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writingsbychlo · 3 years

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mistletoe magic | stiles stilinski

word count; 10,490

summary; stiles learns that his cute neighbour might be a witch after accidentally getting her spellbooks delivered to him instead.

notes; I know a witch!au isn’t a huge au for stiles, because he’s had evident races of magic throughout the series anyway, but just enjoy it!

warnings; smut, unprotected sex, use of magic

It had been a pretty regular Monday morning for Stiles.

At six sharp, he’d been up and awake, barely functional but stumbling through his apartment and clicking on the coffee machine, before hopping into the shower for a quick wash. When he’d emerged, the machine had just finished grinding, as always, his routine functioning like a well-oiled machine now, and he’d moved it all across into a to-go cup and left it on the counter before going to get dressed.

He’d stumbled around to find his school books and shove them into a bag, eaten two cinnamon pop tarts that had burned the tips of his fingers when he’d grabbed them straight from the toaster, and had still been chewing as he shoved his keys in his pocket and sipped at his coffee, straight into the elevator at twenty to seven.

It was a fifteen-minute walk across campus to his early morning lecture on a Monday, leaving him with a few minutes to spare, in case he saw the sweet older lady from two floors down and wanted to say ‘hi’, or the cute neighbour who lived across the hall that always made him fall over his own feet, or maybe even the kid who delivers newspapers and is always falling off of his bike. He made it on time, took some great notes, and was feeling a little more alive and welcome into his day.

At exactly ten past one, he’d been home, having gone to the library to get some study in and find his new books, and get lunch at the diner he always ate at after classes, a cheeseburger and curly fries, and grabbed his letters and a parcel from the mail slot with his housing number printed on, tucking the package under his arm and heading upstairs and back to his flat, ready to flick through his bills.

All according to plan. One year and four months away at university and he knew every day like he’d been doing it for a decade, so he was only half-way to the kitchen when he remembered the package he was clutching under his arm, coming to a complete halt, throwing the usual assortment of envelopes away to the counter, and producing the neatly wrapped bundle.

He didn’t question it, not even bothering to look at the front, figuring it was just an early delivery on the textbooks that he wasn’t expecting to get here for another three weeks, finger slipping under the folds of the brown paper and tearing it away, fingers dancing over the covers of the books, before his brows were furrowing once again.

These were definitely not his ‘intro to psychological profiling’ textbooks.

Beautiful swirls in gold, carved into dark leather across the front, Latin words he didn’t understand before he was opening the cover, brushing off a layer of dust and letting one brow arch up. The text inside was English - though, no modern - and paper that he was cautious to take care of, simply from what appeared to be the age of it, stained and worn, finger marks clear on the corner from being passed down through generations. It was handwritten, drawings in old ink that had leaked onto the paper a little, rough and coarse, and labelled doodles with names he had never heard of before.

At a glance, he would assume it to be some kind of witchcraft.

He felt on edge, suddenly. He’d left Beacon Hills to come to somewhere that no supernatural would follow, where things like werewolves were still a myth, something to be laughed at, and he swallowed thickly, looking around his apartment as though someone was going to jump out. He loved his friends, he really did, and he didn’t so much mind the supernatural when he was with them all because they protected him, but alone out here, he and his bat didn’t stand a chance.

Now, it was Christmas, he knew this from the poor excuse of a tree up in his living room, and the snow outside, and the fact that for the last six weeks, his usual mochas had been a gingerbread-spiced mocha, on the insistence of the barista who served him whenever he ventured into the little coffee shop joint, and he was growing find of it. So, he tried to be optimistic, in the spirit of festivities and all that, and texted the group chat, waiting to see if any of them had sent him the books as a present, maybe even his father or Melissa. He even texted Parrish.

Except, they all said no, and now, he was stumped. Then, as he was being extra nosey and flicking through the book, he came across a page marked with a small slip of card, the item falling out, and he cursed, having no idea which page it came from, but as he picked up the piece of paper, one of the questions in his puzzle finally gained another piece towards the jigsaw.

‘(Y/N), the spell you’re looking for is here, but be careful, it’s a strong one.’

So, the books are for his hot neighbour, the next number up from his, and it now made sense as to why he had these books - they were a mistake. It opened a new question, however, as to why you would be getting them.

He had absolutely no patience, barley remembering to flick the catch on his door so that he’d be able to get back inside, before he was striding across the hall in one, two steps, and knocking on the wood. He could hear you shuffling around inside, the soft and muffled notes of the classic rock music you’d been listening to getting turned right down to low. It only took you a further few seconds until you were opening the door, but it felt like years to him with his impatience, fingers tapping against the books agitatedly, biting the nail of the other thumb, and his foot was tapping against the floor.

When you opened the door, though, he felt like it was too soon, like he wasn’t prepared for what to say, his breath hitching in his throat as his heart leapt in his chest, eyes sweeping down along your body and widening at your bare legs, only a t-shirt hanging on your frame, rising up to reveal the edge of a pair of white lace panties as you opened the door, and he forced his eyes back up to yours, wincing as he bit down a little too harshly on his nail, and pulled it from his mouth, shaking it as his dropped to his side.

“Hey, neighbour.”

“H-Hi. Hello. Yes, hi.” He already wanted to die a little bit, he hadn't stuttered this much in front of a pretty girl since junior year in high school, even Lydia had lost this effect on him, and college really had been a growing experience for him. He’d had a fair few hook-ups, and experimented, and he wasn’t shy about flirting when he wanted to, but you always through hi right back through loops, like he was still that kid with a buzzcut.

“What can I do for you, four-A?”

“Stiles. My name is Stiles.” He waited for the usual reaction, the cringe, the eyebrows shooting up, the scowl, something to indicate that you had actually heard the pronunciation, but you only smiled a little wider.

“I know. After I introduced myself and you fell over and didn’t give me your name, I checked the mail in your post-slot. I was curious. There was a lot addressed to Mieczysłav, but then one with a handwritten address to Stiles.” You shrugged, leaning against the doorframe, and crossing your arms, and while you might seem casual, at least his degree was coming in useful for something, as your body language read an entirely different reaction, insecurity and worry rolling off of you in invisible waves of tells.

He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, laughing slightly. “That sounds like something I would do.”

Silence fell between you both for a second, and he couldn't help but stare, taking in every detail of your face, the way your lower lip was a little reddened, and he figured you must have been nibbling on it while working, and your hair was messy, an attempt to pin it back that seemed to have come loose and entirely ineffective, presumably from dancing, because you looked a little flushed. When you raised your brows at him a little, he realised you were waiting for him to explain himself, why he was on your doorstep, and he flushed with embarrassment shaking his head clear.

“I got your spellbooks by mistake.” He held them out, eyes widening even more, before his jaw was dropping open. “Book. Regular books. Not spell books, because that would imply magic, right? And, that’s dumb. Just regular books. I didn’t look at them, at all, not even a little bit, I promise.”

“You don’t believe in magic, then?” You took them from him, a coy smile on your lips, and you placed them down on the counter beside the door, pushing a bowl of potpourri getting pushed aside, along with your car keys and what looked like an incense burner.

“Do you?”

He was testing the water, seeing where your mind was at, and as a whistling came from your kitchen, you glanced back over to the kettle on the hob, and he thought this conversation might be about to come to an end. “Well, I think there’s always a little magic in life, even if people don’t notice it. You have to believe in magic to be able to see it. It’s like the supernatural that way.”

“And, you believe in the supernatural, huh?” He felt bad for the way he said it, because it was mocking, but he had to be sure that you weren’t messing with him, or spying on him, he had to try and find out who you were, but you only looked away as the whistling got louder, opening the door a little more and waving him inside as you walked away, and he stumbled after you and closed the door before his mind had even caught up with the movement of his feet.

Your apartment was littered with plants. The windowsills were lined with them, all brought green and blooming, even though he was sure it wasn’t the right season, and there was even a set of cactuses along a shelf near the corridor. There was a homey feel to your place, almost earthy, neutral tones and soft accents, a smell that was so calming he felt his own muscles begin to relax, and the music had changed from classic rock to some country song he was sure he’d heard in a movie somewhere but couldn't quite place it, and he followed you to the kitchen.

Rows of cookbooks and recipe folders stacked up on top of a lower cupboard, and he swallowed thickly, averting his gaze from the way your lace panties hugged your ass deliciously as you reached up for a mug, bringing back two, and pouring them both full of the herbal concoction you’d been making. On a mismatching saucer, you offered it to him, and he sniffed it carefully, but remembered his manners, mumbling a ‘thank you’, because his mother raised his right, even if he was a little suspicious of you.

“Relax, Stiles, if I was going to poison you, I wouldn’t be giving you tea made of Valerian and Lemon Balm. Do you want any honey, honey?” You grinned a little at your joke, but he shook his head, watching as you stirred a spoonful of the sticky sweetener into your own, and taking a tentative sip after blowing on the surface. It wasn’t all that bad, he had to admit, and he found his tensions slipping away a little. “It’s for relaxing, and helping with sleep.”

“It’s good.” You smiled, blowing lightly on your own, and he decided that he could busy himself by checking out your posters. An interesting arrangement, one was a band poster, the other was a chart with the phases of the moon, a third with diagrams of plants and little facts underneath, and the fourth, with symbols and drawing he didn’t quite understand. “So, you’re really embracing that whole witch thing, then?”

“Well, seeing as I am a witch, I would think it’s only appropriate.” He tried to hide his grin behind his mug, shaking his head a little, not believing that they really existed, and you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes, clearly, because there was a playful kind of offence flashing across your face. “You can’t tell me you think I’m insane, not when there’s so much of the supernatural all over you, Stiles.”

“The supernatural? Really?”

“So, you’re not the emissary to a pack of werewolves?” You challenged, his jaw dropping at the accuracy of it, and it was your turn to laugh at him. “It’s literally stitched into your aura, I sensed another supernatural the second you walked into the building.”

“I just associate with a lot of ‘em, but I’m not supernatural myself.”

“You sure about that?” He stilled, memories flashing behind his eyes of a time when he once was, and you seemed to pick up on the slightly sour mood he’d taken on, then again, he wasn’t really sure where your abilities lay, being that Scott or Derek would have simply sniffed it out on him. Your hand on his arm snapped him back to the moment, fingers squeezing lightly at his bicep. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“There was a possibility, once, but it’s gone. There’s a dark chapter in my past, and the spark I was told I once had disappeared when I got through it.”

It went quiet again after that, your fingers slipping down from his arm to take his, and you placed your cup down, the steaming brew barely touched, but he followed suit, letting himself be pulled along as you directed him back to the living room. You were distracting him, it was an obvious ploy, but he was excited to learn, and he let the sadness of remembering his possession fade away as the thrill of new knowledge took over. “I can tell you have a lot of questions, so, what do you want to know first?”

He rubbed at his chin, settling down onto the couch at the edge of the room, finding it surprisingly comfortable, and you were busying yourself around him, a little water jug in your hand as you nurtured the abundance of houseplants you owned. “How did you know about my pack? And how much do you know about them?”

“It’s in your aura, I suppose. I can just pick up hints of different things when you’re around. The wolves are obvious, I’ve been around a lot of wolves. I also get death, and I've never met a banshee, but I assume that’s what it is. I knew you were the emissary because you’re the only magic in there, I would sense other traces on you, and there’s something else I can’t quite place.” Your face screwed up a little bit as you thought about it, nose wrinkling adorably before shrugging. “Like a werewolf, but not quite. I can’t get it.”

“She’s a werecoyote.”

You paused your pouring, turning to look at him, eyes flicking lightly around his being, before smiling slightly to yourself, and going back to your task. “Huh. Interesting.”

“Have you been a witch your whole life?”

“Since the day I was born, but I didn’t know or start practising until I was older. It just kinda’ happens, comes out of nowhere at a certain age, you start to realise you have abilities.” You had moved onto using a dropper to give little drips of water to cacti and succulents, standing on a small step stool as you did.

“Do you have to go to a school, like Harry Potter? Do you have a wand?”

You laughed at that, a genuine and hearty laugh, and you finished up your tasks, legs folding underneath yourself and you smirked a little at him as you sat down and got comfortable. “You wish, Stilinski. It’s not like that, it's more of an earthly connection than magic. It’s why my plants are so healthy. I can brew stuff, make little potions-” You motioned a hand over the jars lining the shelves on the walls, his eyes scanning over each one, picking out the neatly written titles across the fronts. “-I can cast very light spells, but it’s not the sort of thing where you can curse people, or teleport.”

“So, you can’t curse people to turn into frogs?”

“No, unfortunately not.” He was sure your giggle was the sweetest he’d ever heard, and he dared to twist himself around a little more, inching slightly closer to you across the couch. “I can do some stuff, like make your skin break out or give you a rash that won’t go away until I let it, and I can even give you headaches and such, but I don’t like to dabble in that sort of stuff. I much prefer protection charms.”

“Protection charms?” His heart skipped a little beat at the way your face lit up as you nodded, and he was intrigued, interest piqued. “I could use one of those, y’know, I’m incredibly clumsy and often get into supernatural trouble when I’m home. Hasn’t been so bad since I got here. Will you make me one?”

Your eyes left him, bottom lip nibbled between your teeth, and for a second he had worried he’d messed up, unsure on how witch spellcasting etiquette worked, but then you were moving across the room, opening up the cabinet on the other side of the room, and inside the doors and wooden frame hung what must be close to a thirty different decorative charms. Some were dreamcatchers or garlands hanging on the inside of the door, others were handcrafted little ornaments sitting on the shelves and filling them up, and your fingers were flittering over them all.

When you found what you were looking for, you lifted it out, a dream catcher that was bright and colourful and a little odd-looking, before bringing it back over to him, and presenting him with it cautiously. “You already made me one?”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t let the cute guy from across the hall get any more injuries. I watched you fall over five times in your first week living here. You’re really clumsy.”

He felt heat rush to his cheeks, and yet he couldn't help the goofy grin that travelled across his features, not mentioning the fact that he noticed you sitting considerably closer to home when you took your seat once again. He was embarrassed for two reasons, the first being that you had noticed his innate penchant for ridiculous injuries, but more overwhelmingly, the second being that you still thought he was cute. College might have helped him bloom a little, but when he had a crush, he was still a bumbling mess, and he didn’t know quite how to respond.

He busied himself with taking in the details of the dreamcatcher. Somehow, despite this being the first real conversation that the two of you had ever had, passing and fleeting chats in the halls and elevator not counting, you had managed to capture his entire essence, he could already tell. The strings were made of wool, chunky and all different colours, a mix of yellows and blues, woven in together and tangled in strange patterns, but beautiful nonetheless, and the little accents were what made it complete.

A button that had fallen off of one of his flannels, he recognised the distinctive wooden piece, and it was woven into the design, along with a blue ribbon in the same colour of the jeep that was tied in a bow, and a wooden twig tangled in it. Dangling on more pieces of wool from the bottom was a keyring he was sure he’d lost after leaving it downstairs overnight, the Yoda on it looking cleaner than he remembered, and you must've cleaned it. There was also a black feather, and a sprig of some kind of dried herb that he didn't recognise, but enjoyed the smell anyway.

It was intricate and personal, and he felt chuffed just to know that you’d made one for him, a little security and peace washing over him to know that someone was out here looking after him, completely unmaliciously, simply because you wanted to.

“This is incredible.” You let out a breath of relief, he recognised it in the way your body slumped a little, and he placed it down carefully on the coffee table beside you both, reaching out to take your hand in his, and daring to lace your fingers together and squeeze in gratitude, and you held onto him yourself, gaze dropping down to your connected hands. In a bold move of your own, you lifted your other hand, holding onto his with both of yours, and his thumb lifted out to brush lightly over your skin. “You’re the reason I don’t get papercuts and splinters anymore.”

“And you are very welcome for that.” You teased him back, and an easy kind of harmony fell between you both, your presence being more comfortable simply having only just really begun to meet you than he ever had been with someone new. It was strange, to feel so relaxed and at home with you, the way you put his fears at ease and soothed every worry without even trying, making him feel welcome and accepted, like he’d known you for years, not just shy of an hour. “Will you tell me about your pack?”

“You really want to know?” He couldn’t mask his surprise, and you nodded, excitement gleaming in your eyes, and he felt a surge of pride swell up in his system at the idea of getting to boast about his friends completely honestly for the first time in his life. There was no threat, he wasn’t showing off their skills as a way to try and ward off a threat or intimidate someone, but he simply wanted everyone else to be as awed by them as he was, and he didn’t have to hide any supernatural secrets from you. “Shall I start at the beginning?”

“Is it a long story?”

“Very long.” He confirmed, a shy laugh leaving you, before you were shifting again.

“How about I go and make us some fresh tea, then?” You were on your feet, wandering away to the kitchen as soon as he’d offered his affirmations of the idea, and he decided to follow after you, already beginning to blather about Peter Hale.

Hours seemed to pass by, as he spoke to you, two more pots of tea being made, and you’d broken out your snack-store for him, before the two of you had ordered pizza. He’d made himself at home, too, keys and phone sitting abandoned on the table, shoes kicked off on the floor, and feet stretched out along the couch. You were sitting at the opposite end, your legs stretched out in his direction, and one of his hands was sitting on your ankle, fingers drawing patterns on the soft skin there absentmindedly as his other hand was used to gesture wildly around himself.

He told you it all, confessing right from the beginning as he encountered Derek Hale, who liked to lurk in the woods, which had made you crack up as he told you about how the man was basically now the alpha, even if Scott was officially the alpha, and he’d told you about Jackson’s kanima phase, which had made you crack up even more as you claimed he deserved it.

You’d been shocked by his homicidal English teacher, and comforted him when he spilled his heart to you over the nogitsune incident he hated to think about, accepting your hush happily, and revelling in the smell of your hair when you’d pressed in close to him, before retreating to your seat.

He told you all about the benefactor and the dread doctors, and about Allison’s death, which he still blamed himself for when he was on a low day, and you’d used your thumb to clear away the tear that had fallen from his cheek, leaving him blushing and breathless for a second when you’d pressed a light kiss to his cheekbone just after.

You had scooted closer to him and stayed there near the end of his tales, tucked under his arm, playing with his fingers over your shoulders as he rambled about how alone he’d felt while taken by the Wild Hunt, thoughts that he’d always kept locked up in his own mind, never having shared with another person before.

