Circle With The Snow (Minors DNI)

MINORS DNI|18+ Writing|Reader Beware|Psychological/Cosmic Horror/Fantasy/Fairytale Tragedy|Asks/Requests: Open

[thecoldwhitenorth]

~MASTERLISTS~

*RED denotes extreme graphic violence, PINK denotes explicit sexual content

[Rules]

About Me The birds & the bees

INTERSECTING/THE GREY SHIMMER(Series) ->

WORLDBUILDING: Preview 1

🎶AMBIENCE PLAYLIST🎶 Notes

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6 (NSFW)

A TOKEN IN A TOWER (Series) ->

{Written for and dedicated to peachymilk}

Chapter 1:

Part 1 Part 2

Part 3

Chapter 2: Part 1 Part 2 (NSFW)

ONESHOTS

Ragnar the Red (Skyrim) Lineage of Durin (The Hobbit) Lineage of Durin (Part 2)

Heir of Durin (Lineage Cont.) Heir of Durin (Lineage Cont. 2)

Green with envy (Thorin Peachy collab)

It Doesn't Come Off ("Ghost" Riley) It Doesn't Come Off ("Ghost" Riley Part 2) (NSFW)

[thecoldwhitenorth]

THE ISLAND

So I've already abandoned unreal although it would be prettier, I dont know how to make it playable. On the other hand...

A high view of the closed airstrip.

Looking down it, rather proud of my color palleting.

I will hopefully eventually release this as a playable adventure map, so please bear with me.

I really tried to give the terrain varied and organic feel, looking into erosion patterns to really capture the mountains' geometry.

View in one of the moutain valleys.

The road through the same mountain valley, showcasing a little more of the mounting shape and the custom trees.

Uphill view of the largest mountain on the island, just before the caldera

Up the mountain road, towards the airfield. I dont want to show everything, to leave some manner of exploration, supposing I finish a complete adventure map.

[thecoldwhitenorth]

Hiatus?

I'm working on a bunch of other stuff for the forseeable future, mostly real-life work and projects, but one hobby thing I still wanted to do was give "Intersecting" a physical world to build on.

Im working with unreal engine and Minecraft (cringe) so we'll see which one works out better. I still want to try to post the last part of the Heir to Durin miniseries-oneshot-thing, but I can't really put a release time on it.

I'll still write, but it will likely end up being monthly to bi-monthly, so if any of you want something specific, give me a shout. I want to be especially thankful to @3sriracha and @thewifeoflevi for being so kind in their enthusiastic support of my little arts and crafts endeavor.

Biggest love goes to @peachymilkandcream mostly for being a hottie, but also for being the one to get me into a place I can express my imagination relatively easily.

In the meantime while I try my best to complete the to do list, please check out my older OC work, as that was my original passion project. Thank you all for following and reading!

[thecoldwhitenorth]

OF THE HEIR OF DURIN|ThorinxReader Part 2

A/N: Sorry I've been gone so long! between the regular shift, and picking up extra jobs, I haven't had much time to myself of any kind. This is the continuation of the twoshot for @3sriracha, This is technically a standalone 2-parter, but greater context can be gathered from the previous 2 part oneshot, HERE.

TAGS & WARNINGS: Fluff/Angst, Thorin x Reader, Fantasy, Marriage issues, Sexual content, mentions of privates/sexual themes, Mutual greiving, Descriptions of a miscarried child, Blood, Death of an elder, Finding solace in eachother, etc.

Now playing: "The World is Ahead"-Howard Shore

The twentieth of April in the year 2941 was cold for spring morning for the time of year, snow still fell from the sky, even in the valleys about the blue mountains. The migrating animals’ prints could be seen clear in the freshly trampled pack. Its not common for them to move in this kind of cold, but still fresh sheds line the ways through the thickets; antlers for handles of dwarven steel, and fresh meat for the dwarven banquet halls.

The bucks are in the rut, the ringing of fresh points raking together as they fight for dominance in a mating dance common to all of beast and man. The does are already nursing their newborns in the thickets, and life in general springs forth from winter and her icy clutch. And as nature so the population below the mountain slopes bring their own infants into the thawing sunlight.

The cradle of Durin is not so blessed and the wed of Thorin has grown farther from hope as she struggles with her own value as a barren would-be queen. You can often be found walking the halls praying silently to take your mind off of the approach of yet another cycle, another bleeding, and another time you will cry yourself dry in the sinewed arms of your ever supporting husband. You laugh to yourself the tiny consolation that Dís had offered of unlimited careless sexual encounters.

The dwarrow really had an oddly crass way of teasing her brother, and you by proxy. Far from the well-mannered woman she was in public, but perhaps this was her way of showing a vulnerability and a realness to you. Recalling the gentleness she had shown to you the day of your wedding is an assurance to you, and you realize you may be a mite richer than you had initially thought. Not with silver and gold in the ways of the underdwellers, but in love and empathy from those who call you beloved.

A dual pitched tittering alerts you to a small bird perched upon the bulwark of the wall you walk upon; a familiar song to you and every dwarf who knows the old stories. A woodland thrush, a bird that brings luck and good tidings on the winds of springtime. As quickly as it lands it takes flight, rapid wings bringing it into the sunrise of the east.

“An omen… a prophecy of return to our ancestral lands when the thrush takes flight for the east.”

You turn and see the silver bearded Balin walking with his familiar swagger towards the same wall edge from which you gaze after the bird. He rests himself with a great sigh against the battlements, as if he is an elderly man suffering the pains of a long and hard life. He is this way often, appearing like some senior despite being a typical middle aged dwarf.

“The ravens shall return to their home in the mountain, and the thrushes will make nest there; and that is the signal of the end of the dragon’s reign. Or to something of that effect.”

“What does this mean? Would we be moving?”

He takes a long moment as if deciding how to break some particularly bad news to you. The many times Thorin had recounted the story to you flows through your mind, the fall of his people’s ancestral land, the sickness that befell his grandfather in that time and ultimately lead to his death; how he had garnered his namesake at the expense of the pale one.

“He’s going to try to retake it, I can feel his ambition in the very air... it worries me greatly.”

“You mean… from the dragon? Does my own husband desire his destruction for me not having brought him a son?”

“Nay, nay, I wouldn’t think its like that at all, its… his desire to reach his destiny, take back the humiliation the drake wrought upon us on that terrible day, it’s his hereditary pride, one that cost everyone he called ‘father’ and ‘mentor’.”

