful over the years, rare as solar eclipses were. The Fathom Moon had always left her behind in the living plane whenever she did try. It felt surreal to wrap her mind around the idea that she’d finally made it.

Suddenly Colpeia saw a flash of coral-red hair. Her eyes closed before she knew what happened. Someone’s lips were fiercely gripping hers. It tasted like strawberry lip gloss.

She smelled cherry perfume. A hand with nails as manicured as her own cupped her face, and a slender arm cradled her against a young feminine body in robes. Warm breath flowed over her face. It was shaky.

youtube

Colpeia wasn’t sure if the kiss lasted a few seconds or a few hours. They clicked apart. Tildalune’s radiant face drew away. Whatever air that was still in the Shafisian’s lungs went missing. The sweetness of her smile, her eyes, the moist gloss already forming over their pear-hued glow, weakened Colpeia’s knees until she had the sturdiness of jell. Her jaw quivered as she mustered a disbelieving breath.

“It’s... it’s really...”

“Yes, Colpeia. It’s me.”

It had been nearly two decades since Colpeia had known how melodic and light that voice sounded. As much as she wanted to relish it, they had less than five minutes. She stammered to find quick works, “I-I--... T...” Her face twisted in a soulful attempt to restrain tears. Hoarse sobs burst out of her instead, and she sank, forcing Tildalune to catch her into another embrace.

“I’m sorry...!” she gushed. “I’m so sorry, Tildalune. I’m so... I’m sorry... No day g--goes by w-with--” Another sob. “...Without--!”

A finger landed on her lips. “No,” Tildalune interrupted gently. “Stop.”

Colpeia went quiet.

She pinched her chin and lifted her face. Their eyes met. “No more.”

Astonishment reduced Colpeia to a blank gape. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

The spirit melted. “You’re sweet. I wish I had gotten to know you better when I was alive. But it’s not my forgiveness you should be looking for.”

A suspicion rang in Colpeia’s mind, but as it was no more than that, she kept it to herself. “What?”

The deceased pyromancer smirked. “It’s... preposterous.” Her attention floated, pensive. “You were that girl from Thin’sirel Academy whose name I knew began with a C. Then I died, gruesomely, and... your face haunted me. It still does. I could recount the very second that you became burdened, just by your look, before everything went black. I mean, of course my untimely and savage death disturbed me on untold levels, and I did blame you. At first. I felt terrible once I came to my senses; I knew you were blameless. Then some time passed, and eventually I was more distressed over how it affected you. This... acquaintance, who saw every raw detail and almost killed herself trying to rescue me. I realized what my death forced you to live with, and I...” She blinked mist from her eyes, grounding herself with a sigh before she continued.

“My after-death had trials. I dealt with friends, family, enemies, nevermind my dream of becoming an archmage -- felled by a damned overgrown fish. But when all that was done...” Tildalune trailed off again, her stare deepening. “All I knew was that in my death, there was a woman I hardly knew who grew attached to me. This troubled me, initially. Then I-- I watched you. I watched you grapple with the aftermath. I learned you weren’t a creep. You were compassionate and mortified. You blamed yourself. You started addressing your diary to me, trying to sort out your feelings as though you were speaking to me. I read it, by the way. I read every entry. I still do.

“I saw the dreams you had of me. Of going back in time, whisking me away from the shark’s maw, tending my wounds and showering me with-- with everything. It’s been so painful watching you go through this. I...” She shook her head, releasing a tearful huff of air. “I’m not sure what to call it. It’s not romantic, or simply platonic, but... Well I have no label for how I feel about you. All I cared about when I first died was that I had died, horribly and painfully and young. Now after overcoming everything else, all... all I... I just wanted you to get better.”

Colpeia trembled, pursing her lips.

“I just wanted you happy. You were less at peace with my death than I was. I watched you spend years unfairly believing that you could 'make up for it’ if you saved an insatiable number of people. So I did the only thing I could think of. Colpeia, I didn’t just forgive you a long time ago.” A gas planet couldn’t have bore more weight than Tildalune’s eyes. Then she gave her a small smile.

“I stood with you.”

The fog over the gray desert shifted to form a screen of itself, displaying a silent projection.

There was Colpeia, her eyes lifeless, huddled into a fetal ball on the floor. It was a few days after the incident. Tildalune’s ex-boyfriend bellowed at her with an accusatory finger. Colpeia’s younger sister was shouting defensively back at him. And there was a fainter, transparent Tildalune doing the same. He said something, and Tildalune’s eyes bugged out in rage. She swung her arm to slap him, but stumbled as she inconveniently remembered she was a ghost.

Colpeia shot a stunned glance at Tildalune before it shifted again.

She screamed and bolted up from her covers. Sweat glued her hair to her cheeks. Tildalune squatted onto the bed and reached out to hug her. The spirit sighed in annoyance when her arms slid unimpeded through her body.

Colpeia wept into her palm, hunched over on a couch with a therapist seated across from her. Tildalune sat at her side. Her ineffective hand touched her shoulder.

Huddled over a table, Colpeia scrawled over the first page of her new diary, addressing it to Tildalune. Tildalune leaned over her shoulder with an attentive peer.

Colpeia stood before a gathering of council members. She spoke to them with measured poise. It was here that she announced her intentions to pursue mathematics and Shafisian illusion instead of a traditional curriculum, and the first time she felt like she had a purpose. Tildalune’s hands were folded over her lap. She wore a soft, proud smile.

The Gazelle of the Desert sprinted with fevered determination across the shore, training herself to be the perfect “prey.” Tildalune ran beside her.

Pursued by a hyena somewhere inland, Colpeia spun around, cornered by a boulder. With a feral shriek she lobbed her blade at its neck. Tildalune positioned herself at the hyena’s side and lashed out desperate fireballs, forgetting they were harmless and unseen.

Colpeia stretched a slow eureka grin across her lips and took a step back. She stared up at the glowing equations hanging magically aloft. Tildalune stared at the proof in amazement and let out an excited cheer.

Blowing a sigh of relief, Colpeia turned away from the Silvermoon guard after her diplomatic gymnastics. As he marched away, Sayriha snapped her head up and quietly jeered something. Colpeia gawked at her. The insulted guard swished around looking ready to eat her for lunch, and the mage facepalmed. Tildalune held her ribs laughing.

Aranya snatched the last book from the shelf and dashed away with Colpeia from what was left of the forgotten Nightborne library. Tildalune ran behind seeming to shout, ‘Go! Go!’

She beamed up at Kurel before going in for a hug. Tildalune cupped her mouth a few feet from them. Her eyes were gleaming wet.

Surrounded by Shafise inside a spacious tent, Colpeia and Berominton grinned at each other across a table littered with food. Tildalune sat behind her with an amused smile.

The images faded. Though the moon’s desert returned, it was overcast by yet another mesmeric vision: the cliff's edge. The smell of pine needles, and the sound of trickling river water, flooded the once lifeless atmosphere.

This was exactly why Colpeia chose not to wear make-up. Her thickly freckled cheeks were drenched in tears. No breath she took was steady. She resembled someone who’d been struck by lightning after starving nearly to death.

She was speechless.

The corner of Tildalune’s mouth twitched a hesitant smile. “Colpeia, my core spirit hasn’t moved on yet. I need something from you.”

Colpeia’s eyes brightened through her paralyzed stupor. “Anything.”

There was a heavy stillness.

“...I can’t take any more of this!” She sank, weeping at the ground.

“Tildalune,” Colpeia murmured, reaching to cup her jaw. She stroked a tear away with her thumb.

After several moments, Tildalune calmed somewhat. She sniffled, “W-watching you throw yourself at people, in front of tigers and demons, just to redeem yourself for something that was never even your fault. Over and over again. Colpeia. I forgave you. I forgave you before I drew my last breath. --Forget that I blamed you afterwards because I was angry, okay? I was just angry. You did everything you could. If I can forgive you, why the FEL can’t you forgive yourself?!”

“...I--” Colpeia didn’t know how to finish.

“I love you.”

She froze again.

“I love you, Colpeia. I can’t move on until I know that you don’t blame yourself for my death anymore.” She pulled Colpeia back into an embrace, holding their foreheads together with a tender clasp of her temple. “P-please...” she whimpered. “Please just forgive yourself, Colpeia... Keep writing to me, okay? But don’t do this to yourself anymore. Please... please promise.”

Silver mist flooded around them.

With an urgent tilt, Colpeia pressed her lips against hers. “I promise,” she croaked, before breathing out again, “I promise, Tildalune. I love you. I’m sorry...”

Five minutes of a shimmering gold ring had come and gone.

Everyone returned in the same flash of light. Several of the Shafise and Wildhammers looked anywhere from dizzy to joyous to sorrowful to stunned. A few broke down an instant later. Tanari were embracing dwarves who embraced Tanari. One Wildhammer woman was sobbing into the shoulder of a human desert dweller, exclaiming that she had met her dead son after ten years. A Shafisian wore a bittersweet smile as they tightly held a Forsaken guest they'd only met that day.