“You really got the short end of the ‘supernatural encounters’ stick then, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that is the understatement of the century.” You lifted your head from his shoulder, your feet nudging together on the coffee table, the reindeer themed fluffy socks on your feet playing with the patchy and worn door knitted socks he’d had for years, worn to keep warm during the winter, even though your apartment was nice and toasty, the heaters running and the radiators on, and it was much cosier than his place had ever been.

The Christmas lights on a timer had come on, flickering around the place once the light had started fading, hours flashing by in the blink of an eye, a hazy glow cast over the apartment and creating a whole new range of shadows. “Do you want me to make charms for your friends?”

He watched you for a moment longer, trying to discern whether you were serious, and when he caught no gesture of ill-will, or hesitation, or hidden-motives, he smiled. “You’d do that?”

“Seems like you all need it.”

He shrugged a little, smiling when you rested your forehead against his, fingers playing together still, but feet stilling in their game of footsie. “I can’t believe I waited this long to get to know you. You’re, like, the coolest chick I’ve ever met.”

His eyes fluttered closed, he couldn't’ help it, noses bumping together as you both simply drowned in the moment, in what the moment was leading up to, where you both knew this was going but were revelling in the simple but exhilarating tension that was crackling with electricity in the millimetres of space between your lips and his. You were so close to him that he could feel it more than hear it when you whispered some words he didn’t quite understand, your breath fanning over his face in a dreamy sigh, and it took his hazed brain a second to catch up, before he was pulling back just enough to catch your eyes, one hand coming up to rest over your cheek as he turned to face you fully.

“Oh, my God. Did you just cast a spell?”

“Look up.” He was hesitant to pull back much further, but did so anyway, and he chuckled slightly as he spotted the little green plant beginning to sprout from the ceiling. Vines were still strengthening along the beam, and the leaves were beginning to form right before his eyes, white berries hanging between the green stems, and Stiles shook his head, in complete awe as he looked at it.

You were staring up to, eyes focused on the plant as it bloomed and he assumed you were concentrating on its development, but he couldn't hold back anymore, two hands on your cheeks, pulling your face back to his, and your lips barely parted to speak before his mouth was colliding with your own. A squeak left you, and he wanted to grin at being able illicit such a sound from you, but the temptation to kiss was just enough for him to contain himself. When your mind finally caught up, you were kissing him back just as eagerly, a soft sigh leaving you. “You are fucking adorable.”

The words were whispered into your mouth, he felt you shake with a soft laugh under his hold, before you were holding onto him just as tightly in return. One of your hands wrapped around his wrists, the other sliding over his bicep to his shoulder, before slipping down underneath, and smoothing over the front of his chest. He puffed out a little under your touch, pulling away for a quick breath, groaning slightly at the way your nails dug into his skin as he did, and then, he was diving right back into you.

Your hand slipped down to rest over his heart, the organ thudding under your hand, and he felt like it was going to burst right out of his chest, but as he pressed a little further into you, a shock like an electrocution was racing right through his body, a kind of jolt that was thoroughly exhilarating, and he pulled away, eyes wide as he stared at you.

You looked just as shocked as he expected he did too, his hands dropped down as he watched sparks and electricity crackle between your fingers and his, your brows raising at him. “Thought you said you had no magic left after.. y’know..”

He couldn’t drag his eyes away from it, your fingers weaving with his, a loud snapping sounding as a particularly bright flare went off, and he flinched a little, jaw dropping and a whine slipping from him as you contained it all the sight disappeared before his eyes. “So, there really are sparks flying between us, huh?”

He regretted the words the moment he’d said them, expecting to see on your face the same kind he’d always gotten from Malia or Lydia when he made those kinds of cheesy puns that only he enjoyed, even Scott daring to fix him with a bored or blank look, and Derek would simply glare, but much to his surprise, you laughed. It was fond, with a roll of your eyes and a huff to preempt it, but you laughed nonetheless, and he felt himself somehow manage to brighten even further. “That was cheesy.”

“I know.” He beamed, shifting a little, hands sinking down to your hips to pull you closer to himself as he settled back into the couch, and your hand pressed to the cushions beside his head, the other one coming up to weave into his hair lightly.

“I loved it. I am quite a fan of puns.”

“That’s good, because I usually have a lot of them.” He leaned up, daring himself to be bold enough to close that gap once again, and he could feel your lashes tickling his cheeks as you nuzzled into him a little more. “If I kiss you again, will those sparks happen this time, too?”

“If I stop controlling it, they will.”

“Stop controlling it, sweetheart.” He felt you move to nod your affirmations, but dipped his head in time, proud of his own reflexes as he caught your lips, feeling the hand in his hair tighten, and he was so glad he’d decided to grow it out all those years ago, because right now, he was losing all sense of himself in the way your nails would scratch across his scalp, or the delicious burning that flared over his skin for a split second when you pulled on his hair, before you were rubbing it softly, fingers working in tandem timing with your lips, teasing over his own.

That same feeling took up, a sparking that felt like fireworks, like energy surging through him, escaping at his fingertips in every place that he touched you, one palm smoothing along your back to somewhere that was definitely too lose to be respectable, as the other held onto your cheek still. You were taking control, your tongue darting out to trace over his lower lip, bribing him to part them but he needed no convincing, letting your tongue meet his own only a second after you’d made the request, equally breathy and needy noises escaping you both at the slow and wet drag of the muscles over one another.

His lungs were burning, lips beginning to sting as his assault on your mouth continued, his neck straining to hold this angle, and yet the more you kissed him, the more that the hazy feeling of getting to be with you like this raced through his body was the more he became addicted to needing more, chasing a high that he didn’t even know he wanted until now, like an addict finding his next hit.

You seemed to pick up on it all, as though you’d read all of his thoughts, because the second he’d had the lingering thoughts, you were settling yourself across his lap, a leg on either side of his own as you seated yourself down, and he couldn't help the way his hips bucked up a little to meet you, or the way his hand slid down fully to rest on your ass.

After all, as much as he’d gone through the make him grow up emotionally, physically he was still a horny-teen college boy, and you were one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, sitting half-naked in his lap and sucking on his lower lap while doing something with your tongue that was making him feel like he couldn't even breathe properly for how aroused he was.

Maybe you could feel the growing erection underneath of you, maybe you couldn't, but he’d stopped caring about being embarrassed around you about three hours ago when he’d had to tell you all about the time he’d once dropped a condom in Coach’s class in front of the entire classroom, and you’d laughed so much your face had gone red and you’d hidden it form him by pressing into his shoulder.

You were something he felt like he was dreaming up, like any moment now he’d wake up in a small puddle of his own drool with his face pressed into the desk of his lecture hall, the lights turned out and another note left by his kind professor to get more sleep at home, and to lock up when he left, before you were giggling a little at him, pulling away and stealing a few more pecks as you did, and he wondered if you really could read his mind, heat flushing his cheeks.

“Are you reading my mind or something?”

He felt stupid even as he mumbled te words, especially when it only seemed to heighten your entertainment, but you shook your head. “I can’t read your mind, I can just kinda’ sense your mood, I guess. It’s the connection, you were clearly thinking something funny, and I don’t know what it was, but I got a sudden rush of amusement.”

“That’s pretty fucking incredible.” He whispered, letting you peck his mouth a few more times, simply sitting there with puckered lips as he tried not to smile too much, before he was tucking hair away behind your ears and finally you were opening your eyes, and at this point, he really should learn to stop being surprised by new developments with you. “Holy shit, your eyes are glowing!”

“So are yours.” You winked, the bright purple being a shade that was so captivating and beautiful on you that he couldn’t look away, even when you leaned away from him to grab his phone, raising it up to snap a picture for him, and forcing his gaze down to it. Much like you’d said, his eyes were beginning to hint in with a faint purple, the neon shading beginning to drip into his irises and take over from the usual golden-brown that resided there. “You never made out with another witch before?”

He pinched at your ass for your cheeky comment, taking his phone and throwing it away to the side, grinning when you yelped at his painless attack. “I didn’t even know witches really existed before today. Besides, what makes you think I'm one? I had a spark once, but as I said, that died out. Nothing truly magical.”

“I don’t know, you’re having a pretty strong connection with me right now, aren’t you?” Your arms looped around his neck, snuggling in a little closer to him, and he bit back a groan as you shuffled in his lap. “I think you’re underestimating yourself, you just don’t know how to tap into your magic, you have to believe in it to see it.”

“You really think so?”

He was vulnerable and he knew it showed, he’d gone his entire life being unsure as to where all his energy and twitching came from, as to why he’d always felt a draw to the earth; the preserve and the woods, and justice and balance, and why he’d somehow fit into a supernatural world with far more elegance and ease than he ever had the normal one, and maybe this was the explanation. “I really do, Stiles.”

“Will you teach me?”

“I would love to.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then to the spot below your ear, before flicking his tongue out a little to drag over the sensitive patch that lay there, before moving down your neck. He didn’t want to mark you without your consent, he wasn’t sure what was going to come of all of this and where it would go, but he was more than happy to lick and bite lightly at your skin, finding the sweet spot that made your hips roll down into his own and a sound of need and desperation to leave you that was like music to his ears, before his hips were bucking up to meet you once again.

“Y’know when you said that you could feel what I was feeling?”

“Uh-huh?” You were distracted, your reply seeming somewhat faded and distant, and he chuckled lightly, before making his way back up to your mouth now that you’d both had a chance to catch your breaths once again.

“Does that mean everything?”

“Are you asking if I know just how much you want to fuck me right now? Because yes, I do know.” He choked a little on his breath, your hand in his hair pulling his head back so that you could meet his gaze, your lower lip held between you teeth, flesh going a darker pink, and he longed to be the one biting that lip for you. “Trust me, the sentiment is returned.”

“It is?”

“Oh, yeah.” He wasn’t used to women being so confident with wanting him, being so unashamed of it, or of even wanting him at all. Most of his hook-ups had been slightly drunk make-outs and sloppy grinding, or booty calls and meetings in closets at parties. He got more action than he ever did in high school, he’d finally grown into his limbs and his looks, but that didn’t take away the surprise that still happened every time someone as pretty as you even offered him the time of day.

“Like, right here? Right now?”

“Been thinking about how much I want to ride you on my couch for like an hour and a half, now.” Stiles couldn’t stop the moan that bubbled up in his throat, lips parting as you ran a finger over his swollen lips, a cheeky glint flashing over purple eyes as you looked at him.

“You might just be perfect for me.”

“I like the sound of that.”

A toothy smile was offered to you, before he was pulling you back in towards him, hands slipping down to lay resting on your thighs as soon as your lips had found his once again. The heat seemed to have passed, and while the kiss was still completely intoxicating, there was something a little more tender about it, too. It wasn’t nearly as rushed and frantic, the sloppy kisses you’d shared as you learned one another’s ticks had passed, and as your lips worked slowly with his own, Stiles found that he much preferred this kind of kiss.

This was the kind of kiss that he could picture himself sharing with you in many settings. A sleepy, early morning kiss, when you were still between the land of consciousness and the realm of unconsciousness. Or, late nights, when he’d fall asleep while studying, and he would let you drag him to his feet and to bed. Or, simply when he would finish a lecture, or get you coffee, or meet you for dinner. The point was, Stiles already knew he wanted to kiss you at all times of the day, and to hold onto you, and to watch you brew little spells at the stove while holding onto you from behind.

Your lips were wet when you pulled away, eyes sparkling as you looked at him, a bright shade of royal purple, like silk and rich violet on flower petals, and you looked utterly ethereal. “Do you have any idea just how beautiful you are?”

“You’re sweet-talking me.” You teased, bumping the tip of your nose against his, and he shook his head.

“No, I’m not, I’m just being honest with you. I’ve been into you for a long time, even if I didn’t quite have my mind in the right place to actually say it.” You huffed out a little laugh, your eyes averting from his own so that you could try and hide your bashful little expression, but he didn’t miss it.

“Well, I’ve been admiring you a little, too. I should’ve had my deliveries sent to you sooner, if I knew it was going to end like this.” As if to punctuate your words, you rolled your hips down into his, reminding him of the solid erection pressing into his jeans, his fingers digging a little firmer into your skin, and he pushed your shirt up higher, the soft cotton of your panties revealed to him.

“These are just fucking sinful. Do you normally wander around your house in underwear and band-tees?” He tugged at it a little, before daring to tuck his hand underneath the fabric, trailing up, and a poorly-concealed groan left him as he found no further obstructions, fingers closing over one of your breasts, squeezing lightly as he palmed at your chest. “Well, clearly not all of your underwear.”

“I tend to, I keep it warm in here, for all the plants.” Your back arched up into his hand, one of your own closing over his outside of your shirt, as your other held onto his shoulder, fingers leaving crescent-moon shaped marks he was sure, and the rocking of your hips into his own only seemed to increase.

“I’d love to see you in one of my flannels sometime, just like this.”

“Give me your shirt and you’ll see it sooner than you think.” You teased, his brows raising, before he was pulling his hands back just long enough to lean into you, stripping the garment off as best as he could, leaving him in a thin black t-shirt as you took the item from him. He wanted to whine out as you stood up, choosing instead to replace the pressure of your core over his with his hand instead, palming at his cock through the thick denim, and you grinned as you watched him, yet he didn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed.

You stood before him, draping his shirt across his spread knees as he slumped further into the cushions, getting himself comfortable and popping the button on his jeans, swollen lower lip being nibbled as you played with the hem of your shirt. Your hips were swinging to the beat of the song, and then, you raised the garment up and over your head, letting it drop away to the carpet, his jaw dropping as he looked at you.

You picked up his flannel, pulling it up your arms, and leaving it open at the front, just barely covering your tits. You were an angel and also the devil, tempting him to do so many wrong things. Stretching his hands out toward you, he beckoned you back into his lap, an act you were more than happy to take as you bounded over to him, a pep on your few short steps, before you were settling back into his lap.

“Perfect.”

He let his hands find the flaps of the flannel, pulling it open wide enough to be able to admire your tits fully, letting you push your hair back away from your shoulders for his unobstructed view. Sealing one hand around your waist, he dragged you up closer, until you were almost pressed to him fully, before dipping his head down. His tongue dragged over a hardened nipple, taking the taut peak into his mouth and sucking harshly, as your hand wound into his hair. You tugged, roughly, a groan that vibrated along your entire body leaving him and making you shiver, and you made the prettiest little noises above him.

He switches sides, making sure to give the other half of your chest that same kind of attention, leaving wet marks and stinging watches along your skin that would become bright purple marks in the morning to match the colour of your eyes, and he just hoped you kept him around long enough to see them when they did become beautiful and prominent. He wanted to see his good work, he wanted to see the way he got to mark you up and leave his touch all over your body.

“Stiles..”

“I do love how you sound moaning my name, princess, but I’m not sure how much longer I can last when you're making noises like that and grinding yourself all over my cock like this.” You grinned, letting him kiss his way back up your chest and throat until he was taking your lips with his own. Your hands were moving down, tugging at his zipper as far as it would go, hid hips bucking up into his hand as he felt you drag a nail along his covered erection, breathy sounds between you both when you pulled away.

He only had to lift himself up for a moment, before you were tugging at his jeans, helping him to get them just far enough down his thighs for his boxers to be able to follow. His cock was throbbing, painfully hard and desperate for you, leaking precum along his skin, and he gave himself some form of relief. You were watching him, eyes wide as he pumped his length in one hand, the other dipping under your skirt rubbing over your core, and you bundled up your shirt for him.

“Y’know, all those times I thought about us, a quick fuck on your couch wasn’t how I had wanted our first time to be, but then again, I didn’t expect the cute chick across the hall to be a witch, wither, so..”

He used his thumb to drag your panties to the side, your sodden folds revealed to him, and he slipped two fingers into your dripping core with ease. “I’ll let you take it slow next time, I swear, but right now, I’d really like it if you’d fuck me.”

He could only nod, heart skipping a beat at the promise of another time. Your legs shifted, muscles clenching as he forced himself to take his touch away from your core and bringing his fingers up to his mouth, sucking your sweet essence from the thin digits. As you leaned over him, he was sure to line himself up, and then, you were sinking down onto him, your forehead flailing to his as your mouth fell open, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“You’re so fucking big.”

“You’re so fucking tight.” He whispered the words, a little breathless and hanging on the edge of his orgasm already, and you seemed just as close, because as you finally sank all the way down and settled into his lap again, he could feel every pulse within your walls as you hugged around him.

It took him a moment, staving off his climax so that he didn’t come just from getting to feel you like this, and you looped your arms around his neck gently to find your purchase. Your nails were scratching lightly at the hairs at the base of his neck, his flannel once again flapping around you, panties pushed to the side to let him have access to your centre, and it was deliciously filthy.

Once you were settled, you circled your hips, a test movement, pleasure spiking in both of your systems and it felt like the temperature in the room was shooting upwards. Stiles could already feel sweat beginning to bead along his skin in a thin layer, and you pressed yourself in closer to him. Each time you shifted your hips you were moving a little more, every rock of your body into his, you were pulling yourself up just a little higher to be able to drop yourself back down onto his cock, stretching and squeezing around him.

You felt like velvet, slick and warm as you sheathed around him. You were precise and deliberate, and he couldn't help the wonton sounds that were leaving you with every drop down onto his cock, before you were taking him up to see stars every time, leaving the both of you resting in the clouds. Panted breaths, a scream in the back of your throat that tried to break out each time as you gave him broken moans of his name, picking up your pace further and further each time.

Once you were stable above him, you were moving with purpose, fast and quick as you rode him, gaining more confidence each time, and he was gripping you so tightly that there would be fingerprints all over your hips in the morning. He helped you go, lifting you up each time, only to pull you back down into his lap, thrusting up with a weak effort to meet you, but feeling you go wild each time. That same energy was back, crackling with more force, surging through him like nothing he had ever felt.

Stiles was in college, he was away from home and the weight of being the Sheriff’s kid for the first time, and he had experimented. He’d gotten drunk, and high, and hungover, but this was a whole new kind of thrill; it was like lighting up with fireworks and adrenaline all at once, like creating a bond with another person, and a tingling spread throughout his entire body as your magic bonded with his own. He hadn't felt this kind of singing in his blood since the day he’d managed to finish the circle with the mountain ash back when he was only sixteen, or breaking through the wild hunt barrier at almost eighteen.

These kind of thrills were rare for him, but they’d never been this strong, and as the two of you moved as one in the most intimate way that two people could, your mouth coming up to claim his as you silenced yourself and him, growing louder and more desperate as you went, he felt that final high beginning to build.

“‘M so close, honey.” His voice had taken on that same kind of scratchy rasp that he had in the mornings before he even broke into his day, “Oh, God, keep goin’.”