Realizing how your singleness of mind poisons your every thought and worry you quickly excuse yourself from Balin’s musings and return to your chambers. If you are absolutely honest with yourself, you feel quite useless, the dwarves having no need for any skill you would have, save for organization in your own home. There were not many times you had need to cook or otherwise provide for Thorin, as the Dwarven social network often left meals as an extended family affair.

“And if I bring him no heir, and god forbid that he would be slain in the retaking of such a place, the whole endeavor for the sake of the line of Durin would come to naught.”

The depression brought on by the early miscarriage of the year prior had never quite left you. often your dreams would be filled with the wailing of a needy child, only for you to wake to silence in your dark chambers

“What would become of me then, should I be unable to conceive, shall I be put away if I fail to complete my marital duty?”

Balin seems a little uncomfortable discussing the topic of coitus and pregnancy but he still tries to placate the fears you hold.

“Its not some kind of suicide mission, brought on by a desire for distance; but the culmination of the seer’s prophecies.”

The wind snaps cold and dry across your faces as the breath of an ancient being, carrying the whispers of leaves and the sudden silence of animals that are hidden from predators. Even the trill of the Rock Ravens is nowhere to be heard as the sun is blocked by the overcast of ashen clouds.

“But I must say I have a fear of my own. The sickness that took his grandfather, I see the same spark of it in his eyes. He will not fail you for your sake, but he shall not return the same man.”

“If this is supposed to be a comfort you have not done to well.”

“Comfort is not something that comes to me naturally, I wish I could bring better report but…”

He trails off as far of thunder rocks the peaks. You both look out to see a fine sheet of water falling upon the valley below. Like a barrier the storm cell stands sentinel to the east, as if to ward off any idea of expedition or adventure.

“The weather this year has been odd. I feel as if a hand comes to hold us back, it keeps us on the mountain with avalanches in the cold seasons, and great storms come the wet. I have not seen things like this since I was a lad watching the rain callers of the western hills. Their craft is a sinister and archaic thing, an energy I feel now.”

You ponder on his words, the omens, the life you now live as one of comfort, but ever filled with sadness and trial. Perhaps you now bear the same curse as was levied upon the house of Durin having married in yourself. There have been two other stillbirths since the wedding of oakenshield, and the whispers of the people seem to be of you. you are sure of it from the glances they give you as you walk the lofty perches of your confinement.

To them you are the curse, an outsider brought in on good faith by their peerless head, but carrying within her bosom darkness and death. A particularly old crone of a dwarrow had relayed in broken switches of common and dwarven this very thing. You are a dull blackened thing to them, and with none but your currently absent husband for true consolation your heart remains rent.

It’s a much brighter day when the elders of Durin’s rest congregate to the hall of Thorin’s Gate. Or evening rather, the sky is ablaze already in vibrant pinks and reds as the excited chatter is hushed by the great horn on the raised seat of the royals. Thorin extends his hand forward across the throng of men, old and young alike gathered around the seats of the elders. All attention switches to the stalwart leader of the children of Durin, an anticipation building in those gathered.

“You all know the prophecies made to us at the destruction of our ancestral home. As some of us might remember looking back upon the smouldering ruins of the lonely mountain, we were told that once more would the raven return to the crags, and the thrush make her nest in the slope.”

A murmur cascades through the crowd, some unsure but most excited. They are all restless, itching for a fight; too tired of remaining comfortable in the blue mountains while the terrible sleeps in their stolen inheritance. A voice rises from the crowd.

“And ye would betray our safety for what, a horde of gold n’ precious stones?”

A short fiery haired dwarf strides up the center corridor between those gathered. He is stalwart, broad in every way, but not chubby, built like the boar he often rides upon. Dain of the Iron Hills stares down his cousin with challenge burning in his eyes.

“Yer whole line is destroyed, yer grandfather’s own greed took so many lives, and lost the mount in the first place, and then he dies at the hands of a Gundabad Warlord in a shameful display of cowardice!”

Thorin’s Fists clench tight at the words. Even you, from your lofty secret position far up on the gallery balcony overlooking the gathered multitude of beards, can see it. But you cannot intervene, as only the male elders and warriors, along with a select few dwarrow sages were allowed to gather below. It seems Dain is not finished with his rebuke as he follows with scathing remarks of Thorin’s father.

“Even in the fray yer own father was lost, perhaps wandered off like a deserter, or maybe captured s’ well. He was always a poor sensitive old man.”

The Prince, now seething with emotion, seems about to retort, but Dain cuts him off once more.

“And as if a slight to us all, ya take foreign blood, a human girlie as wife. A barren-wombed mayfly who will wither before the dwarvlings of her now kin would see adulthood.  Ye people of Durin, sons and daugthers alike: Ye lost yer lives for greed, saw not the rule of a coward in vain to reclaim Moria, and now ye would rally behind a fool to retake what was first lost?”

He sweeps his hand across the elders’ table denoting he now speaks to all those agreeing or at least complicit with Thorin’s recent choices as to the future of his people.

“Methinks ye are all fools here, every one. Cousin, Come’n speak to me in the iron hills when you grow tired of yer madness, and perhaps I may find it in me to aid yer cause.”

Dain carries an uncharacteristic hostility that seems to boil between the two royals. You look on as Thorin surges forward, slamming his fist upon the table before him and upending his seat in the process. Dain does not turn from his leaving, even as his cousin spits anger at his turned back.

“You know nothing of my kingship or destiny, and you go as far as to insert yourself into my marriage bed? For what, your vanity? I called you brother, even before the one I had passed from me. I thought I could trust you with my deepest regrets, and my greatest dreams, but it appears it is you who has been the coward all along.”

Dain stops at the accusation but doesn’t reply, allowing Thorin to emphasize his counter.

“You fear the dragon, the same as you feared the orcs of Moria. Is that why I saw you not upon that bloodied field cousin? Were you then consumed by fear also? So be it, what I must do, I will do alone.”

“That is how ye shall be Thorin, son of Thrain. Alone. And there ye shall die, as y’choke on the same sickness that took your Grandfather before ya.”

“I AM NOT MY GRANDFATHER!”

Even from your vantage point you can see the spittle fly as the prince’s temper boils over. In his rage he upends the table before him, the hide map and all the parchments and paraphernalia on it cascading in a clatter to the stone floor.

“I will have my revenge, and I will have my kingdom. When I take that mountain I shall send to you the raven, and you will then know i have broken the curse of my forefathers that failed before me.”

Instead of a returned anger on Dain’s face, thereupon is written a profound sadness, as if some great sorrow has been confirmed to him. He merely shakes his head before leaving, inhaling deep as if trying to supress any external evidence of sorrow within him. He speaks no more for what is there to say at a time as this?

