Hopelessly Devoted — Sukuna

I can finally sleep in peace

SCARLET & SHADOW

ᱬ The Darkling x Scarlet Witch!Reader ᱬ

series masterlist & synopsis • thera's masterlist

chapter one.

▪︎ once upon a dream ▪︎

Aleksander had dreams of you long before he even knew you. Maybe it was the stress of this neverending war. Either way, you weren't real anyway... were you?

warnings: the darkling himself is a warning lol, mentions of experimentation, violence, and wallowing in self-regret, no beta we die like wanda

word count: 3.8k words

(author's note: yay! finally, after weeks of debating if i should write this, i did. and i can finally sleep in peace.)

Dreams.

He's been having some strange dreams lately. There was always a woman whose face he could never see. Aleksander had started seeing her in his dreams about a year ago. It had all been so blurry at first, but he could recall a woman in what seemed to be like a cage encased in clear glass. Her back was turned to where he was, but her hands were covered in unworldly, crimson... vapor... or whatever it was. It was unlike anything he's ever seen before. The woman had been using the red mist to lift wooden blocks into the air. Vaguely, he also heard whispers of men with foreign accents speaking, as if he were beside them but not.

"The dead will be buried so deep their ghosts won't be able to find them."

"And the survivors?"

"The twins." The voice sounded gleeful. Proud. "Sooner or later they will meet the twins."

"It's not a world of spies anymore. Not even a world of heroes. This is the age of miracles, doctor."

Aleksander did not understand the dreams at all. However, he listened, watching the faceless woman make the wooden blocks hover in the air.

"And there is nothing more horrifying... than a miracle."

Snap!

That was his first dream about her. He woke up with a start after that, not feeling like himself the whole day.

The next dream came again weeks later. The Darkling could never see the woman's face. This time, he heard screaming in his dreams. Crying. Devastation. All he saw that night was a burst of crimson energy which had obliterated metal around it.

The woman was kneeling at the center of some sort of dilapidated chapel, clutching her heart as she sobbed. Then, he woke up again. This time, he felt a bottomless emptiness within him until he went back to sleep the next evening.

"Strange dreams," Aleksander thinks, but still, thinks nothing of it. Perhaps it was his imagination running wild lately due to the stress of the war. The dreams would come and go. Sometimes, there was nothing. Other times, nightmares of his... lengthy past. Occasionally, the faceless woman would be there in his dreams.

On the first day snow fell that year, the Shadow Summoner sees her in his dreams again. First, sitting in a bedroom, silent and pondering. Next, sitting in what seemed like a metal cell, straitjacketed, unmoving. The more he had these dreams of her, the more curious Aleksander grew about what the woman's face looked like. These were supposed to be only dreams, yet, it was always her.

Were these truly just dreams?

Eventually, the dreams become nightmares.

He was starting to hear whispers of what nearly seemed like Old Ravkan, but not. He saw the woman surrounded by mirrors and sharp glass, with more blood, death, and gore. Screams of a hundred souls. The last that he saw of her at night was in what seemed like a strange, old tomb atop a mountain.

Aleksander saw a stone statue of a woman—a goddess, maybe—with a pointed crown. Seconds later, he saw that very tomb crushed into a landslide. A blizzard. So much snow.

That night, the Black Heretic woke up cold and freezing despite the fireplace burning strong.

After that, the dreams and nightmares of the unknown woman stopped completely. And he'd nearly forgotten about it all. Tired from reading another list of his dead soldiers up in Ulensk, the man decided to take a stroll in the gardens of his Little Palace.

ᱬᗢᱬ

"No more magic." That was what you had sworn to yourself after the millennia you had spent searching for and destroying every copy of the Darkhold in the Multiverse. You despised yourself for falling for the temptations of the Book of the Damned.

What have you done?

Every day, you asked yourself the question, plagued by the guilt of your sins to the Multiverse. Ultimately, you accepted the fact that as the Scarlet Witch, you were maybe meant to be alone. Fated for eternal solitude until Death finally decides it is time to end your life again.

"I should have stayed dead in the Blip," you chuckle humorlessly. Maybe you would have been happier. But from experience, being blipped was no afterlife. You did not see them. Your parents, Pietro, Vision, Billy, and Tommy. You could only remember the fresh rage you felt at Vision's murder just for the Snap. There was no peace.

The last world that had a Darkhold was... quite interesting, to say the least. It was not as advanced as your world, Earth-616, but not too primitive, either. It could be likened to the 19th to the 20th century in your original planet, with all its horses, carriages, ships, and steam trains. Very... Industrial Era, you described when you initially arrived. Good enough to survive for, hopefully, the few remaining years of your life.

What was interesting, however, was the specific land you found yourself in. Ravka. It was something literally out of Czarist Russia, long before the Soviet Union was formed. It led you to thoughts of your late best friend and mentor, Natasha... then the World Wars... then Steve Rogers... SHIELD... which led you to quite unpleasant memories of experiments with HYDRA and consequently, Ultron and Sokovia.

Still, you found it half-amusing and half-disappointing that even universes away, war and politics were unavoidable. You soon learned that Ravka was not on very good terms with its northern and southern neighbors, Fjerda and Shu Han, respectively. (The Shu reminded you of China and Mongolia. You wondered if they had Khans there, too. Fjerda, on the other hand, reminded you of Thor, Valkyrie, and a certain God of Mischief.)

Now, one of the biggest reasons why Ravka was at war with Fjerda and Shu Han? People called Grisha, you quickly learned. Kind of like the Enhanced or the Mutants, in your world and other worlds. It was just that they could mainly be divided into different orders and classifications and were usually found serving the Second Army. Either way, it did not make much of a difference to you. You had met a living tree and a talking raccoon in the fight against Thanos so... yes, not the strangest thing you'd seen in the universe. You didn't really care, but you did feel some empathy for the Grisha oppressed by the otkazat'sya. Ordinary humans.

You knew all too well what it felt like to be different in a world full of regular people.

Unfortunately, Ravka itself was also at civil war between its East and West because of a border practically made of darkness. The Shadow Fold, supposedly created four hundred years ago by a crazy Shadow Summoner titled the Black Heretic. Many prayed for a mythical Sun Summoner to come save them from their plights.

You internally scoffed. You yourself were a myth, the ever coveted Harbinger of Chaos. The Scarlet Witch, destined to rule or annihilate the cosmos. Maybe you already ruined it. Somehow. You just hoped that if the Sun Summoner were real, they would be a true saint and do their "destined" good deed.

And a small part of you hoped that they, too, would either escape or fulfill their prophecy. Maybe live a happy life, unlike you did. No one ever thinks that myths and legends could be living, breathing, feeling people, too.

ᱬᗢᱬ

You were cut off from your thoughts by two young boys bumping into you, making you drop the basket of apples you were holding. You were about to scold them when you saw the state they were in.

One of the boys was holding a damn toddler.

All three of them dressed in rags, covered in soot and dirt. Thin and malnourished, nearly shivering from the autumn cold. Your heart almost broke when you saw the small girl in their arms try to reach out for the fallen apples on the ground.

"Sorry, lady!" The boys shout, turning on their heels to keep running.

"Wait!" You yell after them. "Do you want an apple?"

That made the boys stop in their tracks. You pick up the apples and place them back in the woven basket you were carrying. They seemed apprehensive on trusting you, so it was you who decided to make the first move.

"Here. Have the entire basket. You kids need it more than I do."

One of the boys, a pale boy with bright blue eyes and curly black hair past his shoulders, hesitantly reaches out to take the basket you were offering. "Thank you... lady..." he mumbles. The other boy holding the girl, looking nearly the opposite of his friend, reassured the fidgeting toddler in his arms. This boy was tanner, looking as if his hair were kissed by fire itself with eyes the shade of a vibrant forest.

"What are your names?" you gently asked. They share a look, silently communicating, then nod.

"... Henrik," the blue-eyed boy answers quietly, inspecting the basket of apples, still torn on thinking if this was a trick. He seemed more conservative than his friend, who answered in a louder voice.

"I'm Dmitri, lady!" He was more eager to talk after realizing you were no threat. Seemingly. He gestures to the tiny girl in his arms, no older than three. "And this is baby Katyusha."

Your heart nearly broke seeing the sleepy toddler carried around by her... brother? You look around. It was getting dark. "Where are your homes? Your parents? It's getting late for children to be out in the evening."

"It's just us, lady," Henrik answers, as if it were normal to not have an adult accompanying them.

You frowned deeper. "Why were you guys running?"

At my question, the boys grow concerned. "Because..." Dmitri begins, before Henrik shushes him. You shake your head.

"No, it's okay. What is it?" You try to encourage.

"The three of us... we are Grisha," Dmitri whispers, green eyes filled with guilt and fear. Your eyes widened. Including the toddler they were holding? "The townspeople aren't exactly welcoming to our kind, lady. Except you. Weirdly enough."

Henrik, the quiet one with blue eyes, sighs. "I'm a Tidemaker. I think. Dmitri here can control some fire, so Inferni, if I'm right. Maybe that's why his hair is that red..."

Dmitri snorts. "Whatever."

You almost stammer as you ask, "And Katyusha there?"

"... We think she's a Heartrender. When... she gets angry or hungry or fussy... sometimes, we feel like we can't breathe, whenever she holds us," Henrik explains, gazing at the tiny little girl, who looked ever innocent and adorable.

"Where are your parents?" you ask carefully. You prayed to the gods, the saints, and the fates that these children had grown-ups to look after them. Unlikely, though, based on how they looked.

Dmitri shook his head, "My mom worked at a brothel but died from tuberculosis. I then lived on the streets after that. Henrik was left on somebody's doorstep. And Katyusha... we found her in a garbage can. The three of us used to live together in a hut east of the chapel but... um, the storm last week..." He trailed off.

Three, young, Grisha orphans. No family. No shelter. No food. You stared at the three of them, voices inside you telling you to be on your way and avoid getting attached to these orphans. To avoid getting attached to people ever again.

But it was too late. You already saw yourself in them.

It was like you and Pietro, once upon a time.

Sighing, you hold out your arms. You knew you might regret this in the future.

"Give me the little girl. And you boys, follow me," you instruct. They give you questioning looks.

"Huh?"

"You're all coming home with me. To bathe and eat and sleep without fear of being hunted down," you disclose, waiting for Dmitri to hand over Katyusha. The boy was too thin to be carrying around the toddler. "I live in the forest."

"We don't know you, lady," Henrik protests warily, but grips the basket of apples you'd given even tighter. "What if you trick us? Or hurt us?"

"... My name is Wanda. Wanda Maximoff." You hum, smiling genuinely at them. "Now you know me. And from now on, I promise to protect you. You can eat the apples while we walk."

"..."

"It's not poisoned, don't worry." You took a bite out of one, then tossed it to Dmitri. "See?"

ᱬᗢᱬ

Not long after, you had, in fact, confirmed with your very eyes that the three orphans you'd taken in were Grisha. Undeniably so. Dmitri, the eight-year-old redhead, was an Inferni—true to his appearance and loud personality. Henrik, the introverted seven-year-old with jet black curls and icy blue eyes, was a Tidemaker—as he mentioned before.

Lastly, two-year-old Katyusha was indeed a... well, baby Heartrender. You learned that the hard way when you tried to leave her alone for a minute to get her some warm milk in the kitchen. You felt the air constrict out of your lungs for a few brief seconds as she wailed from separation anxiety, gripping your arm like a lifeline.

It nearly shocked you that at such an age, she could do such feats just by touching you.

A year into sheltering and caring for these children as if they were your own, you came to the decision that it would be best if they were not with you—AKA former multiversal threat and retired but still dangerous witch living as a hermit in the woods of Tsibeya.

Which was near Chernast.

And also the Fjerdan border.

That meant a significantly high possibility of drüskelle sighting or finding the kids, even if you did last use your magic to make sure your little cabin would be safe and sound and undetectable to any intruders.

The children deserved a better future than staying with someone like you. (You came to that awareness when you'd tried stealing a teenage girl's multiverse-traveling powers and possessing your alternate self's body to replace her as a mom to her kids.)

Plus, you had no idea how Grisha powers really worked.

And as much as you wanted to just fly the kids off to their best chance at a good future in Ravka... or maybe use a teleportation spell, you'd sworn off your Chaos Magic for a good while now. You also didn't want to have to manipulate the memories of the three kids—especially little Katyusha—into making them believe in a fake journey or forgetting you entirely.

So, a good old-fashioned trip to the Little Palace it was.

ᱬᗢᱬ

That trip went well. Sort of. After a few days of painstakingly traveling on foot, you'd finally arrived in Os Alta in one piece.

And so did Dmitri, Henrik, and Katyusha. But there was a slight issue.

"I still can't believe you knocked out that drüskelle by yourself, Aunt Wanda!" Dmitri continues to gush excitedly—as he had for days now since the encounter with a lone drüskelle who tried to attack all of you. And yes, the boys had taken to referring to you as Aunt Wanda.

Which was better, somehow. You don't think you'd be able to handle being referred to as... well... that word after what happened with Billy and Tommy.

The problem was little Katyusha who practically imprinted on you as her mother. Her first words—quite late at the age of two—were mama. Directed to you. (You cried that night in your room.)

"You did not even see me do anything, Dmitri. Didn't I tell you to close your eyes?" you sighed, adjusting the sleeping Katyusha in your arms.

"I swear I closed them! But one moment, he was coming towards us then the next, thud! When I open my eyes, he's on the ground in front of you? How'd you do it, Aunty?!" he excitedly squeals.

"Just a very well-timed punch," you reply carefully. A well-timed punch that may or may not have been enhanced not with your magic, but your psionic energy. It still irked you that you had to use your... abilities once more. Even if it was not your Chaos Magic.

But you would never hesitate to protect these children.

This time, it was soft-spoken Henrik who asked, "What about those two Grisha slavers who tried taking us away in the middle of the night?"

Okay. Perhaps the trip didn't go that smoothly. And that did not pair well with young children who were at the age of being extremely curious about everything in the world.

"Bribed them with some money," you lied. More like using your telepathic powers to manipulate their minds into leaving your traveling group alone.

"... You didn't need to give them your gold and silver for us, Aunt Wanda," Henrik murmurs guiltily. You halt your steps, frowning as you crouch down to the boys' level, ensuring Katyusha's head was still supported.

"Hey. Boys, listen to me." You wait until they make eye contact. "When I first took you in, I promised that I would protect you. And I would do everything in my power to do that, okay?"

"Aunty, I'm not sure I want to go to the Little Palace," Henrik shares regretfully. Behind him, Dmitri goes quiet, too, having second thoughts as well.

Your brows furrowed as you smile sadly. "But you must. You will be with your kin. The Grisha there can teach you to grow and hone your powers. I cannot as I am only otkazat'sya. Your future lies in the Little Palace." You gaze fondly at the sleeping child in your arms. "Your sister's future lies there, too."

Henrik and Dmitri share a look as you urge them to continue walking. Just a couple more minutes and you would arrive at the gates of the Little Palace. When you were near, that's when you stop.

"Remember what we talked about during the trip? What you have to do when you get to the gates?" You remind them.

The boys nod. I slowly unwrap the cloth on my torso which was carrying tiny, two-year-old Katyusha. Henrik takes her. She momentarily fusses in her sleep, making all of you freeze, but her breathing steadies.

"Tell the oprichniki at the gates that we are Grisha seeking refuge in the Little Palace. Orphans from a small town in Tsibeya," Dmitri repeats the script you guys practiced while traveling.

"And say that we went along with a traveling hunting group until we got to Os Alta, before we journeyed to the Little Palace alone," Henrik adds.

You smile at them, embracing them tightly. "Good. Good. Now off you go. Before it gets dark."

"Will you visit us?" Dmitri asks eagerly. You hum in thought.

"Perhaps. I'll really try, you two. But it could be years until I see you all again," you say to him honestly. You weren't sure if the Little Palace allowed visitors to the Grisha kids like it was a daycare.

They nod, a bit disappointed, but slowly go. You stand up from where you were crouched, a familiar feeling of these children slipping through your fingers, too. The same way your twin sons did, once.

Then, Henrik paused, turning around. "Aunty?" he calls.

"Yes, Henrik?" You tilt your head curiously.

"Thank you for being our mom!" the usually quiet boy shouts, warming your heart. It has only been a year since you took them off the streets and adopted them, but you were already attached.

Too attached.

Typically not ending well for you as the Scarlet Witch, based on experience.

You watch them as they run to the path leading to the gates of the Little Palace. Then, you lurk for a few more minutes to ensure that they really do manage to enter the Little Palace.

When the oprichniki allow them in, a Grisha appearing and escorting Henrik, Dmitri, and little Katyusha, you breathe a sigh of relief. You were about to leave when...