He knew his words were beginning to grow slurred, and he could barely buck his hips up into you. As everything within his body began to light up, he felt like all of his muscles were going lifeless, his body going boneless, because the heat was consuming him. He couldn't hold it back, he’d been waiting for so long to feel you this way, and his lips could barely even move back against your own as he went slack-jawed, exploding within your tight heat.

The send that he was shooting over the edge, you were following right after him, crying out his name into his mouth as you kept going against him, until you couldn't clumping down into his body as you trembled, and Stiles felt as though you’d milked absolutely everything from him that he had to offer. There was a crackling along his skin from everywhere that your fingertips smoothed over, sliding down from his shoulders so that you could press your cheek to the spot instead, fanning breaths rushing over his neck as you tried to catch your breath, racing heart just like his was.

You didn’t even bother to move from him, letting him throb within your walls with each flutter you made and each shift, and if you kept it up, he was sure he’d be ready for a second round, but he wasn’t entirely sure that he had that in him. Resting his head back against the edge of the couch, he let you lift yourself up and off of him finally, your legs shaking as you stood, offering him a weak smile as he took in your through fucked out state, before taking wobbly steps away from him, and disappearing down the hall.

He heard a door close, assuming you’d gone to the bathroom, and he leaned over to the coffee table to snatch up a few tissues, to clean himself up with, before sorting himself out too. He did the bare minimum, not even bothering to do up his jeans once he had them pulled back up, but he stretched out along the length of the couch to lay down, an arm popped under his head, and a little laugh on his lips as he did.

He took a moment to glance around, not missing the way that the plants all seemed to be blooming particularly beautifully, seeming more alive than ever. As he lifted up a hand before his face, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together, a spark travelled between the tips, and he felt a little in awe just at the sight of it.

“It's pretty incredible, right?”

He startled, jumping a little, before turning to look at you and propping himself up on his elbows as you lingered in the doorway. You had changed, your hair pulled back and out of your face, missing a few odd strands and you’d buttoned up his flannel along your body, mismatched and hanging unevenly, but still adorable. You took slower steps over to him, waiting for a second as you stood beside him, before he was lifting his arms and making it clear to you that you could lay with him, a smile gracing both of your faces as you flattened yourself along him, cheek pressed over his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“You like feeling your magic, then?”

He lifted his palm, holding it to yours and admiring the final dying flares he saw, as the energy began to dissipate and absorb into his body and yours fully. “I’m not used to feeling special myself. I’ve always been a behind the scenes, research, kinda’ guy. I’m not used to being one of the main players.”

“Oh, hush. You told me your story, you were most definitely a key player, Stiles.” He shrugged under you, letting you cross your arms over his chest and prop your chin on them.

“Yeah, but I never really felt that way, and now I feel like I have something to offer.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his jaw with a sweet kiss, and he felt like he could most definitely get used to this feeling. Can I meet them?”

“My pack?”

You nodded, seeming a little shy now, and joy raced through him at the fact that you saw enough of a future with him to want to meet his friends an get to know them, and to once again be able to be completely open and honest with everyone, never having to hide anything from anyone, and being able to let you fully and wholly into his life. It was a surprise, because the more he’d thought about his future late at night when lying alone in his bed, he was so sure he’d never be able to really settle down, because he could never let someone in on his life in every single way, but with you, that wasn’t a problem.

“I would absolutely love that.”

“Really?” You were studying him carefully, trying to ensure that he was telling the truth, and he gave you the most honey look that he possibly could, before lifting his head to meet your lips as he leaned in.

Soft and delicate, like a kiss that was shared between deep romance and longtime lovers, and he rested a hand on your cheek, holding you to him, and rolling you to the side, to sandwich you between the couch and his body Your thigh came up to rest over his legs, his palm slipping from your face to rest on your leg, drawing patterns on the skin until you pulled away to breathe, lips detaching from his as you whined a little. You stayed close, though, a soft look etched onto your features;

“I just want to meet a few more supernatural people, and get to know others who I don’t have to hide from.”

“Well, you definitely don’t have to hide from them, and you’ll love them, just as much as they’ll love you. We’re a pretty odd group, you’ll fit right in.”

“You’re right about that ‘odd bunch’ thing. I’ve never met a banshee, or a - what did you call it? - werecoyote.” That was an undeniable truth, your head coming back down to rest on his chest as he shrugged, unable to deny that you were right. “Your wolves sound nice, too. All the other wolves I’ve met have been overly territorial and closed off.”

“Well, Derek used to be like that, but we’ve pulled him around a little. He is still broody, though.” You laughed at his joke, a sound that made his heart burst open slightly and bleed with affection, all for you, as you continued to take more and more pieces of his heart with every act, and he was falling in love with you faster than he’d ever known was possible. “Don’t take notice of any of his lurking, by the way, it’s his twisted way of showing concern and care.”

“I’ll remember that, and if I ever catch him hiding behind a tree, I’ll know that it’s real friendship.”

“He does that, I’m serious, don’t underestimate him. I think my dad arrested him for stalking, once.”

“I think your dad would be who I am most scared to meet.” A fond tone in your voice, before he was pressing a kiss to your forehead, humming under his breath.

“He’ll love you the most, don’t worry.”

Silence fell between you both then, and he busied himself with tracing illegible drawings into your skin, simply enjoying feeling so close to you. It was irrationally domestic, and you were the final piece in his college life and college experience that was missing. Despite not being a wolf, he was unequivocally part of a wolf pack, and being surrounded so closely by such a tight-knit group of friends for those years had made him dependent on company and reliability, and he had been feeling so alone since leaving for college.

Scott had Malia, Lydia had rekindled things with Jordan, and even Derek had been (begrudgingly, to begin) hooked up with a deputy by his father, and they’d been on a few dates.

The last time he’d been home, he’d felt like a fifth, seventh, or was it ninth wheel, when Liam and Hayden were taken into account? He had been feeling awfully lonely lately, and he was glad to finally find someone that fit him perfectly, matching him like a glove.

“When I do introduce you to my friends, my pack, y’know, and my dad..”

You lifted your head, a little crease across your cheek from the fold in his shirt, and he rubbed the spot with his thumb gently, an attempt to remove the mark. “Yeah?”

“What should I introduce you as?”

“A witch.” You deadpanned, and he knew immediately that you’d clearly know exactly what he meant, but were playing with him, and he pouted, fixing you with a mock glare, before you were laughing to yourself over your joke, something so undeniably cute that he couldn't even pretend to be mad about it. “What do you want to introduce me as?”

Nudging your jaw a little with his, he puckered his lips, tempting you down to kiss him, and you were more than happy to press a series of sweet and short kisses to his lips. “I’d really like to formally claim you to be my girlfriend?”

He mumbled the words into your mouth, feeling your lips flick up at the edges in a smile as you gave him a kiss that was a little more firm, a little more loving and powerful, before whispering your reply; “Then we’re on the same page, because I’d like to introduce you to my coven back home as my boyfriend.”

“You have a coven?” He pulled back, a gasp of shock, and you giggled at him.

“That I do. Maybe I should tell you about them?”

“You absolutely should.” He insisted, his craving for knowledge taking over, and he couldn't have been more glad to whatever deity was watching over benevolently that he’d taken the choice to stay the first time knowledge had been offered, because it had led him to where he was now.

“It might take all night, maybe you should go and get a change of clothes. Get comfortable.”

“Is that an invitation to stay the night?” You only nodded, letting him roll you back over onto your back as he kissed at your neck. “I’ll buy you take out if you cuddle me later?”

“Cuddling and dinner? Glad I get to call you my boyfriend, now.”

“Not nearly as glad as I am to call you my girlfriend. My little witch.” His lips sealed over yours, silencing your laughs against his mouth as you teased him for the nickname, and he pinched a little at your sides. The mistletoe overhead grew a little more, a few of the berries dropping away and bouncing off of his back as the plant became bolder, just like the rest, that energy beginning to grow once again, as you got lost in each other’s touch.

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fierypen37 · 3 years

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Victory is in Your Veins

Chapter 9

Day Two Hundred and Nine: The Dragon Queen

The bone-white spires of Vaes Drivi in the distance were a boon to her sore eyes. After her sons slew the riders in the Painted Hills, those that remained swore to follow Daenerys’ khalasar. Even thus bolstered by horses, travel was slow on the plains, waylaid by prowling shadowcats. Three horses had died from snakebites and the weak streams were not enough to water horse and man alike. Yet more time was eaten away by their Lhazareen guide departing to seek her own people. The shepherdess would tell her tale to the chieftain and tiger-eyed godswife who would travel to meet them at Vaes Drivi.

A headache throbbed at her temples. The sun was a hot yellow eye bearing down on them. She longed for water, for shade, for rest. Still, she had not survived two journeys through the Red Waste and learned nothing. Daenerys kept her spine straight and her grip on the reins easy. Khal Lanno had fallen before her sons, and the second best mount the khalasar had to offer was the dun she now rode. A strong, hard-mouthed stallion. It took a great deal of her concentration to maintain her seat. It was a tacit test on the part of the newest Dothraki. A khal must ride, after all. The dun too, was worn out from the long march with little water. His proud head drooped, ears lax and pointed outward.

“Khaleesi?” Kovarro said, offering his waterskin. Daenerys sipped. It tasted more like mud than water, but she was grateful for it all the same. A plume of dust rose. Daenerys rose in the stirrups and spied her own dragon banner gleaming in the harsh sunlight. Relief sluiced through her. Respite before they travel south through the Bone Mountains to Slavers’ Bay. There they would find soldiers. Soldiers to win back her true home.

Day Two Hundred and Nine: The White Wolf

Facing death as many times as he had, Jon’s sleep that night was deep and restful. There was no help in fretting. He would live or die. Gamemakers were notoriously cruel and unpredictable. She did not visit him, but Jon was grateful for that too. Dreams of her stirred longings he would rather keep buried.

“Valar morghulis,” Jon said under his breath. Not today. I have business to finish. Morrgys will die by my hand.

The routine was familiar. Jon woke to the screech of the key in the lock. A Twin fastened his chains, led him to baths. No costumes or varied weapons this time. Jon was given a tunic of unbleached linen, belted at the waist, leather sandals strapped up to the knee. Weapons too, would be easy to find and keen as pain. It was blood the crowd wanted. As an added spice to this elimination games, the slaves would be shackled in pairs. Morbo was chosen as Jon’s partner. The Twin snapped the manacle shut to Jon’s wrist with a thin grin. Their mutual dislike for one another was no secret. Jon eyed Morbo narrowly. He looked fit. Lean and strong. Lightning quick as most Dothraki were. Time would tell if he Dothraki would try to knife him rather than fight together.

Like everything else in Volantis, the arena was old and lavish—slaves labored day and night to maintain it. Towers of gleaming white marble, every thoroughfare line with painted statues of past champions, even the torch sconces were chased in gold. Fused black dragon road paved the horseracing track. Tiered seating towered over the white sand of the arena floor. The most lavish boxes overlooked the arena, closest to the action. Triarchs and princes often sat there cosseted by their slaves. To Morrgys’ disdain, Volentenes could even flood the arena to stage mock naval battles. In his master’s opinion, this was frivolous nonsense that mocked the true meaning of the fighting pits: to achieve eternal glory by conquering one’s opponent. Jon’s loathing for slavers did not negate his awe at the architecture. Westeros’s marvel the Wall would have dwarfed the building, but Jon couldn’t help but remember the sorry state of Castle Black. Even Bran the Builder would have marveled the grandeur.

From Morrgys’ telling, the arena seated ten thousand, the same as the famed Daznak’s Pit in Meereen. ‘The best games are in the world are seen in the three sister cities of Slaver’s Bay,’ the native Astapori said. Still, Jon could see the master was nervous. He paced as the slave cart waited for their turn down the avenue to the arena. Slave masters were said to draw lots to determine their arrival time, but Jon heard grumblings from the Twins that the lots were fixed and bribes were rife. Tycho’s master Azmeher zo Queknak was a third-generation slaver, and Meereenese. He also had three more of the most prestigious champions and thus, Morrgys loathed him.

Crowds were thick. All were quivering with the promise of entertainment. Hawkers threaded through the throngs with skewers of meat, loaves of bread, cold water or flagons on wine. The fame of experienced slave fighters lit a madness in some of the spectators. They painted banners, shouted chants, shrieked and tore at themselves when they fell. Tycho, as a prestigious champion, was some ways ahead. The din of the crowd shred at Jon’s ears. So many people. The people of the entire North could fit into this building. The stink and the noise . . . Jon lowered his gaze, seeking an inward calm. With each step, he was reminded of Morbo. The taller man took long, brisk strides, forcing Jon to speed his pace lest he be dragged.

From the upper tiers, wealthy children sprinkled flower petals down on the arriving fighters. Crushed petals released a faint waft of perfume as they walked. The chant for Tycho died down. Morrgys’ slaves began down the queue. There were a couple shouts for Morbo, or Drazhen, Morrgys’ Ghiscari spearman. Then a woman caught Jon’s eye. Free and Volantene by her dress.

“Zokla timpa! Zokla timpa!” The chant caught, echoing into the entrance of the cavernous arena. It sounded as if a thousand voices shouted the name Morrgys gave him.

White Wolf. White Wolf! WHITE WOLF!

From his palanquin, Morrgys grinned and laughed, as if the adulation was his own. Had it been for himself, Jon would have heaped abuse on their heads, cursed their mothers, spat at them. But the mob was often the deciding factor in a match. More than once, Morbo had been saved from a slit throat by the crowd chanting: Life! Life! Life! So Jon waved and grinned at the crowd, loathing himself with each step. As his eyes cast over the crowd, Jon noted the slaves. Some were cheering, some were silent. One, a girl in a leather collar standing closest to rope cordoning off the crowds, watched him with solemn black eyes. Jon watched and she held up one tiny fist and held it tight. Jon let the false smile fall and he gave her a grave nod. Missandei had held up her end of the bargain. Now Jon had to find a way to speak to the crowd. And also not die, he thought ruefully.

Horse races and other lesser matches filled the morning. Mostly criminals thrown in with animals. A couple matches with starving children. In the bowels of the arena, Morrgys’ four pairs of slaves were plied with food and water, guided through gentle exercise with trainers to loosen their muscles. Morbo kept the chain between them taut, hampering both of them. Jon cursed under his breath in frustration.

“Listen, rider,” Jon began in mangled Dothraki, “if we want to live, we--”

“Speak Common, krol. You sound like a simpleton in the horselord tongue,” Morbo said sharply. Jon lapsed gratefully into Common, allowing the dig to slide.

“Listen. I don’t know why we’re rivals. I don’t know and I don’t care. Do you want to live?” he said sharply, yanking the chain between them for emphasis. Morbo’s thick black brows snapped together.

“Yes.”

“So do I. We need to learn to work together. And fast.”

The threat of death was a potent motivator, Jon thought dryly. The next hour, Jon and Morbo tested the movements the chains allowed. While he could fight with either hand, Jon was thankful the manacle tethering him to Morbo was on his left wrist. Morbo would have to fight off-handed, but he was skilled with either. Jon nodded, anticipation drawing his belly taut. Soon. Soon.

“It would be easy to cut off your hand and slip free--” Morbo suggested, after their arms tangled trying to move.

“Cut off my hand? Why not your hand?” Jon asked. It might have been a trick of torchlight, but Jon could have sworn the rider was smiling. Jon snorted. Morbo shrugged.

“I have use of it,” he said.

“I have use of mine as well,” Jon shot back, “now just focus on using your godsdamned speed and we should make it out alive.”

Any trace of humor left Morbo’s expression.

“Elimination games are meant to keep slaves in line. Champion grows too popular; masters begin to sweat. Tycho has forty-one kills to his credit. Too many.”

Jon remained impassive. There was no way Morbo could know about what he and Missandei planned. A savage excitement kindled. Let the masters sweat. Sweat and begin to know the fear of who they beat and raped and abused for their comfort and enjoyment.

“Then I’ll kill him. Solve their problem for them,” Jon said bitterly. Morbo spit into the sticky yellow mud.

“Kill too many and you will be next, Ver.”

“Ilon vīlība se morghūljas syt aōha jaqiarzir, O Jaqiarzus Mēre!” {We fight and die for your glory, O Glorious One!} Jon uncrossed his free arm from his chest. He tried not to gawp at the sheer breadth of the arena. Yards and yards of perfect white sand, marred here and there by drying pools of blood. Wild beasts could be loosed from hatches in the flooring, he knew. The match before had been a pack of jackals against three women. The jackals won. And the noise. Gods, outside there had been some relief from the din, but hemmed in by arena walls, the cacophony of so many voices was like thunder, harsh in his ears. His heart thundered along with it, his palms slick with sweat. A glance darted left down the line of paired slaves. Where was Tycho?

The triarch of Volantis answered, though his voice was lost in the crowd’s enthusiasm. An orator scaled the stair near the triarch’s box, garbed in a ridiculous green tokar.

“Begin!” he boomed.

The slaves scattered. Looping the excess chain around his arm, Jon loped back alongside Morbo. Not many pairs had made the same accord as Jon and the Dothraki. By Jon’s estimation, half began fighting each other. Of Azmeher zo Queknak’s three pairs, one was arguing where to run. Another pair had one slave snapping his partner’s neck and yanking the chain off the corpse. The third ran in tandem—Jon couldn’t see the distinctive green flash of Tycho’s dyed hair. Where in the seven hells was he?

“Sword, Ver!” Morbo hissed in his ear. Jon followed Morbo’s gaze and saw the gamemakers had dropped pairs of swords at regular intervals.

“Go!” Jon shouted.

The two of them sprinted across the sand. Longswords in the Westerosi style, whetted to a keen edge. Yes! We have a fighting chance. Tycho was famed for his skill with a bravo’s blade, a water dancer. The heavier Westerosi sword would slow him. He and Morbo each took one and ran for a strategic position near the arena’s edge. Jon measured his breathing, his senses sharp. Jon tested the sword with a couple singing swings. It felt good in his hand.

“There! Go!” Jon said, pointing to a pair of slaves attacking another. It easy to knife them both through the back. He and Morbo struck as one. The crowd howled and jeered as the blows hit home. The ever-thirsty sand drank down the red blood. A grim pleasure kindled. He and Morbo had sparred more in the past seven months than Jon ever had with anyone else, save perhaps Robb. They knew each other’s fighting styles and spacing as well as their own. Of the attacked pair, one was on his knees, bleeding from a wound to the belly. A thickset slave slashed out at Jon. He parried. Once, twice. On the third swing, he was too slow. Jon opened his throat with an almost casual flick. Easy.