The whole mood of the hall seems to sour from there, from their head leaving, the smaller clans of the iron hills and diverse families from the dwarven abroad grow in murmuring amongst themselves. The clans leave one by one, Thorin at first attempting to rally them back to him, but they merely ignore his words. Even the elders, and those of homes in Ered Luin shamefully leave the presence of their would be king. By the time the filtering flow of bodies subsides, only a handful remain, a small group of eclectic dwarves, not looking at all the warrior type, more of merchants and craftsmen.

But resolute they stand, a look of hope and expectation palpable. A single white haired dwarf remains seated behind your husband at the elder’s table, a face you know well as Balin, who although appears more aged than Thorin, is actually his junior. Seeing the small band before him, Thorin composes himself and speaks his native tongue to those gathered

“Anthâan zahar menun ghabil tharkûn; Khazâd rakhâs udnud uzbad-zâram! Armanah adrân sigin, rayyud Durin, Inkhi igjijê rabriki baruk!”

“The omens choose few, so few shall take back our home! We have waited a long time, heirs of Durin, now come! Let us break steel!”

With the words still strange to your ears the few that remain grow rowdy with shouts and cheers before the hall doors burst open and two young faces rush in. Fili and Kili, the sons of the lady Dis, Shouting at those gathered enthusiastically in Khazdul befroe slipping into the common tongue.

“Is it true uncle that the retaking has come to us? The prophecies are fulfilled?”

Balin steps down to the young men and with a hand on each’s shoulder turns the two around.

“Perhaps, but it is a time not for the young men like yourself. It would not do well for the entire remaining line of Durin to pass beyond the gate in a ragtag band like this.”

“We wish to fight as well uncle, can we not prove ourselves as men of mettle like any of the sons of the deep?”

There is no time to argue farther as Dis herself strides into the hall cursing her sons for desiring to be a part of such a foolhardy endeavor. The three devolve into a stout screaming match, voices overlapping attempting to cut each other off and speak over one another. The few still gathered look quite uncomfortable until Thorin asserts himself loudly and silence once more prevails in the quite empty meeting hall.

“Your boys are now men dear sister. I cannot control their destiny anymore than you can. Let them choose nobility over safety if that is their wish. I shall lay down my life before theirs should anything happen.”

Dis relents, a move so uncharacteristic compared to her usual stubbornness that it takes even her sons a moment to register. She is taken by worry as most mothers would be, turning from an self-assured dwarrow to a blubbering pitiful mother in naught a second.

“Mother, mother, we must prepare, would not leave for another few months. Stop acting like we have perished already!”

Now playing:"Farewell Old Friend"-Marcin Przybylowicz

It was more than a few months, Preparations for such a small group, in light of the abysmal support the other members that called the blue mountains home had garnered took much longer than anticipated. Long enough for Thorin to get over the brooding that plagued him in the days following his cousin’s denouncing. The action must have cut him deeply, for even the comfort of your bosom, or the warming primal love of your loins could not appease him to come in to you those first days.

You knew it was a sacred and private matter to dwarves, not a tool, or a recess, or something to be paraded like it was in human culture. Yet that did not stop you from desiring him, desiring more. In truth you hoped that you might have a piece of him to hold with you before he would depart for the lonely mountain, such was your fear that you too might lose something priceless to the jaws of the dragon.

He did come around, a little cold at first, but then enthusiastic and passionate as the prospect of retaking his homeland drew nearer to him. Sometimes you ruefully thought he loved the lonely mountain more than you, but time and time again, he would assuage your fears, worshiping at your altar more and more frequently as the day drew near.

It was another cold day, after another period of sickness, and of holding on to hope for you as Thorin’s company loaded their horses for travel, thirteen strong. You watched from your window high above the courtyard, the weather that seemed to plague you as a reflection of your emotions. Wet, melancholy, and void of hope as your beloved saddled to ride from you, perhaps to his very end.

A knock at the door to your room signals the arrival of the aging midwife, riding within a metal chair pushed by your now dear acquaintance Thaelin.

“Im so sorry m’lady Oakenshield, but she did insist I bring her here posthaste, she has some urgent thing to tell ye.”

You rise somewhat painfully and approach the aged dwarrow, her eyes unseeing as ever they were, yet her aura sharp and focused.

“My child…”

“I’m here Irak’amad”

She runs a leathery and feeble hand up your torso feeling her way to your cheek. The poor old woman had suffered a fall on running to try to save you from your miscarriage and her health had greatly declined from there to her being bound by the chair. She breathes shallowly, labored like an old woman on the brink of permanent exhaustion.

“My child, I had dreamed many a time that I would see the future of Durin safe, free from the curse set upon it by the pale orc. I shall not see death before I see an heir to the line, of that I am convinced. Yet here I am, old and of my final days…”

She pauses either for effect, or to compose herself

“Do not think me a fool for hoping my child, and do not be consumed by this thing. There is yet time, and providence for us all. I will leave you not with sorrow and the cynicism of so many of my people but with that hope.”

Her sagely words being said, she runs her hands back down your body her eyes closing as her hands cup your belly just below the navel. Her eyes shoot open, cataracted but full of spiritual clarity as they brim with tears of joy withheld for decades. Her hands press harder, gripping the bodice of your garments as her mouth quivers into a wrinkled smile. She gasps ever so silently;

“An… an heir to Durin…”

Thaelin calls her, but she remains still, one hand locked in a grip of your clothing, the other rested upon your womb. She does not answer the second time, nor the third. Upon feeling her neck there is no pulse, the only thing remaining of life is the serene and satisfied smile on her cracked lips and the tears that still fall from those blind eyes. She has gone.

Even as Thaelin Cries out in grief, desperate to wake the dwarrow form her eternal sleep, you feel the gravity of her words sink in as the feeble hands slip free from you. the rain really does mirror you, your face wet with joy before the drops of the sky above have a chance strike your rosy cheeks.

Your feet carry you to your beloved, tripping and falling before him in the mud and water of the flagstone courtyard. He catches you as uncontrollable sobs rock your body in his arms. He tries to ask you what the matter is, and if he should stay one more night but you shake your head at him, only grabbing one of his hands and placing it upon your belly as the midwife had.

There is nothing to feel, no kick for it is to early, and his quizzical expression reflects his inability to sense as the midwife had only moments before. You only manage to gasp out one word between sobs, so close to his face that only a breath is necessary to convey the message;

“Pregnant.”