"What do you mean he quit to become a gardener at the Grand Palace?!" a voice yells from a nearby corner.

"The Queen adored his flower arrangements and offered a larger pay!" another countered defensively. "Hell, I'd take up the offer, too!"

You pause, head turning to listen in more on the conversation. Looks like an interesting job opening.

"He's one of the only gardeners at the Little Palace who could do his job right, dammit!"

It was a bad idea. A terrible idea, even. You should just go back to your cabin in the woods, living the remainder of your life in solitude. The children would be fine in the Little Palace, amongst their other fellow Grisha.

That was what the rational side of you said. But you always did have a tendency to be swept away by your emotions. Listening to the arguing men, perhaps this is where your green thumb could step in.

You really should have listened to your instincts, because three months later, you start to feel a set of curious eyes watching you as you crouched and plucked stubborn, overgrown weeds from the dirt.

Your insides were on overdrive, sending off alarm bells. You worked in the secluded portions of the Little Palace garden, the ones harder to maintain daily, so no one usually came where you were stationed. Pausing, you slowly turn around to see obsidian eyes watching your actions.

And you freeze.

The Black General of Ravka was right behind you.

Snapping out of your stupor, you quickly stand and bow.

"Moi soverenyi," you address him politely, avoiding his eyes.

Of all people—of all Grisha to notice you—it was the infamous Shadow Summoner himself.

General Kirigan of the Second Army.

You've only heard stories about him since you arrived in this world. Ruthless. Powerful. A Shadow Summoner. The strongest Grisha currently alive. And you never even thought you'd be speaking to him face-to-face ever.

"Huh. I was not made aware we had a new gardener," he muses out loud, examining you from head-to-toe, dressed in garbs similar to the other servants, just modified for greater mobility.

You seemed awfully familiar to him. He just couldn't place his finger on it.

Meanwhile, you tried your best to seem like any other unassuming otkazat'sya servant. It was tempting to just read his thoughts given how he was scrutinizing you but no, you resisted.

"What's your name, girl?" General Kirigan asks. And you inwardly cuss—so much for a low profile—yet your face was perfectly neutral.

"Wanda, sir."

"Surname?" He raises one fine brow.

"... Maximoff, sir."

"Wanda Maximoff." He combines the two names. The dark-haired man stares longer. It took all your willpower not to squirm and be suspicious. Then, he nods and continues on his way.

The moment he was out of sight, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. You were the all-powerful Scarlet Witch. Or, rather, formerly the Scarlet Witch.

So why did this man unnerve you the way he did just now?

to be continued.

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Thanks! ♡

Alcide the Vampire

Vampires in space is basically the theme of this story. Well, not really, but that seems eye catching. A young, mortal, woman is the charge of a vampire royal whose ship is on the way back to the vampire planet. She is unsure if she is kept for love or duty, and her vampire master seems extremely dependent on her presence.

(TW: blood, dark romance)

Female Reader x Male Monster

I wish I was like the others. This thought comes to me as I stare out towards the foot of my bed. I would like to dream forever as the others do, to sleep perchance to wake. I remove myself from bed, setting my feet down upon the cold floor. There are no windows to speak of here, but they place curtains upon the wall as if to mimic one.

I am not alone long, I am never alone long. My attendants are many, but they are more like guards. They assure I look my best, that I stay in place, that I am never too far from my family. Not that Alicde would let me stray anyways. He needs me, and I need him as well.

To dream forever, I think as they dress me. To lie in one place, resting, unconscious, unaware. They do not know what goes on around them. The others. Nowhere and yet everywhere. Meanwhile, I am everywhere but nowhere.

“There we are, princess.” Lady Renata whispers to me as she finishes putting on the cuffs around my wrists. She smoothes down my shirt then reaches up and does the same to my long hair. She gives me a look, her nearly hollow eyes stare just a bit too long for my taste.

Then a smile crosses her lips and she nods to me. “You are ready.”

Lady Renata has coal black eyes that make her head appear empty. Her orange red hair can be seen from a great distance, which I suppose could be for my benefit if I needed her. She is small and petite as well, perhaps her hair serves as a warning. Because there is no sense to be fooled by her dainty appearance, Lady Renata is the most vicious of my family’s members.

“Thank you,” I say to her. I look at my hand, noticing a chip in the nail polish.

“Did you rest well, princess?” Lady Renata caught me staring at my hands and I tucked them away behind the folds of my dress.

I nodded, turning away from her. “I did.” The other attendants scurried from the room, filing away where they will not be seen until they are needed to be seen.

Renata reached out, touching my hair then slipped her fingers along the nape of my neck. I brushed her away, giving her a scolding look. I went over to my vanity, the mirror was covered by a curtain. I reached into the drawers, taking out my jewelry, my choker, my lipstick.

Her hand recoiled and she sniffed the blade of her fingers. “Master is waiting on you, princess.”

“I know who waits,” I mumbled. I put the choker around my neck then touched the dark jewel that rested upon my throat. “Your master does not mind waiting for me.”

Renata sighed, tilting her head to the side. “You are beautiful as it is.”

“Thank you, Renata.” I put on the lipstick, dabbing and wiping at the bow, then smoothing out under the bottom lip with my thumb.

“Look at me.” Renata came to my side and held my chin in her hand. Her finger delicately cleaned up the edges of my lips, and her dour pout turned into a soft smile. “There. Perfect.”

I fidgeted in my seat. “If I could just use the mirror, you wouldn’t have to bother.”

Renata’s eyes flashed towards the covered mirror. “You know we cannot do that. The head of the family would have my head if they knew we allowed this with us.”

“But it’s mine,” I insisted.

She nodded, taking my hand to make me stand. “Come now, Master is waiting. You know he cannot start his day without you.”

To Renata, he is master, but to me he is simply Alci. Very few people come above me here, not until we reach the familial home and then the head and their parts stand above all of us here. Alcide is one of those parts, but a lower one. He takes care of the livestock, the farm, and he travels far and wide because of it. The vast emptiness of space has known his presence in several far corners.

His chambers are closed as we approach, but the doors crack open slightly. As always, he is inspecting me. Renata pushed me ahead, making me walk through the open door which closed behind me.

“There’s my girl.” His voice caused the hairs on the back of my neck to prickle. It is a strange sensation, both alluring and frightening. I walk further into his cold room and lights flicker on to show him sitting bent over his desk.

“Have you not rested?” I asked.

“I do not remember what that is,” he sighs dramatically. “Everything bleeds together into one giant, cacophonous void that lack meaning and-”

“Alci,” I said, cutting off his trail. I approached him, coming to stand by his desk. “Enough of that.”

He released a breath and lifted his head from the desk. His hair is disheveled and messy, dyed dark in color, but the pure white near the scalp is showing through.

I ran my fingers through his hair, a touch he instinctively pushed towards. “You had an appointment with Mewsette yesterday. What happened?”

“What is the point? We dye our hair all these colors, and for what? To be reminded that we are pale! We are devoid of blood and pigment!”

I rolled my eyes, but I knew too well how these moods affected Alcide. “You are as you are. Same as us all.” I took hold of his hand, touching the ring that matched the gem on my choker.

“Not like you,” he breathed. “You are capable of what I am not. You are everything I wish that I was.” His large hand escaped my grasp and touched the top of my head, sliding down to cup my cheek. “You may be as pale as I am. You may have the same white hair. But you have everything I want.”

“No,” I said simply.

Alcide pulled away and slumped over his desk again with a mournful sigh.

“You lied to me yesterday when you said you had rested. I do not like what you turn into when you do not rest.” I motioned towards his bed with one hand while grabbing his broad shoulder with the other. “Get up and go to bed.”

“Out here there is no reason to rest. No sign. No moon. No tell tale sign of when we begin and end. Endless. Meaningless,” he bemoaned.

“Alci,” I cooed to him. “You still must rest. You may be eternal, but you are still made of flesh and bone.”

“Am I?” he looked up at me with those dark red eyes. “Who am I, Nessa?”

It is rare when I am called by name, so I relish it when it is said. “You are Alcide Von Helena. Part of the Core, a member of the family. You take care of feeding the family. Of growing the farm.” I smoothed my hand up the back of his neck. “You are dramatic and brooding. You read too much tragic literature, which adds to your somewhat grim personality.” I gave him a rare smile. “You are the master of this tomb ship. You are my caregiver.”

He looked at me with watery eyes. “Surface level. But you know what I want to hear, Nessa.” He turned to me in his seat, taking hold of my hands, comparing how large his were to mine. My hands fit in the center of his palm, and his overly long, spidery fingers could easily envelop them twice if the joints allowed it.

“Do not get me wrong. I hear your words. I see what you are trying to do.” He clasped my hands between his and pressed them against his forehead. “But I simply cannot feel much more.”

I brushed aside my hair and gave him an indigent sniff. “That is because you need to sleep. You’ll change if you do not.” I tried to urge him to the bed. I wanted to join him, to lay there and pretend I was like the others. I wanted to dream, for hours, for days unend. I could do that if Alcide would just rest. But the door opened a crack and Renata’s bright hair could be seen from it.

“I will try for your sake,” Alcide murmured. “But I have too much work to do now as it is. Duty calls, as it were.”

I was stunned. I touched the cuff around my wrist but Renata got to me before I could say anything else to him. She took me out of the room, keeping her hand upon my back until we reached the end of the hall.

“Where would you like to go today, princess?” Renata asked.

I shook my head, grimacing as my usual meeting with Alcide did not go well. I scoffed, trying to walk away but she kept pace with me, slinking up beside me and then in front of me to stop me in my tracks.

I halted, glaring up at her as I thrust my arms down by my sides.

“Where would you like to go today, princess?” Renata repeated with venom upon her tongue.

“I want to see the animals,” I stated.

Renata shook her head. “You know I can’t let you go there, princess. The master would have my head.” She leaned in closer to me, placing her hands upon my waist. “Unless-” she sniffed my hair then slowly leaned in closer until her lips fluttered against my cheek.

I pushed against her shoulders. “No,” I commanded.

She stepped away immediately, her lips flushed and mouth cracking at the corners, revealing the fine line leading towards her ears. “Then no animals today.”

I scowled up at her as the tingling in my cheeks subsided. “Then take me to Mewsette,” I scoffed. “I want a change.”

Renata smirked. “Bold. You’ve not touched your hair since you were given to the master.” She nodded and flourished her arm out down the other hall. “Mewsette is this way.”

The long dark corridors of the ship were these endless tunnels lined with doors and antique artwork. Sometimes the attendants popped out and stood still as we passed by, their eyes following us until we could no longer be seen.

“What prompted this?” Renata asked, her dark eyes peering up at me. “I figured you’d let your hair grow forever.”

I remained quiet.

“Not going to say anything to me since I won’t let you see the animals?” She quipped. “That’s fine. I’m sure Mewsette will get an answer from you.”

I exhaled through my nose and kept my neck stiff.

Mewsette was at the farthest end of the ship from where I usually was. A journey to be had, for certain, but a worthwhile one for those who needed her services.

There was a chemical whiff to the air as we approached her quarters, one that I occasionally got from Renata, sometimes Alci. Inside her chambers was a dark pink motif, the floors were pink marble, and the chairs were shiny pink. Mewsette herself looked like a decorated cake, beautiful and sweet.

“Renata, you aren’t due,” Mewsette’s voice was surprisingly deep for her appearance. Her red eyes then looked at me and her painted lips spread into a smile. “Princess! This is a surprise.”

“She wants to see you,” Renata said.

Mewsette clicked her tongue and approached us. “You’ve never come to my salon before.” She reached out, longer fingers tipped in sharp, pink nails ran through my hair and tickled my scalp. “What brought about this decision?”

“That’s what I am hoping you can get out of her,” Renata said with a smirk.

Mewsette trailed her fingers through my long hair until she came to the ends. “I am glad you are here. These split ends certainly aren’t doing you any favors.” She smiled at me; her nose was slightly too big, but I liked that about her features. She was beautiful regardless.

“This way now, this way.” She tapped her foot upon the floor in a certain code and before us the floor opened up where a chair rose from underneath.

“I’ll wait outside,” Renata said as Mewsette made me sit.

Mewsette was quiet until Renata left and then she sighed. “She is beautiful, but she frightens me. How do you stand her all day?”

“One word and Alcide would send her away,” I replied. “That’s how I tolerate Renata on a daily basis.”

Mewsette’s smirk was an entertained one. “That’s too much power for a lady like you.” She eased me back in the chair, pulling out my hair until it draped down the back. She stood behind me, fanning out my long hair and studying the ends. She tapped her foot again and a marble basin rose from the floor behind me. I heard water flowing and Mewsette adjusted me more until my head rested in that warm water.

“A wash to start us off.” Mewsette’s sharp nails felt good against my skin. “Alcide didn’t come yesterday.”

“He’s in his mood,” I replied, closing my eyes to relax, to pretend to dream.

Mewsette hesitated. “Oh-”

“I know,” I murmured. “I will make him sleep though.”

She sighed, shaking her head as she lathered shampoo between her palms. “Ever since he was young, this mood has cursed him.”

I opened my eyes. “You knew Alcide that long ago?”

Mewsette just smiled. “I used to be a part, you know?”

“No,” I gasped.

She winked at me. “Just shows you that you should come back and see me more often.” She then reached down, wiping a smudge of my lipstick away. Her eyes lingered upon my throat. “That jewel-”

I tapped it with my fingertips. “Alcide gave it to me.”

She nodded. “No. I know that. He has one on a ring. They used to be his mother’s earrings.”

I held in my breath, keeping it so everything felt tight and stretched. I looked back towards her, grateful she wasn’t looking directly at me, but instead still at my throat. “I didn’t know that.”

Her eyes cut away, giving me a look before focusing her attention back upon my hair. “Your hair really is lovely. That pure white. I see it all the time, but yours is so much fuller.”

“Is it?” I was grateful she changed the conversation away from jewelry.

Mewsette added something else to my hair, something that smelled like fragrant perfume and made her fingers slick through much easier than the shampoo. “What did you have in mind for today?”

My eyes focused up towards the ceiling, where the tiles glittered in between from all the computer pieces and wires. The fogged glass hid layers upon layers of technology that kept the ship running and operating the way it was supposed to. Each wire connected to each other, to something else, to keep the occupants alive, the others dreaming.

I blinked and snapped myself from my thoughts. “Alcide mentioned I could change. So I thought that I might.”

Mewsette was rubbing the creamy conditioner into my hair. “Do you want it dyed or cut then?”

“I think Alcide would burst if I dyed it. Just a cut.” I closed my eyes again. “As long as my hair still covers my neck you can do as you wish.”

Mesette hummed to herself. “Alright then.” She stepped away from me. “Sit there for a moment. I’ll be right back.” Her heels clicked, clicked, clicked upon the floor until the sound vanished deep into her chambers.

All I could hear was faint music and my own breathing. I kept my eyes shut, pretending that I was dreaming.

I took in a deep breath and let it fill my chest as slowly as possible. I let it out just as slowly until there was nothing left inside me. When I opened my eyes again to the ceiling, the lights and wires looked like dozens of little eyes staring at me. Amongst them I saw eyes, big and red, glaring down at me from above. Dread swept through my limbs, a sickening, nauseating pit.

“Alright, princess.” Mewsette returned, coming close to me and carrying a pink case in her hand. “Let's get your hair rinsed and dried and we’ll see what happens.”

I tore my eyes away from the ceiling, leaning back again as Mewsette rinsed my hair clean. It was soft and fragrant as she dried it.

“Will you stay with the family once we arrive back at the port?” Mewsette gently ran a comb through my hair, leveling it against my back. She then wrapped a ribbon around it, tying it off near the bottom of my shoulders.

I wanted to shake my head, but I needed to keep it still. “I’m not sure. I’m his gift, so I suppose it is up to the head.”

“Do you stay with the head when you are home?” There was a defined snip and Mewsette placed my bundled hair onto the table beside us.

The long white hair beside me was my own, I made it, but it looked so strange laying there and not upon my head. It was like a removed tail, but there was no blood to be seen. I turned away from it, instead looking at my hand. I picked at the chip in the nail polish.

“It depends who they have when we return.” More polish chipped away.

The snipping of Mewsette's scissors was growing louder and faster. “It must be tiring being a princess sometimes.”

The nail I was using to chip suddenly broke. “I suppose.”

I couldn’t see what Mewsette had done to my hair. I could only tell that there was a weight missing, a breeze at my skin, and when I moved my head I felt the blunt edge of the back brush against me. Mewsette had placed my cut hair into a box so I could present it as a gift to Alcide. I thought I could use it to bribe him to rest.

Lady Renata was not outside when I left the salon. Instead, one of the attendants was waiting for me and was given strict instructions to take me back to my chambers.

“I would like to see the animals,” I told the attendant.