Something was off. A shift in shadow.

“Ver!” Morbo’s shout. Jon ducked and shifted right. The sword whistled through the air. Another pair of slaves. A burly one, Lyseni by the looks of his shorn silver hair. The other was Dothraki. From his knee, Jon parried a blow. The shock rattled up his arms, singing through him. Morbo moved to slash at his attacker. The chain dragged Jon left, mistiming his parry. The Lyseni’s sword caught him, a grazing slash along the ribs. Jon grunted, the pain sharpening his focus. He dodged a heavy overhand, then cut. Deep, along the groin. Jon finished the swing with an artful flourish. Gouts of black-red blood poured from the wound. The Lyeseni’s life measured in heartbeats. Jon left him to die and rounded on Morbo’s attacker, in time to see the Dothraki run him through. The cheers were deafening, hooting as blood gushed on the sand. The Dothraki bent and cut the other’s braid in victory.

A slight tremor moved through him. The thrill of a fight. Sweat stung in his eyes. Jon tugged the chain to get Morbo’s attention. Across the arena, several pairs were locked in battle. Where the fuck was Tycho? A flutter of movement distracted him. Above the arena in the stands, spectators waved banners. Several showed a green profile and crossed bravo’s blades for Tycho, a couple gold Dothraki horses, one with a manticore, and a couple white wolves.

“Come, Ver!” Morbo said, pointing with his bloodied sword to a knot of battling slaves. Jon pried the Lyseni’s sword from his dead hand. Another sword in his off hand would help his parries. He and Morbo struck in much the same manner, slaying another two pairs in rapid succession.

Another muscled slave, a minor champion from Pentos, was using the chain with the severed hand of his partner as a flail, killing one attacker. Several pairs danced around the periphery, unable to get close. One hacked at champion’s leg, opening a shallow cut. Jon checked the blow with his off hand sword. The chain wrapped around the sword, useless. The manacle thudded painfully against Jon’s wrist. He dropped the sword and followed Morbo as he traded blows with the champion. Morbo spilled his entrails on the sand, and Jon finished him with a blow through the throat.

By now, the two of them sucked in air greedily. Jon licked his dry lips, trying to ignore the sticky blood dampening his tunic, his burning legs and aching arms. Blood dripped down the blade of his sword to slick the hilt. He discarded the sword and took up a fresh one. Jon hefted the chain, an idea blooming.

“Let’s go!” Jon shouted. He and Morbo ran as another pair squared off against them. Stretching the chain taut, he ducked low. With a curse, both the slaves landed on their faces.

“Wai--!” one started to say, his blue eyes wide. Jon rolled the sword point down and thrust quick. It took strength the pierce the muscle and bone caging the heart, but strength Jon had. Morbo cursed. He swiveled, saw his partner clutching his sword arm. Blood wept between his fingers. Jon ducked an incoming blow. No time to pull the sword free. Jon caught the opponent’s sword arm in a loop of chain. He yanked up and out. The skinny Essosi’s arm snapped. A wet sort of snap. He shrieked and the crowd jeered. Jon smiled grimly. Gods, there was such relief in shedding blood, even if it wasn’t the masters. The slave fell to his knees. There was no fear in his face, only grim acceptance. He lifted his chin to accept Jon’s death blow. He was young, closer to Bran’s age than Jon’s.

“Find peace, brother,” Jon said in bastard Valyrian.

“Konīr āeksia morghon issi daor,” he said. {There are no masters in death.} Jon gave him the relief he wanted in a quick clean blow. The boy sank into a heap on the hot sand with a sigh. In another life, the boy would have been an artist, a potter. Then some master had beaten him into a killer and he died alone on the sand by Jon’s hand. Jon pulled the blade free, panting. Weariness lay heavy on him. A part of Jon longed for the peace of oblivion. But the red thing in his chest snarled. Rage and vengeance remained unquenched. Gods, had it been hours, years since that blustering fool shouted at them to fight? Somewhere in the seething sea of the spectators, master and slave alike watched. If they won, if he and Morbo were declared victors, what would he say to them?

Jon cast a glance around the arena. There were only a few pairs left. Not many left now.

“That scratch won’t slow you, hmm?” Jon said, nodding to the blood running in sluggish drops down Morbo’s left arm. He shrugged. The banter was pointed, but surprisingly light. Removed from the opposition of rivals in the training yard, Jon could see Morbo being something of friend.

“The bite of a fly.”

The monotony of it began to settle on him. Raising his arm to bring the sword down and through another enemy. The resistance of flesh and bone as he hacked. The heat. The sweat streaming down his face. His dry, sticky tongue. The ever-present head-rattling roar of the crowd.

“They pulled Tycho from the games,” Morbo shouted over the din of the crowd.

“Aye. They’ll save his death for another day,” Jon said.

“We sho--” Morbo began. A wet tearing sound. The red point of a blade emerging from Morbo’s lower chest. Jon’s cry of rage was lost in the cheers of the crowd. Jon lost himself in the red, hacking down the one who had knifed Morbo. He and his partner both fell. Jon decapitated one in a double handed blow, the other he sliced down the arm, the thigh and let the thirsty sand drink its fill. The savagery was unnecessary, wasted too much precious energy. But Morbo was dying.

“Ver,”Morbo wheezed, blood reddening his teeth and trickling in sticky threads from the corners of his mouth. The wound was a red hole, making a horrible wet sucking sound as he tried to breathe.

“Get up, Morbo. There’s more to do,” Jon said gruffly, taking the proffered hand. He cast a wild glance around. There were no more slaves near them. In fact, only two pairs remained from Jon’s count. Two more and they would win!

“My strength is gone,” Morbo coughed. His black eyes shone fiercely.

“Make them pay, Ver. Make them pay!” Be it the other slaves, the masters, or something else, Jon didn’t know, but he promised just the same.

“Look up. Look at the sky. The stars are waiting,” Jon whispered. The gate to the Nightlands and the god of his fathers. Morbo’s eyes looked up and he breathed his last. Despite his weariness, the diffuse ache of his muscles and his wounds, Jon stood.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sawing off Morbo’s hand to free himself. He coiled the chain and set off at a sprint, plucking up a fresh sword as he went. A hand-and-a-half sword, a bastard sword. Perfect for me. Jon and the red thing within were in perfect accord. Blood they would have. Buckets and oceans of it until they choked and drowned in it. He was intent incarnate. A savage wild thing. The crowd saw him, the noise tipping up to a fever-pitch as he slew one. And another. And the last with horrific ease.

“Zolka timpa! ZOK-LA TIMPA! ZOKLA TIMPA! ZOKLA TIMPA!”

The words beat in his head like the multitude voice of a god. He had won. He lived—but only after so much meaningless death. Jon’s eyes scanned the sea of humanity. Slave and master alike. He said only what they would understand.

“Death!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, raising his bloodied fist in the air

“Death! Deeeaaaathh!” The word was a harsh drawn-out scream from his dry throat. The cheering mellowed in confusion. Then somewhere in the throng, he heard it.

“To masters!” someone answered.

“Death!” Jon screamed again.

“TO MASTERS!”

The chant took on a life of its own, catching like a wildfire: “Death to masters! Death to masters!”

Fighting erupted in the stands. Foremen with crossbows ringed the lowest tier of the arena, aimed at Jon. He waited, standing stock-still, waiting for the blow that would kill him. It never came. Instead, Morrgys emerged from the shadows of the Gate of Life, with the Twins and a dozen bodyguards in tow. One Twin struck out, snagging Jon around the throat with his whip. Jon choked and clutched at the leather as red stars burst along the edges of his vision. Morrgys drew Longclaw. From the tremor in his wrist, he was unused to the weight. Weakling. His face was impassive, but Jon could see something cold grow in his piggish black eyes. Fear. Morrgys set the Valyrian steel edge of Longclaw beneath Jon’s chin and waited.

“Master, I didn’t—I---” air was precious. The black began to creep closer. All he heard as the black closed over him was Morrgys’ cold voice: “You’re lucky you won. All you’ve earned is The Pit. A month, if I feel charitable.”

#jonerys fanfiction #fp37fic #victory is in your veins #Queen!Daenerys #Gladiator!Jon #tw violence

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little-chattes · 3 years

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Ok so I’ve done a complete re-read through and one thing that kept nagging at me was how little Gideon and Harrow’s relationship makes sense given its quite frankly abusive origins. Harrow spends her whole life making Gideon’s a living hell and Gideon just… forgives her. Total and complete forgiveness for an irredeemable girl.

At first I took the sudden shift in their relationship as lazy writing to rush along the end of the story, but that didn't make any sense either. Muir strikes me as an intensely purposeful writer. Then I remembered that Muir is also an intensely Catholic writer and it hit me. Muir isn’t writing a story about a healthy human relationship, oh no, she’s writing a story about Christ’s relationship with The Church… if Christ was a sword toting butch lesbian and The Church was a sardonic bone witch. Call it tender blasphemy.

Now Gideon’s role as a Christ figure is fairly easy to parse out given that her dad is… God. But for the sake of self indulgence (I have to put my 15 year long flirtation with Christianity to use somehow) I’m going to go through all the parallels anyway. There are a LOT of them.

Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start).

Miraculous Conception

Luke 1:34-38

34 But Mary said to the angel, “How will this be, since I [e]am a virgin?” 35 The angel answered and said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; for that reason also the [f]holy Child will be called the Son of God.

Gideon is conceived by artificial means when one of God’s own servants (Mercy) delivers a sample of John’s genetic material to Wake, a ‘normal’ human woman who chooses to carry Gideon in her womb. Notably, the sample lives far beyond its point of expected viability, thus making the conception somewhat miraculous (“Only the sample was still active, no idea how considering it was twelve weeks after the fact” HTN 441).

The Cuckold

Matthew 1:18-25

18 Now the birth of Jesus the [a]Messiah was as follows: when His mother Mary had been [b]betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be pregnant by the Holy Spirit. 19 And her husband Joseph, since he was a righteous man and did not want to disgrace her, planned to [c]send her away secretly.

Gideon the First decides not to kill his lover, Wake, and releases her out the airlock (AND HE TOOK PITY ON ME! HE TOOK PITY ON ME! HE SAW ME AND HE TOOK PITY ON ME” from Harrow’s vision of Wake’s note, HTN 124) just as Joseph took pity on Mary, his betrothed, by deciding to divorce her quietly instead of making her infidelity public which would condemn her to death by public stoning (Deuteronomy 22:21). Gideon the First knew that Wake was pregnant and didn’t tell John because he thought the baby was his. Similarly, Joseph goes on to raise Jesus as his own son.

The Birth

Luke 2:7

And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a [f]manger, because there was no [g]room for them in the inn.

Neither baby Jesus nor baby Gideon were given a proper cradle, one being laid to rest in a manger where the animals ate and the other stuffed in a transplant bio-container (GTN 23).

The Dead Children

16 When Herod realized that he had been outwitted by the Magi, he was furious, and he gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi.

King Herod intends to kill the prophesied King of the Jews and instead of finding the specific baby, he just has a bunch of them slaughtered. However, Jesus escapes the slaughter of the innocents by Herod when his parents secret him away to Egypt.

When the great aunts gas the nursery and kill the 200, Gideon is meant to die along with them but escapes her fate.

Now this event has a completely different biblical connotation for Harrow.

Firstly, the murder of the 200 children represents Original Sin. In the bible, Adam and Eve disobeyed God in the Garden of Eden, and as their descendants, all of humankind is doomed to also bear the weight of that sin from the moment we are born until the day we die. This is a fact that is drilled into Christians as soon as we’re able to understand it, we are born wretched and unworthy sinners, and there’s nothing we can do ourselves to fix that.

“I have tried to dismantle you, Gideon Nav! The Ninth House poisoned you, we trod you underfoot—I took you to this killing field as my slave—you refuse to die, and you pity me! Strike me down. You’ve won. I’ve lived my whole wretched life at your mercy, yours alone, and God knows I deserve to die at your hand. You are my only friend. I am undone without you.”

Harrow is a multitude, she is 200 children, the entire future of her house. Shes not just one human being,, she’s the whole damn church.

Naz/Nav

he went and lived in a town called Nazareth. So was fulfilled what was said through the prophets, that he would be called a Nazarene.

Although Gideon is not from the Ninth, she is given the Ninth name Nav when she arrives as a baby. Similarly, Jesus is known as Jesus of Nazareth, though that is not where he was born.

The Poor Bondservant

Jesus' role as a servant is emphasized many times in the bible. He was a carpenter's son born in a stable

Philippians 2:5-8

Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus, who, being in the form of God, did not consider it robbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross.

Gideon is described as being made “a very small bondswoman” (GTN 24)

The Sword

Matthew 10:34

Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.

The Wretched Sinner

Harrow is wretched, self loathing, and cruel.

She is in thrall of the enemy of god, a figure who was once gods most favoured warrior, cast into hell.

She is like the depiction of the sinner who loves the devil

It's important to note that Harrow isn’t a single person, she is a multitude, the entire future of her people condensed into one body.

The Enemy of God

20 Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven, nholding in his hand the key to othe bottomless pit1 and a great chain. 2 And he seized pthe dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil and Satan, and qbound him for a thousand years, 3 and threw him into othe pit, and shut it and rsealed it over him, so that she might not deceive the nations any longer, until the thousand years were ended. After that he must be released for a little while.

Before the fall, Satan was described as a “guardian cherub” who resided in the garden with God (Ezekiel 28:14)

(a funny aside, in the bible the devil is known as the great deceiver but in HTN Muir specifies that Alecto is incapable of lying)

A Life of Abuse

Isaiah 53:3

"He was despised and rejected by mankind,

a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.

Like one from whom people hide their faces

he was despised, and we held him in low esteem”

They got up, drove him out of the town, and took him to the brow of the hill on which the town was built, in order to throw him off the cliff" (Luke 4:28–29).

Gideon lives a life of mockery and is abused by Harrow.

An Unlikely Savior

Despite the fact that Gideon does not fit the expected image of a Cavalier, Harrow chooses Gideon to be her sword and protector.

Despite the many openings Gideon has to make Harrow pay for the pain she caused her, she remains loyal to her

Trust

Harrow realizes that she cannot face the lyctor trials without Gideon, and places her trust in her

Christians are told they must place their trust in jesus in order to reach salvation

Purifying Water

Acts 2:38

Peter replied, "Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.

Harrow confesses her sins to Gideon and puts herself at her mercy

Gideon forgives Harrow totally and completely, she baptises her

One Flesh

Mark 10:8

and the two shall become one flesh; so they are no longer two, but one flesh.

“The imagery and symbolism of marriage is applied to Christ and the body of believers known as the church. The church is comprised of those who have trusted in Jesus Christ as their personal Savior and have received eternal life. Christ, the Bridegroom, has sacrificially and lovingly chosen the church to be His bride” (x)

Ephesians 5:25-26

25 gHusbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and hgave himself up for her, 26 that he might sanctify her, having cleansed her by ithe washing of water jwith the word,

They take the vow of necro and cav, one flesh one end

Gideon’s forgiveness of Harrow is reaffirmed

Harrow risks her life to stay and fight with Gideon, even if it means her death and thus the destruction of her death. Her love for Gideon is now greater than her love for the Body.

The Sacrifice

John 19:34

Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water.

They will look on the one they have pierced'" (John 19:36–37).

Gideon chooses to die for Harrow, death by piercing

and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

In order to complete the lyctor process, Harrow both physically and spiritually consumes Gideon

Because of Gideon’s sacrifice, Harrow attains eternal life at the right hand of god

The Tomb

The Resurrection

1On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women came to the tomb, bringing the spices they had prepared. 2 They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus

Harrow turns her body into a tomb for Gideon, a tomb fashioned after that on the Ninth

Resurrection on the Third Day

Thus it is written, and thus it was necessary for the Christ to suffer and to rise from the dead the third day, and that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in His name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. Luke 24:46-47

“So many months had passed: and yet, at the same time, she had only lost Gideon Nav three days ago. It was the morning of the third day in a universe without her cavalier: it was the morning of the third day—and all the back of her brain could say, in exquisite agonies of amazement, was: She is dead. I will never see her again.” (HTN 374)

Just in case you missed this important piece of information, Muir repeats it three times.

Go, and tell them, then, that he that was dead is alive, and lives for evermore, and has the keys of death and the grave,"

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fakeboitherottengirl · 4 years

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my 100 ideas

Most of these totally suck but i wrote 100 of them so let me know if any of them sound like something you would read or have any ideas for how to spice them up with blood and gore and how to get the most shock possible out of the idea.

-Two girls become drifter killers to fund the abortion of father-daughter incest

- Zombies like EDM and converge on a rave, replacing the drugged up crowd with nobody noticing

-human farming and a cannibal restaurant

-girls discover fairies and torture them

-two pageant stars become pro-ana superstars

-people earn points in an online game called “Calligula” by committing crimes and filming them

-A boy befriends a vampire trucker and reminds him of his last mortal love

-mall goths murder a “poser” in the woods

- De sade as a transcript of a hurtcore chatroom

-neighborhood kids who congregate at “dirt Hill” bully a child to death who comes back and haunts them in their teens

-A suicide club starts at a highschool

-Oliver twist remake where they are prostitutes instead of thieves

-A glitch in time leaves a rapist turned into a child and lands him at the mercy of his victim

-killer caterpillars

-Aliens that can only get you if you think of them

-A bulimic girl vomits up a baby

-Monsters live in the sand of a beach

-Experiments done on kids to turn them into weapons

-A pedophile on the run with his victim writes a fake memoir supposedly penned by the victim about murdering his family to escape

-Women storm the white house to torture/kill a rapist president

-An exchange studentl living in germany is called upon by the ghosts of a murdered jewish family to kill the family next door who are descendants of the nazis that killed them

-addicts at the end of the world trying to stay high

-anti-aging cream is made of dead 3rd world babies

-Bigfoot, our protagonist, tries to befriend a group of campers but accidentally kills them all off

-Prtending to be underaged, a girl traps a sadist pedophile in his own BDSM dungeon

-An american pedophile in asia becomes possessed by the ghost of a little girl killed in a brothyl

-a girl mutilates herself in her room in an attempt to look “beautiful” by cutting off all the features she finds ugly

-Satanists overtake a christian summer camp for SRA rituals

-A girl who is being molested’s dolls com to life in order to kill her stepfather, told from the POV of her favorite teddy bear

- A girl falls in love with a ghost who she can only see when she asphyxiates so she becomes hooked on duster

-A mute autistic girl befriends a demon who gets vengeance on her bullies

-Two DID alters fall in love and write love letters to each other in a diary even though they can never exist at the same time, plan revenge on church gardner who abused the host and caused the split in an attempt to be whole

-A child who killed another child is released from prison upon turning 18. When another child goes missing he must solve the mystery to clear his name with the help of his murder victim’s sister (who turns out to be the real killer)

-An adopted girl, upon turning 18, searches for her birth family only to discover a human puppy mill

-Two little boys abduct and murder another at a carnival and watch the panic unravel as the adults search for him

-A cult leader drives his followers to mass suicide

-A mother and daughter break a murderer out of jail and fight for his affections

-a school adopts lobotomies for problem students

-A human trafficker crosses paths with a telekinetic child

-An adopted girl finds out she is the blood heir to an enormous hurtcore ring

-A woman becomes aware that she is a character in a story and begins fighting the writer, who plans to write her into a tragedy

-a rich girl who has spent her life in a self sufficient high rise accidentally hits a lower-floor elevator button to discover that the zombie apocalypse has been happening for over a decade

-The son of a truck stop stripper living motel to motel comes across a magic pack of cigarettes that each grant a wish when smoked. In the end he gives his last one to his mom and she wishes he was never born and he disappears.