[thecoldwhitenorth]

OF THE HEIR OF DURIN|ThorinxReader Part 1

A/N: this is for @3sriracha, don't worry, its part one, everyone will live happily ever after ;) This is technically a standalone 2 parter, but greater context can be gathered from the previous 2 part oneshot, HERE. TAGS & WARNINGS: Fluff/Angst, Thorin x Reader, Fantasy, Marriage issues, Sexual content in medical context, mentions of privates/sexual themes, Mutual greiving, Descriptions of a miscarried child, Blood, funeral, Finding solace in eachother, etc.

NOW PLAYING: "Reaper's Coast"-Borislav Slavov

Stray chips of slag strike the dwarf prince on his bare arms, searing pockmarked burns into his flesh. But Thorin pays it no mind, striking down on the cherry red steel upon his anvil, each blow slowly releasing the pent-up frustrations of the past few months. Part of him feels foolish for vindicating himself in such a childish way, such as a youth plucking the petals from a flower; “She loves me, she loves me not…”

That is what this is about is it not? His sister had warned him in no uncertain terms of the mildest risk of incompatibility, but the alternative of dealing with a dwarrow for three hundred yeas was far less appealing. The part that cut him the deepest is the ticking clock. It had been a talk of blushing and discomfort, relaying the fertility cycles of humankind to him, but his fresh bride had still conveyed it well; he had but twenty to thirty years at most to produce an heir.

The issue of the difficulty in conceiving wasn’t fully clear to him even despite the stated facts by a somewhat amused and flustered Dís. She delivered with complete surety that although the physical attributes of the males in middle earth remain the same, therein lie minor anatomical differences.

Size although not important would at minimum play a role in a level of discomfort; races reflecting their outward proportions to their hidden places, humans being of larger size overall but dwarves maintaining their stocky and stubby build throughout their bodies.

To Thorin this seemed more of an inconsequential muse of information purely meant by his sister as a jab of some sort at his masculinity. Perhaps it was to satiate a fear of the physical difficulties being proportioned so differently, but at the least he didn’t have to worry about competition with the haughty elves.

For peoples not far more sustained and doubly blessed by longevity, it would be a foolish thing to waste time and not get down to the business of producing offspring. The newlyweds had been encouraged, regardless of the customary privacy surrounding dwarven culture involving intimacy, to get “Right to it” as Dwalin had so bluntly put it. Perhaps it was a mistake with a human after all.

Part of the lofty prince hated the feeling of emotional and physical vulnerability, especially considering how sacred an act it was in dwarven culture. Not some frivolous thing to be given freely as the humans especially in larger cities and settlements often would fall to, or the elves, parading around the marriage sheet with the telltale bloodstain of the deflowered.

Swing hammer, fashion metal, break the stone of the cold earth below; a much simpler existence than that of a married man. The ring of the Anvil is still pealing in his unprotected ears when his nephew comes to him in the great smithy.

“Uncle, your bride requests your presence at this time, she seemed to be… distraught.”

Thorin all but throws the hammer into a pile of darkstone coal as he whirls to face Kili. His reply is laden with the stress of his minds thoughts as he bites off his words at the undeserving young dwarf.

“And what would you know boy? Does she answer to you now?”

“N… No uncle I wouldn’t dare its… its one of the dwarrow maids; Thaelin I believe it was.”

“As in Thaelin the midwifes daughter?”

Kili shakes his head, not really knowing for sure, but the dwarf prince fears the worst, his pessimism darkening in his eyes. His had grips Kili’s shoulder in a silent apology and grave foreboding.

“I… I feel a darkness. Not something I can describe, but an echo of a strange foreboding I will presently face. I will go to her now, you must watch the fires.”

He leaves the forge, short stature being no impedance to his rapid ascent of the great stairs to the main level of Thorin’s Gate. The thunder of a much more real storm rolls overhead as a juxtaposition on the unnamable thing that grips his heart.

From the highest turrets of Durin’s Rest the great keep on the slopes of the mountain where the children of Durin found solace from the capture of their home by the terrible one, the plains to the east can be seen for many miles to the horizon. This is where you find yourself on a rather chilly evening, many months after your uncommon union with the line’s heir. The rays of sun pierce sparsely through the thick cloud cover, blessing the land below with scant illumination.

You feel a churning in yourself, both of hope and of dread, for the customary time of month has not been upon you for weeks. You lost count around seven, but surely now you must be at lest nine, perhaps ten weeks since the last time you bled. Premonition had dawned on you just the morning before, that despite struggling with irregular cycles, you had presence of mind to call the resident midwife of the clan Durin. An old dwarrow, perhaps nearing her half millennium, but you feel it too impolite to ask such a thing.

Slight shuffling footsteps signal her arrival a far way off down the hall. She sounds fatigued already, possibly winded by the unreasonably lofty tower having spiral after spiral of stone-hewn treads. You open the door to the solar and there she stands, petite and broad, a woman of cuboid dimension, equal in every measure. Despite her mere three and a half feet or so, her hair grows in a graceful silver, braided loop upon loop and laced with a great many beads. If uncoiled, it could measure at least a pace or so on the ground behind her.

Its not a ratty, or worn grey either, but as a silken shimmer; even her slight beard is a silver that somehow just works towards a matronly sage atmosphere about her. An upper lip devoid of whiskers, but creased with many a joyous smile is the last thing you would have really paid notice to if it weren’t for the glassed cataracted eyes that you are sure see into a plane beyond the one in which your mortal coil resides.

Theres a knowing in those eyes, and as if to confirm your intuition she reaches a wrinkled hand forward and lies it upon your stomach, as if her blindness was of no impedance to her duties; as if she knew exactly how tall you were and where you stood. She hums a low resonant tune even as you both stand in the doorway to the room, her fingers prodding gently over your lower abdomen.

“Lie down my child, I can feel something already.”

“How can you, I am myself unsure if I… well…”

“No, not movement, but a strangeness. Now, young one, lie down, I can already tell you are not well.”

She places a hand on your hip to awkwardly coax you into rotation towards the great fur-laden bed that was the centerpiece of the room. Shuffling in behind you she closes the door and makes her way roundabout to the adjacent side of the bed to the great window.

Passing through the regular checks of pulse and the normal bodily processes, she tries to strike up small and meaningless conversation, a comfort from the tension surrounding the visit. Without prying or imposing too far she asks how you and the prince have been faring in your newlywed life.

“It seems he is taken by some dark thought, it consumes his mind in every moment. He grows distant, farther at times, but always seeming an arms length from me.”

She hums along as you lay yourself out to her, surprisingly supportive compared to what an elder should be towards a human, especially considering you have by technicalities “muddied” the line of Durin.