Save the manic quakes in her arms and legs, Colpeia was still. Her lip was shuddering. Her eyes were soaked, red-rimmed, and practically shaking. She couldn't breathe.

Those tagged and/or part of the event: @aranyaphoenix @commander-dawnstriker @kurel-andiel @sayrihaamberstar @andijelly @ryderflynn @wolf-queen @alliesdelimma

#Tildalune #event #Ritual of the Crescent Sun #stories #The Shafise

17 notes · View notes

fableweaver · 5 years

Text

Arc of the Deadman Reaper

War was a tedious thing of waiting Seth came to realize; occasionally there were moments of combat. Seth could see the effect it had on ordinary men; the stress of waiting for death was tearing men apart inside. Seth however felt nothing not even the mind-numbing boredom.

The Orcs however took pleasure in the death they dealt. The boredom didn’t seem to bother them either, when idle they just switched to torturing prisoners. When those ran out, they feasted, and there was always more to come.

They had left Kon Fort long behind having gained land all the way back to the border where the Regarians dug in like a tick. The lords of the reclaimed forts fell with their keeps and new men were left to garrison them. The orcs marched on leaving blood in their wake. Seth left the strategy and leadership to Raigo, who was outsmarting the Regarians at every turn. Seth paid little attention to the battles; his duty was to get the king.

Seth had spent weeks among the Orcs in battles in hopes of catching the king when he came to battle. Of course, Arian never ventured into the small skirmishes that took up most battling. Large scale clashes hardly happened in war only if it was over a certain strategical point. Since they had gained most of the roads and forts of western Lir there had been less of those large-scale battles.

Now four months after the war had started, they were at the border between Lir and Regis. Arian was holding the line at a great strategic vantage point, Heartfell. The three hills stood where Lir now met Regis, though these lands used to belong to the Aldan before the Kings Wars. Seth had already heard Raigo growl at their strategic position. Seth had paid little attention other than the fact that no one just went around a fort or outpost and leave it at your back. You had to take it first.

Regis though wasn’t going to give way, and neither was Drasir. The battling through the winter had been bitter and hard, but the Orcs didn’t seem to mind the cold and had plenty of food from their kills. But the Regarians were feeling the strain of low rations and bitterly cold nights. Seth sat in the Orc camp looking across the no man’s land at the camp of the Regarian knights.

He could see Arian’s tent cresting the hill, his banner of a dragon rampart flying over the whole camp. Seth’s eyesight was now nearly inhuman, he had caught a glimpse of the king a few times coming and going from his tent. This close, but Seth could not get to him. The camp was iron tight, getting in was nearly impossible without the right papers. Seth could cross the no man’s land at night if he wanted to; even if he was shot with an arrow it wouldn’t kill him. But without the right paperwork or disguise he wasn’t going to get into that camp.

Even camp whores and followers had a separate camp in the lee of the hills on the other side of the road. Unless Seth was a knight he wasn’t getting into that camp. Then an idea struck him and he grinned, not out of humor but out of habit. He stood to go seek Raigo. It was the middle of the night and the Orc camp was lively with the screams and cries of women or captured knights. Often the Orcs went after the camp followers when they could, mainly to get the women that were there.

He found the Orc general in his tent with his favorite toy. The woman was Regarian, taken in a raid of one of the camps. She had been a Sect of Lun telling by her once beautiful robes, probably a healer brought for the war. Now she was on all fours as Raigo rode her. Seth stood and waited for the Orc general to finish. Though he was the ugliest creature Seth had ever seen Raigo had a build that rivaled the gods. Under the blotted blue and black skin his muscles rippled like a race horse’s, the body of a machine of war.

Raigo finished and pushed the woman down onto the furs, standing to face Seth. His black and yellow eyes looked at him almost bored as he went to the basin to wash.

“You’re almost acting like a human,” Seth said as Raigo finished and pulled on a horsehair tunic. Raigo laughed a bit at that, his fangs flashing in the dim lamp light.

“You are what you eat, and I have eaten only men,” Raigo answered.

“Is she to be a meal or a mother?” Seth asked indicating the woman. If she was listening, she didn’t show it, she lay on the furs like a broken doll. Raigo looked back at her and shrugged.

“I’ve never sired a litter,” Raigo answered. “Children grow strong to eat their fathers. I would only kill those to come after me. If she bears some so be it.”

“You’ve kept her though,” Seth said.

“I like her hair,” Raigo answered. Seth wondered at that, if he had been human Seth would have guessed that the woman reminded Raigo of his mother. Monsters, even human ones, had that flaw of hating their mothers. But Raigo had no mother by his admission, he had come into this world through a gate, and before that was nothing more than a mindless spirit of darkness.

“Anyways, I have a plan of getting into the Regarian camp,” Seth said as Raigo dressed into his armor. The Orcs liked wearing rough clothes like burlap, horsehair, or leather. Seth learned it was because their skin was thick and they didn’t mind the texture, as long as it was sturdy.

“Go on,” Raigo said interested.

“I need some of the armor from one of the captured knights, preferably one captured recently,” Seth said.

“They will not fall for that,” Raigo said. “The knights have said the king keeps count of those we take so they know who is gone. You will not sneak in with armor.”

“I wasn’t planning on going in alive,” Seth said and grinned. Raigo answered with a grin and nod before leaving the tent to seek what Seth had asked for.

“The gods weep at your atrocities.”

Seth turned to see the woman was sitting up now, her knees tucked in at her chin. She was young, maybe a few years younger than Seth, and shapely if a little on the plump side. She had the Regarian beauty, one that never really lasted through to old age. Seth noted a few bite marks where Raigo had been overzealous or just a bit hungry.

“The gods if there are any are probably fornicating all over the sky,” Seth said. “What do you think clouds are?”

He made a motion with his fist near his cock and actually got the woman to scowl at him in disgust. He’d thought she be far past disgust at this point.

“Who are you?” she asked. “You are not some demon like these creatures.”

“I am though,” Seth said. “I just happen to look like a man. And who are you? Other than some misfortunate Sect and now Raigo’s chew toy.”

Her eyes were filled with fury now and fists clenched in rage. She sat a little higher and raised her head in pride.

“I am Sect Melina Roux,” she said with acid and Seth froze.

“Roux?” Seth said. “You wouldn’t be related to the Earl Roux, would you?”

“My brother has the title,” Melina answered.

“Your father was killed by an assassin, one of his own men,” Seth said, and she looked at him with wide eyes. Seth removed his mask and looked at her, recognizing her even though she didn’t recognize him. He remembered the Earl’s arrogant daughter though he had only met her once when she had returned home from the Sect for Cael’s Day. Had he been the man he was then he would have killed her just out of spite, now he felt nothing as he looked down at the daughter of a man that had once commanded him to kill innocents.

“Who are you?” Melina said her voice shaking, maybe from rage or maybe from fear.

“I am an assassin, I was that assassin that took your father,” Seth said to see what she would do. Melina growled in her throat and lunged for a dagger on the floor. She leapt up and aimed for Seth’s chest, and he didn’t stop her. She stabbed him through the ribs and into the heart, Seth feeling nothing of the blade passing through his chest.

When he didn’t fall Melina looked up at him with terror in her eyes now.

“Oh, and I can’t die,” Seth added. Raigo returned just then with two Orcs lugging a set of Regarian armor. “Ah good you found some,” Seth said as he reached up and casually withdrew the dagger. “Your whore was kind enough to provide the injury I needed to pass this off.”

“You hardly bleed though,” Raigo said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Seth said. “There is plenty of blood on that and it is fresh which is what I wanted. Help me into it.”

Melina slunk away forgotten now as Seth stripped of his black clothes and armor. The two Orcs helped him into the armor, closing the helm over his face.

“Your face won’t pass when they inspect it,” Raigo said. “Want me to fix that?”

“I’m quite fond of my face thanks,” Seth answered. “They won’t inspect a dead man too much.”

“What about when they check for a pulse?” Raigo asked.

“I don’t have one,” Seth answered. “I’ll bring back the king’s head in a nice pretty box for you Raigo, a special treat just for you.”

Raigo growled at him as he left, and Seth just made a rude gesture back at him to let him know he cared. He walked out back through the camp, nearly stopped by a few Orcs, but he simply killed one and they let him pass. He then walked out into the no man’s land keeping low. The trees and bushes had been cleared away and it was now nothing but an open plain. Seth kept low until he knew he was in visible range of the sentries.

Then he lay on his belly and began to crawl. He stopped occasionally as if he were tired or wounded. He kept crawling until he was in the torch light and heard men shouting. He let out a weak cry and then shuddered and fell limp. He played possum as the guards shouted and one came running. He felt the man reach under the armor to try and find a pulse but felt nothing as Seth knew he would.

“Send for a Sect of Isra,” the guard shouted. “He’s already gone.”

Shouts followed and Seth had to lay perfectly still as orders were shouted. The guard rolled him onto his back and Seth looked up into the night sky, putting all his will into not moving even his eyes to blink.