-An abusive troubled teen camp in the wilderness combats a masked slasher

-Activists free elephants at a circus but are captured by sadistic clowns

-Patient zero of a zombie virus goes around infecting hundreds of people through her work in a fast food chain because she cant take paid time off

-A vigilante caring for her murdered best friend’s infant has to take out a chain of criminals while still keeping up with the overwhelming task of motherhood

-A new club drug goes around the rave scene, highly addictive, eventually turns you into a zombie but so addictive people cant stop using it

-A girl wakes up and lives the same day out 100 times, with each day becoming more gruesome and out of control as she tries to stop the death of her best friend from happening

-A woman with no memories is arrested for involvement in a hurtcore ring

-Teens in a mental hospital after a rash of suicide attempts begin to die in strange accidents around the hospital

-A girl singer rising to fame realizes shes being prepared to be sacrificed by a death cult

-A boy who accidentally murdered his sister as a child becomes obsessed with a local girl who looks like she would have grown up to and stalks her, killing everybody close to her to “get his sister back” for his dying mother

-after trying acid for the first time a college girl is dragged back in time and witnesses the slaughter of the natives by settlers and is taken in by a native family fighting back

-A conscious zombie takes out a white supremecist stronghold

-Teens at a christian youth retreat battle a tentacle monster that feeds on virginity

-A haunted house bonds with the family that it is killing after falling in love with the lonely teenage daughter

-After abuse in the industry, a porn star seeks revenge against the producer who abused her, rendering her infertile

-A little girl who lives in a funeral home forms a bond with a senile old man who believes her to be his dead wife reincarnated

-A cursed school play production where the creepy theater teacher has a deal with the devil to sacrifice the lead girl, who grows a thirst for blood

-Upon puberty a girl starts to gruesomely turn into a mermaid despite her family’s assurances that these changes are beautiful and special

-a homeless prostitute forces her son to be her daughter in order to scam and kill pedophile men

-somebody nearby dies whenever a child sucks her thumb and she tries to break the habit

-after discovering her beloved guide dog is a demonic hell hound who needs human flesh to survive, a blind girl goes about finding deserving victims for him to eat

-A band of punk rockers find themselves set upon by nazis after one is killed at their show, the nazis have super-meth

-Everyday life in a small town is disrupted when the residents awake to find themselves living with grotesque cartoon physics

-A date-rapist catches an STD that turns his penis sentient and against him

-A boy who has never seen the sunlight is identified as a kidnapped infant and returned to his family, who have no idea how to handle his PTSD

-A tween popstar’s lyrics contain satanic messages that make his fans killers they kill their families and go on robbing sprees to afford his concerts

-A prim and proper young woman crosses a zombie-infested city to reunite with her (female) childhood best friend who she is in love with

-A chubby loner girl suddenly becomes an asset to her girl scout camp when it is set upon by monsters that only she knows how to fight from reading about them in horror books

-A kidnapped boy realizes he is outgrowing his captor’s attraction and sets out to eliminate the competition of new boys brought into the house

-A redneck boy and his incestuously abusive brother are the lone survivors of a monster attack on their family farm and the boy has to decide if he wants to help his abuser survive or take his chances on his own

-A school for poor children where children are farmed for their organs for the rich

-a young junkie discovers one day that he has the power to regenerate lost body parts

-An interracial group of rich friends finds themselves lost in a bad neighborhood overnightdurring a full moon where the occupants of the neighborhood come alive as werewolves

-A small Amish-type religious community is completely cut off from the world during a monster attack and carry on business with no idea that the outside world has collapsed other than that they’ve stopped receiving letters and newspapers. A team is sent out to scout the damage

-A girl who has her driver's license for the first weekend is held hostage as a getaway driver for two sadistic maniacs on their crime spree

-At a sleepover, two elementary school girls decide to kill another

-An ex-amish girl assimilates herself into society right when a monster attack begins to crumble it and must get back to her family to warn them that the world is ending

-Desade’s 120 days rewritten in the modern day hamptons

-a new diet pill causes moths to take up residence in somebody’s digestive system

-a group of white people go to film the “horrors” of a supposedly cannibal tribe, but when their racist notions are false, they force the people to conform to what they expected to find so they have something for their film

-a “murder circus” where participants pay to torture victims runs into a clash with protestors

-fights to the death like dogfighting but with human children

-a young man gives himself up to a sadist to pay off his sister’s drug debt

-A young woman working in the crime scene clean up business tries to shelter her own daughter from the horrors of the world by locking her in their apartment and becoming more and mor agoraphobic

-A home invasion turns the tables when the serial would-be-rapists/robbers break into the home of female vampires

-In the aftermath of the end of the world, a small tribe of hardened cannibalistic survivors now have to face forced assimilation back into society

-Trapped in a building with an active shooter, a group of elementary school kids fight back with school supplies

-An international tour group of study abroad students become stranded in the alps with a snow monster

-a team of serial killers/lovers is put to the test when one of them gets a woman pregnant and decides he wants to quit killing and become a normal person

-A teenage punk with a specialty for giving piercings turns into a back-ally abortionist in a wealthy suburb

-Twins who share a body and each have a head get into a feud over a lover and attempt to separate

-A group of racists find themselves cursed by a flesh-eating virus that starts with a change in skin pigment

-Racists hunting illegal immigrants come up on the wrong side of a desert spirit after destroying water left out by humanitarian groups

-A police force in a poor city is hit with a curse that transform them into flesh hungry pig-monsters and the local youth must take them out to protect their neighborhood

-A massive flood turns into a struggle for survival for a dorm building full of art students

-A woman is convinced that her son, conceived through a rape, is a demon

-A mental hospital during a zombie outbreak

#writeblr

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vindvin · 4 years

Text

օƒ ցօӀժ ąղժ çɾìʍʂօղ.

𝖜𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖓 𝖎𝖓 𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖇𝖔𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖕𝖝𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖋𝖗𝖚𝖎𝖙.

two months worth of writing, this thread encompasses most.

pxssionfruit/thegildedone ; Chailee's hands were bunched into fists of rage at her sides as she refrained herself from lashing out at the commotion that had overtaken the townsquare. A shoe flew past her head, falling miserably when it didn't hit it's supposed target of her father who stood in the midst of it all, his arms raised as he preached on. A snort slipped past her mouth and it only earned her a glare from the man in front of her. And soon enough, the poker face was back, her ears perking up at the mention of the catastrophe that caused the whole town to gather. Oh, how she'd love for it to be for a feast instead of the issue at hand. "It must be done! A virgin girl or the whole town will perish! We have no choice!" her father, Robert exclaimed in an exasperated tone which did nothing to reassure the frenzied town since he only got shouts and yells and another surge of shoe hits. Chailee remembered the story and lore about how a girl would be dolled pompously and be sent off amidst a flutter of flowers and tears to the mansion that sat atop the hill to the monster that lived there, never to be seen again. It was the tale that got children to scamper to bed every evening, the kind to even make grown men shiver in their worn boots and the old women to whisper and add more than necessary spices to the story. The antagonists of the stories differed all the time; some said he was just a cruel man who wanted a harem of young girls, some imagined a fearsome diety who was always famished and liked feasting on the souls of virgins and so on. She'd never believed in any of it... until now, that is. Even then, it was just a speck of doubt that had nestled itself in her mind. "We can't let our daughters be sacrificed to such evil anymore!" a woman screeched, causing Chailee to snap out of her reverie. Dark gaze followed the span of the crowd to land of the stout woman who had called out. From her spot, Chailee could notice the tear streaks that had stained Mrs. Lee's plump and red face, the woman a haphazard mess as she pushed forward so she could stand face to face with Robert. The girl who was no older than 16 summers thought back to the time when the town had such meeting again; it was 10 years ago and she was just a tiny little creature, clinging onto her father's leg in fear as the crowded kept shouting again. Back then, it was Mrs. Lee's daughter who was sacrificed. Bone chilling horror was quick to settle in Chailee's body when she realized that Bethany had been the same age as she was now. She was quick to gauge the situation; there were several other girls of the same age and they were all considered at the ripest time to live their lives, marriage ensuing soon for most. The ongoing argument would soon dwindle down to select the lamb and it was only a matter of time before the girl was gone and life would resume again for everyone else. Sure, the occasional prayer of remembrance would take place but really, no one would care for another ten years or so. It had to stop. For the sake of all of their futures. Chailee's feet moved on their own accord, small yet lithe frame pushing past the people in front to get to the front, her face composed in relaxed resilience. Or maybe, defiance was the more appropriate term. "I volunteer." She spoke, tone loud and calm as if waiting for the impending loom of the storm. The crowd quieted down in shock, her father staring back absolutely flabbergasted. It was strange how she found the way his mouth fell open and closed like a fish as he tried to find the words to take sense into her funny. But there was no talking the girl back. "Do not stop me, father. I should be no different than any other girl here. Please." There was no argument after that. Instead, the crowd dissipated to get the preparations of the farewell done. She knew what would follow; prayers to bid her goodbye and a safe journey (though she didn't know whether it was to the mansion or to the afterlife), feasts to fatten her up, bathes and pampering to make sure she looked the part of a pretty lamb. She had always been sure it was an act and never one for fanfare, she'd made up her mind. In two days, she would be sent off on the lonely path to the haunted mansion but Chailee had other plans. She left that very night, quiet and clad in the simplest of outfit of trousers and a shirt. They were the clothes of a man, much less one of a young woman but she didn't care. She'd filled her burlap bag with her favorite books and armed herself with her father's sickle just in case and off she was, on her way to her doom with the tune of the local lullaby on her lips.

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venitempus/vindvin ;

all good stories begin with ‘once upon a time’ and end with ‘happily ever after’. his once upon a time started in 1401, when a silly little boy decided to play with a witty old hag. still a teenager back then, he believed his charm, his promise of love, and his adoring gaze would be enough to make her bless him forever. he loved living, and wanted to live forever – she loved him, so she granted his wish. but, when she was preparing her potion, she saw – he was holding another. enraged, and betrayed she made sure his ‘forever after’ would be filled with pain, and suffering. so much pain that he would wish he was dead, but he would never be able to die. a bitter heart brings about a bitter life – and with the taste of iron on his lips, he succumbed to his deepest, narcissistic desires. centuries melted in a pot – all that hatred, that rage, that unfathomable hunger. he has lived through it all, over and over again. it was his curse to fall, and rise with the tide, it was his demeanour that made him a monster, that made him impossible to look at. his fangs so sharp, they would tear anything apart – and they did. when he stepped out of the shadows people would quiver, their pale bodies would crumble – in an unexplainable worship, infatuation, admiration. beauty was his curse. and blood was a cure he could not afford – the price of life for his immortality, he paid it even when he did not want to. he tore everyone apart – their hearts meant nothing to him, his own was stone cold. his ‘happily ever after’ ended when the first drip of blood coated his sinful tongue. his handsome features did not wilt over eons of suffering, and his oh-so-sweet smile never perished in front of a challenge – the witch did not take away the one thing she fell for. he must admit, after centuries of fun, being stuck in a castle was quite boring, to the point that he would do anything for a little entertainment. this era was disobedient, they casted him out like a stranger – even though he owned them, he was their rightful ruler. he was forced to inflict pain and fear from afar, he was obliged to hide his face from them – and what a pity it was, for his eyes were truly mesmerising. he could not hide for long, though. so he invented the cursed terms – he wanted his fun, so he asked for a new companion every year. a young girl would be sent off to visit the mysterious dark castle, and she almost always arrived on a stormy night. seeking warmth, quivering in fear – she would step inside never to be seen again. he did create the myth of it all quite well, his servants mingled with the public and spread rumours, rumours turned into a cry for help. but he was not really interested in stripping these maidens, or taking them forcefully. that was rather disgusting to him – although, they always ended up begging to be taken. his purpose was another, he wanted to have someone that could challenge him intellectually, that could put up with his moods, his wit, his temperament – someone he could make his companion for life. he was rather lonely, and as mentioned, very bored. but all girls who ended up in his company were either too scared, or too promiscuous. so what can a poor vampire do when his prey does not behave? of course he had to kill them, one by one. *** “sire,” a man entered, quivering from head to foot, covered in water. it was a stormy night, and aloysius was stuck inside yet again, obliged to watch the drops of water wash his immense windows, draping his legs over his throne’s armrests. with a bored expression, and a frown that would tell anyone to ‘cut their story short’, aloysius addresses his subject. “what is the matter now, latrell?” his gaze drifted, as a small object caught his interest. it was shining in the old man’s hands, and he put an effort into hiding it. aloysius’ smirk grew, and in a swift movement, he was in front of the old man, startling him with his speed. “s-sire, I-“ aloysius pressed a finger over his lips to keep him quiet. the man’s face turned red, and he wanted to scurry away quickly. he grabbed the silver dagger from the man’s hands with a twisted smile, playing with it like it was a toy. “are you trying to kill me? how exciting, latrell! but you have to do better than this, really,” his smirk grew wider, he leaned in to whisper in his ear. his voice deeper, and emotionless. “silver does not kill me, but it sure kills a silly human,” aloysius pressed the dagger against the man’s chest, watching him gasp for air with a smile. he pushed the dagger in, the man stopped breathing. after he dropped dead, aloysius stepped over his body and walked away, still bored out of his mind. “thank you for trying, marley. but that was rather anticlimactic. make sure his blood is collected, just in case,” he glanced at is humble servant, a young boy with mousy features. he was head over heels in love with aloysius, and obeyed his every wish. nobody inside the castle liked it when their master was bored, he tended to lash out. so sending ‘hunters’ in was one way to entertain him – and usually they would send more experienced hunters, some that put up a fight. now, those were exciting to kill. *** the big day has arrived, and aloyisus was up early. he hated the sun, and because of his curse, he could not really touch it – it would burn him, but not kill him, so what was the point? he dressed up elegantly, and debated whether he should wear the golden mask, or the black one – he decided gold. he enjoyed hiding his face at the first encounter, he was well-aware that his good looks could charm anyone into submission – and he liked a challenge, he enjoyed it when they squirmed and screamed. when the night fell, he was ready to welcome his new victim. he waited, his servants were around him looking elegant, and put together. aloyisus was towering over all of them, he was rather tall – it made him look more intimidating. when the knock on the door came, aloyisus smirked. he let his servants answer, waiting at the top of the stairs, like a lion awaits its doe. he looked like a masterpiece – the inside of the castle embracing his flawless appearance. it was paradise – and it was hell. the perfect in-between, the home of lost innocence.

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pxssionfruit/thegildedone ;

Chailee had no idea how long she was walking for; all she knew was that the biting cold of the night had started settling over her bones, causing her to shiver despite the line of sweat that had started to appear over her flesh. Goosebumps rose on her skin, her breath slipping out of her mouth in a mist that just melted and disappeared into the fog. The moon had rose into the sky, the wide silver saucer illuminating her path to the haunted castle. There was no speck of stars, nor was there a trace of cloud. It felt ominous, as if the impending loom was not enough to scare her wits off. No, she wouldn't be scared. She snorted another burst of warm cloud and paused her steps, head tilted back to watch the moon for a moment. It was an ugly thing, scarred and imperfect yet it always looked down on the world in what she thought was a dauntingly mocking smile. Her eyes narrowed into little slits as she gazed at it; there were thousands of folklore that surrounded the moon just like how the monster who lived atop the hill was in the middle of others and she had never been one to believe in them. To Chailee, it was always just one moon. That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose -a gleaming, round saucer- over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul- or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. And she wondered if just like the moon, the monster was lonely. Just as hideous, sinister and mischief filled yet so protective. Sucking on her inner cheek, she resumed her journey, fingers finding the strap of her burlap bag to keep close.The trek to the foot of the hill was a short one, given how the village was small but the moment she'd reached, she was intimidated by how it towered over her, feeling as small as ever. Swallowing her fear, she went on. And as the time passed, the fog grew thicker. So did the stench that rose from the ground. It was mostly the fecal remains of the stray animals, trash that had been disposed carelessly into piles but underlining everything else was something more potent and the cold only made the stench stronger. Chailee could taste it on her tongue and she forced herself to bite back the bile that rose in her throat, eyebrows furrowed with focus. It was a perilous walk, her breath labored as she stumbled on rocky ground that had been littered with several things she had no heart or mind to find out about. She'd fallen to her knees several times, dirt among other things crusting her boots and trousers and when she raised her hand to wipe the sweat off her face, she smeared murky liquid on her caramel skin. At that point, she was sure she was stinking as bad as the hill itself, knowing she looked like a mess. She was regretting not waiting further so that the rest of the villagers would help her up but it was too late; she was on her own. She didn't know what time it was, nor did she have an inclination of how long it took her to reach the top, her destination barely a couple of feet away. From up close, it looked like a castle instead of a manor or a house so many people had called it. It felt like a fortress too, with arcs that disappeared way over her head and poles that seemed to disappear into the sky. Chailee felt insignificant standing at the foot of the steps that led to the porch and discarding the stick she'd picked up earlier to help herself, she climbed up, almost flinching at the way the wood groaned under her weight. She couldn't flee now, nor was she going to allow herself to be scared. Swallowing thickly, she raised her fist to rap thrice on the wooden door which caused it to creak open under one particular knock. As it heavily swung open, her steps slowed down as she took her first step in. "H-hello?" she hadn't expected her tone to come out in such a mousy squeak so squaring her shoulders and stepping further into the foyer. "Hello? Anybody home?" This time her voice echoed off the walls of the castle, bouncing off the corners and into the dark hallways. It was fascinating to say the least, how her normally huskier tone could sound so hollow and as the echo increased, it got deeper as if it were a monstrous groan who gave her a reply. They came in like some sort of pageantry formation, aligned and barely making a noise. Her breath hitched in her throat and she involuntarily took a step back but halted, figuring from their decent clothes, they were simply servants. They couldn't hurt her, right? The brief thought of taking out the sickle in her bag passed through her mind until one of them spoke, the man in the middle who bowed his head to her as if she was some sort of reality. "Welcome, Miss. My name is Marley and please, you have no reason to fear being here." Chailee wasn't sure if she heard him correctly, his words earning an arched brow. Sure, she had no fear. But figuring that a snarky quip would do her more harm than good, she nodded and composed her face into what she hoped to be a serene smile. It just came off as awkward and toothy. Marley nodded, gesturing the other servants to make way before he motioned for her to follow him. And she did, eyes wide as she took in the sight of the somewhat grandiose castle. Despite it's dark and morose decor, it was calming and aloof. Definitely a juxtaposition from the colorful ways of the village she was from. Her visage had contorted into one of awe as she took everything in, not having realized that they had stopped only coming to a standstill the moment dark gaze fell onto the man who stood at the top of the grande staircase. He exuded power, even from where she stood. The kind who preyed on the weaker ones. Yet somehow, the light of the moon that burst through the windows behind him enveloped the man in some sort of ethereal glow. She remembered a phrase from that one particular book of preaches her father read about one particular being so beautiful that he was cast from the skies. Or something along the lines. She hadn't been keen on reading that one honestly. But supposedly if this man was what she had read about in her father's book, why was he wearing such a grotesque thing over his face? Couldn't be. Her breath came out in a mild scoff as she took a step forward, shoulder brushing against Marley's who just cowered in fear in front of the man. Chailee's face was serene even if her eyes were hard, the tilt of her jaw defiant and stubborn. "Hello. My name is Chai," she spoke, tone loud and clear as she came to a stand at the foot of the stairs he stood on. Her tongue snuck out to swipe across her bottom tier, realising she was parched but went on whatsoever. "Would you mind if you took your mask off? I might as well see the face of the one who is going to eat me, right?"