“It has been long since I, well… bled. You see humans we cycle every two fortnights or so, give or take a few days. I have high hopes, but the things I have heard Dís say to my beloved about fertility and  compatibility... I have my doubts I could be so fortunate so soon.”

“Ah my child, worry yourself not, for I shall take as good care of you as I did the young prince’s mother when I delivered him. Now, I sense your weakness and the bit of lethargy that plague you, be they more so literal than in some figurative and emotional sense, yes?”

You nod, her mention of it bringing the throb of cramping right back into the forefront of your awareness. She nods along to some dialog in her own mind as she continues her ministrations. Another dwarrow, much younger enters then with a light knock. With her is a great tiered basket, made of wood, wicker-like weave and brass fixturing; quite exquisite in nature as you have noted most things of dwarven craftmanship are.

It looks heavy as she smiles to you and places it with a light thump and rattle of internal glass upon the floor of the solar. The old midwife teeters to the case, pulling a compartment open to reveal innumerable glass ampules of herbal tinctures and mysterious remedies. With expert speed she mixes up drops and eye-measured pours of many fragrant and pungent ingredients, pouring the final concoction into a steaming cup of tea. The younger promptly hands it to you on an ornate saucer, as not to burn you on the piping hot cup.

“For the pain, young one. It is too early for me to tell if your state is due to conception, but the evidence points to such.”

She pauses her diagnosis, clearly mulling something over in her mind. A worry perhaps, reflecting the way her brow furrows. Without another word she grabs a white linen from the topmost compartment and makes her way to the foot of the bed.

“There is, I suppose one more thing I could check, if it would not cause you too much discomfort. Thaelin, aide the lady downwards a little, and… yes prop her up like that.”

The other dwarrow almost effortlessly slides you down towards the foot of the bed, settling you back up against a pile of down pillows she mounds around your frame. Without any farther warning, the women together hike your gown up around your ribs and deftly cover you from the waist with the silken white cloth. Despite the unannounced disrobing, you don’t feel any kind of embarrassment.

Thaelin takes an ornate inverted lamp like object, a flame below a glass bulb of oil, and slowly upends it cascading a warm tingling fragrance across your exposed abdomen. The relief is almost instant, even before her clearly practiced fingers work the muscle and apply gentle pressure into the organs below, the cramping that had plagued you for the past few days all but ceased. You almost feel sleep taking you from the sweet spices of the ointment and a graceful melody issuing from the young dwarrow’s throat; a gentle soothing song in a language you have yet to understand.

“Now child I must examine inside to be sure. Please focus on relaxing as best you can, hm?”

The elderly voice snaps you awake just before you feel a gentle finger prodding into your privates with clinical precision. You feel a little violated, but the cooing of the two women encouraging you helps you relax through the check-up. You almost feel nothing until the soft fingertip gently scrapes your cervix eliciting a violent cramping of muscle and a cry from the depths of your chest. Thaelin tries to comfort you but one look at the paling face of the sagely midwife shuts her up.

You yourself dare to open your eyes as the pain washes into something more bearable, and gaze into the cataracted eyes that stare wide into a distant nowhere. Both women seem to know something and the fear that had boiled low before regarding missed cycle rises hot into your throat.

“It… It hurts so much! Wh… what is it?” Tell me what’s wrong, I beg of you!”

The elderly dwarrow works her jaw as if trying to find words to convey to you whatever grave thing has befallen you.

“M…my child, it is with great joy that I tell you, you are indeed with child but… but…”

“But what?”

“She’s open isn’t she.”

Thaelin’s blunt words are met with a solemn nod from the midwife, still standing helpless at the foot of the bed. She suddenly moves to the storage container the young dwarrow had brought up and begins rifling through the browned paper slips of recipes and notes in the topmost compartment. With swiftness borne of urgency, she rushes to the door, her awkward shape somehow nimble regardless of her age.

“Thaelin, care for her, I must check my stores. I pray we aren’t too late.”

“Too late for what?”

You call after, fighting the pain for sufficient volume to reach the midwife’s ears, but deep down you already know. You are losing your child before you even had her. Her? How could you just feel it even now? The certainty of it, early in gestation notwithstanding, you felt as spiritually deep as any mother.

This only makes you more desperate, trying to reach around the firm massaging hands on you abdomen to examine your womanhood, as if you might defy reality if you could just check it yourself. Thaelin tries to calm you but her own efforts are laced with the same uncertainty as her senior. Unwilling to fully restrain you, she allows you to frantically reach between your legs, accidentally catching the white linen covering you in the process.

Your fingers fight the silk cloth trying to find your folds, but even in doing your worst fears are confirmed. Warm and wet in the worst way, you can feel it soaking into the white fabric, dyeing it a terrible shade of red. You lift your shaking hand and observe the blood that smears your dainty fingers, hot tears surging from your eyes as your will to resist it falters.

You won’t let it go easy, biting back the hot pain as you sit up you wadding the cloth in a desperate but ultimately useless attempt to fight the hand dealt you, pressing it between your legs and clamping it tight. The younger dwarrow has already abandoned trying to save you from the pain and offers hollow words of assurance as she too runs from the room to get help. This leaves you alone on the bed, in a place you should feel safety and security, vulnerable and powerless as you mutter the frantic mantra:

“Don’t fall out… Please, please stay inside!”

And there you curl yourself upon the bed, the world spinning around you as the footsteps and shouts from Thaelin grow ever fainter.

Now playing: "The New Century"-Jessica Curry

Thorin bursts through the door calling you softly with his characteristic insistence. Seeing the blood smeared on the furs and bedspread sends him into a fevered overdrive, screaming your name far too loud for the enclosed space. He hears you reply, only a whimper from the blind adjacent end of the bed.

Rounding the opposite side, he is met with a haunting but much more so heartbreaking sight; for he finds you, sobbing dry for you have no more grief to offer. Your nightdress you had been wearing in the morning is now soiled with dark reddish-brown stains all about the hem. Some delicate cloth soaked through to the very weave is still held tightly in your hands as you mouth a thousand apologies to him, all for nothing within your power.

You have no breath to placate yourself, let alone the dwarf prince you are sure to have failed. Perhaps he will now throw you out, the mistake he made clear to him now. But yet he remains standing before you, even as you lock your blood-soaked hands to your bosom.

He comes to your level, the shorter dwarf always making his presence seem so large around you, especially now. Those thick masculine fingers pry free your hands from your chest with the gentleness that could handle a hummingbird. There it is, like a precious gem lying upon your breast, so muddied by sorrow and her mother’s blood that only when the light from the parting storm clouds fall upon it can the features be seen.