“May the gods guard you well brother,” the guard said as he raised the visor of his helm and closed Seth’s eyes. Thankfully it was dark, and the man didn’t notice that Seth had Elmerian features rather than Regarian features. Had he dressed as a foot soldier the knights wouldn’t have bothered to come and get him even if he was alive. As a knight however they would move mountains to retrieve a fallen brother even a dead one.

He could only perceive the frenzy of activity from closed eyes, so he only felt men lift him onto a stretcher and carry him away. He hoped towards the camp and beyond the guards there. It was only a short time until he was set down on a table and the stretcher pulled away. He heard men leaving to return to their posts but sensed there was another living person in the tent.

Seth risked opening one eye and turning his head slightly to look around. He was laying on a table in a long open ceiling tent, other men lying on tables nearby. He didn’t need the gore and wounds to tell him that the men were dead; he could see it in the still lines of their bodies. A Sect stood with her back to Seth, working at another table full of tools and bandages. He couldn’t see her face, but her hands were wrinkled and old, the veins standing out against her thin bones. She wore the robes of the Sect, lined in black silk; a Sister of Sorrow of the Stone Order.

The morticians of the Sect had their own order, those that tended to the dead to get them ready for Empyria. They were usually only women, dedicates to the Goddess of Night and the Dead, Isra. The Stone Order was the other side of the Steel Order, the order of the knights that was solely male. The Holy Knights dispatched death and the Sisters of Sorrow cleaned up after them.

Seth closed his eyes and turned his head back as the old woman began to turn towards him. He let his heart lie still as the old woman leaned over him and began taking his helmet off. Seth waited for her to inhale sharply in surprise, but she didn’t.

“Well, an Elmerian Knight,” she muttered. “You must have been someone’s bastard. Well you won’t be the first Elmerian I’ve tended to today.”

Seth didn’t answer, realizing the old bat probably liked to talk to her patients though they were dead. The Sisters of Sorrow tended to be strange women, those that were mad or ugly tended to be placed in the order by their families. Seth lay still as the old woman took off his armor, surprisingly strong for someone so frail. Seth felt her wrinkled hands thin and dry pull off the clothes he wore under the armor until he was naked on the table.

He wanted to run, but part of his plan required no one know that he had been the corpse if he was to move freely around the camp. So, he let the old woman tend to him, washing him clean with water of asphodel and cypress. She was following a ritual Seth had never seen before despite his dealing with death. The Sects rituals for burial were a private affair so usually only the Sisters knew them. Frankincense was burning filling the air with a heavy smoke.

“Thanks a lot for crawling all the way back,” the old woman said as she washed him. “Kept me up out of my bed. Though I suppose I can’t complain, with those black bruits eating half the men they take my workload has been a lot lighter.”

She finished washing him, and then began drying his skin with a clean cotton cloth. When she finished drying him, she anointed his forehead, breastbone, and navel with holy oil of myrrh and tansy. She opened his mouth sprinkled something onto his tongue, salt telling by the texture though Seth could not taste it. He couldn’t sense any of the smells of the place, yet he somehow knew what they all were. Maybe he was close to death after all.

She then began to wrap him in a yellow shroud, yellow was the color for a warrior who died in battle for Sol. Seth guessed at this, he had seen other bodies wrapped in other colors depending on how they had died. He knew that if the person died in disgrace they were buried without a shroud. Seth then saw her crown him with a wreath of olive leaves.

Then the old woman began to pray. Like all Sect she made hand signs to the sky; that was why the tent was open to the sky so the souls of the dead men could ascend to Empyria to join the gods. Seth could just see the old woman making the hand signs out of a gap in the shroud. She paced about as she did them, steps seeming key in the ritual as well. It took her a long time to finish but at last she lowered her hands.

“All done young man,” she said patting his shoulder. “You have a good rest in Empyria, be sure to save me a seat in Sol’s light.”

She gave him one last pat before walking off. Seth waited longer to be sure she was gone before he sat up and pulled the shroud off. He looked around and sure enough he was alone, but for the dead. He tore off the shroud and got to his feet, wiping the oil off his skin and spitting out the salt crystals still on his tongue.

He looked around for something to change into, finding a basket full of the armor he had worn. There was more from the other men dead in the tent, but Seth hunted around for just the clothes. Finding some that would suit a servant he dressed and left the tent by one of the walls rather than an entrance for fear of being seen. He then went around the camp which was mostly quiet in the middle of the night. The guard’s attention was on the outside not inside, so Seth had a good deal of room to move about.

First, he went to the cook tent where he found an apron and put it on, completing his look of a servant. He inspected the knives, but all were kitchen knives unsuited for his purpose. He hadn’t brought anything since he had been in disguise, but he knew he could find something around camp.

The problem he was going to have is getting close enough to the king to do the deed. Even in camp there would be a bodyguard standing nearby ready to protect the king. That was the problem with assassinating a high standing target; they tended to have the best security. In the history of the Nine Kingdoms since they had been untied only twenty odd kings had been killed during their reign. Only half had died outside of battle, and most had been killed by someone close to them like a brother or lover. A few had been killed by their own men, a bodyguard bribed into turning against their lord like Seth had once done.

Of all those kings only one had been High Kings. Ioram I Alvar, the bloody king. Many said he had been mad since birth, but had never shown any signs until he took the throne. He had declared the Elmerians rats and ordered every one of them executed, trying to start one of the first genocides since the Cursed Age. Many had opposed this ruling but Ioram spent then entire treasury of the throne to buy Hyrian and Xinian mercenaries, it had been the only time the Pridesmen had left the desert into northern lands. The civil strife had lasted four years until at last Ioram’s brother Terrian I Alvar, who had been challenging his rule since it began, killed him in a peace meeting under a flag of truce.

Terrian became known as Terrian the Restful King, and brought peace back to the kingdoms for a time. Seth knew however the only reason Terrian had been able to kill Ioram was because he had been his brother, able to get close to him to do the deed. Even though the two brothers had been at war with each other, Ioram had still felt safe enough to hold a peace meeting when Terrian had called for it. No one had expected Terrian to kill his brother, though none of history knows what happened in that meeting as it had been private.

So, as the camp slept Seth sat on his heels and mused about how to kill Arian. Poison was out; the king’s food would be prepared and delivered by only the most loyal servants. He was a new face and he risked capture if he tried to pose as a servant to get close. As he was he had some leeway in camp as long as he kept his head down, but the moment he made a move towards the king Seth knew the jackals would be on him.

Battle was out as well though Seth had already known this. Arian had not engaged in any skirmishes, sitting on his high horse watching the battles go on surrounded by a wall of knights. If a party tried attacking the knights would form up long enough for Arian to escape back to the fortified camp.

So now even though Seth was in the camp he still had the difficulty of getting close to the king. The longer he stayed in camp the more likely he would be discovered. The old Sister of Sorrow had seen his face; if she saw him walking about, she would say something.

There was one bonus Seth didn’t have to worry about and that was death. A mission like this was usually a suicide mission, in all likelihood he would be caught even after he succeeded in the deed. Most assassins never survived being caught, though he had as well so Seth’s luck always seemed to be on his side.

He supposed the major problem he had was tools, his whole method and approach were going to depend on what weapons he could employ. If he got his hands on a crossbow his chances of being caught went down, but so did his chances of success. A long-distance weapon had the problem of interference by bodyguards or bad aim. A knife had a better chance, but only if he could get close without anyone noticing. A sword had more reach but wasn’t subtitle enough even in a place where almost every man was armed. Poison wouldn’t work even if Seth could get his hands on some.

Seth also had the twisted need to make the death interesting; it made the deed easier to do if he could find some irony or unique twist in the execution. Even though he could no longer feel anything the compulsion was still there. He fantasized about using the iron gibbet on the king, seeing it as an appropriate end to the man that had invented the damn thing. Although he couldn’t use the iron gibbet Seth realized he could use decapitation as the method of death.

He began moving about camp again searching for a suitable weapon. It was the dog hours of morning before the sun even set the sky aglow with the blush of sunrise. At first, he looked for a sword or ax before he realized he would never be able to get close enough to do the deed with a heavy or bulky weapon. So he turned instead to wire.

There was a blacksmith in the camp with many thousands of tools and instruments. Seth found a long wire with two wooden pegs for handles. The wire was used to cut clay and other materials with ease. Seth examined the wire, pulling it to test its strength. The smith had made it of steel apparently, and probably used it to cut more sturdy things other than clay. The wire however was too thick for Seth’s purposes.

The smith however had a wet wheel, a devise used for sharpening swords. Seth took the wire to the stone, spinning it with the foot crank. The wire made little noise against the stone and Seth finished before the smith woke. Pocketing the wire he walked away towards the King’s tent. Even with the wire Seth was going to need a significate amount of force to separate a head from a body in one go, but he was willing to accept the challenge.

As he walked the camp woke at last and servants began preparing for the day. Seth unfortunately was dressed as a servant, so he didn’t get far before a task was pushed on him. He had no choice but to comply since if he refused it would draw attention. Carrying water from the well to the cook tent was a simple task. As he worked, he overheard two knights talking.