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venitempus/vindvin ;

❝ And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king.* it was once a castle filled with laughter, and bright light – the rooms would embraced splendour, they would bathe all eyes in crystals, and gold. and with every step, every spin, one could get drunk in its glory – people praised it for days to no end. it was once lively, it was once paradise. it still was incredibly charming --- within the massive walls of the gothic castle, there was beauty contained only but in its colour – richly decorated, a masterpiece for everyone who was lucky enough to see it. the interior was vast, and tall – it almost got lost in the moonlight, the eye could not grasp just how much it entailed. the drapes were scarlet, made of velvet – they did not cover the intriguing windows, lavishly ornamented with delicate orchids. the rose wood was a staple piece in the hallway – the stairs, the balustrade, the occasional wood figurines. the floor squeaked – it was old, history ate at it, the scent of old wood was wrapping the entire room. pillars carved with love, uniquely disproportioned – all gothic art found its beauty in inaccuracy, in immense and pompous decorations. there were renaissance-style paintings framed in gold hanging, of men and women who looked like they have been around for a while. the brush strokes mimicked those of masterful artists like michaelangelo. they were forced to stare at the doorway – and from the ceiling hung a marvellous golden chandelier. the consistent orchid-pattern held in the golden swirls, the light was dim and pleasant, enough to support the room’s glory. old books were arranged on small shelves – their spines colour-coded, fading from a pale red, to a deep red. ❝ But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high estate; (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.* --- but death clung on its drapes, death crept in, death reached its claws, death was craved in its wood. they stopped coming – guests hated death’s breath. and the once glorious castle stood solitary on a hill, it told the story of the rise and fall, the tide of life – and its towers reached the sky, its inside was hollow. it collapse in its breath-taking excellence, embraced the shadows of evil, absorbed the blood, filled the void with nothingness. it was empty, and broken. just like his heart. ⚜⚜⚜ when he stepped down the stairs, he looked as though he was floating – so flawlessly did his steps embrace the crimson carpet, and the wooden floor. his hands were behind his back, the golden mask obscured his smirk – it was creepily staring at everything around. he was elegant – perhaps not the first thing one expects from a supposed ‘monster’. he looked more like a prince than an evil beast, his white shirt and dark pants made him stand out in the sea of burgundy. his clothes were perfectly fitted for him – no doubt a personal tailor fashioned them for him, and only for him. his servants bowed in obedience, they did not like to keep their heads up when he passed by – his musky scent made them painfully loyal, and terribly scared. there was something off about the way he moved his hands, his pale fingers extending to fold gracefully, falling on his chest as he bowed to welcome his guest. aloysius took his time observing the girl, he did not move from his spot – he was closer now, yet not close enough. there was distance between them, his cold eyes analysed every single muscle in her body. it was impossible for any detail to escape his keen eye – the way she clenched her hands, her neck, her attire, her young face, her neck. yes, she did have a pretty neck – young, firm, pale. he resisted his beastly thirst, and thankfully she could not see his fangs peeking through. other than that, she looked awfully normal, almost boringly so. aloysius struggled to keep his attention on her, she did not promise anything different – it took him a moment to spot the object peeking out of her bag. now, that was interesting. girls hated weapons – he knew that much, especially young ones like her. they adored the ornate dresses, the beautiful stockings their parents forced them to wear. but she had none of the astonishing decorations victorians praised themselves for – she almost looked like a man. he wanted to dissect her, dig deep into her mind and find out just why she choose to look like this on her funeral. it was bugging him, so much so that he decided he shall let her live for now. even if she was carrying a weapon. “sire, I’m sorry, w-we didn’t-“ a servant, who just noticed the weapon, stuttered and tried to approach aloysius. his master cut him off, raising a hand to stop him from walking. it was a sudden movement, and it made the servant step back, almost stumbling over his own feet. two female servants came to his aid. the movement behind did not bother aloysius, as if he could see everything despite not looking. “that would be enough,” he said, his voice pleasantly melodious. there was an undistinguishable accent coating every word, and it did made the servant gulp. aloysius did not tolerate mistakes, his generosity made marley look at the girl in a last dying hope. but he looked away quickly, not wanting to be discovered. aloysius stepped closer, allowing his presence to crash into her like a wave – he got close enough to be indecent. he looked at her for a while, before speaking. “I do not think chai wishes to be hostile,” his voice almost sounded commanding. he did not care for her wishes, it was his will she shall obey. he made it seem lighter by taking a step back, and by letting out a short chuckle. “silly of me, I should have known you are not an admirer of art,” he did not mean to sound superior – well, perhaps he did. his ego was as big as his --- personality. and he felt at an advantage as a species. he slowly removed the mask, revealing his handsome features. his face was immediately caressed by the soft light, and his lips curled into a sweet smile, almost too blissful and alluring. “I have no clue what stories you heard in the village, but I surely do not eat my guests. my name is aloysius, and whilst you are here, you may make yourself at home. of course, there will be rules. I am sure I can count on you to be as pleasant a guest as I will be a host,” and with that he stepped away, walking towards the living room. he uttered a last command before disappearing from view. “give her some decent clothes, will you?” it was a signal for his servants to approach the girl. an older lady bowed respectfully, and offered to carry her bag. marley seemed quite excited. “madame, I think our lord likes you. he is not usually like this,” he said hopefully, as if he was not quite sure about what he was saying. he knew aloysius’ hearing was sharper than any human’s, so he tried not to insult, or give away too much. the servants followed his steps, and marley made sure to stick as close as possible. they led her upstairs – supposedly her room was there. -- *notes // fragments from e. a. poe’s poem the haunted palace: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52370/the-haunted-palace mask inspiration: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/43/38/e7/4338e77728edfae8350869d39a8ab6c6.jpg aloysius’ outfit inspiration: https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EWYRy1tU8AwjaRq?format=jpg&;name=large interior inspiration: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1b/9f/93/1b9f9355cdd17cacb85d0e1080663ed1.jpg

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pxssionfruit/thegildedone ;

The castle was a morose place in it’s beauty- grim and underlying of darkness in the way the shadows seemed to be dancing in a whimsical rhythm in the moonlight and how every corner seemed to be hide beasts that willed their preys into their arms. Chai was quick to take everything in; how the servants easily fell to his will and command and how their eyes had a glazed look in them, unfocused yet still at their own will. It was fascinating but she was more intrigued by the man. He moved with stealthy grace. It looked like he was floating above the ground, his body barely contorting in the way a human would move as if a single motion would disrupt the perfection and elegance he carried himself with. She didn’t realize she’d kept a breathe pent in her throat until he spoke and she released it in a huff of warm air, gaze flitting to the servant who cowered in fear. It was funny how the mundane stumbled over his own feet, such a stark contrast to the man who stood atop the staircase. A chuckle slipped past Chai before she even realized it and she would have laughed at the sight had it not been for the mocking tone that resounded next. Thick eyebrows furrowed together trying to decipher whether the man was serious, the mocking tone that underlaid the otherwise generous words that spilled out of him taking her aback. He spoke with charm and grace but there was a hint of taunt in there, as if he was superior than the rest of them. Then again, he probably was, given how his monstrous beauty wasn't mundane in the least bit. She'd never taken commands well, even back in the village but realizing that a quip dripping with snark here and there wouldn't fair her well at all, she pressed her lips together, gaze falling to her dirty boots in an attempt to hold herself back but when another pair of shoes, one that seemed like a mirror with how polished it was stepped into her line of vision, her head lifted, raking the length of the man who stood in front of her with a condescending smile on what was rather a handsome face. Doe eyes that was as dark as pools of obsidian stared back at her, authority etched onto the proud nose and the high plains of his face even if his mouth curved into the sweetest of smiles ever, meant to disarm her. It was alluring and captivating, a haze of wonder and awe engulfing her entire being. How could a person be this beautiful? He couldn't be real, he was a monster. The haze was gone as soon as it came, her own stare sharp and focused despite the politeness she spoke with. Thank you, Mrs. Ruth for the little lady lessons. "Thank you for opening your home for me, Aloysius." Chai murmured, nodding once in a bow. She wanted to continue, prying further into the stories she'd heard out of sheer curiosity but he moved before she could carry on, the command he'd uttered the last of what she heard and saw of him before he disappeared into the shadows. The grip on her arms wrenched her out of her thoughts, the weight of her burlap sack taken off her shoulders and it's comfort was gone as was the man of the house. Casting a look of dismay towards the direction he'd taken off to, Chailee allowed the servants to lead her further into the castle, past dim hallways and corridors that were lit with oil lamps and onto a brighter lit extension of the castle after countless of twists and turns of paths. "M'lady, this is your suite. Master had it arranged to what a lady would like,"Marley spoke, pushing open a set of doors so she could walk in. "Should you require or like it to be changed, please let me know." Whatever he said did not register in her brain, the beauty of the room inside leaving her speechless. The first thing she noticed was that even in the moonlight that shone from the wide windows and the several candles someone had painstakingly lit to brighten the room, it was fit for a lady. Marley had been right in that sense but it was not gaudy, so unlike the frilly and girlish decor she knew girls her age were fond of. It was elegant and discreet enough for her to call it home for once. Her eyes trailed over the enormous room, from the carpeted floor to the massive bed that could probably fit her family of five comfortably and to the three women who stood in the middle of the room, their heads bowed as they approached. "These are your ladies in waiting, m'lady. Mariah, Jeannette and Agnes will always be by your side, should you need anything."Marley spoke again, his hand resting on his chest as he bowed again. The ladies followed suit, dipping their bodies close to the ground in a curtsy and Chailee only took a step back, unsure how to process the courtesy they treated her with. Such pleasantries were uncommon where she was from. Clearing her throat so she was loud enough, she carefully arranged her visage into a cordial beam. "Please, you can call me Chai. And I don't need anything, thank you very much. No bowing too please." The woman in the middle approached, her elderly face composed into one of utter obedience as she bowed again. Protests bubbled in the young girl's throat, close to spilling when the woman spoke. "My name is Mariah, miss. We are at your service, per the Master's orders. Now if you will, your bath awaits." It didn't go unnoticed that they refused to call her by her name and her request of no bowing met deaf ears; this needed to change. But she would leave it for now, making mental note of it being one of the issues she needed to take with Aloysius later. For now, a bath sounded and seemed like a very good idea. She smelled of dirt and other unpleasant odors and if she dared to sniff herself, the stench would cause her to faint. Nodding, she let Mariah lead her to the little door that opened to reveal a marble-carved bathroom, the tub that sat in the middle steaming with warm water and scented with something rather mouthwatering and reminiscent of lemon and flowers. Her jaw dropped at it all, unable to believe the rather generous and subdued fanfare they'd welcome her with; Aloysius didn't have the air to be kind or welcoming from what she had felt earlier, but surely he wasn't too bad. The bath did her immense good, the tight muscles that formed everywhere on her body loosening under the heat of the water and steam. She was prodded, scrubbed, brushed and washed, her handmaidens refusing to let her to anything by herself, even when she was getting dressed. Chai had started making a point to fend them off anyhow she could but to no avail, their hands and fingers were always on her, preparing her for what Mariah had said dinner. The thought of food caused a rumble of hunger to erupt from her belly and she thanked Heavens that no one was around to hear such embarrassing sound. The women in waiting had left to clean the bathroom, leaving Chai alone in front of her vanity desk to scrutinize what was there. She was decent-looking now that she was clean and rid of dirt, clad in a proper outfit for a young girl instead of her brother's and father's old clothes. It was a suffocating dress, the corset tight around her torso and she wiggled, trying to loosen it a tad until she was satisfied. Exhaling, she then reached to her hair which they'd tied into a neat updo of braids and fiddled around, pulling out the pins her locks were held with, dark waves tumbling free over her shoulder and down her back. There, much better. She grinned a self-satisfied smirk at her reflection, the image of the village girl back only for it to fade when Marley walked back in. "If it pleases you, my lady, the Master awaits you in the dining area." Chailee nodded, lifting herself from the little cushioned chaise and sauntered to Marley, fingers bunched in her skirt to keep her from falling. She was led the way she had come, the way already ingrained in her brain for future use. The dining area was another grandiose part of the castle, as morose and grim as the hall she'd first met him in. Yet unlike then, there was no man in sight nor any sign of another being, whether it be a monster or human. Marley was long gone, leaving her alone in the midst of the room. "Aloysius?"she called out, taking a few steps further into the room so she could stand in the middle of it, head turning left and right in search for him. ----- her bedroom: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e4/6d/e7/e46de721864fdbf9705dcecddce3b903.jpg the bathroom/hammam: https://pin.it/1yENyPG chai's outfit inspiration: https://pin.it/7l2unhV

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venitempus/vindvin ;

the beauty of the castle was transported in the dining area, the large room was richly decorated, but hollow – his steps were loud, and the floor squeaked occasionally. he paced in an unusual manner, other servants were waiting for his orders, looking quite terrified at their master’s change of temperament. they did not know if they should expect a feast or a bloodbath, it was never certain with aloysius. he finally sat down, two of the women approached and bowed down respectfully, waiting for their orders. aloysius ignored them, he was lost in thought. “what makes you so morose, sire?” a soft voice spoke from one of the portraits hanging on the wall. it was the image of a beautiful boy immortalised to look young forever – a dorian gray, if you will. aloysius eyes fell on the image unimpressed, two of his servants stepped back shocked by the painting’s ability to speak. but they have learnt nothing in the castle was normal, and aloysius’ magic was certainly not only contained in his sharp fangs, and unusual taste for blood. “mind your own business, will you?” aloysius dismissed the portrait and got up, making his servants get up as well. he finally noticed the synchronised movements, and the doe eyes – he gave them a glare. “you too, partir,” the way he moved told them enough, they left as quickly as they could. aloysius approached the portrait, who looked down at him with a satisfied grin. “any reason you choose to torment me today, roderick?” he locked eyes with the painted ones – and he could tell pink paint bloomed on the boy’s cheeks. “uhm, well – I thought she reminded you of someone,” the portrait said boldly, and aloysius’ eyes darkened, they were dangerous. if he could slash the canvas open – he would. if he could drain the portrait of blood – he would. the words affected him – and he knew exactly why. he will not be able to kill this one, and it was not because her brave nature amused him, no. it was because she looked like her – the witch who cursed him, who made him live forever, miserable and thirsty. part of him would have killed her on the spot – but that face still held power over him. it could be that the girl was her descendant, it would not be unheard of. if there was even the slightest chance they were related, killing her would only make his fate worse – the witch will certainly not like having her daughter, or whatever she was, killed. he did not know how the portrait knew of his thoughts, it seemed to know a lot – and he had no doubt his ‘knowledge’ was a gift from his old enemy. “what do you know, roderick? you are just an old, painted buffoon,” aloysius turned away, and just as he did, he heard a sharp laughter, and a screech that almost made him go deaf. his heightened senses were a curse – especially when a mental portrait starts screaming for no reason. he turned around and saw the image melting – aloysius’ face was impossible to be read. his feelings were also difficult to decipher – he thought he has been poisoned for a moment, the sudden reaction took him slightly off guard, for about a second. roderick’s skin melted off, revealing his skeleton, jaw clattering in a continuous laughter. aloysius rolled his eyes, and sighed. “boring. now stop the theatrics, we have guests,” roderick almost pouted at him – yes, with skeleton face and all. aloysius watched the paint get absorbed back in the painting, roderick’s face appearing again. “do that again, and I will sell you at an auction,” aloyisus said as serious as ever – he was not amused by the portrait’s intrusion and game. “listen, listen, listen, sire,” he started calling when he saw aloysius walk away again. “what I meant is that she looks like a man,” he continued, more desperate now, trying to get aloysius’ attention. “you have fun with men, right?” but aloysius was already gone. “insolent fool,” a portrait of a woman whispered, rolling her eyes, before scoffing. roderick pouted again, then stopped moving. aloysius felt the need to get away from people – from servants and annoying portraits. the living room at the end of the hall was empty now, and the portraits there never bothered him. there was a big piano in the room, and if aloysius ever looked peaceful it was when he was playing it. the portraits there loved his presence – especially if he played something for them. the moonlight was shining on the keys, and aloysius was compelled to approach. he touched the delicate surface, and sat down. he did not need any music sheet – he knew the notes by heart, he has played this composition many times. and light as a feather were his fingers on the keys, they spun and twirled and created the sweet sound of beethoven’s moonlight sonata. and the portraits closed their eyes, and listened mesmerised, the sound was loud in the sullen castle – adagio sostenuto. it almost sounded like hope, like an entrance to heaven – and aloysius looked so peaceful and beautiful. such man could not be a blood-thirsty killer, could he? – the girls who watched him play always asked that, until he managed to prove them wrong. the notes start to weigh on him, lower, and lower. the entire room vibrated with his music, and the moon was splendid – his body swayed slightly as his fingers skilfully embraced the light notes, almost dancing on the keys – allegretto. the lights were switched on, and the entire atmosphere was jolly, matching the sudden turn in his concert. some maids caught themselves dancing around, swirling to the music – and some servants joined them. it was as if the entire castle transformed into a ball, and everyone was happy. the speedy notes made them all spin around, aloysius’ fingers moving faster, his face in a serene concentration – presto agitato. the small crowd started to cheer in their dance, and even the portraits joined in – one of them mimicking a conductor. meanwhile, the music reached the dining area and roderick smirked. “you should join, missy,” roderick spoke to chai out of a sudden, looking at her with his painted eyes – his youthful, yet malicious face, he would have told her more, but he thought convincing her to go away for now would benefit him somehow. “you certainly do not want to miss such a spectacle.” the party only got louder, and more enjoyable with every new section, it even felt as though the entire castle was moving along to the music – the curtains dropping, unfolding and folding. some feathers floating, writing words in the air – and the fireplace was roaring furiously, flames moving to the beat. marley was the only one who looked distressed, he did not like how everyone chimed in – if their master sees them like that, it will not be good. he tried to stop them – but even he was captured by the music. it was as if the piano was enchanted – and perhaps it was. their hearts almost burst with every note, fascinated, excited, and absolutely in love with their little show. they did not stop dancing until the last notes hit the piano, in a graceful ending. aloysius stood up, and they all cheered so loudly the entire town might have heard them. to marley’s surprise, aloysius’ good mood was still present, so he bowed to accept the cheers with the grace of a prince. “marvellous” “breath-taking” “it was beautiful, sire” – the praise never ended. and aloysius stepped in the middle of the room, and the entire castle was once again silent. -- living room inspiration: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/76/1a/8c/761a8c08193f27732185766dc52bddef--piano-living-rooms-piano-room.jpg the song (it has the sections in the description, that should help along!): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU

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pxssionfruit/thegildedone ;

No matter how hard she looked, he was no where to be found. Chai stood in the middle of the dining room long enough for her eyes to get adjusted to the darkness, somewhat finding it welcoming in it's eeriness and gloom. The palace and the glory of the hall she'd met Aloysius in was the exact opposite of the colorful town she hailed from and she found it a breath of fresh air, even through the earthy stench of the palace. She sucked in a breath, gnawing on the inner flesh of her cheek as her fingers wrung each other in nervousness. Was this the moment she would die at his hands? Her heart skipped a beat before picking up in her chest, deafening in the middle of the room. Maybe he was just late, the little mousy voice tried speaking bravely but to no avail, the million and one thoughts all had bloody and gory endings. "Stop stressing that pretty head of yours, will you?"a voice spoke, wrenching Chai out of her miserable reverie. Her head whipped around to find the voice who spoke yet stared at the empty room once again. Had she imagined the voice? "Non, non! You are not imagining things, I assure you! Here! On your right! Psst, look here!" With baited breath, she slowly turned the direction of the voice, gaze widening in surprise (maybe fear?) and hands flying to her mouth to hold back the little shriek that threatened to bubble out of her throat. A boy, surely no older than her, stared back at her with a grin so toothy, she could see the mischief on his visage. He wore his hair in an unruly fashion, the mop of ginger locks a stark contrast against the dark background he stood against. He looked like one of the boys who would be caught stealing cookies from the patisserie back in the village, deserving a smack on the bum from Mr. Grosventre. But despite his face, his clothes told another story, in the way the fine fabric of his shirt even shone from the painting- wait, what? Painting? Her steps were cautious but the glint in her eyes were curious as she approached the portrait on the wall, unable to hold her hand back from reaching out in the want to touch the canvas. "Tch, do not touch me, young miss! Should you want to come in too." The boy cackled as he watched her hand drop back to her side as fast as it had reached up. "Y-you speak,"she murmured, breath coming out in a shaky huff. It wasn't a question nor was it a statement; she just needed to wrap her head around this fascinating magic. The boy in the portrait watched her with impatience, mouth down-turned in pout of distaste. "You know, I did want you to be different from the other ladies who'd walked in before you. Alas, you seem to be as a floundering goat as all of them!" He exclaimed, sarcasm dripping off his tongue as he rolled his eyes before feigning a bore glance as he inspected his fingernails. Chai's eyes narrowed just a fraction, grin as toothy as his initially was, blinking once in innocence. It was a look that had come in handy often back home to get herself out of trouble and there was no doubt she would use it around here to get her way. "Do you often speak to your guests like this? Well, I would be an old grumpy cat too if I were stuck in a portrait. Pray tell, what happens when the canvas is torn or ripped? I remember seeing a knife somewhere around here..." She trailed off as if deep in thought, making sure he caught the way her eyes roamed the little space from her left to right in search of said knife. She wouldn't hurt him, not at all. But she would find entertainment in bothering him all the time. "Gah! Such a brat! You remind me awfully of someone!"he scoffed at her, in turn only him just a coquettish shrug and a bat of her eyelashes. "But you're funny. You may call me Roderick and I hope you stick around here for long, Miss Brat. It's been a long time since we've had entertainment in this ramshackle of a decaying pla-" His words were cut short by the melodious note of a piano ringing from somewhere, Chai's head turning to the side to find the source of the noise. It was euphony, the gracious and elegant kind that began sad but quickly morphed into a joyous one. Roderick and her stood in silence, appreciating the piece of music that played, transcending the space of the castle and engulfing the two in what was jolly ecstasy. Her lips curved slightly at the corners at the way the notes picked up, the sounds of cheerful laughter and shouts adding to the solo orchestra. Roderick took one glance at her face and snickered at the way her eyes had glazed over with awe, expression one of pure intrigue. “You should join, missy. You certainly do not want to miss such a spectacle." His tone and words were tempting, her feet moving on their own accord as she trudged the way the voices and music came from. There had been a little corridor right beside the grande hall that she had missed earlier on her inspection, the path lit with little oil lamps. For once, even the shadows seemed like they were cheery instead of their grim selves. Perhaps they were truly enjoying themselves, who knew? Chai stood by the door, hand resting on the wooden panel to push it wide enough so she could peek in. And the sight inside was enough to have her breath hitch in her throat. It was a ruckus but she felt the happiness that the room burst with, enticing the small frame of the girl who peeped in. Everything moved, from the tapestries and the curtains to the candle holders and feather dusters; they were all fluid in their dance, gone into the euphoria of such a masterpiece. But her gaze flitted to the man who had started such fete. Aloysius sat in the middle of the room, on the bench in front of the grande piano and had lost himself into the music, oblivious to the celebration around him until the very last notes. His fingers were lithe and expert as they came to a dwindling stop from the furious tapping on top of the ivory keys and Chai did not miss the satisfied smile he smiled as he lifted himself from the cushioned bench, graceful and royal as ever as he bowed. At that moment, she thought of it impossible that he was such a monster, especially when all of his servants and friends(?) cheered on him so loudly for. She envied him -them- for it; she'd never had a chance at experiencing such joy back in her village. Once the applause died down, she pushed the door open and walked in, hands placed politely in front of her as she cleared her throat, trying to get his attention. It was not only his that she got, but the whole palace's. It was dead again, every single sight of life gone and it broke her heart to see it. The once warm atmosphere was cold once again despite the fire that burned brighter than ever in the fireplace. But she knew she couldn't take it too heart- she was not mistress of the house after all for them to welcome her with such fuss. "You play wonderfully,"she began, voice coming out timid which was so unlike her. Chai cleared her throat again, taking a few steps closer so she stood in front of him. Her foot were awfully loud even if muffled by the carpet and she held herself from grimacing. "As if for your own celebration. Why didn't you join them in dancing? Do you dance? Would you like to?" The questions erupted past her mouth before she even knew it, her hand held out in an invite. It sure was a feeble attempt at decent cordiality and even friendship; he said he wouldn't eat her if she misbehaved after all. A if on cue, a note from the piano resonated against the castle walls, once again bringing life to the place. Her head tilted slightly so she could look over his shoulder to the massive instrument that stood majestically behind him and grinned, noticing how the keys moving on their own. Of course, it was enchanted too. With her grin still in place, she beamed up at Aloysius, barely a foot away from where he stood towering over her. "I think even it wants you to dance." She chuckled, nodding towards the direction of the piano. [ living room inspiration (as I had it in my head): https://i.pinimg.com/564x/cd/0c/df/cd0cdf34c8d3731c54260b9fd0f2948a.jpg roderick: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e5/61/c4/e561c419b7e7cfa2db3c4d71d00a602c.jpg piano piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdduPpnqre4 ]

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venitempus/vindvin ;

in the fit of laughter and joy, aloysius has forgotten about his guest – kind of. he did not show any surprise to see her walking inside the beautifully decorated room, and the room’s noise died with her arrival. he regarded her – she looked more presentable. he could get used to the emerald flow she was wearing, it suited her. however, it looked old-fashioned. perhaps it was a practical joke at his expense, something along the lines of ‘aha, you are old, so let us entice you with something close to home’. surely, it was not her fault. and he wanted to glance at the maidens who were already giggling behind their palms. such childish behaviour should be punished, he would have punished it. but his mind was at peace, he was satisfied with the theatrics – he did not want to lose his peace. it will not last long anyways – and the hunger, the thirst, the murderous fever will return, and capture his entire being. it was his curse, and he accepted it. her praised made him smirk, he enjoyed hearing about himself – his arrogance trapped him in this convoluted story to begin with. her bluntness did not seem to move him, but he was impressed. she was truly different – which girl would invite a grown man to dance? it was not a custom, of course, he did not mind tradition much. it was most unlikely, and peculiar. he knew victorian girls were straightforward when showing their undergarments, but none would have dared to step forward and ask for something as innocent as a dance. they lived in a fairy tale with a prince they expected to do everything for them – lay with them, invite them to a dance, shower them with riches. and they liked it – the entire scenario has gotten too predictable for someone like him. for centuries he has met the same shy girls with a different accent, a different colour, a different smile. suddenly, the pages were blank. and chai was writing her own story – with him, without him. the piano married his heart – he gave it away. and so it tuned whatever fitted, old and new. it was a piece aloysius was only partly familiar with, it still did not make its way to england, not yet. but it was exceptional, he had a lot of praise for the russian composer. it was not the first thought in mind when selecting a tune for a traditional dance – the piano read her as accurately as it read him. the servants were holding their breaths, and for fair reason. for a brief moment he looked like a predator – his expression hardened, and his off-putting darkness was surrounding him with every movement. two girls covered their eyes – they were sure chai’s life was about to come to an end. nobody defeated him, spoke to him like that, not without consequences. she approached him in spite of it – her bravery knew no limits. it would be easy to rip her apart, to drain her pretty neck, to do anything to keep her away. he did not do any of it, he let her come close. he allowed her to disturb his personal space, to be at arm’s length. when he reached his hand out, a servant squeaked – imaging how easily aloysius could strangle her. he grabbed her hand instead, his lips curling in a dangerously charming smile – or was it charmingly dangerous? the piano taunted. aloysius pulled her closer – the song was not made for a duet, but he had to make it work. he started with steps that mimicked the pace of the piece, his arm around her waist, his hand holding hers in a waltz-like pose. but it was a quick waltz, one that made them pace all over the room frantically – the fire flickered, the servants watched bewildered. the entire piece was like a chase, it made the furniture quiver. the piano mocked them – aloysius knew. he looked at it with a smirk, it was almost as if he was scolding an old friend. when the last notes flew like a river he spun her, once, twice, and let her be taken by the rhythm. their bodies were far away, he spun her again and left her under the chandelier’s light as the last note hit. the servants were not sure if they should clap or not, so they stood in silence. “very well, friend. now if you have finished your taunt, why do you not simply play something that would allow a proper dance?” he looked at the piano, it played some notes in contemplation. “chopin should do,” aloysius helped, and the entire room changed. it was not only the light that dimmed, or the flame that flickered slower – but the curtains darkened, there was rain pouring over the windows. and white petals started to fall seemingly out of nowhere, filling the entire room with the scent of spring. aloysius approached her again, this time in a proper waltz – pulling her closer at his chest. his body was cold, and his heart was barely beating – he moved so gently, so lost. they covered the entire room – the atmosphere was enchanting. the servants watched in awe, the portraits closed their eyes in contemplation. aloysius closed his eyes too, he felt the music under his feet – he was fluid, and he pulled her along, like a gentle breeze. the petals turned burgundy as the music reached its darker notes, and the shower of little flowers covered them like the rain did the windows. he spun her, and let her go. all lights were on her, all the flowers surrounded her, moved with her, spun with her – she looked like a gracious swan on a lake of waterlilies. aloysius was at the bottom of the lake, his face was covered by the depth’s darkness, and the reflection of the rain, the moon was only gently brushing his lips. the piece ended, and the room brightened again. the cold blue lights faded to yellow, the room felt warmer. servants clapped, and filled it again with joy. aloysius walked towards the door in their applause. “dinner shall be served shortly,” he announced, and left peacefully. he did not wait for chai, he gave her the chance to refuse to follow – he thought choice suited her best. “sire,” a servant ran towards him, soaking wet. he just entered the castle, and he was panting like a wild dog. aloysius gave him a displeased look, and he fell at his feet. “I tried sire, I did. but they didn’t want to listen,” he heaved. aloysius frowned, and gestured him to get up. “that is quite alright, francis,” he said kindly? it was rather hard to tell where his tone was at right now. “they will not dare disturb me. now if you will, I should have my dinner,” and he walked away. francis was confused, and he got up, running to one of the maids to ask what happened. “she happened, dearie,” the maid said with a chuckle, pointing at chai subtly. “I haven’t seen our lord dance in a long time.” aloysius was in the dining room, roderick gave him a weird look. he choose to ignore the portrait, and it knew better than to disturb the feast. the long table was filled with all kind of food, it looked delightful. aloysius took a seat at the end of it, taking all of it in. he was in contemplation – the servants were already in the room. they usually stuck around during meals, just to make sure aloysius does not suddenly change the menu. he had a beautiful crystal glass in front of him – it was filled with dark red liquid. it could have passed as wine, but nearly everyone knew that it was not alcohol. no matter how drunk aloysius got on it. -- piano piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9E6b3swbnWg

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pxssionfruit/thegildedone ;

She waited with baited breath at his reaction; somehow she was prepared for the rejection that would come. In his eyes, she was probably just a silly little girl who attempted to befriend a monster. Surely, he wouldn't- surprise rushed through her body, eyes wide when her hand was taken. Chai felt small in his hold, her hand fragile into his strong one. Was he really willing to dance with her? Wasn't she meant to be discarded and treated as if her little wishes and desires were meaningless? Wasn't she just the lamb that had would be soon roasted in the pit for the wolf's dinner? It was clear that she hadn't expected it in the way she gawked, eyes widening enough so the light caught her irises, a flash of gold and green sparkling in otherwise dark orbs. her body stiffened for a moment before it relaxed, the music somehow soothing, crashing against his body. from this close, she could finally take a good look at the man. from the minutest imperfections that were almost invisible to the harsh lines and shadows in his face that seemed as if he had a permanent scowl, he exuded grace and regality. chai didn't understand how someone could be so beautiful could exist, but here he was; cold yet warm in her hold as they moved about the grandiose room in effortless steps, surprisingly able to match his waltz despite how her full skirt billowed at their feet. she had never had the chance to dance such back in the village; her family's finances were such that minor luxuries and hobbies were considered a waste. and right now that she was indulging in it, the worry she had back then seemed so far away. her thoughts were still running rampant in her head, her steps matching his rhythm accompanied by the sway of her body to the music so much that she hadn't noticed she was left alone under the chandelier until she sensed his warmth leaving her side. her face was inquisitive, intrigued by what was to come next when he spoke, his command oozing confidence and majesty. then the world changed, her breath taken by what transpired next. everything was in motion, the room itself coming to life as the music changed. the world darkened significantly outside, the pellets of rain hitting the windows harshly. yet somehow, it was spring's comfort and warmth that began seeping through. the chandelier twinkled in the moonlight and what was remaining of the candlelights as they dimmed, engulfing the room into a whimsical glow. something grazed her cheek with the weight of a feather, falling into her open palm and when she looked at it, in her hand laid a white petal, as soft as a baby's bum or the first of snowflakes she'd caught as a child. it was gone soon, joining the rest of its friends onto the carpeted floor when aloysius took her hand, leading her into a dreamy waltz. how their steps matched was a wondrous feat in itself, chai as fluid as he was when he moved her about the room. it was a beautiful rhythm, one that made her lose awareness of her surroundings, completely throwing herself into the music and the touch that tethered her to the ground. his hand left hers with a force that left her spinning into the middle of the room, her full skirts swarming elegantly at her feet. her eyes had closed, cheeks flushed out of both shyness and joy, her lips curved into the most timid grin she'd ever muster in her sixteen years of life and her hair was a fluid cascade of dark locks that caught the petals. the music dwindled down, the applause that overtook the room a roar that would shame the thunder and lightning that had started picking up outside. slowly, chai's eyes opened, cheeks flushing the same color of the petals that were at her feet and in her hair, searching for the man. aloysius had left her there, in the middle of the room with a crowd of onlookers. her face contorted into one of disbelief as she picked up her skirts and rushed back out the same way she came in after the man. she was too slow- hey, he was just too agile!, she thought to herself as she barged into the dining room, unconsciously leaving a trail of little flowers onto the floor. she glanced at the drenched man who had begun disappearing off somewhere, but her attention was caught once again by the man she had just danced with- she refused to admit that it was a sweet moment. "I'd have thought you were a gentleman!"she exclaimed, tone a bit too loud. she noticed roderick grimacing from his spot on the wall out of her peripheral vision but that did not stop the myriad of words that came out of her mouth as she stepped closer to aloysius, coming to a stand to where he was. "The least you can do is wait for me! My legs are not as long as yours! And you don't have to wear a skirt either and- oh!" the rant stopped as fast as it came, her gaze falling onto the feast-ladden table that sat in the middle of the room. it was filled with everything she could imagine, from a roasted suckling pig to an assortment of quince and cheese, fruit platters to a variety of desserts. she'd never seen so much food in her life; it was enough to feed the whole village back home! she spotted a seat that was readied for her at the other end of the long table- it was too distant, too aloof... just like the man who sat at the head of the table. swallowing thickly, she moved the chair that she was standing by which happened to be on his right and sat down, able to pick up the sounds of the servants running around to fix her new seat for her. "Thank you," she murmured kindly to one of the servants who placed a pristine plate and utensils in front of her. chai's hand hesitantly reached for her fork, the cold metal foreign in her hands. she was hungry and the whole castle was made aware of it when her stomach rumbled, rivaling that of the thunder outside. roderick snickered from his place on the wall in front of her and she was quick to raise her fist that was still gripping the fork, shaking it in warning at the boy in the painting. "Shut up, you wretched fopdoodle!" she glared at him but the boy only snickered harder, his face contorting into a grimace that was sure meant to poke fun at the girl who only stuck her tongue out at him, fist dropping down so she could stab a grape. she was far too hungry to shoot a clever quip so deciding she would deal with roderick later, she started to eat, the grape-tipped fork freezing about halfway to her mouth. she took a glance at the man beside her and hesitantly held the fruit to him in an attempt at being friendly. they did just dance, so maybe he wouldn't be too closed now, right? "Would you like one? I'm sure they are delicious,"she began, mouth upturning into what she hoped was a toothy grin but really was an awkward one. Roderick yodeled a bout of robust and obnoxious laughter, his exclamation causing her eyebrows to thread together into a scowl. "Oh, naive little girl! She wants to give our lord a grape! A grape! Haha!"