“Lady Renata said you were to go to your room,” their raspy voice hissed back at me.

I looked down at the box in my arms, the cuff on my wrist. There was a sharp pin that held the cuffs together, if I could take it off I could distract the attendant.

“Princess!” A figure lurched out of a room, slamming the door wide open and sending the attendant crawling into the wall.

Alcide’s sudden appearance caused my insides to lurch, my skin to prickle and turn cold, I even stumbled backwards, nearly dropping the box.

His eyes were wild, slightly darker than when I last saw him. His jaw had split and his mouth was opened towards his ears.

I clutched the box tight to me, eyeing him and ready to yell for more attendants to come to my side.

Alcide’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “Your hair!”

“I cut it,” I said with a terse tone. I backed away, turning my body so my shoulder protected me. “You scared me.”

He took a step back as well. “I’m sorry. I realized you were close and I-” his voice choked in his throat. “You cut off so much.”

I couldn’t possibly convey the nerves coursing through my body. His eyes, they weren’t right. I know he’s lying to me, he hasn’t rested longer than he claimed. The wildness of him, the primal paint his veins give him. I do not like this. He’ll go mad soon. Just like she did if he is not careful.

I shook my head at Alcide, keeping my shoulder perched up.  “You haven’t rested. You know what will happen.”

“I can’t. I simply can’t!” Alcide fussed, running his fingers through his messy hair, tousling it from side to side until it fell into its part. “Why did you cut your hair?”

I reached out towards the attendant, intending to walk around Alcide. “I don’t want to speak to you until you’ve rested!” I yelled at him. I turned away, walking towards the door and the attendant nearby.

I had barely touched the attendant’s hand when Alcide grabbed me, pulling me up towards him. I dropped the box and the lid opened to pink tissue paper.

“Let me go!” I screamed at him. “How dare you touch me! Release me at once!” My hand struck his jaw, and his mouth parted, revealing the slits that pointed towards his ears.

Alcide snarled near my ear, placing his hand around my throat and twisting the choker back and forth. He placed his nose behind my ear, breathing in my scent and moaning deeply.

“Nessa, oh, Nessa,” he moaned.

“You stupid fool,” I grumbled, letting my body go limp. “What am I going to do with you?” I placed my hand over his and his body pressed close to mine.

The attendant was staring up at us, mouth opening and closing in an odd way. They were unsure of how to move or what to do.

“Leave,” I snapped at them, causing them to scurry away through a door. I struggled in Alcide’s grip. There was only one thing that could calm Alcide when he had entered this sort of mood. I had to relax, to calm myself in order to take care of him.

“You’re being rough with me,” I breathed. I then scoffed, tilting my head to the side. “I cut my hair because I wanted change. While I can still obtain it, I want it.” I glanced down at the box with my hair carefully braided inside. “What was cut is in there. Mewsette packaged it for you.”

Alcide whimpered. “Change frightens me. I didn’t know what to do when I saw you.”

“You could have kept your emotions in check for five seconds,” I growled.

He buried his face into my hair. His finger slid under the choker, snapping it off. I lost my breath as it slid away, falling to the ground with a tiny clatter. My flesh split open against his mouth, my throat bled thickly onto his tongue and down his throat, staining my dress, his shirt and blazer, even dribbling down his skin to give him the color he wanted.

My eyes fluttered and my eyes rolled back into my head. “Not here,” my voice strained. My body felt hot, my veins were tight. I moaned out loud the more his lips pressed to my pale skin. He bit again and again so more blood would flow. He ate messily, like a child would. As a princess, it was my job, my role. Sometimes I took great pleasure in it, even now I cannot distinguish between it and the fear. My toes curled and my body was putty in his hands. I was warm between my thighs and growing wet like my neck.

His mouth pulled back and he breathed in my ear. “I couldn’t stand it much longer. I need you so badly.”

“You’ve forgotten your manners today,” I whimpered. “Hurry now. Before someone sees me in this state.”

Alcide carried me away, leaving droplets of blood upon the ground that the attendants would fight over and lap up directly from the marble. They did not get much fresh food within the tomb ship.

I have only ever known Alcide in a certain way. No one else has partaken of me the way he has. His mother, I think, wanted to, but aside from that, I was only drunk. I let Alcide inside me because I wanted him. He said my warmth made him melt, and he liked to see it spill from inside me. It and being fed upon were my greatest carnal pleasures.

Once Alcide was full and had exerted all his remaining energy, hopefully he would rest. He would lay still and not budge until recovery took hold. My blood assured he kept his strength on these long journeys. Only I was good for that. Not many princes and princesses were left these days, even fewer were born.

My blood stained his sheets, but it did not matter. He rested, content but troubled. I kissed his lips before leaving the bed, removing my stained and ripped dress. I walked naked to his controls, opening the large tome that contained his commands, sliding my fingers over the glowing words to open the screen and the monitors outside the ship.

Space as far as one could see. I changed the angles and there was more of it. Stars beyond my comprehension. Debris which floated and grabbed towards the ship. Wreckage upon wreckage of centuries gone by. Only the tomb ships survive. Somewhere there must be something else, there must be more, so much more.

I touched my neck and Alcide’s bites were already healing. Scars would remain fresh and pink for a long time. I took the cuffs off my wrists where other scars glimmered in the dim light.

Fresh, I thought, always fresh.

I looked back at Alcide in bed, his long, naked form uncovered and exposed. He was beautiful, of course, but I would have time to linger with that beauty later. I touched words within the tome and a door opened upon the wall beside me. White light shone from the crack. The light hurt my eyes as I opened the door, walking down a hall lit up with monitors and readings.

I stood naked amongst the animals and their pods. Shining domes fogged over to keep them hidden. These were the others, the ones I envied. They were mortal, same as me. But different from me as well.

I stood before one pod, seeing inside the young woman whose skin was fleshy pink, her nipples a sort of ruddy brown, her hair dark brown, even on her limbs and above her sex. Beautiful, she was so beautiful. I wanted to sleep like her, to be like the rest of the farm that Alcide was taking back to the family.  But I was special. I was like the family even with my warm blood and beating heart. I was more of a vampire than the others. These mortals, taken from their worlds to be delivered to the head of the family and their farm, the one Alcide kept running and flourishing.

I want to dream like them. To sleep for ages. Perchance to wake and see their lives upon the farm. I wonder if this woman would be chosen, to be kept amongst the house and pampered by the family. I would like to see her awake as much as I adore to watch her sleep.

“What do you dream about?” I asked her, leaning upon her pod to look upon her. “Do you see your home? Do you remember your childhood?” I watched her intently, never expecting an answer, only imagining what she could be thinking.

“I don’t remember where I am from,” I told her. “I don’t remember my family at all. I was raised in the nursery. I smoothed my fingers over the keys and dials upon her pod. “I’ve always belonged to the family. But don’t worry! They’re good to their livestock. They keep them alive as best they can.” I gazed upon her sleeping face. “Don’t worry at all. You'll be fine there.”

I was found in Alcide’s chamber, no one knew I went to see the others again. Renata came and fetched me, taking me away from the resting Alcide and back to my own room. She took care of the chipped polish, removing the old and putting on a fresh new layer lacquer.

“Look at this.” She took out a nail file and worked on my nails, filing them down to match the broken one. “What did you do to make this happen?”

“Probably happened when Alcide found me yesterday,” I muttered.

Only the sound of filing followed. She blew the dust away, patting my hand with a cloth to make sure all the nail dust was gone. She picked a bottle of polish from my vanity, opened it, then took hold of my hand.

“The new hair does suit you, princess.” She said this in an offhanded way.

I didn’t do it for her, so it didn’t bother me what she had to say about it. The bright red polish seemed a bit much to me, compared to the muted orange I had before.

“I don’t like this color,” I mumbled.

Renata finished a stroke then squeezed my finger between her thumb and pointer very hard. “I thought the master might enjoy it.”

I looked towards her face, seeing her eyes were focused upon my hand. Her bright orange hair was more turned to me. “Alcide is resting.”

Renata lifted her head, giving me a look with those coal black eyes. “How did the master take to the change in your hair? Was he amused?”

I didn’t look away from her unblinking eyes. “I couldn’t tell. He had gone into one of his moods again.”

“The head of the family says Alcide is mad. Crazy,” she quipped. “Just like his mother.” She stuck the brush back into the bottle of polish. My stomach churned and I looked away.

“But not so mad that he cannot complete his job as part of the family.” She took hold of my hand, laying a fresh stroke upon a clean nail.

“The mind is the only thing that the will of a vampire cannot fix.” She looked up at me again, not smiling, blinking slowly. “It’s what connects us to what we could have been.”

I lifted my eyes up towards her again. “Mortal?”

Renata scoffed. “You’ll understand when your time comes, princess. When the head gives the word and makes you part of the family.” She finished off the pinkie nail and smiled at her work. “I think this color suits you.”

“What if I don’t want to become part of the family?”

Renata sighed in frustration. “Then you are crazier than the master is.” She twisted the lid of the polish shut and set it back upon my vanity. “If you don’t like the color, then Mewsette has others.” She went to stand but I grabbed hold of her uniform. She turned and looked at me with a sharp expression that slowly softened with my gaze.

“What is it, princess? Lonely because the master rests?” Renata took on a smug expression that made me want to strike her.

I shook my head and released her. “Mewsette said she used to be part of the family.”

Renata looked me up and down, taking on a strange expression that I couldn’t read. “Oh, so it’s curiosity that has the cat this morning. Why not ask Mewsette? What do you think I could possibly know.”

I looked into the corner where the attendants were standing waiting for us to leave. “You know everything since you're the leader of the attendants. I know they whisper to you when you ask.”

Renata clicked her tongue and took her seat again. “It’s true, she was a part like Alcide many years ago. Back before she became Mewsette she held another name. She also fell in love with part of another family. It was, to put it lightly, an explosive mess that almost resulted in a family war.” She shrugged and took on that smirk again. “For years after she was disowned, no family would have her. Until Alcide stepped in.”

I cut my eyes at her, noticing she was heavily focused upon my nails again, but I could tell her mind was elsewhere. “What did he do?”

Renata stood, walking over to my vanity and staring at the curtain covering the mirror. Her hand brushed against the curtain then instantly pulled away and looked back at me. “That you’ll have to ask him and Mewsette. Her reentry to the family is one mystery I have no answers for.” She crossed her arms against her chest. “But like me, she cannot become part of the family. Simply belong to the family.” She scowled at me. “So do not talk to me about not wanting to become part of it. Let’s go, you have things to do while the master is resting.”

I turned away from her. “Alcide took much from me. I’m weak, I should spending the day resting and restoring my blood.” I ran my hand up my arm. “Oh, by the way, he dropped my choker, the one with the matching jewel. Could you find it for me?”

Renata sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. But that is all you will do.” She called forth an attendant and whispered to them. “Stay in bed. No wandering. No sneaking to parts of the tomb you are not allowed,” she snarled. “And I’ll find your choker,” she snipped as she walked out the door.

I got into my bed, watching Renata leave then turning to the attendant. They stepped back, hiding between my dresser and the wall.

I sighed and laid back into the bed. I was feeling quite dizzy and weak, hopefully someone would be by with my meal soon. I looked up into the ceiling, seeing the glittering, flashing lights of the circuitry. They’re many glowing eyes gazing back at me. They turned into those eyes I saw yesterday, ones I saw often. At first I couldn’t look away, pulled into a fear from long ago. Vicious, hateful eyes gazed at me, beckoning to me.

I was young and small again, standing in the family home looking for the head. Instead, I found her. I found her chambers, her keep. I hadn’t been with the family long. The Head had just taken me in and I didn’t even have shoes. I ran around the mansion in bare feet, cold toes. I always had cold toes back then. I was told to be careful, but I was also not told where to go. The mansion, a large space station made to house the family and small roots of it, was far bigger than anything I had ever seen.

I got lost, and I found her. Alcide’s mother. I hadn’t yet been configured into the security, so all doors opened to me. She was sitting in her room alone, right before a vanity like mine. Her long white hair was down, falling onto the floor where it curled. She turned and gave me that smile. She called me to her, begging me to come closer. The smile she gave me as she stood haunts my nightmares to this day. And it is why I prefer the tomb ship over the mansion.

I went to Mewsette to repaint my nails after I slept. She carefully removed the too bright color, making sure it didn’t stain my skin.

“You have such tiny hands,” she remarked.

“I know.”

Mewsette gave me a smile. “You do not like the work Renata did?”

“I do not like Renata.”

She bit her lip, holding back her laugh as best she could. After all, Renata was listening from the door. “Well then. I’ll just select a few of the darker colors then and I will let you choose.”

“Thank you.” If I looked close enough, Mewsette almost looked like Aclide. I didn’t notice that yesterday.”

Mewsette stepped aside and a cabinet rose up out of the floor, opening to reveal many glass bottles, not just of polish. “Is Alcide resting?”

I nodded, looking down at my bare nails. “Finally.”

“Good job.” Mewsette said cheerfully. My heart lept, I’d never been told that before. I held my breath as she returned to the side of my chair. She showed me several bottles and I picked a metallic black.

“Why did Alcide bring you back to the family?” I asked.

Mewsette was quiet and her eyes were distant. “He didn’t. He made me his own.” She cut her eyes to me. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity.”

She shook her head and looked back down at my hand. “Shouldn't have said anything about it.”

“He didn’t. Renata told me.”

Mewsette closed the bottle of polish then looked me in the eye. “What did Renata tell you?”

There was an edge to her voice that made me flinch. “She said you fell for someone in another family and it caused a big mess.”

Mewsette leaned in very close to me, cupping her hand around my ear. She whispered so faintly I almost didn’t hear her. “Renata knows nothing.”

I looked back into her eyes as she stepped back. “Then why were you removed from the family?”

Mewsette just smiled sadly. “It doesn’t matter to me anymore.” She opened the bottle of polish again. “It was too long ago. Besides, you wouldn’t remember anyways.”

I opened my mouth to question her when an alarm blared. Red lights turned on around the room and out in the hallway as the screeching, deafening sound filled the entire tomb ship.

Mewsette stood up casually from her seat. “Stay here, Nessa.”

“What is that?” I shouted over the siren.

“A small problem. But more than likely, I’ll need to help out with it.” She strode towards the door. “You’ll be fine here. Promise.”

The door closed, but the alarm was sounding everywhere. I huffed and leaned back in the seat, raising my hand to inspect the nails Mewsette had completed. The lights kept flashing so it was hard to make out.

I got up and walked to the door, peering outside to the hallway. It was quiet now, aside from the alarm I mean. There were no voices, no footsteps. There was no Renata either so I left Mewsette’s chambers.

The lights and siren were eerie, but it was the fact that no one was around that really bothered me. No attendants, no Renata, I never knew a tomb ship like that. I came upon Alcide’s chambers where the doors were flung wide open. I went inside, seeing Alcide was no longer in his bed. I lost my breath for a moment, going towards the tomb to pull up a map of the ship.

My fingers had barely brushed the pages when I heard breathing near me.

Maybe it would not have been a noticeable thing to others, but on a ship with no heartbeats, it was clear as day. I looked back at Alcide’s bed, every hair on my body standing on end. I stepped towards the bed, hearing the breathing pitch a touch higher. I knew there was something under there.

I crept closer, but as I did someone else came into the room. Renata looked at me, her jaw slack and hand holding some sort of metal contraption. “What are you doing here?” She barked at me.

I didn’t move or respond to her. The breathing went silent.

Renata moved fast into the room, storming towards me with a frightening look upon her face. “One of the animals escaped! Was it you?”

My eyes widened as she came towards me, stretching out her hand to grab me by the neck. It was tender from Alcide’s affections, so I cried out in pain as she took hold of me.

“Some princess! Always wanting to see those animals. But you’re all the same. It doesn’t matter if you look like us, you’re still a bleeder just like them.” She yanked me, pulling me towards the door.

I swung at her, slapping her face and knocking off her glasses. Her pitch black eyes stared at me. They looked like glass, endless depthless glass.

She slammed me down to the ground, pinning me there. She smirked, grinning wildly as she saw my neck was bare. The choker still hadn’t been returned.

“He won’t notice one bite.”

I struggled, fighting against Renata as she bore down upon me. Her lips split, opening towards her ears as her full jaw widened. She had missing teeth, ones probably removed by the head for similar actions.

I screamed out loud, praying someone would fine me.

Renata was knocked aside and I began crying. I wept loudly as there was a sickening wet, squelching sound near me. Alcide’s mother had done the same. She had ripped my clothes to shreds and kept me in her chambers sealed away for days. She bore down upon me like Renata did too.

I turned my head to look beside me, eyes blurry and wet with tears. A naked figure sat upon Renata, both were covered by thick, dark brown blood. No red. Almost black.