“…Orders to gather for the king’s speech,” one was saying to the other. “Make sure every man of arms in your command is there to hear.”

“Will we be rallying for a charge?” the other asked excited.

“I don’t know but I doubt it,” the other knight answered. “I’ve heard rumors though that the king has at last heard from Hyria about a force being sent for support.”

“About time,” the other man muttered. Seth walked past the men, one hand slipping into a coin purse to take what he needed.

Seth hurried away and kept his ears open to soon learn where the gathering would be held. It would be on the western side of the hill out of sight of the enemy. Seth left for the field as soon as he could to see many had already gathered. He could tell immediately where the king would stand; at a little natural hillock that overlooked the field. It was an open area, no good for sneaking. But there was a stand of trees by the path the king would walk from his tent to the hill. Seth moved casually his every sense trained for anyone taking notice of him.

No one did as he made it to the trees and began to climb. The spring foliage was young and new, the green leaves not fully open yet. There was just enough cover in the branches around the trunk Seth knew no one would notice him, hardly anyone ever looked up. He examined the position and determined it would be hard to catch the king as he walked down from his tent. Seth would have to walk out onto a branch and swing down to perform the task, he would be visible then. It would be best to wait to strike.

He sat in the tree until the sun was high and at last the king came walking down from his tent surrounded by guards. Seth watched Arian carefully as he walked below the tree. His guards surrounded him loosely; there was a lot of space between them and the king. They walked on and the guards peeled off so Arian could stand up on the hill to overlook his men. Cheers roared from the crowd and Arian waited until they died to speak.

He looked a fine figure up there on the hill, his armor polished and crown gleaming in the sun. He wore a red cape emblazoned with the dragon rampart and held a large claymore before him resting his hands on the cross guard. He regarded the army before him with cool anger.

“We have been at this too long,” Arian said darkly. “Loe has proven to be in league not only with the Legion who worships a false god, but now monsters of demi human stock. They are a bastard race that should be wiped off the face of Miread like the rats they are. We are supported by the gods, the holy Order of Steel meant to vanquish the enemies of the gods.”

The men roared thumping their fists against armor.

“But we had been at this too long!” Arian roared. “The gods weep that we had taken so long to vanquish their enemies. I tell you all now when we have vanquished these demons into the dust, I will turn to those who failed to raise the sword as they should have rightly done when I hailed them.”

The outcry of rage was deafening.

“Hyria has at last sent an army from the river lands,” Arian said at last. “They march as we speak for the east. A purchase of the mercenaries of Xin has also come through, the Horse Lords ride through the Spine Mountains as we speak.”

Cheers of relief and victory rose up.

“We will see the spring harvest of heads come rolling in, let the reaper take his toll on those that stand against the Gods and their children.”

Arian raised his sword high and the men roared in glee. The men kept cheering as Arian lowered his sword and turned to leave, his guards following him. Seth watched him like a cat watched a mouse, reaching into his pocket for his trump card. As the guards passed under the tree Seth carefully tossed a silver coin down to fall neatly at the king’s feet.

Arian despite being the richest man in the whole kingdoms, the Regarian King stopped and bent to pick up the coin. Seth leapt, using his knees to wrap around the tree branch and swing down the wire strung between his hands. He caught Arian in the throat just as he rose up, Seth’s momentum and inhuman strength pulling the wire across his throat. Seth heard the King’s blood gurgle out and felt a slight tug at the wire, but he pulled hard.

He landed behind Arian and turned to see the King’s headless corpse standing with blood pumping from its neck. It toppled and Seth saw Arian’s head sitting on the ground looking astonished, his crown sitting next to him. The guards stood stunned, but Seth moved like lightning. He scooped up the head and crown and ran, slipping between two knights like a thief in a market street.

In two heartbeats he was yards away before men began shouting to follow him. Horns blared and shouts rang through the camp, but Seth ran faster than any man. He ran between tents and stunned servants the King’s bloody head and crown in his hands. He cleared the camp, men still chasing him, but unable to catch him. He heard more than felt arrows thump into his back, but he didn’t even lose his stride.

He ran across the no man’s land, the sound of pounding hooves following him as knights chased him. War drums suddenly pounded to life and Seth saw the Orcs rise up from their camp. They charged to meet him out on the field and the angered knights meant to chase him down tried to stop and retreat, but it was too late. The Orcs had no cavalry, horses were too afraid of them to be ridden, but they ran faster and harder than any man.

The Orc line hit the stunned and startled knights like the tide hit a sandcastle. Men shouted, horses screamed, and horns blared for a retreat. Seth slowed and stood in the middle of a tide of blood enraged Orcs as they charged for their enemies and next meal.

“Good job,” Raigo said stepping up next to him. Seth turned to see the Orc leader standing by with a long pole.

“You knew to attack when I was successful,” Seth said and Raigo gave a blood chilling smile. “Here’s the trophy.”

“More than that,” Raigo said as Seth tossed the King’s head over. Seth felt nothing to see a familiar face in the monster’s hands as Raigo raised Arian’s head to his mouth. His great tusks cracked Arian’s head open like an egg, and he slurped up the gray brains as they gushed out. When he finished, he lowered the pole and mounted the head on the spike. Seth put the crown back on the head; it sat askew because half of Arian’s head was now caved in. But the face was still distinguishable, the eyes bulging and tongue hanging out.

Raigo raised the grizzly head up and howled. The Orcs turned to look and roared with glee, thumping their fists against their armor much like the men of Regis had just done. Seth turned to look to see what this did to the men. Most were fleeing still; tents being torn down and the camp in chaos. But Seth could just see some men raise their heads and look up to see their King’s head. Seth couldn’t see their faces, but he imagined they were white with terror.

He turned away to leave the Orcs to their gory orgy and walked back to the camp. He walked by Raigo’s tent and saw Melina standing in the entrance of the tent. She wasn’t looking at him, but at the sight of the King’s head being waved over the Orcs. She looked like the world had ended.

Seth walked on back to his tent to change and wash. Once into the black silks and leather armor he now wore he put the death mask back on. He preferred wearing it, simply because it threw people off. Walking out his walked to a silent grove of trees to sit on a tree stump and stare at the white feather again. He felt nothing.

“Lord Hollow.”

Seth turned at the title he had become known by to see the Duke Han standing behind him. The Duke looked haggard, his face drawn and new gray in his hair. His eyes were haunted and dead, the eyes of a man who had seen so much he had long since given up. Seth stood and pocketed his feather turning to the Lord Han with a nod and slight bow.

“Lord Han, I’m surprised to see you,” he said. “I’d think you would have committed suicide a long time ago.”

“I linger on,” Han answered dully. “The Emperor has sent me here with a duty to perform. I was to wait until you took the High King’s head, but it seems my timing is impeccable.”

“So it is,” Seth said. “How do you feel about that?”

“I have lost the ability to feel much anymore,” Han said, his tone hopeless.

“You have no idea how it feels to be empty Lord Han, nor do you know anything of pain,” Seth said in his usual dead pan voice and he saw Han’s face drain of blood. “So who am I to kill now? Women with babes still in the womb? Children who can barely walk? Because I have killed all those now and seen it done. I’ve seen this army joyfully slaughter those in villages we come across, eat them, and tear them apart. I’ve fought in those raids, killed in those raids, because I feel nothing.

“None of this compares however to seeing an Orc litter born, none of it. I’ve lived with demons Lord Han; I’ve seen the worst of war. And yet I still feel nothing.”

He let his words sink in, feeling nothing to see Han struggling with his gore. The Lord lost that battle; he turned to vomit into the bushes. If he had not heard the stories as he traveled here, he would have seen what was left of those places the Orc army had passed through. Seth now knew the meaning of pain and fear, though he could not feel any himself.

“It is the end of days we have seen, and all hope is gone from this world,” Han said. “We can only struggle to make our way in what we face.”

“What is the fucking mission?” Seth said, gaining nothing from Han’s words.

“We are to ride to Cair Leone under a flag of truce,” Han answered. “You are to pose as my servant to gain access to the palace so that you might kill Elrik Drasir the pretender of the High Throne. The Emperor has decided to take the seat and will claim a Regarian noble as his wife for Regis.”

“Princess Pricilla is too old for his taste,” Seth said, a mere observation but Han made a wounded cry in the back of his throat, leaning over the bushes to gag up what was left of his stomach. Han recovered and turned to him again, shaking.

“She is too old for his taste, but he is willing to claim her none the less,” Han answered. “He told me to seek out another younger girl should I find her, but I fail to think of any the right age and standing.”

“We will see then,” Seth said interested. “But killing Elrik will not gain him the seat he wants. There are too many heads to this serpent; there is more than just one man or woman controlling the Court of Miracles.”

“The Emperor informed me that you once were an assassin of the court,” Han said. “He said you would know the best way to wrest control of the court and who would need killing.”