Only and inch or two long, but with clearly defined tiny arms and legs; your child, a daughter you were so sure even now as Thorin carefully scoops the lifeless form into his hands. His own tears fall as he tucks the tiny thing under his chin, trying in vain to say his own goodbye to someone he had never even truly met.

It shatters you to see him like this, but there is somehow an indescribable beauty in the tenderness with which he whispers in his native tongue, voice cracking as he sings ever so low a lullaby to ears that can never hear it. No mind he pays to the mess of blood and fluids he smears upon his own garments and skin, only walking out through the great door to the balcony so that the sun can shine for once upon his deceased child’s delicate skin, washing all three of you in its warm golden light.

You still feel hollow, but a strange peace overcomes you as you hear your husband fighting his own anguish back for the strength to be the emotional pillar for you. the mountain air breezes through the doorway drying the last of the tears on your face. You feel the need to stand and join him at the railing outside, battling the fatigue and the lingering pain just to be at his side. You lean on him, his stocky build supporting your taller frame with ease. Almost a picture of how he swore upon your wedding night, to uphold you like the great pillars of the lonely mountain keep uphold the mountain’s peak over the throne room.

The funeral is grim, and precious few with the knowledge of the miscarry show up. Upon the great slab that is the pyre sits a tiny gold inlaid box. The smallest coffin you had ever seen, so carefully fashioned by the child’s father through sleepless nights, sat atop it rimmed about in garlands of mountain thistle and snowflowers.

Your grip of Thorin’s hand is a vice, iron-like for fear he too would slip through your grasp if you but let him from your sight. The sky is a reflection of yourself, cold spring rain falling from blue-gray clouds that seem to never be far away from blocking out the sun on any given day. You utter a whispered prayer even as the Dwarrow oracle begins her lonely vocals to the passing.

You long to understand the words she sings, if only for some kind of comfort and solace while so near a thing such as death. As if reading your mind Thorin joins in quietly, whispering the base melody in your own language. Sorrowful yet hopeful the words are, a prayer and a blessing for the bereaved.

It’s then the clouds part, still spilling natures tears upon those gathered, but allowing golden rays to pierce through and alight upon your face. Like a warm kiss that soothes your very heart you feel a strange refreshing fill your being. Offering a final prayer above, you whisper a request to your own deceased mother before joining with the procession as they descend into the great burial hall to the crypt of Thrain.

“Please, watch over her for me until I see you both again...”

[thecoldwhitenorth]

It Doesn't Come Off Anymore|The tragedy of Simon Riley|Part 2

Ghost x (F)Reader

A/N: Part 2 is here, be sure to go back and read part 1 if you haven't already for context. I wanted this to be a setup for reader insert romance in either Soap or Ghost's direction. If you like masks or mohawks we have both! WARNINGS: COD cannon/lore, violence, war, extreme violence, death, murder, death of loved ones, graphic descriptions of: {death, wounds, death of a child, war crimes}, mild sexual innuendo, substance abuse, child verbal abuse, cursing, expletives, emotional stunting, trauma, etc.

You would expect being below the rust belt to have an impact on the quality of available vehicles, but the pickup the two men had stuffed you into the back seat of before commandeering and abandoning stealth to shoot their way out of Los Almas shook as if it would rattle itself to nuts and bolts.

The Mexican country roads did not help the fact, washboards through the dried riverbeds and dusty two-tracks everywhere else. By the time the pair stopped the vehicle in front of a low barn-like structure your extremities felt numb, and your guts a churned mess alongside jarred bones and sore joints. Even the sun is hesitant to make its way into the dawning hours, as if it too shares some of the same exhaustion as you.

The pair disembarks, Ghost gesturing for you to remain behind as they scout the grounds. They had said this was some manner of safehouse, a friend of theirs; Soap relaying too much and the latter shutting him down with those glares of his. As for the reason you were dragged along, it could be the medic thing, or perhaps being press makes you a certain asset, or at least an American citizen casualty more valuable than the men in vests and fatigues would be.

It gives you a sick awareness of a manner of selfish safety, but a cynical disgust for the seeming frivolous nature with which the war machine throws men like meat to the grinder. In a day of modern advancement and unmanned warfare, there was bound to be some kind of protection for the soldier beyond his own body armor, but you suppose you must have been mistaken for the world in all its history never truly changes.

Switching from speaking on covert ops to childhood during the flight from the church, Soap had tried to offer some insight into the erratic behavior of his superior. Not explained well nor deeply, likely for the sake of Ghost himself, Soap had sufficed to leave the more gruesome bits to a footnotes, merely summarizing to be that his deadbeat father was the only surviving relative to the masked operator. He leaned back with a rather un-thought out jab to his commanding officer.

“And y’know all that being said the fella just needs to get himself laid if I’m honest… fix all his fuckin’ problems for the majority.”

Ghost had smacked him with a light backhand, tutting like a displeased parent, but a smile evident beneath the mask. He clearly has some kind of mutual brotherhood with him, having his guard down around his male counterpart, but immediately raising it again when even making eye contact with you.

“Jesus Soap, have a little sensitivity for the missy eh? I don’t need shit to fix me.”

He hadn’t apologized for before, Soap chiding him was the only thing that got you a look at the laceration above his collarbone. It appeared as though someone had managed to get a blade up below his vest strap in some close quarters altercation and he had merely let it dry as it was instead of either peeling or setting the free flesh from it. It wasn’t deep, but it was long, so you had opted for a sticking patch to hold the whole thing shut. He seemed to flinch every time your fingers made contact with his skin, but he said no more. You had tried to break the tension a little, that savior complex of yours tugging your heartstrings for him.

“Does the face need fixing? Why don’t you take off the mask?”

“It doesn’t come off anymore.”

“Why, are you ugly?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“I doubt that L.T.”

Time passed with intervals of them trying to hail some commander by the name of Price every few minutes, but it wasn’t long after patching up the two operators that the sound of shadows on comm outside the church door, alerting the three of you to your foxhole being found out. Like machines kicking after a reflex, Soap and Ghost had shouldered up their packs again, weapons up and eyes skinned for breach zones. Soap takes your hand gently and places it on a rigging strap at the back of Ghost’s pack, giving you a knowing wink and telling you not to let go.