They turned to me, eyes wild and breathing erratic. She stood upand I saw the spike sticking from Renata’s chest.

There she was before me, awake and with eyes as bright as the sky. The sky?

I held my breath as we looked at one another. I’m sure both of us were terrified of each other in that moment.

“You killed her,” I whispered.

The mortal woman placed her bloodied finger over her lips. “Be quiet,” she breathed. She looked to the door, moving towards it and quickly shutting it.

I must have hit a key when I saw her the other day. That’s the only explanation. I sat up from the ground, trembling and shaking. I wanted Alcide near me, to hold me and kiss me.

The mortal woman wiped her hand on Alcide’s sheets then tossed them over Renata’s corpse. “You look just like one. But you’re not,” she whispered.

I looked up at her with watery eyes.

She shook her head and knelt down before me. “No. They don’t cry.”

My whole body shuddered and I closed my eyes.

“Where are we?” She asked.

“A tomb ship,” I sniffled.

She was quiet for a long spell, standing up to look around the room. “Fuck.” She paced back and forth, the smacking of her bare feet on the ground were all all too familiar to me.

Renata’s hand was sticking out from under the sheet. I watched it carefully as I rose from the ground.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

Her blue eyes stared at me as if I had asked her something ridiculous. “What’s yours?” She snapped back.

I smiled at her, so happy to see her moving, breathing, being alive as I was. “Nessa!”

She looked me up and down, placing her arms against her chest. “I’ve heard about people like you. Mortals who are treated like one of them.” Her eyes narrowed upon me, and despite my joy to see her, I suddenly felt very uneasy. “But I thought it was just stories. But look at you. As white as them. Eyes as red. All you’re missing is the smile.” She dragged her fingers from the corner of her mouth to her ear.

I wasn’t sure what to say. “I can take you back to your pod.”

She glared at me. “No! I would rather die!”

It felt like a shot through my chest. “Wha-what do you mean?”

“Don’t you know what they do to us?” She hissed then pointed down at Renata’s corpse. “She just tried to kill you!”

“Not kill,” I urged. “Just drink.”

“Just!” The mortal woman laughed. She quickly covered her mouth from her outburst and glared at me over her hand. “They call us livestock. Animals!”

“Yes but-”

She stared hard at me. “What do they do to you here?”

“Please, just let me put you back into your pod. I’ll say I killed Renata, and then you can be safe!” I begged of her, reaching out for her but she yanked away from me.

“Nessa, you have no idea what is going on,” she hissed at me.

“But all I ever wanted was to be like you. To know someone like you.” My breath choked in my throat as I looked at her. “I’ve never gotten to meet, let alone speak, to someone like me.”

“No wonder,” she scoffed. “Maybe it’s the best you don’t.” She walked away from me, heading towards the tome which she leaned over. She turned pages and screens popped up around her.

I looked down at Renata, seeing the pool of black growing around her. Her hand was grey and skeletal, her rings were slowly falling off.

“What do you dream about?” I asked.

The mortal woman didn’t respond so I walked over towards her.

“In the pod, when you’re asleep. What do you dream about?” I repeated myself.

She barely looked up at me as she poured over the tome. “I don’t.”

My chest seized and everything felt tight. “Surely you do.”

Her eyes focus on screens and she grows a frustrated expression. “No. Not in the pods. Under the conditions we are put in, we don’t dream at all.”

I lowered my eyes and let out a mournful breath. “Oh.”

The door opened and Alcide stepped in with Mewsette behind him. They stared at Renata’s body and Mewsette even made a sound of alarm.

I looked up at them, my shoulder sunk and the mortal woman grabbed me. I let her. She placed me before her and Alcide was ready to charge before Mewsette held him back.

I wanted to dream forever, to be like them, to understand them. I wanted to fade into sleep and never come back. But it suddenly was like I was always asleep. I had just woken up, and everything was loud, unending noise. I want to be asleep again. I want to be asleep.

Alcide’s mom had been brushing my hair when the black blood spilled down my face and onto my shoulder. My neck was so sore I could barely look up. But in the mirror, I saw the faint shadow and ghostly visage of another one beside me. Alcide’s mother was suddenly by my feet, her eyes wide and empty.

Someone picked me up and carried me out of the room, rushing me to the head of the family who took me into their arms. I woke in my own bed sometime later.

“There you are.”

I looked up at Mewsette sitting across from me. She smiled. “Sleep well?”

I blinked for a moment, rubbing sleep from my eyes as I tried to piece together what had happened. I saw Alcide’s mother dead, murdered by some strong force. I saw Renata’s sickly hand as it faded away, her rings falling upon the floor and chiming.

Mewsette stood up and walked to me. She picked up my choker, the missing one, from my bedside table and gently placed it around my throat. “I’m helping you get ready this morning. Take your time waking up, I’ll go fetch your breakfast.”

I watched her go across the room, elegant and tall. Her hand brushed away the curtain covering the mirror, and her ghostly image inside glared back at her. “What a lovely mirror,” she replied.

“Mewsette?” My voice choked in my throat.

She looked at me with a knowing smile and she nodded her head so her long curls in her hair bounced. “Did you have a bad dream? Would you like me to call Alcide?”

I nodded.

“I’ll be right back.” Mewsette passed by me, and I could remember a moment when her footsteps were painted black by the blood of Alcide’s mother.

I touched the stone around my neck, closing my eyes as I pushed the thoughts from my head.

I would like to dream forever as I always do, to sleep and find myself at home. I remove myself from bed, setting my feet down upon the cold floor. I walk over to the vanity, pulling back at the curtain to look at myself.

I look like them, and I smile because I do.

AAAHHH

atomic punk // e.m.

wow omg an actual x reader? wild. anyway.

masterlist | ao3

“We’re starting a new event program,” your boss slammed a flyer down on the bar in front of you. 

“A what?” You picked it up, squinting at the font. It said LIVE MUSIC WEDNESDAYS AND FRIDAYS. FIRST GUEST CORRODED COFFIN. The imagery had a bunch of skulls and bats plastered all around the scribble of letters that you assumed was the band’s logo.

“Corroded… coffin?” There was no way you were reading that right.

“Sales have been shit, and they booked us every Wednesday for, like, a month,” he sighed. “They’re some local metal band or something.”

“You booked a metal band,” you stared at him incredulously. “Every week this month?”

“Fans means a crowd means tips, alright?” 

You made a mental note to pick up earplugs next time you were at the store.

Keep reading

suck, and i cannot stress this enough, my cock to the fucking base

IMPOSTER

possessed scholar!husband x reader |3.9k| 18+

In an unforeseen act of self-preservation, your family marries you off into an exorbitantly wealthy family, to a reclusive and reticent scholar who provides you little affection. He is suddenly called away for the handling of his late uncle's final will wishes and estate. He returns to you not himself, and with unquenchable lust.

warnings; dead dove do not eat; extreme dubon, explicit sexual content, mentions of (not explored, not described): orgies, heatplay, robbing a mortuary & drug use, masturbation w/ metal dildo, mirror sex & masturbation, hypnotism, power imbalance, murder, body horror, gruesome imagery, classism, detail & prose heavy, roughly proofread.

this is a concept piece, possibly preluding a full story! if you have any interest in having me build a larger piece out of this concept, PLEASE reblog + interact and let me know! I'm only going to go forward with it if folks express interest!

read to the end for author's notes!

In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under covers was not your husband. Once he had been, but now he no longer was.

The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, certain stiffness which seemed more alike to rigor in a days old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.

His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parent’s patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.

You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.

He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whomever was trying to speak to him.

Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.

At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared together. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.

“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused from tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will, therefore it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, letting you help him into his heavy, wool coat he left on a hook near the front door. At his side was a hulking suitcase; one he often used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”

You expected nothing less from him. This man who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate scripted vows he committed to memory, hold your hands, and kiss you at the altar for more than two seconds but less than five, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.

Right after, now as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, that he wouldn't have had at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.

At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk and ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.

“Write to me every once and a while,” was all you could think to say at present, managing your composure well enough as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing. If you find anything interesting. When you'll be coming home. It gives me something to look forward to.”

“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.

“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”

Once again, he left you behind without remorse.

Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of winter and a shimmering white-blue landscape outside your windows.

In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace coveting self-pleasure.

You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.

Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.

Sometimes, you were found the next morning by a maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You only needed to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.

It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped neatly over a bent arm, along with a warm and soapy rag in her hand, which she used to lightly clean you of dried fluids. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.

“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”

“No! No, that's alright.” You took the long, pale envelope from her once she revealed it to you, realizing that she was right. There was nothing to it. Light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.

You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.

She looked to be just as thrown.

“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”

“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I made a comment about it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”

You had found a letter opener on the desk nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.

“Almost? What does that mean here?” you raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual tracks of wax from the paper so that they fell to the hardwood below like pebbles shaken out of a shoe after a stroll through the yard. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”

The maid tried to subdue her intrigue of the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”

“What?”

You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.

The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the slither of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:

“Father Marius DuMonde.”

Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to magically flip something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection like he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.

Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.

“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”

The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although, I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”

“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”

That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.

You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed shape while leaning a cheek flush to frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.

Seldomly, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servants responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.

It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.

“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”

You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.

A while later, you entered the foyer to see most of the staff had already dispersed and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.

So, the rumor was true. There was something discomforting in that.

Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—

“Oh my… there you are, my sweet!” his voice was exactly the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But, all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”

Could this man really be your husband?

He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well to appear normal.

But, you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.

“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face up with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You startled from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”

As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.

He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue and teeth hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squeal like a sow.

He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them.

Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.

“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass, overall sounding very husky. There was something of wheeze that trailed the end of his every word, like he’d been patched for a long time. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”

Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and who you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed like you'd had several.

His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, cumming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.

The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstacy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely unprobable, unknowable to you.

You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and disgusting and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.

He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…

The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing that could happen with fabric.

“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on, his sallow complexion keeping a weird, waxy sheen to it. A mask that fits, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”

You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.

Everything else, you'd wanted to believe, was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.

Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.

“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and handed her a generous bag of coins from your own safe.

She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”

“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”

It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”

The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into cover of tree tops and then nothing else.

But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.

A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she or the old pony had made it out of the woods. The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them.

But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.

That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton, whereas a hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall.

The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.

He was faced the other way, his clothes back to you, completely unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for the thin breathing of sleep, the automatic rise and fall of his body, and yet he could've been mistaken as one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.

“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”

“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating to have your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me. Such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”

Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.

Your whimpers of pains were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.

a/n; this is heavily inspired from me reading the exorcist, recently. the section with the maid's head swiveled around was a nod to the scene with director having "fallen" from a height and dying similarly. a lot of my most recent reads have been extremely graphic, so my writing has been reflecting that and it's been interesting!

quick q&a!

is father marius dumonde the same father marius from your vampire priest fic? yup! if I go forward with writing the longer story, father marius will be a central character later on, and father shaw will make a reappearance as well.

what would the main differences be in a full story vs just this piece?

a) the husband would be given a more solid identity, appearance, and name. he'd have more depth to build an emotional rapport with his character.

b) existing scenes would be expanded, smut scenes grittier and more graphic, more development between mc and the husband, the maid would have a more important part and given an identity. essentially, most elements from this price would be fleshed out and expanded.

c) I intend to add a "mystery" element to this where mc tries to unveil what happened during the husband's stay at his uncle's estate.

d) I would open up multiple polls to help influence different aspects of the story such as the husband's name, appearance, overall disposition, whether the majority would vote for a happy ending with the husband vs the ending with the demon.

if you're interested in seeing a full story, make sure to reblog and share your thoughts with me!! I'd love to hear feedback on this to know what you'd like to see in the future!

AMBROSIA

dragon-hybrid knight x mage!reader| 18+| 15k

One day, you are approached by two informants of the Witch Queen of Noss. They come bearing gifts of wealth and opulent fruit. The fruit, you are promised, from her orchard is enchanted with her magic and she welcomes you to Noss to take it.

Guided by the loathsome Knight of Noss; a half-human, half-dragon abomination and the Witch Queen's butcher, you set out on the long journey. Along the way, you are kidnapped by the Sisterhood of Gosha, a group bent on dethroning the Witch Queen, and are given a guarantee to what you desire in exchange for helping them.

Their condition? You must seduce the Knight of Noss.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, explicit sexual content, dubcon-ish, armor is on during sex, blowjob, premature ejaculation, cumshot on thighs, size kink/can't fit, descriptions of genitalia (dragon), dark fantasy, mc is morally ambiguous, manipulation, possession, heavy implications of torture, mentions of abuse (not to mc), mentions of animal death and cruelty (infrequent, mostly metaphorical), extreme body horror + grotesque details, extremely prose + detail heavy, vague magic system, this is an exploration of morality + choice + consent.

dividers by; @/strangegraphics & @/omi-reaources

proofread by my beloved @hantaslittlearsonist

shout-out to @noctis-kingfisher for lending me a tiny hand as well.

this story is purely a work of fiction. I do not condone the attitudes and actions of the characters therein.

this concept piece has taken me two months of writing and pulling out my hair. if you've enjoyed reading, PLEASE leave me feedback and reblog!! I desperately want to hear what y'all think of this labor of love!! 🧡💛

The Witch Queen of Noss had sent two informants to your doorstep with gilded chests braced in their arms, and an enormous black carriage waited at the edge of your hermitage pulled by six lustrous, silvery-gold stallions.

“She has searched for one of your magical prowess with seemingly no end for many centuries now. She says that your magic has a different smell to it, chews differently on her teeth. There's grit to it, feels unrefined in her hands and cuts through her bloodstream. She says you've got that raw magic ability. She likes it and wants you as part of her council.”

Of the two informants—one man and one woman—the man was the only one who spoke throughout the encounter. Or, more appropriately, he was the only one capable of doing so. Since the woman’s face, previously pale, now glowed scarlet and her eyes watered. Her arms trembled as perspiration turned her hairline oily.

This was as opposed to the man, who stood with a straight, rigid back. Dry in the eyes and on the skin despite having the appearance of a malnourished beggar. One of the wretched trying to wedge his fat tongue down the slender necks of empty beer bottles for any residual taste.

He did not look like the sort to find employment in the Witch Queen’s house.

Then, you took a real good look at his eyes which were brown, bulbous, staring-back things with a faint black film spread across the exposed parts of the organ.

To those who could not see, he would have been mistaken as marked by wyrmwort spray for chasing ladies in the night, or yet another unfortunate diseased by plague. But, the appearance of it was far too thin and had spread too uniform across both eyes for it to be of natural causes.

“It's bad taste to possess your own subjects in hopes of influencing an outcome, don't you think?” You spoke in pitying tones, both for the man unlikely to have consented to the possession, and the Witch Queen who had already revealed her desperation to you. “A normal man swept off the streets wouldn't be able to describe magic as he had just now. You are old, but not wise.”

“Wisdom falters in the face of might. Those who are wise eventually wither and rot, and the world soon forgets them. But, might? Power? It creates mountains and canyons, the very stars in the sky. It leaves scars like fissures in the land, in the weak, and you are always remembered.”

The Witch Queen bobbed the man on translucent black threads of magic, which wound him in dissipating mist. She commanded his left arm to rise. It did so with the unnatural, jerky stiffness of a ball-jointed doll. He was gesturing to the woman struggling adjacent to him.

“I have searched far and wide for magic of your caliber. It is simply unfathomable to me that you have chosen to hide and squander it.”

You were no longer looking at the man, but at the woman trying to strategically balance the chest on one arm, while opening its great maw for you to see inside.

Gold and silver medallions spilled out of it, plinking on the flagstone walkway underfoot. Faceted gemstones in regal rings and dripping necklaces gleamed with pristine, polished finish. There were even chess pieces among the contents, crafted from ivory, eyes embellished with orange-pink sapphires.

This chest alone contained wealth far exceeding that which belonged to rural kings. It was enough to feed the entire ruined city of Rûregar in the northeast region for seasons. And yet, the Witch Queen wielded this bribe without shame, in the failing arms of this woman burning and sweating under the yellow beat of the midday sun.

“Why do you hide?” asked the Witch Queen in the man’s slow, imprecise rumble. “Such raw, delicious power. I will admit that had it not been for my knight, you may have stayed concealed. But, dragons are most intimate with magic. They know it so viscerally, sensually, even, that I used to find myself envious every time I looked at him.”

In your recent past before self-imposed isolation, you’d heard rumors of an abomination. The grotesque spawn from a human father and dragon mother, so the story was told. An imposing butcher arrayed in black iridescence. Armor made of dragonscale and adamantine, brandishing a massive blade made of the same stuff.

Some stories insisted upon his existence being one of restlessness and carnality. Seasons turned to decades of waiting and engaging in the most perverse acts; savage romps with both humans and beasts alike. For his bloodlust best stayed dormant that way, and he went unchecked by his Master until he stood center in the great orchestra of war, severing spines, bodies in half with a single sweep.