“He wants me to plan this coup?” Seth said and Han nodded. He thought that over, examining possibilities. He was more worried about what Loe was planning with this move. It implied Loe had a lot of trust in Seth, but he knew that wasn’t true. “Was this Loe’s idea?”

“I don’t know what you mean?” Han said.

“He’s introduced you to Kal Ba’el hasn’t he?” Seth said, sure that Loe had shown the reliquary to the high standing lords and ladies of the Court of Whispers. Han shivered and nodded.

“I have seen the dark god yes,” Han said dully. “He deserves to be feared. I do not pretend to know his whims or his plans, I only serve.”

If Seth could feel fear, he would be quivering in his boots to hear the Lord Han speak like that. The Legion sounded like fanatics, like they truly believed raping and eating people was glorious and their dark god would lead them to victory. Han sounded like a broken slave, one that believed what had been told to him because all hope and life had been raped out of him. He had no spirit left to fight.

“Fine,” Seth said moving on. “Feng Loe serves Kal Ba’el so much it doesn’t make much of a difference anyways. So you are to help me in this endeavor?”

“Yes, I am to ride under the flag of truce,” Han said. “I am to be a lord that has fled the Emperor’s tyranny and I am seeking shelter in the Court of Miracles.”

“Sherah will buy that but only if you had brought your entire family with you,” Seth said. “If even one member is not with you she will know they are being used as hostages for your good behavior and that you are a spy.”

“That is why I have brought them all with me,” Han said.

“All of them?” Seth asked. “Even Noa?”

“Even Noa,” Han said dully, and Seth eyed him now.

“If you have your daughter back then what is keeping you in line Han?” Seth asked. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“No trick,” Han said as he turned. “Come I’ll show you.”

Warily Seth followed him. Though he couldn’t feel pain and couldn’t be killed it didn’t mean Seth couldn’t be trapped. He had no idea what would happen if he were cut up into pieces and buried. So he followed Han back to camp where a tent had been set up away from the Orcs’ tents. It flew Han’s standard, a crane with reeds framing it. Inside the tent sat Moa and an older woman who must have been Han’s wife. She said nothing as they walked in, her face might as well been made of porcelain. Han went to another room of the tent and stepped back so Seth could enter. Inside it was lit by several lamps, the smell of sandalwood incense filling the room.

Noa Han lay in a drugged stupor in sleeping robes. A burner sat in the corner of the room with opium smoke drifting about in lazy spirals. She was tied up with padded leather restraints, both hand and foot.

“So you drugged her to deal with her pain,” Seth said. “This proves nothing Han.”

“We’ve drugged her for her own good yes,” Han said. “Go and pull back her robes.”

Glaring Seth went into the room and knelt next to the girl. When he pulled back the robes he saw something he had not expected. Black tattoos covered the girl’s body in writhing lines like snakes. Tiny lines of writing followed the lines, a script Seth had never seen before but somehow he could read the meaning of. Arousal and pain, the marks made the girl a slave to these things constantly feeling them together.

“When we first got her back, I feared for her health,” Han said. “She threw herself at me, trying to… The opium is the only way to keep her calm. Even though I have her back, Loe owns her forever now. She only ever acts human in his presence, outside of his presence she does everything to try to get back to him. She acts like an animal and cries out for him saying she loves him.”

Seth closed the girl’s robes and walked out looking Han in the eye. The man was broken now, his daughter lost to him. Seth drew a dagger and put it to his throat, looking in his eyes for fear but only seeing acceptance.

“Why do you do this?” Han asked. “Why do you work for that monster?”

Seth sheathed his dagger, and shrugging.

“He made me into a monster like him, but he made me into something that doesn’t care about that. All that is left is the knowledge that he has to die, and yet the inability to know how to make that happen. So I’ll continue to do his dirty work because it keeps me close enough to one day learn how to kill him.”

“Are you not impatient?” Han asked. “You are not close to him right now; you are not learning anything on how to kill him like this.”

If Seth could laugh, he would have, but the ability to make the sound was gone from him.

“He made me immortal; time is meaningless to me now. And I don’t care about the thousands that will die by my hands because of this. I don’t care about anything and there is nothing you can do or say to make me care. I am dead already.”

Han stared at him as if looking at a monster, a monster he feared.

“Very well Lord Hollow,” Han said bowing to him. “What then is your plan in taking the Court of Miracles?”

Seth mulled that over, finding it strange that a lord was bowing to him asking for orders. Since Seth had killed Roux he had been his own master, but no one else’s. Having another man turn to him for orders was strange and he had to think a while to figure out how to approach this.

“Allies,” Seth said at last. “This cannot be done alone from the outside; there will have to be royals currently in the court there to take control. Like Loe did with the Court of Whispers, he hadn’t been in any power but when I killed the king and the Orcs stormed the palace Loe had been there to take over. He hadn’t needed to kill the lords, they bowed out of fear. We need to do that again, but to do that we need a lord from within the Court already there with some power to rally those we do not kill and take control.”

“Who?” Han asked. Seth thought of Lucia but felt nothing other than a mild memory of soft lips against his own. She would still protect Jeanne, and if Seth had to kill Jeanne Lucia would stand in his way.

“I don’t know the current state of the court and this event will only cause powers to shift greatly in the Court of Miracles,” Seth answered. “We will have to face that decision when we get to court. This will be a long game, Raigo with his war and us with infiltration.”

“Might I make a suggestion,” Han’s wife said and both men turned to her. “My name is Sein Lord Hollow, I am not of the Lord class but was once the daughter of a wealthy silk merchant. If you were to gain the loyalty of the merchants you would gain much control of the Court and trade. If they were told they would make great profit hearts could be swayed to our side.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Seth said interested. “Has the Legion gained control of the merchants’ guilds?”

“They have not last I heard,” Han answered. “They target rural areas of Elmerian population, controlling by fear or promise of power. Some think they will be granted greater standing and get to pull down the lords and take their place. Those that do not agree or do not believe are afraid to speak out against the rest.”

Seth knew how rural Elmerians thought; they had lived lives of oppression and poverty. Any man that came along and promised them food, equality, and wealth would be welcomed even if that man raped and murdered people. It was something many of the elites never understood, why the poor chose one oppressor over another. It was because the new oppressor didn’t act like one and made promises that they could relate to.

The merchants were those between the elite and poor. They dealt with both day to day, the poor the suppliers of the goods and the wealthy the consumers. He knew some about the merchant class, but what he knew was that most of the nobles looked down on them at least in Regis. To the nobles there was little difference from the poor and the merchants other than the merchants at least knew how to act properly. He imagined this could cause a bit of resentment for some merchants.

“Can I trust you to set about with this idea Lady Han?” Seth asked.

“I am honored to serve my Emperor,” she murmured and bowed. It was almost obscene how complacent she had become. All the fire and pride was gone from these people, Seth wondered what Loe was doing in the Court of Whispers to break the tall back of the nobility to such an extent.

“Good, then Lord Han you shall work on some of the nobility to find those willing to switch sides,” Seth said. “Tap into any latent discontent in the older lords, those who lived through the King’s wars. Even some of the Regarians were bitter over the win, simply because they didn’t gain as much as they had hoped. I’ve heard that the Drakon house never really let go of the fact they had been usurped from the Regarian throne by the Drasirs.”

“Yes Lord Hollow,” Lord Han said. “And what will you do?”

“Servants and the Elmerians are my stock,” Seth answered. “The hunt for the Legion has had to have made many bitter over the persecution our race has had to endure. Many have been accepting of this fate since it has been our lot since the beginning of our existence. But some are not so tame.”

Lord and Lady Han bowed to him and Seth let them, unable to feel any pride or disgust at the broken lords that had come to serve him.

#fantasy #series #writing #please read #fairies #dragons

0 notes

loraleislysiren · 7 years

Text

Siren Song - 9

“Now go get our ingredients,” Draco commanded Y/N.

The Slytherin girl stared at him blankly. “Are you being serious right now?”

Draco answered her with unrelenting silence.

“Why would I want to help you when I’m competing against you? And also, I’m not doing anything for you if you demand me to do it.” She turned away from Draco and moved to collect the ingredients for the Girding Potion.

Disregarding what she espoused, Draco called after her, expecting her to comply, “Make sure you get my ingredients too, L/N.”

Y/N approached the table at the front of the room where Snape had rounded up the lesson’s necessary items. Gathering what she needed for her potion, she returned to her seat with sticky doxy eggs, pale dragonfly thoraxes, dried flying seahorses, shimmering fairy wings, and more. She lined her ingredients up neatly in front of her cauldron and organized the tools she’d need to prepare the varying components of the potion.

Draco glared at Y/N, “Where’s all my stuff?”

Y/N was aghast, “Did you really expect me to get all this for you?”

“You’re a sad excuse for a Potions partner, you know that?” Draco had almost assumed she would bring him the ingredients he needed to begin, and when she didn’t, he returned to insulting her. “Crabbe and Goyle were far superior. They always went and got everything for me. You’re pathetic.”