Lucky for you all it seems to be amateur hour for Graves’ mercenary team, and the door is the only entry point created by a breaching charge. With no windows to cover, the two 141 operatives swiftly terminate the entering shadows with cold efficiency. You yourself don’t truly feel anything, knowing you are watching death swinging his scythe front row and live. Perhaps it’s not being able to see the full damage being done or even just the exhaustion not allowing you spare energy for emotions.

Ghost advancing to the doorframe yanks you forward, you then realizing how your fingers lock against your conscious demand to release. Your feet seem to obey the same force clamping your grip, shuffling obediently behind the bulk of Ghost as he sweeps wide through the door, movement smooth and low. Soap takes up the rear, passing up through the opposite angle of the doorframe and advancing to the surrounding fence. For laziness, or whatever other reason, Graves’ men had driven right through the foot gate, wedging the Humvee up to the rear fenders through the small opening.

Ghost spits, shaking his head and gestures to the left where a low side of the fence is missing its finial spires off the ends of the wrought iron. Ghost takes a quick step forward, your hand yanking free as he throws his momentum into a leap gripping the upper lattice rail to pull himself over. He lands on the opposite side with a wet slam of heavy lugged boot soles, which even in the moment you have to admit lends more to his nonchalant ranger-gunslinger aura.

“Miss, if you please…”

Soaps gentle but urgent request snaps you out of the admiration to see him knelt with fingers laced for you to use as a step. You glance to the fence top, at least eight, maybe nine feet above you.

“You’ll be fine, I’ll catch. We need to move, now.”

Ghost makes a little beckoning motion with a gloved hand as he swings his rifle sling to his back to clear his arms to be able to grasp you. Nervous, yet forced to trust, you step into Soap’s grip and he boosts you up. Your fingers barely have time to touch the top rail as you are hefted upward, your body immediately crashing back down as you fail to seize the handhold. Thankfully and rather embarrassingly Soap’s rushed arrest of your fall puts his arm between your legs grabbing a useless handful of your blouse. Your rear ends up right in his face, unfortunately meaning your entire gravity accelerated weight crashes upon his freshly wrapped shoulder.

“Agh, bloody fuckin’… Fuck!”

He Cries out with pained pitch through set teeth, the adrenaline of the fresh agony giving him a superhuman strength. Placing his free hand flat on your ass and shoving you upwards again, you almost on no effort of your own crest the fence top and messily topple into the waiting arms below.

No recoil is found in the man now; Ghost appears completely different when in combat mode, switching the closed antisocial nature for a less than witty killing machine. Efficiency present that you would not expect from the same person who had shrunk from your touch not an hour earlier. You had wondered then as to how a man can exist with such duality; now suddenly moving with mechanical endurance, seeing you as an objective in his mission rather than an encroaching entity into his personal space.

Soap is bent over, breathing heavy through the pain as it subsides. He allows himself only a few precious seconds before he too vaults the wrought iron barrier, feet striking the ground already moving. Ghost drops your feet to the wet flagstone, a silent order to get up and move on your own. He turns himself, transitioning his rifle and following soap into the small square below.

You move to grab the same pack strap as before, but ghost almost seems to shrug you off as your fingers barely brush the nylon. A little humiliated, you back off a few paces still following as the pair stack up beside a beat out van parked to the side of the road. You come behind and peek out, just as the rail mounted flashlights of a pair of shadow company mercenaries round the far streetcorner.

A skeleton-printed glove shoots out catching you by the shirt and shoving you roughly back against the van body, but its too late. With an exclamation the enemy rifles come up, but Soap is ready on point, swiftly dropping both men with a burst of 5.56. Ghost doesn’t even realize he’s holding you right over the breast, that recoil from touch completely absent in his current state of mind.

“Don’t poke like that, an open line of sight for you means an open target for them.”

“Aw, go easy L.T. that’s why she’s supposed to be on your grab strap.”

“Put her on your grab strap Johnny, you know I can’t do escorts.”

“What, ‘fraid of cooties L.T.?”

Ghost sighs, and turns his head slightly to you, jerking it back to indicate you grasp the loose rigging on his pack once more. Theres the tiniest hint of tone shifting as he speaks again.

“Missy, if y’don’t mind…”

Maybe you had started getting through to him. You suppose given the evidence he doesn’t have much, if any social contact outside of his deployment, but his warming up gives you a little hope. That Savior complex is speaking again, but maybe, just maybe…

A shout pulls you from recounting escape to the present, a Hispanic male in a tan chest rig making a break for it as a knife sticks into the face out the now open barn door in front of the vehicle. He hasn’t made it 2 strides before like a rocket Soap collides into his back in a rugby tackle. They land hard as ghost catches up, yanking the blade from the door face. Those on the ground roll over and Soap cries out loud:

“Rodolfo! You’re alive!”

Their voices drop to a volume you cannot hear from the vehicle, and they gesture to you a few times. Your wondering as to the content of their discussion is not long as ghost approaches the vehicle once more whilst the other two head into the barn. He sits in the driver’s seat and is silent for a moment. He finally turns over the truck, the lack of regular maintenance evidenced by how it sputters into life.

“It’s not safe to leave you, but if we must, you can’t be here. There is a secondary site not far that you can lay low in until we return. I don’t know who we can trust on the other side, so I'm not sure I can get extraction for you. You have a choice, either find your own exit and you never saw us, or we can get you out… when we get back.”

The pause a clear reference to the wording he had previously intended: “if we get out”. You don’t want to dwell on it. Knowing someone for barely more than 24 hours was no reason to get attached but maybe the high stress and adrenaline rushes had a part to play in the sudden resistance you had to any kind of separation. You don’t answer, only huddling further down into the cramped back seats, resting your chin on the passenger seat shoulder. He looks at you, those sleepless bloodshot eyes making contact with your very soul before putting the vehicle in gear and backing out of the overgrown dirt driveway.

Simon’s awareness swims as the sound around him resolves. Sharp badly mixed guitars, harsh and intentionally slight off tune vocals backed by pounding drums; familiar but to a part of him he didn’t truly like. Its punk rock, the classics, a band he knew well but wished he did not. The “Bone Lickers”; overly edgy for the younger generation that in speaking of, he realizes he’s perhaps not really a part of.

He can see, unlike the memory this comes from, he does not have the stature of a boy. Surveying his surroundings hoping for an exit, he sees nothing but an ocean of bodies all around him, cheering and singing along. A soft cool hand brushes his and he looks down to see you, swaying beside him with a winning smile framed with too much makeup. Your attire is… less than casual, giving you the appearance of some street worker. He blinks away the rest of the haze and the sheer volume of the venue strikes him fully.