Other tales were whispered to you conspiratorially after some coaxing with free booze and attractive enchantments. The word was that the knight didn’t exist at all, that there was no body inside to pilot the heavy suit of armor. It was all illusory; a cunning, convincing lie perpetrated by the Witch Queen to hold her throne and residence in Noss.

But, you'd already seen through one of her tricks. You doubted that she could maintain an intricate ploy such as that for over a millennia.

“I hide because,” you paused, eyes cutting across the man’s shoulder towards the black carriage when you caught movement around it belonging neither to the stamping stallions nor to the frazzled coachman trying to wrestle them into submission by cracking the reins. “I hide because there is nothing interesting and I am bored. I spend my days enchanting the soil and watching flowers grow. I change the color of waterfalls, and I gossip with the birds in exchange for seeds. My rice is plentiful and I always have wine to pour. My bed is the most comfortable place to exist in any realm.”

The Witch Queen reciprocated such ordinary sentimentality by using the man’s arms to open the second chest, revealing to you fresh, honeyed overabundance in the shape of a toppling mound of fig fruit.

Your curiosity pushed you to take one in each hand, mentally measuring their weight and studying their magenta roundness. You relished their succulent sweet, woody aroma when you pressed them under your nose. And, when she told you to eat them, you did so by sinking your teeth into both, alternating your bites between them.

They tasted of nostalgic summertimes carried on a balmy breeze. Each bite into the figs was decadent and pulpy with pale pink nectar overflowing the impressions your teeth left behind in its soft purple flesh. It was the most delicious thing you'd ever tasted.

“You should feel honored. Fruit from my orchard is forbidden. It receives all of my love that cannot be given unto others. I have grown my fig fruit from seedlings in enchanted soils, and quenched them in elixirs of life. My magic dwells within the orchard, in the air and all of the trees. It is a soft susurrus through the leaves and grass. It ripens my figs and allows me to keep my throne and my vitality. Noss shall never see another queen.”

“Where is your magic?” You did not taste it in the fig fruit in your hands, nor in others that you grabbed out of the chest and ripped with your teeth. Suddenly, you were captivated by the thought of the Witch Queen’s power being within you.

Would it chew like pork fat between your teeth, or lay across your tongue like thick oil, or snap and fizzle against your cheeks until they reddened raw and bled?

You ground another mouthful into watery mince. Let it slide down the back of your throat. “Where is it? Your magic. Where is it?”

“It waits for you.” She answered through the man, whose voice was starting to crack and unravel. The cords in his throat pulled taut, strained as though played across with the bow of a stringed instrument. His leaning house of bones had started sagging more left, and the skin under his eyes drooped like red sandbags. His eyes were slowly receding into the back of his head. “Come to Noss. Come to Noss. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me and taste my orchard. Lysander will guide you.”

You were fast to sidestep from the spilled chest of figs and the sinking body of bones and shriveling innards. Closer to the fatigued woman who'd fallen to her knees on the scorching flagstone walkway.

The chest she still clutched was so heavy that it pinned her folded legs to the stone, melting the flesh off her shins, and the polished brilliance of the gems and coins inside had burned her face and neck to stiff brown leather, and baked her eyes a blackened prune color.

“In their wickedness, they chose their own fates,” spoke a dour but potent voice from nearby. You'd been so fixated on the man rotting, deflating within his own skin-suit, and the woman dying on her knees, that you hadn't seen the Witch Queen's Knight approach. “The man was a violent thief. He had burglarized a merchant’s wagon and killed the merchant. Done far worse to the merchant’s young daughters. In the mind of the Witch Queen, there exists no death that she’d find satisfying. He did not always look so humble. She made it so.”

“And the woman?” you asked, queasily.

“Aye, that one was part of the Sisterhood of Gosha. They wish to usurp the Witch Queen by placing an imposter on the throne in her place. Skilled assassins, spies, politicians. Their sbires hide in ordinary faces. We must be wary of all: mothers with infants, beggars, and embroiderers. Even the young girls with flowers in their hair. Now that they know you have the Witch Queen’s favor, they will be coming for you.”

You moved back as he came forward, leaning down with his enormous mass to offer the armored bulk of his arm. “Come along, I will be ensuring your safe travel at the behest of the Witch Queen. I am Lysander, the Knight of Noss.”

The knight anchored himself like that for a long time as you refused to touch him.

He was an abnormal creature: immense in size, his precise silhouette concealed by his invulnerable black armor, but you could see his shape was not entirely human. The length of one of his arms was more than half of your whole body, and at his full height, you expected you'd only ever see the point of his broad chest that began to concave, narrow into a long waist wrapped in cloth and dragonscale.

You became flustered the moment you realized you would not be rewarded with a glimpse of the monster underneath, as there were no revealing gaps in his armor, which was all jarring angles and ungentleness. No war-worn chips or missing fragments, tears in the breathable fabric against the bend of his elbow, or under his helmet.

And, it was his helmet that you found most fascinating of all.

A heavy, sharp design with flattened protrusions pushed towards the back of his head like wings on a bird. The adamantine and dragonscale had been pounded smooth and pinched in the front. There was only a narrow slit across the eyes for him to see out of, and six or seven long, symmetrical vents set along a hinged jaw piece for him to breathe through unless he lifted it.

You wondered what you would see underneath the helmet and emboldened yourself to reach for it. He winced away only when the hinges made a screeching sound of unuse, not as your sticky fingers padded along the piece and raised it far enough to see a dark, textured chin.

“Do you know no fear?” Lysander hesitated to show you his arm again to help you across the thick sea of boiling red-brown flesh and entrails. “You've heard the stories, haven't you? You mustn’t be so brave in my presence.”

If you stayed focused on him, then you would think less of the possibility of human rot sticking to the soles of your boots. A very wrong, gummy sensation that you expected would feel like being suctioned down into a mud pit after a long rain.

“So, it's true you're an abomination? Hideous and monstrous? An unfathomable union between man and she-dragon?”

“Aye. I am,” he said. “That and much worse. C’mere now. Come closer to me and raise your arms.”

Any closer and your toes would touch the bubbling mass crawling over the edges of your walkway, suffocating the fertile soil and grasses you'd painstakingly grown. That would be enough to make you scream, yet you held it in your chest, locked away behind your ribs.

Intrigued still, you asked him, “And it's true that you engage in every one of your carnal whims without second thought? With all kinds? Humans and beasts?”

“Aye. All of it.” He gave you no pleasure or disgust in his response, speaking in a way that sounded manufactured. Unthinking. Detached. “I am insatiable. My carnal lust and my bloodlust. Now, do not tempt me with either. Come my way.”

“And,” you instigated further, enjoying harassing him, “It’s true that it was you who led the Witch Queen here to disturb my peace? You are the Witch Queen’s whore?”

This gave Lysander pause, his adamantine face gazing down at yours. The slits scored into his helmet perpetuated all of the malice he claimed was factual. But, within the shadows inside his helmet, you thought you heard something click and grind—not metal or scales, but his jaw.

“Aye. Truly, I am deserving of your abhorrence. It was I who infringed upon your sacred place as asked of me by the Witch Queen. My dragon half never knows rest and the pull of magic, no matter how small, is ruthless to me and my mind. Your skill is tremendous, but your magic is more so. There were cracks in your enchantment. Magic overflow that slipped free and found me, grasped me, and led me to you.”

More curious than aggravated after his confession, you were docile when he finally took you away from the human puddles and figs wrinkling in the sunlight. He had reached across it all and plucked you up with one arm around your waist before then situating you in both, cradling you in a way that was not unkind, but certainly foreign to him.

“I’m not diseased. Don't drop me.” Afraid that he would, you stayed still and shrank yourself in his arms so as to not brush his scorching armor.

He moved with surprising swiftness for his size, smooth enough that the sound of his armor did not crash through the conversation and distract you. “Have you seen the Witch Queen’s orchard? Is it as ripe with magic as she says it is?”

“It is a powerful place. Invigorating. Raw. Her magic is leached into the soil and is a part of everything. It goes unchecked,” he said, adding nothing else on the matter.

You were settled back on your feet by the edge of your flagstone walkway, right in front of the black carriage’s open door. Its interior was as wholly dark as its exterior and lightless, except for what wan sunshine could slither in through gaps beneath the heavy curtains hanging across the windows.

Lysander’s mass thwarted your view of your doorstep and the informant's amalgam of liquefied parts drying, stiffening, and cracking on the hot stone. You thought about what red-brown clay looked like when it was spread out and left to bake in the sun. It was easier to imagine that was the reality that you would be leaving behind, and what you'd sweep clean with a broom once you returned.

“Inside. We've got a long way to Noss.” He made a gesture over your head with the tip of his chin to the carriage's wide mouth leading into nothing but shining satin seats and floorboards of exquisite deep color that you feared would cut your legs off at the shins.

The air inside was cold against your back, serpentine; invisible coils that caressed your neck and huddled close to your spine through your robes as though trying to steal your warmth for itself.

“And, if I decided I don't want to go? Would you stop me?” you asked.

Lysander’s armor made an awful ruckus as he hinged forward, leveling his helmeted face with yours. You stared through the narrow slot for his eyes with intention and felt your neck hairs rise as two gleaming purple things looked out at you.

“Aye. There is no turning back now. Get inside.”

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Two fortnights into your travels, the Sisterhood of Gosha remained such a perpetrator of evil in Lysander's mind that it was seldom you experienced true rest. His paranoid particularities were most prevalent when it came to indoor accommodations as opposed to lying on cold, dewy grass beneath a backdrop of black-blue sky. Starless. Unending.

He was comfortable with his body open to the great expanse of the world because, in those amazing spaces, he knew he would always prevail. None other than his own kin and formidable magicians could fell him. And yet, now more frequently than ever, he was misplaced—landing in slanted wood buildings filled with small things and far too many windows.

Those things haunted him so terribly that he started encroaching on your privacy by barging into your lodging at all hours, claiming that walls and windows and doors created cramped spaces that made it easier for all the wrong sorts to hide. Imagined wretches, shapeless and malleable in shadows, molded into every little crevice that he could not maneuver.

Often, for this very reason, he would remove furniture from whichever room you chose to occupy. He abandoned them in the corridors for the staff to shove against walls so other guests could get around.

It left you with slim arrangements for sitting and eating. Fortunately, he came with enough sense about him to leave the beds alone, but windows must be locked at all times, and you were not allowed a room with doors leading to adjoining rooms.

One night, while staring out an open window at a blackbird roosting on a rooftop nearby, waiting for the maid assigned to boiling water to fill your bathtub, you thought about defying Lysander and just how strongly palatable an urge it was.

Paltry retaliation that held your stomach in unseeable hands, twisting it around into some awful mass. When the feeling started to subside, your stomach was placed center in those faced-up palms mockingly—a reminder that you could feel things beyond deep relaxation and deep boredom. You were only human.

The maid emerged from the corner after she'd emptied her bucketfuls into the tub, filling your room with pale steam. Wispy stuff that smothered your nostrils in wet heat, gave your skin a greasy shine. It moved swiftly towards the window and fogged the cool glass opaque gray as it passed straight through into the night air.

“Ah, this is no good. You could catch a cold. I will close it for you once you're in the bath,” said the maid, who then spun away with mechanical stiffness upon noticing you unfastening buttons and removing clothing. “I—pardon me. If you'd like to get comfortable—”

“The window is fine as is.”

Such a frank refusal was met by the maid lightly pacing in place, long skirts fluttering and winding her ankles. “My apologies, but the knight would disagree with you. It was difficult for the owner to convince him to let me even see the inside of this room to fill your tub. I fear what he may do if I do not…”

The longer you listened to this madness, the more desperate you were to disobey Lysander. In your hermitage, you’d gorged on absolute freedom as if it too had been in endless supply like your wine and rice, forgetting that the world beyond your barrier could not be as ungovernable as you were.

“Lie to him then, if it's something that bothers you so much,” you told her. It seemed so inconsequential to you, but the maid’s entire body jerked with emotion, the intention to turn around to look you in the face.

She did not, likely thinking of how close you were to full nudity at that point. “I—did you not hear that I'm afraid of him? We all are. We do not want to wear away his patience.”

“Then, tell him I've kicked you out before you could close the window. Surely it's easier to ask for forgiveness for something you weren't given the opportunity to do.”

This pacified her, albeit poorly, as she continued to fidget as though she'd forgotten how to do anything else. Her acquired silence were moments spent conjuring up ways to challenge you more on the matter, whereas you used it to search the endless depths of pocket space on your robes until you found what you were looking for.

A very generous nugget of gold was placed at her eyeline and at first, when she gasped, you thought it’d been more of a throaty scoff of affront. But, then, she snatched it from your hand, examined it closely, tried to magnify imperfections and falsities in it with just the twitching wet globes in her head.

She would find none because you'd been careful. It had taken you hours to transmutate it from an oddly shaped stone you'd found while urinating behind thorned brush just off the main road where the Witch Queen’s carriage traveled, into the smooth, glowing prize that it was now.

“Is—is this real?” asked the maid.

“Of course it is. I made it myself,” you said.

The maid tucked the gold into her apron, curtsied in the wrong direction, and hurried from your room. You tracked the swift patter of her feet across the floorboards until they faded, intermingling with all the rest of the sounds permeating the inn.

That calming, faraway ambiance was as fast to fracture as your respite was, however. From down the hall, metal scraped and rattled and approached your door quickly. You were fully unclothed, having gradually added each piece into a neat stack set aside, and gathered bathing soaps and balms and fragrances to take with you into the water. You dropped those on the floor and darted across the room.

You envisioned the Knight's neck slanted, pressed to his shoulder within the confines of his armor as he strided to your door, as most establishments never anticipate having to accommodate dragons or creatures larger than orcs.

You yanked the linens off your bed and wrapped yourself in them just as he opened the door.

He took in the unusually revealing sight, not moving for a long time. Some of your lasting uncertainties about him went away that night, while new ones surfaced.

How humorous was it that the Knight of Noss could be disoriented by a meager state of undress?

How concerning was it now that he truly knew you existed?

He could no longer starkly ascribe you as ‘the disgruntled magician’. No longer were you just the robes you wore. You were all asymmetry, gooseflesh, shedding hair, and tough calluses from years of wandering hard terrains in the same boots.

Your utter humanness in that moment of stillness had softened you to him, even with your dour expression and acerbic tongue.

“Some knight you are.” If you couldn't crack his armor, you wished to do so to his pride. You weren't malicious by nature, but embarrassment and unknowable things made your skin itch and bittered your mood. “Out of here, fool!”

“Allow me to intrude for a moment. I'll check now before you bathe.” He said this somewhat laboriously, as if suddenly struck through the back, winded by surprise and pain. “Step aside.”

You dragged layers of linen with you to the door and stood in his way. “No. You intrude too much. I went into isolation because people intrude too much and want too much. Begone, Knight.”

“Will you check the windows yourself tonight, then? You've got more to worry about than just thieves and cats getting inside. Open windows while you sleep thins the veil between our realm and others.”

When you pushed him out with half the weight of your body against the door, he went willingly into the hall with its low ceiling and compact walls. The sight of his armored mass in the incommodious space, tight and bent like items crammed inside a box, made you claustrophobic.

“That’s just old superstition,” you said.

“Aye. That it may be, but all superstition stems from a single truth. And visitors in the night coming through open windows is no superstition.” There was no denying he was right in saying that, but even so, you would not give him pleasure by letting him back inside. “It's a meager thing I'm askin’ of you.”

“Fine. I'll be sure to check them.”

Had Lysander been a true dragon without the innate patience and good-naturedness of his human blood, your flippant response would've been perceived much differently. An egregious act of disrespect to a superior being, of which dragons largely believed that they were. But, for all of the harsh edges of adamantine and dragonscale he wore, and his precise, guttural intonations which always made your chest quiver, he was remarkably even-tempered.

At first, when he did not immediately go away, staying hunched over in that strange wadded shape of black iridescent protrusions and looking straight at you through the slit in his helmet, you thought you'd finally agitated him inside that suit. Yet, as the moments passed without change, you grew increasingly aware of the scratchy linen against your bare skin and warmth reaching up your neck.

He could've been admiring your frame drowned in heaps of fabric, or observing the soft, swaying glow on your shoulders from nearby candlelight. If the grotesque stories about his unappeasable lust were to be believed, surely the opportune silence was his sizing you up, comparing you to his past conquests.

The most despicable part of leaving your isolation was all the wondering you did now. When before you'd been kept far too busy by vicious snapdragons in the garden and birds gossiping on a branch overhead about the baker’s wife and his cousin.

But, once you thought of the Witch Queen’s succulent figs, and the magic you’d been promised a taste of, suddenly your focus returned. Everything else was mediocre.