She giggled in amusement at his childish rhetoric. “Then you’re spoiled, and I’m not going to further contribute to that tragedy.”

He wasn’t use to being laughed at and it struck a nerve. He spat with derision, “Dirty blood traitor.”

“Clever, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be hurrying up rather than talking to me? Tick tock, Malfoy.” She shot a snarky grin to her partner. He glared at her before storming off to the front of the room.

Now concentrating on the assignment at hand, Y/N read carefully over the directions that Snape had written on the board. Wanting to make sure that she followed the steps precisely, she didn’t rush her efforts. She had just begun to add the iridescent fairy wings to her cauldron when Draco appeared back at his seat, with his ingredients, visibly annoyed. A stand of his hair fell in his eyes and he pushed it out of the way sourly.

Draco and Y/N continued to work quietly for the next several minutes until the former broke the silence, “You know, it’s not like I’m useless here.”

He had been bothered by Y/N calling him spoiled, and he felt the need to justify himself. “Crabbe and Goyle always went to get everything for the potions because I was the one always doing the bulk of the work. When we worked in groups, I made the potions because it was apparent I was the best at it. Even when we worked alone, I still helped them. It was a tradeoff. And I’m a good friend. An I’m good at making potions. I do quite an actual bit in this class, and they wouldn’t have the grades they do in here without me.”

Her initial reactions was to shoot some saucy remark his way, but she thought better of it. Y/N recognized his defensiveness and eased up being so combative. “Great, I’m happy for you,” she voiced indifferently. “Now leave me alone. I’m trying to win.” Draco scoffed, “Trying would be the key word, L/N.”

Choosing to ignore this comment, Y/N didn’t provide Draco the gratification of a response. Concentrating instead on the low-bubbling brew in her cauldron, she watched her potion change from a brilliant turquoise to a deep fuchsia. So far, so good.

Y/N, in all honesty, enjoyed and appreciated potion making. Although she preferred subjects like Charms or Defense Against the Darks Arts (magic that appeared more spectacular to her), she felt that there was something methodical and calming about creating a potion. The magic was initially more subtle, but often potent and powerful in the long run. Potions, after all, could revive life or extinguish it, and Y/N respected and appreciated that fact. Halfway through the steps that Snape had listed on the board, Y/N, out of the corner of her eye, quickly assessed the progression of Draco’s potion. His potion was a shade darker than her own, and she tensed ever so slightly when she realized that he was now a step ahead of her. How exactly had he managed not only to catch up, but to also surpass her? She frowned in his general direction upon realizing that his work seemed to be accurate and well-crafted.

Faintly frustrated, it was now her turn to interrupt the silence, “What happens if our potions are equally good? If Professor Snape doesn’t make it clear who has the better potion?”

Draco studied Y/N and then looked at her now astonishingly violet potion and smirked, “I suppose the obvious answer is whoever completes the potion first, that person would be the winner.”

She nodded, a bit begrudgingly, because she knew his suggestion was legitimate and fair. And then she found her gaze drifting to his smirk. If she lost, kissing Draco Malfoy wouldn’t be the worst thing that had happened to her. If Malfoy in fact decided to pick himself to kiss her… she didn’t know who he’d pick of course. With a bat of her thick lashes, she met his gray stare again. “That’s fine.”

With that affirmation, Y/N turned back to her work. She embraced tunnel vision while brewing her potion, and even though she knew she was behind Draco, she continued to work at her own pace and hoped that her precision and meticulousness would outshine her rival’s dexterity and swiftness (or whatever the hell it was that catapulted him ahead of her). She took her time because she believed in doing things the correct way, the first time (if she could help it). She didn’t like to be wrong (and it was rare that she was).

Focused on creating a flawless Girding Potion and beating Draco, the rest of the classroom and its inhabitants melted away. It wasn’t until her black robed professor appeared next to Draco and began to speak that Y/N realized he was finished.

Snape inspected Draco’s work, checking its color, thickness, and various other attributes. “Very well done, Mr. Malfoy. I would expect nothing less from you. This is a successful Girding Potion and would most certainly enhance the user’s endurance.”

Draco basked in the professor’s praise and sent Y/N a smug smirk.

“The only way you could improve this potion would be to thicken it up,” Snape went on. “Let it boil just a little bit longer and your potion could be that much stronger. The side effects might last an additional couple of days then. But nonetheless, a splendid example of a Girding Potion. Bottle up your work and you may clean up your area. And please continue to aid Ms. L/N when she needs it.”

“Thank you, Professor, yes, I will.” Draco’s voice brimmed with conceit.

As the greasy haired professor strode away, Y/N pretended that she hadn’t been listening in on Snape’s conversation with his favorite student. She didn’t want to get distracted by Draco’s gloating and make some sort of careless error with her potion.

“Well, L/N, top that.”

She wanted to ignore him. Her better instincts told her not to respond, but she couldn’t help herself, she felt compelled, “I will, Malfoy, don’t worry.” The banter between them just flowed naturally.

The blonde sneered at the girl and began to clean up his workspace, “Doubt it,” he muttered under his breath.

Twenty minutes ago Y/N had been confident that she would make a better potion than Draco, but now doubt was creeping into her mind. Draco’s potion had been nearly perfect, and Y/N had underestimated his ability.

But then again, she reminded herself, everyone always underestimated her, and her potion was pretty damn close to perfect as well. She was going to win, at least she told herself this.

Y/N was the penultimate student to finish her potion, but she knew her effort afforded her a solid Girding Potion. More than solid: exceptional.

Seeing that she was finished, Snape rounded on Y/N and peered in her cauldron. He grasped the spoon and stirred her potion, inspecting its viscosity and texture. The thick liquid’s hue, one of dirty pollen, was exactly what Y/N had been aiming for. “Well, Ms. L/N, I’m rather impressed with your potion work.” He praised her directly. “Whether or not this creation was a fluke has yet to be seen. However, since you are a Slytherin, I’m certain you will prove your prowess.” Snape shifted his attention to Y/N’s partner, “Mr. Malfoy, take note of the thickness of Ms. L/N’s potion. Slightly thicker than yours, this can be achieved by letting your potion brew longer. This is what you should aim for.”

Draco shot daggers at Y/N. Her eyes flashed triumphantly back at him for she knew Snape’s words were the nail in the coffin of her victory.

“Well done, Ms. L/N. It seems that you and Mr. Malfoy work well together. A talented Slytherin team with a propensity towards potion work. A strong pairing, I believe.” Snape narrowed his eyes, examining his students. Y/N couldn’t tell whether her professor was being sarcastic or not.

“Mr. Malfoy, help Ms. L/N with cleaning up. Good work, the both of you.” Snape left the pair quickly to help a flustered Neville. He was the only one still working on his potion and his cauldron was beginning to billow fetid black smoke, the acrid smell already clinging to the oppressive and heavy dungeon air.

When Snape was out of earshot, Y/N faced Draco Malfoy with a grin spanning from ear to ear. “So I think you own me my wand now.” She held out her empty hand, her open palm facing skyward. Draco said nothing as he placed the unusual wand in the girl’s hand. The wood was dark with intricate designs and contrasted against the smooth handle inlaid with glinting mother of pearl. For the second time today, Y/N L/N had wounded Draco’s pride. His face was hard and stoic, but his eyes shouted indignation.

Indulging in her victory, her wand now back in her possession, Y/N unexpectedly blew Draco a kiss for the second time that day. This time, unlike in Charms, no magic happened.

Draco was surprised at her gesture and furrowed his brow in consternation.

“Thank you,” Y/N spoke sincerely, “for keeping your end of the deal.”

“I’m not a liar.” Draco defended himself.

“I never said you were,” rolled off Y/N’s tongue. “Now help me clean up like Professor Snape told you to,” she grinned at him, knowing she was testing his patience. Draco Malfoy was an asshole, that fact was still certain. Y/N, however, thoroughly enjoyed taking him down a notch and thought, if she had the chance, that she wouldn’t mind doing it again.

#Draco #Draco Malfoy #draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #Harry Potter #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfiction #severus snape #professor snape #potions #slytherin #slytherin house #slytherin pride #crabbe and goyle #loraleisirensong

192 notes · View notes

arplis · 4 years

Text

Arplis - News: How To Do “Craftsman” Right – The 7 Key Elements That Make This Vintage Style Work

If you are a fan of this blog, I think it’s safe to say that you have a deep love (or at least hefty fondness) for a home full of soul. It’s basically our main goal to inject as much of it as possible into any home, regardless of when it was built. But let’s be honest, there is just nothing like a home with actual history…like 100 years of it. A home that has seen some sh*t. I find that when the phrase, “they just don’t build em like they used to” is uttered, I either slightly roll my eyes and halfway smile in silent defense of my generation or I immediately (and audibly) agree because well, it’s the truth. So when I opened my email a few weeks ago and saw this beautifully restored craftsman home, my heart filled right up. I was immediately struck by its visible soulfulness and needed to know more.