TO BE CONTINUED.

( @thegildedone )

#⚘ : of gold and crimson #⚘ : aloysius #⚘ : plots #⚘ : replies #thegildedone #⚘ tw: violence / blood / kidnapping / graphic imagery #⚘ : supernatural #⚘ a summary thread

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osakabomb · 4 years

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Botanical asks! Primrose, lion's fairytale, everlasting daisy, lavender dream, creams and sky, tulip, wisteria, sunflower, peony, tea rose.

primrose; what book does everyone right now need to read?

Gender Queer: A Memoir by Maia Kobabe. Any memoir about queer identity is a worthwhile read and I’m a big fan of this one. I might be biased because it just resonated a lot with me personally.

lion’s fairytale; would you rather be the sky, the ocean or the forests?

Oh, I like this one. It’s tricky, though. I think I’d want to be the forests, though.

everlasting daisy; what’s the last dream you remember having?

It was the nightmare I had a few days ago. I was in a large bathroom, on the floor, and some weird aquatic-looking monster with a semi-human face came out from a hole in the wall (I think) and started to slowly tear me apart and eating me alive. So. That was fun.

lavender dream; turn ons/offs?

Turn ons…people who are kind/empathetic and can make me laugh. And…well, I’m discovering that people respecting my pronouns and gender is one. Haha. Also definitely girls with short, dark hair. And buff ladies. And ladies with kind of thick eyebrows. If we’re talking physical stuff. Turn-offs…I guess kind of the opposite of the non-physical stuff. Rude people/people with no empathy, and I’m not as into people who are kinda humorless (or at least have the kinda humor that I’m not into), and people being outright rude about gender stuff.

creams and sky; what’s the craziest/bravest thing you’ve done?

I don’t know what the bravest would be. I mean, I guess coming out as trans to everyone i know at once? I guess brave in the sense that it’s probably the one thing I was kind of absolutely terrified to do but did anyway. As for craziest, probably the Anime Expo room party where I drank like…30-something shots and full drinks of alcohol in a single night (including going around and claiming people’s unfinished drinks, which is really stupid in hindsight, don’t do that.)

tulip; name 5 facts about yourself.

Uh…hm. Well, I’m trans (she/they pronouns, but I prefer she?), I have 3-4 scars on different parts of my face/head, I don’t like apples all that much, I love traveling by train and by boat, and I like ghost stories.

wisteria; whom do you admire and why?

So many people, but I definitely admire Matthew Mercer. He’s a good voice actor. The things he can do with voice are pretty amazing to me, but mostly he just seems like a genuinely good and empathetic person and he’s just an excellent DM and storyteller and he’s one of the people who inspired me to want to take up that role in D&D myself.

sunflower; share a favorite quote.

Oh, I love the entire thing George R.R. Martin wrote, “On Fantasy” but I’ll just share my favorite part of it.

“We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.“

peony; share a small random book passage that means something to you.

There are a lot, and I gotta go with George R.R. Martin again. I like this one and it feels relevant to things right now:

“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths.”

tea rose; what’s something you always wanted to do but were too scared?

If I’m being honest? Skinny dipping at night.

#ask meme #long post

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fullstop-official · 5 years

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A Scheduled Four Hours of My Local Drugstore Hell

AKA: Chapter Two

Once upon a time, two high school sweethearts were married. They’d already fallen head-over-heels in love, so they tied the knot, bought a house, built successful careers, and even started a family together.

Then, they got divorced when their son was in seventh grade.

Since the divorce, I’ve lived with my mom in the Valley. Not too long after their marriage dissolved, my dad got a job offer to teach English at Purdue, and he couldn’t possibly pass up such a sweet deal, so he moved to Indiana. I only get to see him in person a few times a year, less and less since he started teaching spring and summer courses. At first, it was pretty tough and kind of hit me hard, but it probably could have been worse. It was a fairly clean break – there wasn’t really a lot of fighting. Instead, they just both sort of realized they’d married the wrong person. They’re still friends, which is better than what Bryson had to deal with when his parents split up, so I figure I’m one of the lucky ones.

***

After band practice, I’m back in the Gator’s passenger seat with an altered mood and the dread caused by the clause of a hastily written contract looming over me. At the very least, Travis is always musically prepared, so I don’t have to sit through the overplayed crap on the radio. Not all of his stuff is particularly to my taste, but it’s absolutely nothing like Selena’s so I can deal with having to hear a Nickelback song every once and a while.

I don’t have a car of my own, so this is all commonplace. Travis is basically my ride everywhere. We usually aren’t too far apart anyway. Both of us live in Woodland Hills in the third quadrant (as bisected by the highways and major streets) where the roads start to mercilessly curve in order to work with the mountains. The bends, levels and hills made it an equally exciting and terrifying experience learning how to drive, so more often than not, I graciously decide to leave that part up to Travis.

I live in one of the two-story homes, which is pretty rare because Woodland Hills is basically made up of single-story ranches that were definitely built during that bold period between the fifties and the eighties – low, gradual rooflines, giant stone on the same building as ugly siding, the whole nine yards. I wouldn’t be too surprised if half of them still have shag carpets, faux wood panels, and flower power wallpaper from the seventies.

Travis pulls into my driveway behind my mom’s car, and we both climb out of the Gator. We head inside through the front door. The smell of spices and grease hits me the instant we step from the LA summer heat into air conditioning. The scents waft from the kitchen in through the living room.

“We’re home!” I call out as Travis and I kick off our shoes. We follow the aroma, and the crackles and pops that start to become clearer, into the kitchen.

My mom’s still in scrubs which means when she got home the hunger and thought of dinner overruled everything else, including changing clothes. She’s standing before the stove with stir fry sizzling on the element.

“Doctor Scott!” Travis uses his standard greeting – a high, breathy, surprised gasp in his best impression of Janet from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It does not suit his voice at all, but it’s been his go-to hello for my mom since we first saw the movie back in middle school. I’m sure that must be why it’s one of his favourite scenes because, honestly, it’s thirty straight seconds of people yelling names. And it repeats.

“Travis is here,” she states, half sarcastic and wearing a grin. “Big surprise.”

“Yeah, I just can’t seem to get rid of him,” I joke.”

Travis scoffs back teasingly as he drops into one of the chairs at our kitchen table. “Em fo dir teg ot gniog reven er’uoy, Nagrom,” he says in reverse.

“Taht tuoba ees ll’ew, Sivart.”

“Stop speaking in tongues or I’m hiring an exorcist,” my mom chimes in. She turns a bit to look over her shoulder while I open the fridge. She asks, already knowing the answer, “Are you staying for dinner, Travis?”

“If you insist.” I don’t have to see his face while I’m digging around to know that he’s smirking as he says it.

“Intercepting my leftovers before they even had a chance,” she sighs playfully.

“Is it vegetarian stir fry again?” I ask, only because I notice from the corner of my eye that her pan seems to lack protein. I kick the fridge door shut, hands occupied by two sodas. I toss the Cherry Coke to Travis and he, thankfully, catches it. There have been a few tragic instances where one of us has missed, and the can exploded as a casualty, and it really isn’t fun cleaning liquid sugar off of every surface in a seven-foot radius.

In response to my question, my mom lets out a little disapproving hum. “It wouldn’t be if you’d ever listen to me and take the chicken out of the freezer when I ask you to.”

Travis laughs as he cracks open his can.

“At least I know it means you’re eating your vegetables.”

“I mean, I don’t really have many other options. Between driving to somewhere for a burger or staying and eating your rabbit food, this one’s the simplest.”

“Kind of an Occam’s Razor for food choices,” Travis interjects.

“Precisely.”

“You two are weird.” She looks up from stirring the pan and focuses on me. “Work tonight?”

I nod. “At six. Short shift. But I wouldn’t be stuck in CVS purgatory if I already had a car and didn’t have to save for one.”

“I gave you a choice. Car now or tuition later.” She points the spatula at me. “And you, my friend, picked the smart option. Even if it means Travis gets to steal my food and camp out in my home. Will I be seeing him later, too?”

“Likely,” Travis answers. “I am his ride everywhere, after all.” It’s his small attempt at helping my cause and rescuing me from part-time retail, but it ultimately doesn’t end with my mom seeing the light and offering to buy me an alternative mode of transportation.

Travis changes the subject after taking another sip of his drink.

“Coming to the gig Friday night, Doctor Scott?”

My mom has told him many times that he can call her by her first name, or even just call her mom at this point. Travis refuses. She’s stopped trying to fight it.

“Nope. Date night.”

My mom has seen a few other guys since the divorce, but she’s been with her current boyfriend, Derek, for about six-or-seven months now, I believe. Ironically, he was my dad’s best friend all through high school. They were even in a band together back then, too.

“Besides, Ray’s Underground is kind of sketchy. Don’t they pay you in beer?” She gives me a “mom look,” one brow raised.

“They pay us. We get about four-fifty a show. Bryson funnels it back into the band.”

“The free beer is just a perk, not currency,” Travis adds with a grin.

“Why can’t you be like normal teenagers and just lie to me about your illegal shenanigans?” She shakes her head. Her hair is still pulled back, so the low ponytail flops between her shoulder blades. “I’ve heard you guys a hundred times anyway. You’re good. I don’t have to go watch every show.”

“Too bad. You’ll miss Morgan’s lead-singing debut.”

I feel the physical part of me freeze up, and others inside die instantly with that kill shot that came out of nowhere. My mom’s head whips up from the stove and her light, wide eyes spend a second bouncing between me and my best friend. He’s still wearing a smug face. I’m just trapped in that “stay perfectly still and nothing bad will happen” mindset like some stunned piece of prey. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, her gaze settles on Travis in disbelief.

“Morgan?” she asks. “Morgan Scott? Morgan Jamie Scott the Second?”

My parents are both uncreative, naming-impaired, cruel narcissists. I have my dad’s first name and the middle is my mom’s, so I guess it’s a good thing they were both stuck with unisex names. I’ve been told it would have been reversed if I’d been a girl: Jamie Morgan.

“My son?” The spatula tip is pointed my way again. The tenseness has begun to fade away and now I just want to roll my eyes at her theatrics. “Him?”

“Even signed a contract,” Travis confirms. “He’s going to sing our encore, front-and-center.”

“Wow,” she remarks. “I’m almost sad I’m going to miss that.” Her curious stare briefly finds its way back to me before her focus moves back to her cooking again. “What are you singing?”

Travis jumps in and answers before I can. “Blank Space.”

I notice a second too late that he refused to elaborate on which version we’re doing.

I feel that sinking pressure of remorse mixed with something that’s bordering on annoyance because my mom bursts out laughing after putting the title to a song, and the song to the original singer’s face, and then probably that face on my face. She’s obviously thinking about the overplayed pop version she’s heard a billion times.

“Thanks, Trav.” Monotone. Sarcasm. In response, he just raises his can of Cherry Coke to me like a small, mischievous salute. He’s grinning and practically glowing with schadenfreude.

When she stops mocking me, my mom turns. She shoves her spatula into my hand. “Watch the food, Taylor Swift; I’m going to go get changed.” As she steps around me to leave, she reaches up the height I’ve got on her and messes my hair, only adding to the humiliating taunting. “God, you need a haircut.” She says this about once a month to me, and every few days to Travis – not that it accomplishes anything.

I sigh silently as I take her place before the frying vegetables, and she disappears from the kitchen. I hear her laughter start up again – she isn’t finished basking in the sheer hilarity everybody except me seems to find in the deal I was bribed into making.

“She’ll be calling me Taylor Swift for the rest of my life.”

“No doubt.”

“I hate you,” I say.

“I know,” Travis replies, definitely still smirking.

***

When I get off of work at ten after a scheduled four hours of my local drugstore hell, Travis is waiting for me in the Gator, parked in a space by the door and blaring Sum 41 so loud all of Winnetka is liable to complain. He turns the volume down when I climb into the passenger seat to something more suitable for conversation.

“Fun night?” he asks to tease me.

“I think a piece of my soul died.”

Travis chuckles in response – he’s heard enough of my CVS horror stories to know I’m not exaggerating. He encounters some idiots at his job, sure, but there’s a special brand of general-public stupidity that I’m exposed to every single time I walk into CVS wearing a nametag and a polo.

“What did you do while I was being tortured?”

He’s wearing another conceited look as he backs out of the space in the vacant lot. “I met up with Sweet Caroline Wu for a little while.”

Sweet Caroline Wu goes to our school and had a major Neil Diamond obsession back in the tenth grade, hence the nickname. (She’s hot too, which is also pretty sweet, in my opinion.) Travis and Sweet Caroline have been hanging out as a pair for a couple weeks now, usually whenever I’m working. They both say they’re not dating or fooling around, but they absolutely are. Travis talks about her a lot in that dopey, smitten way. I end up hearing a lot about how her lips taste like strawberries, and how her hair smells like coconut, and how her breasts feel (perfect, according to him).

So, yeah, they’re totally dating.

“Is she coming on Friday?” I ask. I know Sweet Caroline doesn’t really like the kind of music we play, but she likes Travis enough that she’ll sit through an entire band practice just to fawn over him.

“Of course. I promised her a backstage tour after the set. And she can be another witness when you dump your girlfriend.”

Those words sound like a choir of angels to me. I almost expect the night-darkened heavens to part, and a beam of light to shine down on the promise of mine and Selena’s contractually-destroyed fake relationship as it’s so close to coming to an end. It’s the clause of my agreement with Bryson, however, that stops this from happening. It weighs heavily on me like a cloud of smog blocking the Godly illumination’s full radiance.

By the time we’re back in Woodland Hills and pulling into my driveway, the music has shifted to blessthefall. Travis shuts the Gator off in the middle of Hollow Bodies. He hauls a familiar overnight duffel bag over his shoulder as we walk to the door, which means that, at some point between making out with Sweet Caroline Wu and coming to pick me up from work, he went home, at least for a few minutes.

“How is it over there?” I ask him.

“Not safe. Have to wait it out another month.”

Travis’ older brother, Tyler, is home for the summer. He’s majoring in structural engineering at UCB, which means that Travis’ parents are asking him about his courses, and also asking Travis what his plans are after he graduates high school. They don’t like the answer that he gives.

Both Longfield brothers got in part-time at this garage during the summers, and, while Tyler sees it as a source of a few extra bucks, it’s what Travis wants to do – I mean, not the cleaning and administration stuff he’s stuck doing, but the fixing part. His parents think he can do better than “just a lowly auto mechanic,” even though he’d definitely have an apprenticeship lined up after vocational school, and a guaranteed full-time job after that. When his brother is home, that all goes out the window, and he has to spend most days and nights over at my place. He’d end up in a straightjacket otherwise.

My mom is still awake in the living room when we enter. She’s sitting in front of the TV, watching one of her recordings of some drama on NBC that makes her cry. I always tease her and tell her she should stop watching if she can’t handle the tragedy they’ve scripted, but she holds true to her claim that it’s all just too beautiful, and intricate, and deserves to be viewed. She keeps watching and crying over fictional characters.

“How was work?” She’s already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“Hell.”

“That’s nice.”

She’s not really listening.

Travis and I go upstairs and leave her be.

I think my bedroom is relatively normal for a teenager – posters, books, clothes, a mother who’s constantly trying to make me clean it all up to no avail. The only uncommon thing is Travis’ bed. It’s a futon, but it’s never put back into couch mode, nor do the extra pillows and blankets ever leave it. Travis sets his bag down at the foot of it.

“What magnificent wonders of the past are you forcing me to watch tonight?” I pull off my polo – my glorified prison uniform – and toss it aside. I’d burn it if I didn’t need the money in my car fund.

Travis already has three DVDs in hand. He’s sort of a movie buff, which means I’ve seen just about every piece of cinema produced between 1927 and the present, regardless of whether or not it’s actually good.

“Psycho, The Searchers, or Casablanca?”

“Psycho.”

“Shower scene. Implied nudity,” he remarks. He’s smirking, mostly because he’s an ass, and also because he isn’t wrong.

“Beats cowboy racism and a movie I’ve watched a hundred times.”

“Casablanca is a classic,” Travis defends, already putting in the disc for Psycho. “Three Academy Awards.”

“I know,” I say, teasingly, “Because I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

He flips me off playfully, and we fall into something familiar and comfortable, despite the creepy motel vibe and plenty of chocolate syrup blood.

Chapter: 1

#writing #creative writing #chapter two #interlude #wip: interlude #book: interlude #original fiction #ya fiction #//swearing #ocs #oc #wip #morgan scott #travis longfield #writeblr

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