Lysander could think of you however he pleased.

“Goodnight,” you told him.

“Ah,” he livened at your voice, “aye. Goodnight.”

Afterwards, you discovered the bathwater to be lukewarm and beyond the possibility of enjoyment, but scrubbed yourself clean with soap and coarse sugar anyway. You let your hair halfway dry by leaning back in a chair, head tipped out the window to catch the nighttime breeze. It moved lethargically, cradling your scalp with cool fingers and flicked pearls of water dangling off strands back onto your face.

When you had tired of that, you left the window alone, enticed into doing so by lasting threads of defiance. You snuffed out candlelight and laid wide awake under the prickly linens for a short while.

Light feet shuffled down the hall. The smooth undersides of their leathery soles were an effortless glide across the floor boards. Explosive laughter pushed through cracks in the walls and the gap under your door, reaching you from across the inn where the guests inclined to nighttime wakefulness congregated in the common room. Its carefree nature, buoyant in the way of a life loved and well-worn despite hardship was contagious.

You smiled.

Outside, a beggar serenaded the moon peacefully, uncaring of just how badly he truly sounded. A bird startled from a high place close by and took flight. Meanwhile, in some distant alleyway, tomcats yowled and fought, and would likely die fighting. You closed your eyes.

The next time you opened them, you were not in your bed at the inn.

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Hunsiya was the name your captor gave you though you hadn’t asked for it, mere moments after rousing into some state of wakefulness. Your face and tongue were swollen from having been slouched across your thighs for an indeterminate period of time, nose heavy with pressure, hands anchored behind your back by glowing gold twine that pulsed with enchanted heat.

You could feel the magic coming off of it and rolling around the dim room where you were held hostage in. It permeated the space with smothering density, swathing you in prickly warmth and cold like a coat made of sanded down briars. The downy hairs on the back of your neck stood up; tiny spines, for magic of this magnitude could only mean there were many magicians present within the Sisterhood of Gosha, and you hungered for what they had.

“Mortal magic eaters are an impossibility, and yet, here you sit before me! Terrifying!” Hunsiya pierced a chunk of rare meat with her fork, raising it up, a toast you didn't reciprocate. “It was worth us waiting to catch you, because you did all the hard work for us, didn't you? Letting us right in and commanding a dragon. Not an easy task, my friend.”

She had removed your bonds and led you to a different room. Bursts of orange lantern light made it bright, forcing you to blink rapidly as your eyes reddened and watered in an effort to acclimate. You were situated in another chair. Lush cushioning pulled you deep into luxurious softness that molded your thighs and gripped them unrelentingly. Strongly scented wood polish lifted off the armrests as your fingertips moved across their silky luster.

Your stomach pressed lightly into the edge of a long table with a sumptuous feast stretched across it. Hunsiya only had to make a stately gesture with her arm across the table for you to fill the empty plate in front of you with as many delicacies as you could.

Tender meat dishes oozing blood and oil. Savory, herbal stews. Glazed, softened vegetables. Thick sauces in vessels with pinched spouts. Fruit desserts arranged like tiny islands in bowls surrounded by oceans of hot, caramel-colored syrups. Everything that could go into your mouth without coming back out, did.

Hunsiya watched appraisingly as you gorged. The twirling fork between her fingers told you there were things she wanted to say, thoughts important to investigate, but would doubtlessly mean less than nothing to you if she spoke of difficult things too soon.

So, she bided her time by asking trifling questions to which you only gave half-answers or simply swished your head in response. Once your consumption slowed to pretty cuts, thoughtful shapes in the fruit dessert, lapping at thin layers of syrup on the back of your sterling spoon, her verbal onslaught began.

“The Sisterhood of Gosha wants to dethrone the Witch Queen. But, we want to do this discreetly, without it being known to the city or her council. We will remove her and have one of our own replace her. All this you already know,” she proclaimed, “but, we will have you help us do this.”

Her words were forceful, stacked with ruthless confidence; fearlessness that could've only belonged to someone whom others believed was untouchable.

You knew her type: affable leaders with pitch black hearts and slippery intentions that never truly included the people they'd claimed to love. They embraced and kissed tear-stained cheeks soothingly before sending them away to their deaths. Later, these autocrats sat upon their thrones, which were erected upon a foundation of discarded loyalty and bones.

“I have no interest in that. Why not threaten to kill me instead?” you asked, now drawing lines through the cooling sauces with a blunt knife, watching the viscous stuff slowly ooze back into place.

Hunsiya smiled. “Because even I'm not foolish enough to believe that'd get me anywhere. You magic eaters are walking, living, breathing bombs.” She leaned back in her seat to observe your etching, saying after a time, “What if I told you I could guarantee you a way into the Witch Queen’s orchard?”

Your skillful motions in the sauce ceased. “She's already promised me the fig fruit from her orchard.”

“A promise is so hollow, my friend,” Hunsiya insisted with crinkling, deep-set eyes the color of aged honey. Many wrinkles appeared, creating uneven terrain above her cheekbones. The lines in her face were beautiful, disarming and alluring, but not in the least bit kind.

“A promise doesn't mean anything to a person who sees no value in it. A guarantee, though? That has tax. It has weight. A guarantee means that there is work to be done and there's a reward at the end of it. People are much more inclined towards rewards than maybes and promises.”

After such a large meal, you were growing drowsy and distracted. The only thing keeping you awake was no longer having a bed to lay in (you even craved the scratchy linens), and the thought of the Witch Queen’s magic on your tongue being oddly stimulating.

“Perhaps,” you relented begrudgingly, dragging each part of the word in a listless slur. “What does your ‘guarantee’ entail?”

“Nothing too difficult. You're almost there already. You need to claim absolute loyalty from the Witch Queen’s Knight.” Hunsiya said. “Who else better to inadvertently orchestrate the fall of a sovereign than her own servant? Who else better to help you into the orchard than someone who already knows it intimately?”

What foul and underwhelming logic.

It was a further notch in your motivation to end this expedition quickly and return home to your hermitage. You missed the roaring waterfalls with their colorful froth, the news from nearby towns carried by chirruping birds with roundabout ways of saying things, the carnivorous plants in your flower beds bristling at the sight of you nearing with shears to snip their thorns so they'd be more docile and only feed on rodents.

You'd only been away for a short time, but your mind reconstructed the snug shelter where you had lived for countless days.

Inside, you imagined a sheer layer of grime settling across all your things like ugly pale gray-brown organza: tabletops, chairs, bedsheets, and the bath towels with long, wooly naps that left behind handprints when you touched them. You'd have to vigorously scrub every surface, lovingly polish dust off of shelves of baubles and tomes, summon the wind within your walls to push the motes of dirt and time out.

But then, you always recalled the taste of the Witch Queen’s figs; their ambrosial sensations. The smooth, tender flesh splitting against your teeth as succulent nectar seeped into your mouth, spreading numbness across your tongue when the fruit’s overbearing sweetness made your cheeks tingle and pucker.

More than the fruit itself, you wished to sink your teeth into her magic and meld it into oneness with you. Absorb it. Consume.

Consume.

Consume…

“After tonight, he sees you differently. He no longer can witness you as his queen’s newest procurement. Now, you are substance. You are his longing. His painful yearning. He would lay with you if you allowed it.” Hunsiya was impatient, her voice a thunderous demand for obedience. “What I am saying is that he is more than willing to give into your every whim.”

“Dragons are unfalteringly loyal to those that they choose,” you argued. “Even if what you say is true, what he may now think of me doesn't compare to the millenia he's devoted to the Witch Queen.”

Hunsiya’s smile was vulpine; long and cunning in a way of a woman with secrets that you did not know. It sent heat to your head, behind your eyes, into the fingertips busy pounding out a rhythm on the tabletop.

“Fine, then.” You'd entertain her for a while longer. To sedate your annoyance, you reached far onto the table to pluck a handful of glistening, pinkish grapes from the bushel in a woven basket. You ate three. “You're telling me to seduce the loathsome Knight of Noss. How do you propose I go about doing such a thing?”

“Imagine a creature that's never known freedom a day in its life. It knows no existence outside of its cage of expectations and bonds it cannot see nor overcome on its own. What do you think would happen to the creature should it suddenly gain freedom?” asked Hunsiya, now leaning forward on her elbows, over a spot on the table cleaned of dishware and crumbs. “Think about it.”

“I don't need to,” you sipped water from a silver goblet which looked tarnished in the orange lantern light. “Your theory: an imprisoned creature that has never known freedom would go insane should it spontaneously gain freedom. Or, if it's a cute little dog, it’d just die in the wild. But, I suspect you're not talking about a dog.”

“Indeed.” Hunsiya stayed in her huddled shape of elbows and hands, head sideways to contemplate you. “The Knight of Noss is bound to his queen only because she makes it so. You're a magic eater. You've smelled it. You've seen it. The Witch Queen's magic that binds him. Yes, yes, I know you've seen it. And you can break it.”

Of course you'd seen it.

The magic that the Witch Queen used to bind Lysander was unlike what she had used to possess the melted man and the burned spy from the sisterhood.

Magic had a taste and what she had forced upon them was rancid and dead. A nauseating odor which spread through your nose and climbed down the back of your throat, clinging and throbbing like something alive, something infectious and vile. It was necromancy defiled by the lich and wayward magicians who'd sold their goodness in pursuit of something more.

Lysander's curse was that he was a bastard and his humanness could not eclipse the might of the Witch Queen's greed to keep him. She had wisely imprisoned the magical birthright his dragon blood gave him, thus, all he knew was colossal strength and the turmoil of a human heart.

In that way, you pitied him and his existence. You'd thought it the day he had approached you, carrying his burdensome armor and sword and the thick chains of hot white magic that had flickered in and out of existence before your eyes, descending from an empty sky. You wondered if he knew you could see them.

“It is unlikely that he is aware you're a magic eater, nor that his queen’s intentions are not so benign as simply keeping you as a trophy, and yet”—she gave you a derisive sneer— “you’re willingly walking to your doom. You know this, you just cannot resist temptation, can you?”

She found triumph in your silence and went on, “Dragons may be masters of natural magic, but he is no true dragon. He is impressionable, unsure of who he is if he is not a weapon. An enslaved butcher.”

“Free him.” Suddenly earnest, she thudded interlaced hands down onto the table, sending a ripple shuddering through silverware and plates and bowls across the table, up into your arms. “Free the Knight of Noss of the Witch Queen's hold. Do it slowly. Do it wisely. A dragon is most loyal to those who are most loyal to them.”

And, before you could speak your part, the spacious eating room swelled with ragged fluttering that you'd initially thought to be numerous coarse coats being shaken out behind you.

When you looked around, there were dozens upon dozens of blackbirds perched throughout the room, materialized from nowhere and reeking of magic. Their talons grabbed onto and into any surfaces they could find, wings twitching violently as if preparing to take flight, beady eyes aglow in orange light and focused intention.

The moment you sprung upright, knocking over your chair with the back of your legs, hands raised for invocation, the blackbirds surged at you in a hellish cacophony of shrill squawks and flapping wings. Your hands shrank against your head instead, protecting your face from their wind, their claws, as they encircled you, never making contact.

Through gaps in their wingspan, you watched Hunsiya slowly rise from her seat, smiling as though she were seeing off a cherished friend. Her fingers fluttered farewell through the small, moving apertures. Just then, the darkness of the birds and their shrieks closed in, encasing you in their strange smell of stale barnyard hay and uprooted greenery and soil.

Then, there was nothing.

Just as quickly as they had arrived to take you away from the feast and your comfortable chair, they hissed out existence just like a distant, dissipating mirage rising off of hot stone. What had remained of their magical essence was then carried off on the tails of an inky night breeze.

Although this region was in its ripest and hottest season of the year, the air billowing beneath your thin bed clothes made you shiver. You were exposed to the depths of the yawning streets of this nondescript town, lifting your bare toes off of the cobblestone road so they wouldn't freeze. Distantly, and then suddenly close by, you listened to heavy clatters charge through the nighttime veil with swift, monstrous strides.

It was like the earth shook and bent to the ruckus. These wild, fraught vibrations that made your bones ache. Only once he was standing still did that feeling subside.

“You! Where have you been?!” His wrath carried as far and as loud as his armor.

The birds had delivered you to the knight.

“I smell them on you! I smell the sisterhood’s wickedness on you! They stole you away just as I thought that they would. What have they done to you?” Lysander lowered his helmeted face to level to your own, voice dire and taut. “Speak! Your window was wide open and there was nary a thing in your bed except a single blackbird feather. I knew it, then. They came for you.”

You licked your lips. They had dried during your fast flight through the wind and cold, as brief as it was. A delicate sweetness lingered in the corner seams from the fruit desserts; the sticky syrups. “I—yes, I think they did. Maybe they did. I can't be certain.”

“Where did they take you?” he asked.

You tried to act in a way that made it seem as though your thoughts had been left askew, troubling you deeply, “Somewhere dark. Somewhere dank and foul and frightful. I was tied to a chair. I don't remember anything else. Now I'm here, with you.”

“Vile wenches!” he sympathized, perhaps so riled by the brazenness of the sisterhood that he wouldn't think of you anymore, despite remaining at eyeline with you. “There is no end to their evil, their depravity, their obsession to claim Noss for themselves. Those worshippers of a whore goddess!”

You instigated, “Gosha is disgraced.”

“Aye, a fallen goddess,” he agreed. “Mother of harlots.”

Then, he stilled like a forward-facing statue overlooking a wide garden, staring deeply into you, seeing you just as he had mere hours ago: vulnerable and nearly bear.

It was dreadful when he spoke again because his malice had detached from him like a scab. Beneath his vanished fury was an otherworldly patience, gentleness of a kind that couldn't survive in a world like this, much less what you deserved.

“Did you leave the window open?”

Your heart thudded in your chest, a sensation simultaneously unfelt, yet weakening as guilt deluged and rushed you bodywide. It hurt. It did things of its own volition: mimic the pulse in your neck, force a stone down your throat, and push all the blood in your body into your head to make it sweat and throb.

“Are you mad?” This voice was unfamiliar, but it was your own. You loathed its apologetic quietness. You hated him for luring more humanity out of you.

“Aye,” he said with his newfound softness still remaining. He added, “Verily.”

You replied, “I'm sorry,” and only meant it halfway, for what you were about to do was arguably heinous. You knew no remorse when it came to the need of magical satiety, which was something only the Witch Queen’s orchard could give you now.

Lysander was cold in your arms as you reached around the entire bulk of his head, the tips of your fingers unable to fully interlock. The protrusions on his helmet made for a precarious embrace, one which you kept as a featherlight touch in the event he grew to ire and tried to lash out by gouging you on the adamantine and dragonscale wings.

“Does nothing frighten you? What life have you lived to be so unafraid of all that I am?” He sounded stricken, winded by something unseen. Irritation led into confusion settling on the fringes of his words. “Your bravery is in a dangerous place. Have you forgotten the abomination and devil that I am? Have you so easily forgotten my bloodlust? My carnal desires? That neither human nor beast are spared of me when I choose it?”

You kissed his cool forehead, making a sound against the armor before returning to his level and pressing your lips to the hinged jaw piece. He was sure to feel the fog of your warm breath through the scored vents, swirling slow and seductive around his face, perhaps still tinged with the aftermath of your exorbitant meal.

“Is this the same mind that left the window wide open in spite of my warning? If so, I fear for what will become of you. You don't know what you're doing.” He declared, saying this only so he wouldn't be confronted with the revealing silence.

“If you're so fearsome, then push me away. I'll never touch you again,” you said. “We’ll travel the rest of the way to Noss without a word. You'll send me off to your queen, and you’ll be rid of me. Sounds convenient, right? So, push me away.”

He didn't.

Instead, Lysander enfolded you in his arms, pulling you high onto your toes, and against the less perilous points on his armor. He was aware of this threat because he held you self-consciously; close enough to feel the heat of a fire while fearful of it burning him.

For you, the proximity was exhilarating in the way of explorers who sometimes lose their minds to euphoria when they find something no one else has.

For you, this indicated that there were no obstacles barring you from the Witch Queen’s sinful fruits, as the one thing that could've stopped you was holding you flush to his chest of ice and cradling the back of your head with a leathery hand. The claws of his gauntlet were a light scratch on your scalp, but their weight was an anchor straining every muscle in your neck.

He pulled your face into him, into the deeper dark of his mass as the hinges on his helmet let out their shrill outcry of nonuse, and kissed you. It was a fervent moment where his lips roamed yours top to bottom, pressing the corners and the nooks where syrupy residue stuck before letting out quivering breaths against your mouth to diffuse his excitement.