Enter the “soul keepers,” Jamie and her husband, Craig. These two are no strangers to a historical home remodel. They actually do this more or less as a hobby or as Jamie says, “it’s an addiction… but it’s an addiction to beauty and craft.” So never mind that Jamie had given birth to their second child one month (yes, ONE MONTH) prior when they saw this house for sale. Because as soon as they saw it they knew they had to bring it back to life.

This house is now for sale (I know!) because Jamie and Craig already have a beautifully restored home they aren’t ready to leave. So after they restored this beaut, they called upon one of EHD’s favorite staging and design firms, A 1000 X Better to really make sure that it felt as welcoming as possible for their potential buyers. And since we are all about beautiful homes AND teaching you how to create them, we are going go through the 7 main design elements you will want to consider when designing the perfect (and slightly unexpected) craftsman home. In Jamie’s words, “you don’t open up a Craftsman home and make it an open concept. You embrace their quirky personalities and enhance them where you can. It’s a labor of love really.” We couldn’t agree more. So let’s talk about the ways to design a historical home that will stand the test of time, so the tradition of bragging to future generations will stay firmly intact:)

Embrace The Original Wood and Keep It Matte

wall color | brass ceiling lights

The wood mouldings and accents are what make craftsman homes so darn special. The warmth and texture they bring are off the charts. I mean, just look at this living room. Instead of painting and/or putting a high gloss finish all over that stunning wood, they brought it back to its natural state. Does it look super modern? No. But that’s what makes it special. It’s like the wood is basically naked, baring its soul to you.

Here’s what they did to restore the wood back to its former glory: “We stripped all the wood on the first floor, and had real historic wood artisans do the work to make sure the wood had the right feeling, stain, and patina. We had alder baseboards specially milled to match those we found in the home. We had gorgeous decorative crown moldings cut that match those we found. We trimmed the house in Douglas Fir, because a house smells better when you use real wood trim.”

Paint The Walls Light Or Really Dark

wall color | semi flush mount | vintage rug | art on left

When Emily and I were looking at these photos we realized that in terms of painting a craftsman home you really only have two options when it comes to colors – really dark (like in that stunning parlor room above) or pretty light…like white or light gray – ideally a cooler toned color, stay away from beige. Especially when you are dealing with a lot of natural wood this is key. For example, a warm reddish color would look too similar to that medium wood tone.

small semi flush mount | large semi flush mount

Of course, there are exceptions and wallpaper is a whole other story (we will chat about that later) but choosing a high contrast color is the best way to make the wood accents pop.

Before we move on, I think we need a moment to take in the overwhelming beauty of these windows. I mean HOW?! They really knew what they were doing 100 years ago:)

Highlight Special Architectural Moments

wall color | accent color | vintage rug

In a home like this one, there are so many special architectural moments. By highlighting a few of them with paint you visually elevate the entire home. Take the killer arch and stair rail in the photo above. The dark paint makes that whole moment pop and actually helps to make the natural wood stand out more in contrast. Had they not been painted it still would have been beautiful but way less of a wow moment.

This built-in bench is another great example. It really pops because of the paint color and gives the space a fresh feel which is important in a historical home. You want to care for its history and bring it back to life BUT also make it feel like it belongs in today’s world.

Pepper in Unexpected Decor to Balance Out Traditional Feel

vintage rug | wall color

In true EHD fashion, we LOVE any opportunity to “mix it up” and create unexpected moments. A 1000 X Better is no stranger to the “unexpected moment” but in my humble opinion, they knocked it out of the park with that cool mint wicker desk and that sofa. I honestly don’t know if I can live a truly happy life until that sofa is in my possession. To me, you (sofa) are perfect.

pendant light | brass ceiling lights

art on back wall | vintage rug

But like the desk, this sofa is a very different style than the home. But because they are within the color palette of the home and have natural textures, they work perfectly and make the space feel unique.

Hot Tip

You can mix any style as long as it falls within your chosen color palette.

Keep Kitchens and Bathrooms Classic

cabinet knob | cabinet pull | shelf brackets | sconce | switchplate

The two places to keep your freak flag temporarily at ease in a craftsman home are in the kitchen and bathroom. By all means, have fun with the decor once all of your hard (and permanent) finishes are in place but as Jamie said, “we chose finishes that would have been used in 1905. Marble, soapstone, real wood cabinets that get painted and feel like wood when you touch them.” Truly the last thing you want is to regret a countertop choice because it feels out of place.

So now that we have that little hot tip out of the way, let’s take a sec to appreciate this kitchen. There’s not one thing I don’t love in here. There is just the right amount of detail in the cabinet feet and island legs to pay homage to the style of the home, but everything else has a sleeker, more modern traditional feel. It looks updated (in the best way). Also, those stairs are too beautiful, right?

I want to shower in this bathroom so badly. It’s another example of Jamie and Craig’s talent for making modern updates but honoring a home’s original architecture. Notice how every material has visual texture. The tiles, countertop, aged brass, and wood all bring life to the space. Nothing feels sterile which is always our goal when we are designing.

The same goes for this smaller bathroom. They used beautiful materials and fixtures that are akin to the home but elevate it in the best way. Also, that marble tub surround is all heart eyes for me.

Choose Light Fixtures That Stylewise Are In Line With The House

vintage rug

You may have noticed that throughout all of these photos, all of the hardwired light fixtures are more on the modern traditional side. We think this is the way to go (and it’s what Em did in her English Tudor Home). Keep those more permanent types of design elements in line with the style of the home for longevity and overall homage to the style. I mean you probably chose your historical home for a reason right?

Don’t Be Afraid of Fun Wallpaper

wallpaper | faucet | door knob | vintage semi flush mount (similar)

I know we talked earlier about only using very dark or very light paint colors inside of a craftsman home (which we still stand by all these photos later) but we also think that wallpaper is a great way to make a room more special. We would suggest choosing a pattern that has a nostalgic feel like the awesome one they chose for the powder bath. Otherwise, just choose a texture but don’t go too modern unless of course, you are completely throwing the vintage baby out with the historical bathwater.

Well, there you have it. A stunning home tour with tips that can hopefully be helpful and transferable to any type of historical home. A huge thank you to Jamie and Craig for letting us feature their beautiful project. We are so happy that there are people who want to celebrate design history and take such good care of it.

Let’s talk about this incredible house in the comments. Thoughts, feelings, and sofa yearnings are all welcome:)

Love you, mean it.

Restored and Designed by Jamie Haller and Craig Ekedahl

Styled by A 1000 X Better

Photos by Lauren Moore

Property Site

Check out some of our other house tours: Tour a Stylist’s Mid-Century-Meets-Traditional “Farmhouse” Full of Thrifted Treasures | An Exclusive House Tour From (Design Girl Crush) Leanne Ford | House Tour: Original Woodwork, Moody Walls & A Gasp-Worthy Wallpaper | House Tour: A Home Crush a Year in the Making ….click HERE for more:)

The post How To Do “Craftsman” Right – The 7 Key Elements That Make This Vintage Style Work appeared first on Emily Henderson.

Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/how-to-do-craftsman-right-the-7-key-elements-that-make-this-vintage-style-work

0 notes

xypheromega-blog · 6 years

Text

Hail to the queen baby

Welp, there is tons of art of Bowsette floating about, so I figured why not weave a story around this new hotness!

This is the first chapter, enjoy!

Kamek shuffled with haste through the great halls of the Koopa king, his yellow scaled feet pushing out from his voluminous robes, stubby claws clacking at the stone floor. In one of his clawed hands was a short age worn broom, which he used like a cane to assist his strides, tucked under the other arm was his latest discovery.

The magikoopa halted at a pair of massive double doors at the end of the hall, even through the heavy metal barriers he could hear the paced growls of his King. He took this moment to compose himself, pushing the wrinkles out of his robes after releasing his broom which started to hover idly by his side.

After giving the thick glasses resting atop his pronounced muzzle a quick adjustment, he gestured towards the thick iron doors with a lazy wave his hand. When they began to grind their way open, the Koopa was bathed in a orange light and from the royal throne, then came forth a blast of scorching heat.

He held up a hand to brace against not just the roiling tide of sweltering but also the intense glow that came from the room. Once he adjusted, the Koopa could make out the blackened iron bridge leading to the center of the throne room.

It was a single octagonal dais surrounded by high reaching restless lava a single massive brazier hung from domed ceiling as enchanted wisps of flame milled around the tiered metal rings of the price ornament. Carefully he walked over the span of the bridge, wincing from the bite of the heat coming off the metal.

In the middle of the massive area stood Bowser who was facing a mirror large enough to fully capture his dominating figure. In one of his paws was a tennis racket adorned with spikes, his draconian face was twisted into a determined sneer. Every swing he took towards the mirror was punctuated with a growl, his thick spiked tail swayed like a counterbalance.

“What is is Kemek, can't you see I am busy here.” The King of the Koopas rumbled between his practice strokes. “Got a match to attend in a few hours.”

Still, the magikoopa marched forward, undeterred by those unwelcoming words.