Lysander was up against the halves of himself, both radical tormentors that craved to split him into separate parts so that they may become a whole of themselves. His humanity was devastating, as it was what felt the most and desired so hopelessly to draw you in and never let go. His dragon blood was passionate, but it was wise and used to waiting for these fleeting morsels of good fortune which willed him to live on.

You let him kiss you through his turmoil while using this to your own advantage. Your fingertips moved inside his helmet and touched the skin of his jaw. The feel of it was unusual in that it did not mold or divot with human fleshiness, rather it was perfectly solid like a rough stone, tapering down into a fine chin lightly knocking your own.

The skin was craggy and heavily scarred with rounded, uniform indentations larger than the pads of your fingers could fit. Something had existed in place of these scars at one point, leaving behind disfiguring injuries and memories equally as torturous. His lips were of lesser toughness than his face, thick and slippery smooth with moisture from your breaths and saliva.

It was you who withdrew then, satisfied with the taste you’d given him and his yearning. He had little fear of being seen by you in this lightless hour, so he didn't immediately withdraw into his enormous adamantine husk by covering himself with the slotted vents.

“Forgive me, I should have resisted. I reacted poorly to your words, but I was not dishonest in what I did,” said Lysander with somber candor. Although he no longer held you in his arms, several of his long, leather-clad fingers wrapped your wrist in warmth. “It was wise of you to stop. When you touched me, it was… unlike anything I've ever known. You would've met my carnal lust, then, and I would not have thought anything of hurting you to fulfill myself.”

“You're pitiful, Lysander.”

They were harsh words spoken kindly. Arising from a place of knowing fear and desperation and profound loneliness so hollow that it leached away the joy of fuschia sunsets, of fresh spring afternoons laying arched with the hillside and smelling honeysuckle, of comforting oneness during gatherings at end week markets where young children wove flower stems in your hair and stuck them in the pockets of your robes.

You had once been part of that world before isolation, whereas it was a world he had never known—not with his servitude to the Witch Queen of Noss.

“Aye, I suppose that I am.”

Then, your eyes cut above his head as the Witch Queen’s bonds blinked into existence: bright yellow-white, interlinked holy halos descending from nothingness. The sheer number of them was what made the sight terrible, far more troubling from the first time you witnessed them.

The chains swayed, clinking into one another against a breeze somewhere faraway before abruptly yanking taut, looking like countless lashes of white light moving in unison. They gave Lysander a start, but he made no sound. His agony was discreet, indicated only by subtle metallic scuffing between armored fingertips as they writhed and soothed with his hand not holding your wrist.

For the Witch Queen to feel compelled to expend this much of her power to demand subservience meant that the magic Lysander had been endowed with was frightful at least.

“I don't blame you for your urges. You're half of a whole dragon, after all.” As you outstretched a hand into the sky, around one of the chains which glowed and pulsated and burned deliciously in your closed palm, you tried to remember the conversation from before. “My magic must not be easy for you to withstand.”

“Nay, what I confessed had nothing to do with your magic.” Lysander surrounded you in his fortress of jagged peaks and impenetrable dragonscale, just as he had before. “Your touch was burning—scorching me, even. I've never felt anything like it. That softness. Such gentleness. You did not touch my skin like someone cursed, like the abomination that I know that I am. I fear I will never feel it again.”

You hardly heard him over the sound of brittle magic shattering into airless black. Clusters of white burst apart over yours and Lysander's heads, flickering out of existence without landing; a false image; fatigued eyes tricked in this is unordinary hour. And then, the Witch Queen’s banshee screams echoed from somewhere far, far away.

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Skewered and halved blackbird remains followed the Witch Queen’s glossy black carriage like a funeral cortège. Some fell out of trees, wings flapping, bodies crumpling out of existence much the same way as burning paper wasting into crisp embers before ending as specks of ash. Magic exhausted. Untraceable. Gone.

Lysander made an example out of the rest; the majority he had slain. Where they landed was where they stayed, turned into cold and unmoving parts of the landscape, making for an audacious trail leading right up to your bumper. This was a challenge he wanted, a chance to prove his malice, retaliate the embarrassment of being outwitted.

The result had been a terribly effective deterrent because in the weeks of traveling in broad daylight by way of the most worn paths, you hadn't seen another soul—human or otherwise. The chittering and scampering of animals dampened against a crescendo of silence, making a pleasant summertime breeze into a violent windstorm through the fluttering tree leaves of the forest, flanking either side of the carriage.

At some point, you had become familiar with the noisiness of the chassis underneath your feet. In particular, how the frame would quiver if one of the skinny wheels struck a craggy rock raised too far above the dirt and detritus, or one of those same wheels slipped out of the well-worn impressions left behind on the pathway by other carriages and wagons hauling special things.

You were often bored as Lysander preferred to stride alongside the carriage, door-side, superbly blocking your exit. It left you with little to do other than speak with him when he could tolerate it. Transmutate strange things you grabbed off the ground and hid within your bottomless pockets while urinating in the thicket and behind trees. The hard wear in the road made success nearly unachievable.

You'd even memorized what movements the silvery-gold stallions made to evoke wrath and whip from the coachman staring down at their backs from his high wooden perch.

Once or twice, you'd been irritated enough by the cruelty and echoing crack of the whip in the sky that you raised roots on the path ahead to catch every wheel so, when they were caught in the thick, wriggling greenery, the carriage would lurch violently and propel the coachman into the throng of horses below.

They were no ordinary horses either, as their ethereal glow and intelligent eyes indicated they'd once carried gods and goddesses on their backs and ate golden apples from orchards across the cosmos. But, they'd been defiled by the Witch Queen’s magic centuries ago and now they were here: bright as the sun and proud, helpless to defy the magic which confined them to this fate.

In return for your kindness, the horses were as watchful over you as Lysander was. They allowed you to stroke their long, lustrous faces and untangle their silvery manes with your fingers until you could let the hairs fall away like threads of tinsel. Sometimes they fell asleep like that, heads hung low, ears flattened outward.

“You've made a great ally in them,” said Lysander one evening. A fire was already going nearby with the bruised and battered coachman huddled next to it, silent and seething as always. You were sitting far away from the flames, outside of reach of the ring of orange, pulsing light when the knight approached.

He held something small and black and dripping in one of his hands before tossing it aside into the brush. Your eyes followed, spotting its landing and rustling among the briars and thick shrubbery, resembling nothing but a shuddering mass in the dark.

“The stallions, you mean?” you waited for the bush to stop shaking before looking away. Lysander had come to join you where you sat on a large boulder, armor grinding as it turned into a typical wadded shape when he crouched low and hunched between his thighs. You never thought he looked comfortable that way. “They were once steeds of the heavens and now they're enslaved by the Witch Queen's magic in much the same way as you are, you know? How could I not be moved to do something for them? Revenge is warranted by things held against their will.”

“Do you pity them as you do me?” he asked.

You leaned across your legs to be nearer to his helmeted face, hoping against futility that, perhaps, you'd discern a pair of gleaming amethysts through all of the shadows. When you did not, you settled into that arched posture, lightly touching across the hinged jaw piece with your fingertips. He no longer stirred when you did this, desensitized to the disbelief that no creature in possession of their own mind would dare to.

“Right now, I'm thinking more about how you're on the verge of wiping out local blackbird populations,” you quipped, but you were worried that it was true. “Leave them, Lysander. The birds are innocent, and even the birds made of magic are at the mercy of their conjurer.”

“Aye, that may be, but do not forget that the Sisterhood of Gosha stole you from your bed in the dead of night. It had taken a single moment of poor judgment for them to do so.” He pressed his face forward against your fingers, as though relishing the thought that your warmth could reach him that way. “Birds are inconspicuous. They are as much vermin as rats and rabbits. The sisterhood knows how to conceal their magic and when they contain it in creature's as small as birds—I cannot always distinguish a roosting blackbird from one exuding magic and malice. It troubles me.”

“That is largely in part due to the Witch Queen’s power over you. You know this.”

Whenever he would sigh, it made a muffled whistling sort of sound that no doubt ricocheted off the adamantine and dragonscale around his head. You imagined it would be a tiring thing to be hidden away inside a helmet, breathing fresh air through narrow slots, forgetting the softness of pillows and a bed partner’s bosom.

But, time passed and you realized that his helmet was as much of a boon for him as it was an obstacle to things he desired.

Inside of that blank space swelled in darkness, you had no way of knowing what expression he looked at you with right now—if he were even capable of maneuvering his tough skin into a grimace or a smile. You had no way of knowing how he’d looked at you after kissing you back then.

“The blackbirds,” he went on tersely, tearing into the quiet moment as easily as he did the poor creatures, “I can’t allow what happened then to happen again. I'll continue to ask for your forgiveness for such minor atrocities if it means you are safe.”

This was like him: roughly shifting conversation away from your prying to get him to divulge a true opinion about his enslaver. He seldom implicated the Witch Queen of evils she committed; how enmeshed she was in the entire fiber of his being. You supposed that if she was all he had ever known, even he himself could not comprehend the wickedness which still imprisoned him.

You fitted fingertips into the vents of his helmet, but your eyes were elsewhere now, up at the empty sky and the razored peaks of tall trees which seemed to grow inward, encircling you. It was as claustrophobic as when you witnessed Lysander bent sideways in manmade spaces. The Witch Queen’s halo of chains remained stubbornly, in numbers so many that it tired you to simply look at them.

Already, you'd destroyed countless but there were countless to go. Time had regained urgency only to belittle you, telling you that you would fail. Those long days from before felt squandered, lost to sultry summertime hazes with no relief and perfumed bathwater filling your head with sweltering fuzz.

You mourned what you should've done but didn't do. Considered solemnly that Lysander might have continued to live on unhappily, yet uncomplicatedly, if you had cast him away from your hermitage and never met him.

At Noss, it was expected that you would be destroyed once you were in the audience of the Witch Queen, for the humiliation you had caused her was unpardonable, no matter how prodigious her lust of you truly was.

You remembered before, when she had been so desperate as to be willing to entice you with a living organism—her forbidden orchard. It was her: breathing her magic, her essence tilled into the soil, her soul within the core of every luscious fruit on low-hanging branches. Her magic was at its apex in Noss, amplified by the orchard.

Your might would not overcome hers alone.

Was it worth it, then? To even hope for a morsel of her fragrant fruit, the magic weaving throughout toothsome meat, ripe flesh bright as jewels.

Was it worth it, still? To be weakened by insatiety because you were a magic eater; one of the most selfish entities to exist in any realm. If it meant a lick, a bite, a taste, a swallow, you were convinced that it would fulfill the savage hunger coiling inside of you like writhing parasites finding ecstasy after being without for so long. It made you fearless. It made things like suicide meaningless; inconsequential for the seconds of bliss before the endless shadow.

Yes, yes, you were exasperated and dismissive even within your own head. This will be my end, that I am certain. I will never see outside of Noss. I will never see my home again. Everything will keep gathering dust. Moths will eat my nice robes; they'll eat my tomes. My garden will rot and die. What a curse, what a shame. What a shame…

You flinched as Lysander’s cold claw, darker than the night itself, stroked the underside of your jaw. He drew your eyes back into his chasm, the hinges raised. They had been soundless this time, or you’d simply become unobservant of most things now that the world was unexciting.

“Are you unwell?” he asked, carefully pacing the words as though unsure of the sort of outcome they'd inspire. He wanted something and didn't know how to ask for it. “Speak. What's troublin’ you? Don't think I've ever seen you quite this way before.”

“It will all end soon,” you said, nebulously, without a trace of fear because your fate was ineluctable. A fish beating its fins upstream against the current only to become exhausted and be seized by the jaws of a bear. The starving rodent, obeying its very nature to seek out food and shelter, finds a house with crevices and pungent tidbits on a spring-loaded trap.

You were the fish, and you were the mouse. You threw yourself into the strong current, snuck into the drafty house with moldy daubs of food tucked away in a corner. It was innate. According to your own will.

But, you thrived in asking questions. That was all you could do. “What will happen once we arrive, Lysander? What will happen to me? To you?”

“I cannot say,” he admitted, “I do not know. My task will be complete once you are delivered to the Witch Queen's doorstep.”

He sighed in the oblivion of night, soul weary, but went on nonetheless, “You and I will be separated, and it will be the same as always for me. I will be sent away to wait until I am beckoned again. I will be dispatched to subjugate insurrections. I will waste hundreds, thousands more with my blade on the battlefield. I will see carnage and only myself still standing. I will see endless patrols in the darkness. I will see the four stone walls of my cell where I am kept. Nothing else. There will be nothing else for me.”

“And, that is what you want? To be separated? For there to be nothing else?”

To this, Lysander receded into his suit, into silence, as though confronted in a way he had never been before. You were pushing him to answer something difficult. Something foreign, selfish, disastrous.

“Nay,” was all he could bring himself to say.

You looked away again, up at the clattering chains, wondering if more of their numbers were obscured within themselves. The Witch Queen was aware of your intentions, gleaning from them that the Sisterhood of Gosha had reached you first, and she would not let you have the weapon she’d adroitly honed over a millennia so easily.

This was what magicians with power to flaunt did best: fought from hidden places with wit, tug-of-war over lesser things. There could never be a clear winner because these grudges spanned eternities; to the heavens and the underworld, along the misty galaxies dotting the cosmos.

But this was Lysander, he was not less nor was he other. The Witch Queen’s cleaver on the battlefield; the appalling Knight of Noss, and he was kissing you again.

You gave yourself to his passion; fragile, fraying restraint like time-worn threads on a garment. He pressed your lips separately, then together, a rough sort of kneading that pinched, numbed, could've swallowed you if that's what he had in his mind to do.

Unlike times before, you didn't busy your hands on his face to map out his odd anatomy. It occupied too much space in your head to visualize, stole away your enjoyment in blind snatches. Whenever you did, you still searched for softness in his cheeks, as his unyielding flesh made him more dragon than human when you felt it. The patterned scars etched into his flesh were repulsive, abnormal, and doubtlessly still made him ache on the worst of days.

Lysander would never be willing to let you see his face because of them, this you understood now.

You reached for buttons to unfasten your robes. Neatness fell apart, layers glided down the slope of your shoulders with silky lightness despite their number, what great weight they should've been. Such boldness invited a whip of black breeze to lash your skin, your bare chest and abdomen. The shiver made you feel attractive, whittled you down into a small thing enclosed by his mass.

The dark felt protective; blending you seamlessly with its opaqueness, camouflaging you from everything but his eyes. Ones which saw you exposed to him. Invited him into you.

He was motionless. A tamed beast presented with raw slabs of crude meat still red and smelling of coins. It provoked innate temptation, both exhilarating and frightening because something needed to be done since it was there, but what would be the cost?

“I'll hurt you,” said Lysander in his gentlest rumble, out of true goodness and sincerity. “If I could, I'd always keep you this pristine and lovely. Unsullied by me, or anyone else.”

His cold leather hands touched your body and stayed nowhere for very long. It gave you a start, a shock down your spine whenever he moved for a different handful of your flesh, curve, and fat. The claws overhanging his gauntlet threatened subtly, but he was aware of them with everything that he did.

“Then, walk away, Lysander. You have that choice here. Possibly one of the few you've ever had, or ever will have.”

It was an awful thing to say.

It was meant to be.

“If you want things to stay the same as they've always been, I'll say nothing else. This will be forgotten. I'll even show you one of my magic tricks; wipe this moment from both our minds. I'll wipe the others as well. All that will be left is formality. Wouldn't that be wise for us in the short time we have left? Just say the word, I'll say my own, snap my fingers, and it'll be done. Simple. Harmless.”

Lysander stroked at you lightly like you were flames spitting at his fingertips, or pin-thin briars he was pulling without gloves. His helmeted face closed in on yours once again, his breaths long and hot; a dragon exhaling from the darkness of its sauna-like cavern.

“And what of the other choice?” His interest was half-hearted, genuine in moments of clarity. “There are always two options. Opposites of each other. What is the other?”

You shifted on the boulder where you sat, rested back on outstretched arms and open palms. The real stone under your hands was unlike Lysander's terrain, lifeless and bloodless. You much preferred the feeling of him.

Your nudity was displayed, posed for him, to lure him into a decision you both wanted. With your unclothed chest and fleshy stomach and hips peeking through heaps of fabric, you suggested defiance to him; something he wasn't supposed to do, but would because he chose it for himself.

“The other option is that you choose this, you choose me. And you would be doomed, Lysander.” Indubitably, it would be an unspeakable betrayal. This reclaim of ownership of a body to do with what he pleased. “Things will be changed. We will never be able to go back to how it was before. You will never be the same. You will never be forgiven.”

“Aye, I will be reproached. I will be disgraced, and doomed as I've ever been.” Then, his armored silhouette eclipsed the forest canopy above you. “So be it.”

Gone were the treetops sprawling explosively into starless skies. Treetops as skeletal spires seeming to reach oneness with the night. His enormous husk of ungentle edges and cold was far blacker, more imposing than the ancients, yet his touch spread warmth through you.

He kissed you fast and fleeting from within his sanctuary, and then under your jaw with an open mouth. Shuddering heat and wetness slowly made a descent along your neck, his teeth a glistening concept though not felt. As he explored you, molded the softness of you with his fingers and pinching claws, he found your utter humanness to be divine. The surreality of it stifled his exhilaration.

His lips smoothed across your chest where heat now rose to the surface of your skin. There he rested, seeking to leach it from you, meld it with himself completely, unbelieving that mere centimeters of bone and viscera separated him from your thudding heart. It knocked rhythmically against your house, could've been a clockmaker’s best work with how strongly it reverberated in his head, throbbed in your ears, propelled blood through all of your incomprehensibly tiny places.

A long tongue with some thickness emerged from his helmet, came out serpentine with winding eagerness. It was split severely, nearly halved, and those halves glided across your breasts in damp, lightweight strokes. They caressed the hard peaks of your nipples, made them so sensitive to his lips, the precise flicking of his tongue, that you moaned. Pushed at his adamantine forehead feebly and clenched your thighs for friction.

Your head bloomed with heat that moved, flowing like lava from behind your ears to nestle between your eyes. Barely a touch and you were already full of perversions, haughty courage, flickering urges pulling wool over your soundness, and you wanted things you'd forgotten were possible to be wanted.

Then, you spoke like you were outside of yourself; a spectator looking in on depravity, “I want to touch you. Show yourself to me, Lysander,” and you used a leg to rustle the heavy fabric and chainmail hanging down the front of him.

By then, he had plunged his face down to your stomach, sampled your bathing fragrances and brine produced from your sweat with his tongue. The halves of his tongue were wormlike, slippery, trying to delve below the robes which kept him from smelling you, tasting your arousal.

You wouldn't let him go further. He was at the mercy of your whims, your leg pestering him to hardness. Strain building behind layers.

“Right now, I know no other tormentor as beautiful and devilish as you. I feel weakened by you and your magic. Intoxicated. You're a trickster god come down to seduce me,” said Lysander, through raspy breaths and stones tumbling in his throat. While he thrust his hips against your thighs, he reached past his coverings, loosened them, and let his cock fall.

You were startled by the weight of it as he continued to hump you, insides awash with cold guilt, wrenching in anticipation for what was to come. This was not what you deserved to receive for your crookedness, but you would take it from him, regardless.

For now, your hunger was quiet. For now, you were distracted by his adoration. How he revered your body, your temple of mortality like it was something truly enviable and memorable.

Lysander’s heavy cock wept invisibly on your skin, unseen to you in the dark. The first strokes you laid on it were featherlight, experimenting, yet all the same coquettish and making his entire body flinch with feeling. A groan started within his chest, deep and resounding pleasure rising high in his throat. It diffused into warm, bestial hums so separated from anything human that it astonished you. Aroused you more.

You couldn't fully grasp his girth, not even partway. Only the head fit in your fingers; a silky, spearhead shape which pulsated, oozed sticky heat into your palm as you kneaded it, smeared the stuff around the large slit with your thumb.

The rest of him was unordinary and textured, harsh against your hand as you stroked his length. Flared segments grew severe at his thick base, unsharp ridges grabbed your skin with each pass, creating delicious resistance that earned you his praise with more thrumming; throaty purrs.

A being this substantial was never meant to be experienced by a human, even though he was half-bastard, and despite his unbelonging to either of his bloodlines. You speculated that he'd never been given the option to know any creature so intimately, not with how he shuddered within his jaggedy husk as your mouth sucked the head of his cock, swirling saliva and substance with your tongue.

He would not go far past your teeth, so you did what you could by wetting, prodding his salty slit while both hands wrung his shaft, groped his hefty sac, felt through the coverings and chainmail he had undone for his abdomen. It was strong, clenched, yet jutted out in response to unfamiliarity roaming him. The span of flesh you could traverse without his writhing was the same as the rest of him: scarred and uniform. Something had been taken from him.

“Gods—that’s enough. Enough, now. Quickly. Off of me, you filthy thing!” He was stricken as he spoke, voice urgent and taut, guttural in the way that you liked. You were pushed off of his cock, back down onto the boulder while he rutted hard through your thighs, using all of your flesh and fat and pliability to surround him.

Your body moved like a straw doll; weightless to him, jolting to you. It was over suddenly with a potent groan, his helmeted face thrown up to the sky, and an explosion of hot cum spraying across your thighs. He twitched with more dripping out onto you, but he never went soft.

It had happened so fast that you were left disoriented once everything stopped.

“Lysander—”

“Aye,” he rasped out, winded. “I really am no better than a beast, am I? Forgive me, I didn't know that would happen. You—I hadn't expected you would do that. I never knew it was possible to feel as I just did. What pleasure. What agony. What relief.”

You opened your legs as his spend cooled on your skin, bothered by the way it tightened, dried honey-stiff and tacky.

“The stories about you are all false, then?” you asked, docile as he shucked off your robes and laid them on the ground. A summer quilt spread out over dewy grass. “The stories about your carnality. Your lust for humans and beasts and eagerness to lay with them. Was there any ounce of truth in them?”

“Far be it for me to speak on stories that have grown and aged alongside the trees in this forest. They do me no harm personally, as they remind me that I am still alive. Alive enough to still hear them,” said Lysander, recovered and breathing evenly within his panoply. “You can believe what you'd like.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Aye, looking at you, I suppose there could be some truth to it.”

You wished your vision could spear through the lightless world, into the dark entanglement of his helmet to see his expression as he looked at you now. Was he smiling? Frowning? Wincing as the threads of his identity unraveled?

“C’mere, you.” He hoisted you off of the boulder to lay you across the soiled robes he'd put down. Satisfied, he stared at you, long and thorough, at your complete nakedness arranged for him to see. “You're such a sight. I've seen much in this life of mine, enough that I would've believed it if I was told I'd seen it all. You? If part of my punishment was for my eyes being removed, I'd regret nothing. If my punishment were to be death, and my final memories were of this time with you, I'd regret nothing still.”

Shame sobered you. Wrapped your head close like a red burning wreath, singed your ears, and made your scalp itch with prickly heat. Your eyes felt sore and reddened, precariously tilting towards tears, which would've been devastating.

“You can still stop,” you blurted, wincing through a kiss, sharp teeth grazing down the column of your throat. He didn't bite you, only teased the idea with them. Soon, his mouth was on your abdomen, forked tongue probing lower still. “Lysander, you can still stop. Choose differently. Spare yourself.”

“Nay,” he replied, throatiness returned. “I've chosen you. You've bewitched me and I want for nothing else. Allow me to return your kindness.”

There then came clattering beside you, of heaviness falling from a height and vibrating the earth as it struck. It shook up through your spine, danced along the back of your neck with thousands of spindly legs. You squinted at the night and saw something darker, a helmet.

Before you could've glimpsed his face, freezing leather pressed to your eyes, fluttering your lashes. He told you not to look at him in his clearest voice. He almost pleaded for it.

“Eyes closed.” His breaths scorched down your thighs, words damp in the seams. “See nothing. Feel everything. Hear me ravish you, and let me hear you be ravished.”

It was his tongue that went first, laving decadently, thoroughly, bunching the serpent halves together; a well waiting for collection, to be filled. He swilled what arousal he could take from you with his saliva and kneaded you with a short, flat nose. You thrashed your hips against him, away from him, anchored in place by his heavy hands, adamantine gauntlet embedding ten stingers below your skin.

Lysander was unclean with you, indecorous in how he sucked and swallowed, kissed into you, ate as far as he could go with seemingly no satisfaction. It was repugnant and ferine, his most subdued self now at the surface and freed. He went on with that intensity until you trembled, body writhing across fabric and grass as you came up onto bent elbows, feeling through a suffocating void of dark and pleasure cinching around you for the top of his head.

You moaned achingly while trying to perceive what you were not allowed to see. Nothing stimulated curiosity more than what was forbidden, and you fathomed why as your fingertips worked to decipher his features, transmitted the rough etchings into bleary images with no beginning or end.

“Do you fear what you feel?” asked Lysander, without ire, but miserable in his yearning. He gave you permission to translate his darkness, make sense of the pits in his flesh, all of the stony, broken protrusions which had been filed down to stumps and never grown back. They were fused to him, bone and cartilage excruciatingly removed, emerging from the sides of his head and his temples. “Does my hideousness frighten you? Am I the abomination that you dreamed of?”

“I know no fear,” you said, and Lysander’s coarse cheeks raised, folded, and strained against your thighs as he smiled. “To me, you are merely Lysander. Not the abomination. Not that damned armor that you wear. Let that be enough.”

Pleased, he returned to you with fervor, to savor more of your push and pull. The jounce of your hips. Wanting him close as much as you wanted to shove him away.

He was mostly an amalgam of nonsense in your head; physical pieces unable to interlock into anything whole. Complicated.

It frustrated you that he would not let you set your eyes upon his true visage. It frustrated you that he was delaying your gratification because he liked licking, sucking you raw so you'd cry out sharply from your chest and not your head.

But, he had become anxious from anticipation, tormented by inevitability, so he turned you over. Maneuvered you onto your knees, splayed them over the sodden robes and damp grass. His armor grated as he came closer, crunching into that unforgiving form of sharpness and cold, startling you with the heat of his cock filling the gap between your legs.

“I'll hurt you,” was spoken differently from before when he had wanted you, looked at you questionably, tried to use his enormity to frighten you. He was unhindered now. “I do not want to hurt you, but I will. I cannot deny what either of my halves crave. I have tasted excess, the essence from your body and your magic. I am yours.”

“I knew what would come from this, Lysander. I know what can happen.” He could tear you apart, perforate your organs, be inundated by desire and biology so immense that he consumes your body. It was far too late to trade this for another course. “If you're mine, prove it to me. Show me how loyal you are. Don't stop until you've left your mark.”

“Aye, as you wish.” His cock dragged firmly along your abdomen, hot and pulsing, twitching against you like a thing searching for a way in. “You say cruel things with such sweetness. I fear that my madness, my brokenness have manifested you, and when this is over, you'll only have been a figment of fantasy.”

You swayed with him, clamped him with your thighs weakened by his tongue. Lysander’s groan resonated, harsher without the helmet, sharp like his teeth.

“If this is a fantasy, however short it is, we should both enjoy it. Fuck me. I'm yours.”

“Aye. You are mine.”

Those hard-worn leather hands and frigid claws were on you again, spread wide everywhere. He could not grab you, enclose you with his iridescent fortress without gouging you on his spikes. Skin-to-skin, burying himself within you completely, that connectedness would always elude him.

So, he devoured you how he could. Had indulged with his entire mouth, his wild hands, and now his cock. His head was gluey and smeared a sluggish trail to your core where he stroked you with it eagerly. Fluids intermingled: his, yours, sweat, salvia, and earthy condensation. More of his seeped out, warm and heady, a thick layer to cover his cock before he took you.

He nudged himself inside, listened for your brittle gasps of shock to the stretch, the great and unnatural intrusion. They came right away. You surprised him by letting him continue, strained the muscles in your legs to accommodate depth, and whimpered only a little when he started to thrust slowly.

You couldn't route your mind to other things as he did this, moved fractionally to minimize your agony, pushed deeper to gape your significantly smaller anatomy. His jaw chattered from overhead, beckoning either in patience, or stifling what sounds of bliss he really wanted to exhale.

Even when he had rearranged you again, down onto one hip with your other leg settled on his arm, he could only sheath himself halfway. He had finally decided to stop after pushing too hard and hearing you gag, fractured the silent air with a startled cry, one which was accompanied by real tears. The only ones you could ever remember spilling, and swiped away as quickly as they had come.

Lysander turned his head to your leg on him, molded a kiss to your shin, and took his time thrusting into you. Eventually, he let you rest on your back with both legs strewn over his arms. His hands cradled the globes of your ass, lifted your lower body up for his cock to reach.

His immense girth with the rough segments and grappling ridges started to feel good. Nothing went missed, nowhere went without being stroked or prodded. Your breaths were as shattered as you felt by him, eyes gazing up vacantly at the starless sky, hands creasing fabric and tearing up black fingers of grass.

At your every moan, his thrusts grew a little more honed and his armor grinded hollowly with a beat, putting some irrational fear in you that he was unscrewing and would fall apart in pieces. His vocalizations were a combination of wild thrumming and bestial panting and bellowing.

The silvery-gold stallions were probably pacing timidly, snorting defensive fog into the air, alerting the disgruntled coachmen to the sounds. He would've heard your frailer noises intertwined with Lysander's and would ask no questions tomorrow, nor be able to bring himself to look at you again.

Lysander’s strokes inside your body reached deep, left you queasy in the head as he effortlessly jostled you on his cock. The segments along his shaft pushed and pulled the fine tissue around your entrance. It throbbed sorely. You detected blood and thought of the faint tang of copper slick on your skin; imagined a pink, creamy ring around his cock.

The ridges were what finished you, built up that orgasmic well in your stomach and loins. It overflowed when you touched yourself and choked from sensitivity, but kept going. The back of your head dug into your soggy robes, joining the grass and the earth and natural indulgences you had abandoned in isolation.

You withdrew behind clenched eyelids, a world made of wrinkled skin and twitching eyelashes. It forced you to focus on Lysander; his ripe, inhuman pleasure as close to climax as you were. It forced you to truly experience his cock, the sheer size of it impaling you again and again, foul and sloppy and never fitting right. The ridges tried to find purchase along your inner walls, adhere unrelentingly like briars to your clothes.

They were evolutionary for dragons, meant to massage to numbness, house a cock cozily until it was flaccid. What you possessed was smaller and far less robust, so with every pass Lysander made, the ridges teased your velvety insides with hard tugs until you were over the edge.

Tiny threads of fire ignited under your skin, carrying you through the white static in your head, torrents of electric writhing through each limb, finger, and toe. It crashed over you so powerfully that you were soundless as if submerged underwater, or trapped in some airless place. Just as fast as it had all come on, the pleasure lifted off of you like a spirit ascending to the gods, leaving you pleasantly spent in cool, static relief.

Lysander had seen your warped grimace, your subsequent facial softening and sighing. He had felt your walls clench him, trying to wring whatever they could from his cock but he hadn't been ready until he saw you calm, intoxicated by emptiness, sprawled open and unmoving below him.

He rutted into you savagely at the end, stirring you back into discomfort, but he was done and cum surged inside of you so strongly that it caused another reaction. You gasped nasally, shivered as he fucked you through his orgasm with feral moans, hips lashing your naked ass with the chainmail he hadn't removed.

His release overflowed; globs of it pushed out, around his cock as he withdrew. It leaked from you sluggish and plentiful, and you pretended for it to be pooling hot white beneath you, under your ass and legs once Lysander let them down gently.

Even in your sedated afterglow, your body stinging, sore and chafed from overuse, you could still think of nothing but catastrophe, soul fruit, and whether Lysander was capable of producing life, or if everything about him was truly damned.

You heard his armor scrape, his helmet returned to complete him: the atrocity known as the Knight of Noss. He had once again become loathsome and impenetrable, but he stayed with you there on the ground, watching your limbs shift around as though the relaxation you felt was everywhere, all around you. An aura radiating, vibrating like a pleased animal.

“Such a sight. I will never tire of it.” He said from within his castle of magnificent thorns. “My days from before feel far away, long gone. They're memories of someone else, someone destined to walk in darkness, through rivers of blood and decay. You see me as more. I am more.”

Your night sky descended, swallowing everything around it into its peaks and mass. He was careful not to come down so far as to crush you beneath his armor, but he covered you, concealed you perfectly from the spiral of ancient trees overhead, from always prying, hidden eyes.

He kissed you. You accepted his lips and his veneration, his chest of ice.

After a moment, “This is our end set in stone, Lysander. From here on out, we will be marching to our doom.”

“Aye,” he soothed grim reality with fearlessness, devotion pressed against your mouth. “We are doomed. But, we face it together.”

Maybe, it wasn't so foolish to hope.

Maybe.

Maybe…

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author's note: so, first and foremost, thank you so much for reading. the concept for the knight of noss has existed in my head for almost fifteen years. until the past three or four years, however, I have never had the skill to be able to execute any of the ideas. to see an idea like this come to fruition after so long is, honestly... overwhelming. to know that there people who wanted to see my explore this idea means even more to me.

if you're interested in the actual story, you're more than free to shoot me questions about it. I did have a massive amount of lore written out, but decided against including it here so as to not drag things on and on.

I hope you enjoyed reading this story, and I hope to hear your thoughts on it! I'll see y'all in the next piece ❤️🙂‍↕️.