“I have made a new discovery my liege, one that might finally bring an end to your most hated rival, Mario.” The old Koopa’s high pitched nasal whine of a voice echoed through the throne room.

“Oh yeah, like I have not heard that one before.” The Koopa King snorted, a blackened cloud of smoke curled from his flaring nostrils. “So let's hear this brilliant scheme of yours, could use a good laugh right now.”

“Well at least I am actually planning something!” Kamek bristled at Bowers callous words. “While you are standing here, getting ready to play games with the enemy.”

It was then Bowers crimson gaze moved from the mirror to fixate upon the magikoopa, their black slits narrowed and a snarl curled at his King's lips. Quickly realizing his error, Kemek knelt before the giant he served and presented a new crown with both his hands to hold it up high. It was a simple golden crown with only a few rounded points, it's centerpiece a pink dome.

“Behold, a new item we can use to cause chaos and confusion within the mushroom kingdom!” Kemek proudly announced his discovery.

“What does it do?” Bowser asked as he placed his racket down, leaning the handle against the the golden frame of the mirror before approaching his kneeling subject.

“Who ever puts this crown on will turn into a copy of princess peach.” The magikoopa said with a hint of excitement. “Or so I have heard. “ He was quick to mutter under his breath.

“Or so you have heard.” Bowser caught the last bit with a raised eyebrow of concern. “So you don't even know if it works” The lizard king scoffed.

“Oh no, it will work absolutely, if not we can test it!” Kemek doubled down on his claim.

“Fine then, you put it on.” Bowser said while crossing his arms, a mischievous grin spreading over his broad muzzle.

Kemek faltered for a moment, his jaw hung open with his words suddenly forgotten.

“M-me my Lord?” He sheepishly stammered, not liking the idea of transforming into his Kings object of desire one bit.

Bowser gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes when he saw his servant faltering at this simple challenge. With a single claw, he took the crown from Kemek's quivering hands by the rim and let it dangle there under his scrutiny.

“M-maybe we should have someone else try it my king, someone disposable!” The magikoopa begged, trying to reach for the crown but was far too squat and could only paw helplessly at his majesty's waistline.

“Pshh, it's just a crown Kemek, what is the worst that could happen.” Bowser dismissively spoke before taking off his own kingly crown and replacing it with this goofy mushroom looking one.

Suddenly he was struck with a wave of vertigo and this feminine groan came from him as he staggered to find his balance. What struck the king the most in that moment was how keenly aware of how Kemek was grabbing him. He could feel those claws digging in and the rough texture of every scale rubbing harshly against his body.

When looking down it supposed her to be unable to see the small Koopa because of the cleavage that dominated the visual real estate.

“Get off me you old pervert!” Bowser hissed as wisps of pink flame surged from the corners of her mouth.

Kemek staggered back, tripping on his robes and falling onto his tail and backside. His eyes seemed to gape even larger under his thick glasses as they darted over Bowser's altered body.

“Oh no.” Was all the magikoopa could muster, a mix of dread and awe tinting his words.

Bowser was slow to turn around, filled with an apprehension to regard the mirror, what stared back made her freeze in place. Gone was the familiar monstrous frame and the tough scales and bulky muscles she had so much pride in.

They had been replaced by this shapely human figure, her skin dusky olive flesh with tight and toned muscles. The bust of her old form sat adorned the top of the mirror its gaping maw giving her the impression it was laughing at what she had become.

“Really Kemek…This was your master plan?” She glowered while gesturing to the mirror in an attempt to keep her composure ”I look nothing like princess peach.”

The pink and gold crown was flanked by her tall curved horns, its gold rim sitting lightly atop a wild mane of crimson hair that reached low down to her back. Her eyes were still just as evil looking with reptilian slits surrounded by red irises, a perfect row of sharp teeth with large canines eager to peek past her ebony colored lips. Even her thick green tail and spiked shell remained as she twisted from side to side to inspect this new body, unable to suppress an ever so slight smirk at this new look.

“Apologies most evil one, I must have made an error in my assessment of this item!” Kemek hurriedly groveled to the distracted ruler. “M-maybe you should take it off now?”

“No… I think not.” Bowser responded, though her tone was distracted as she marveled at herself with a coy smile. “I think there might be some merit to this idea after all.”

“My Lord?” Kemek asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Those fools are expecting Bowser, the King. But what kind of havoc could Bowsette the Queen of the Koopas might cause?” She said with a wicked chuckle and a flick of her tail. “After all, how could peach possibly hope to compete with all this.”

“Funny, I would have gone with Powser.” Kemek mumbles while tapping a claw against his chin in contemplation.

Though a scornful glance from the towering woman had him quickly lift his hands for protection.

“Of course! Bowsette is a perfect name for your new persona!” The magikoopa hastily adds with a nervous chuckle. “Though might I ask how you plan to use this to your advantage?”

“I have a better question, why is it that I need to explain anything to my adviser?” Bowsette growls, jets of black smoke gout from her nostrils, not one to admit that she is not quite sure herself.

“Well my… Queen if it is seduction you are planning on employing. It is going to be quite easy with you looking like that.” Kemek says after making an adjustment to his glasses.

The words of the magikoopa became all too clear to Bowsette when those magnified eyes broke eye contact to roam down her naked figure. Her face flushed red in color to nearly match her eyes, a snarl of contempt rose up from deep in her throat when her fists clenched into tight balls.

Before Kemek could even think to react, his Queen had him by the back of his robes and hurled him face forward towards the double doors where he had entered from. Just before his face met with the stone floor his broom swept in under him which he clung onto for dear life.

Then the metal doors clanged shut behind him and it was only then the aged turtle realized his error with a slight chuckle.

---

With her creepy adviser disposed of she turned back to the mirror with a resigned sigh to ponder just how she was going to make a proper outfit for her altered form.

She picked up her spiked bracelets and looked none too impressed when they looked so huge on her biceps, but with a little magic they compressed into a tight fit. With a hard flex of her arm the muscle went taut to push against the black armband, a smirk curled at the corner of her mouth hearing the durable material straining to hold back her might.

“Yeah… that's right, even with this silly crown I still got it.” She said with a measure of pride before altering her wrist bands as well.

Once her heavy studded choker was back in place she couldn't help but giggle at her nude figure.

“Well… looks like the old outfit won't be doing the job, gonna have to get fancy.” She contemplated aloud while holding up her hand, already eldritch flames curling off her fingers.

With a sweeping gesture of her hand, a dress mirroring the style of princess peach materialized over her figure. Though the sudden appearance of bright pink made her wince at first, the silk of the bodice felt nice against her skin. She couldn't help but notice just how much better she filled out the dress than little miss toadstool ever could.

With a twist from side to side, the voluminous skirt swayed with its many layers shifting audibly to catch up with the movement of her hips. However she wore a sour look at seeing her large tail and shell were under the material giving the dress some out of place bulges that she hadn't considered.

After making the adjustments to accommodate her more unique features she stood there in quiet contemplation, tapping a claw over her ebony lips. After taking a good long time mulling over what other alterations she could make to really own this look, she finally came to a conclusion.

The pink needed to go and with a snap of her fingers, the bodice and outer layer of her clothing shifted to a more appealing black, the underlay of her skirt bled into a deep crimson to add some color.

“Hmm, not enough spikes.” She sighed and with a swipe of her hand across the hem of her dress in the mirror, it sprouted a ring of large silvered spikes to give her outfit a proper wicked look. “Ahh, much better.”

Still, it looked far to conservative for her liking, but with a mischievous grin that quickly changed as the high reaching blouse melted away into a more bawdy corset to show off her dusky cleavage. Just to put a nice cherry on top, a large ruby gemstone inlaid in a golden brooch took shape right at the apex of her cleavage.

“Heh, look out princess, a queen is coming.” She says with a pleased rumble to the mirror.

---

Kemek was pacing about outside the doors to the throne room, the enchanted broom hovered in his wake. The entire time he had heard his queen rehearsing with her new voice, though the only thing not quite muffled was her booming laughter.

He was such a bundle of anxiety that when a hand tapped him on the shoulder he left back with a holler and quickly produced his wand. A red shelled paratroop yelped and dropped a case before taking to the air on the white wings jutting from his shell.

“Whoa! Easy there sir!” The turtle pleaded with his hands outstretched.

Kemek's shoulders sagged as he blew out a sigh, seeing not far behind the airborne Koopa was his green shelled counterpart.

“Ahh, punctual as ever when your…” The magikoopa trailed off when he felt the double doors open behind him.

“Go on Kemek, finish what you were saying.” Bade a low and sultry voice from behind.

“When your Queen, Bowsette expects of you.” Kemek said with a clear tension in his voice from worry, though it was not for him but because of how the pair reacted to their rulers altered appearance.

Both Koopas were gaping slack jawed, eyes wide as saucers and Bowsette just drank it all in with a twisted grin that bared her fangs.

“That's right, now let's go and play some tennis.” She said with a chuckle, hoisting her case to cradle the length of it against a shoulder.

#Bowsette #writing #story #fanfiction

0 notes