He can’t hear what you’re saying but he’s a slave to his own movements; he cannot withdraw himself when your hand moves down his chest. Backing away is somehow impossible when your closing distance puts his knee between your legs. He is helpless as you grab his hands and lead him through the sea of gyrating bodies, bodies he thinks have faces he recognizes as his feet move against his will.

His mothers battered and bloody visage is there a moment but promptly replaced by a clearly inebriated woman dancing topless on top of a folding chair. A dead pair of eyes bores into his from a soldier of his SAS unit, killed in action by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A blink replaces him with a yellow toothed young man offering him a burned down blunt.

As quickly as the senses flooded him, the flashing stage light is replaced with dingey bathroom illumination. He feels light as your likeness yanks him into a stall. It’s surreal, frightening him as he watches you writhe seductively on the closed lid. His father’s voice echoes to him.

“She’s wantin’ ya boy…”

Low, graveled, and slurring, a violent voice laced with alcohol and substance abuse. Simon watches you hike your skirt up as you spread your legs, beads of cold sweat form all down his back like ghostly fingers of moisture. The sight below is…

Black. Not panties, but a void. A vengeful and indescribable darkness not born of any human. Fear seizes him, gaze flicking up to your overpainted face. A strange smile crosses your lips as they whisper in combined voices;

“What’s the matter boy, can’t stand a little fun, can ya?”

Simon’s terror reaches its peak, as strange and sudden blood runs from your nose. He hears taunts in his father’s voice issue from out of your mouth. And yet he still cannot flee. He watches it saturate the front of your top, eyes following it as it puddles into your cleavage, and a single drop exiting onto your exposed midriff. The parallel sight, your arm rested against your side with a needle and tourniquet stuck deep and empty. It’s too much.

He screams but only tentative laughter comes out, like that of a little boy, too afraid to be fully vocal. It’s wrong, and he clutches his throat as if to claw the memory free. Shoving his weight back against the stall door he realizes he can control himself again. He falls as the locking bolt snaps free cracking his head on the bathroom tile. He dares to look once more at your clearly dead body lying upon that dirty toilet seat.

Each blink replaces the person seated and the method of death: His brother with a bullet hole in his head, his mother again, little Joseph with his face destroyed, the prostitute from the original memory with the same needle and nosebleed. Targets, comrades, friends, all choked, shot, blown by landmines, stabbed and brutalized, and back to you. Whispers turn to shouts and one voice thunders over them all.

“What’re ya gonna do boy? Ya can’t do nothin’ NOTHIN’!”

His father’s taunt sends him into action, leaping for an exit that is no longer there, only smooth wall. He tells himself to remember his training but the panic in him overrides his thought.

“Wake up, I gotta wake up!”

Scrambling for the endless wall of sinks and mirrors, he nigh breaks the faucet off in his rush for water. He splashes his face, rubs his eyes, beats his fist on his own temples but he cannot be rid of the memory. He opens his eyes, looking for those haunted bloodshot eyes he always sees, but is instead met with the reflection of a small boy, tears streaming down his cheeks as the laughter his father had forced on him refuses to leave.

Simon punches the mirror hoping to resolve the reflection, but the spidering cracks multiply the image of the broken and traumatized boy. He hits again, and again, a hopeless effort to change something already past.

He awakes soaked in sweat, and eyes itching from the hay dust in the barn. Across from him are people more familiar and comforting. Rudy is out cold, but Soap’s eyes rest on him, concern filling them.

“I was talking again, wasn’t I.”

“It was the concert wasn’t it.”

“How the fuck, ya know about that Johnny?”

“Got drunk once and told me, you do love Kentucky… Its more than that though isn’t it.”

Ghost doesn’t reply, his thoughts going back to the horror of seeing someone so fresh in memory being dead in such a graphic way. So much effort with the shrink shepherd set him up with just to have the dreams become all the more vivid. From full night’s sleep and the odd nightmare to only being able to rest a few minutes at a time and constant night terrors was not the improvement he was promised.

But if he’s truly honest, his mind is not on recurring memories, but the person in them. He can’t resolve with himself why his mind would put you in his subconscious. He considers how he left you, alone in an overgrown tile and plaster bungalow with just a walkie and a nine-millimeter. He hates it; his circumstances, how his hands are tied, how its another opportunity to finally save someone who won’t be sent right back into the frontline just to die anyways.

That feeling is coming back again, the tingling in his fingers and the numbness in his face. Silent tears he tries to pull back in, but they fall anyways, invisible in the dim light inside the barn and against the black greasepaint around his eyes. He won’t show it, no weakness, not a moment’s lapse in self-assurance. He could tell Soap wasn’t at peace either, twiddling a piece of straw between his fingertips.

“We’ll go back for her L.T., she’s just a civilian, what could possibly happen to her?”

“Don’t play that game Johnny. It never goes well.”

“After Alejandro, we’ll get her out, connect with Laswell… Why are you so consumed by this L.T.?”

“Its not what you’re thinking, its… it’s a feeling. Something isn’t right.”

[thecoldwhitenorth]

It Doesn't Come Off Anymore|The tragedy of Simon Riley

Ghost x (F)Reader

A/N: trying to branch out, well see how this goes. If it does well, I'll finish a part 2! WARNINGS: COD cannon/lore, violence, war, extreme violence, death, murder, death of loved ones, graphic descriptions of: {death, wounds, death of a child, war crimes}, mild sexual innuendo, cursing, expletives, emotional stunting, trauma, etc.

The spray of dirty puddle water soaks the ankles of Simon’s pants as he sprints through the dark streets of Manchester. He hears the shouts of Washington and Sparks behind him, or maybe it’s just Washington, he cannot be certain apart from the thundering of his own heart in his ears. The cold of the water is replaced with a burning sear as he feels hot pain tearing through his thigh; coupled with the muted pop of Washington’s suppressed m9 behind him can only mean that he’s been hit.

He stumbles as he rounds the corner; as bullets strike pavement and brick, catching himself painfully on his palm that is still riddled with glass shards from his leap from the window. He sees a cabbie not thirty feet from him just about to take a passenger, a potential escape from the men he had once fought alongside. He feels that familiar temper flaring, lack of control in a helpless situation boiling into rage. He throws the driver door open just as the female passenger gasps something unintelligible, and he roughly throws the driver from his seat.

Simon peels out from the curb as the driver of the stolen taxi hurls curses after him. It doesn’t matter, it never does. The only thing in his mind are his aging mother, his brother, his sister-in-law, and his precious nephew. Its Christmas eve for God’s sake, please don’t let it be true, don’t let them be…

His mind is flooded with the bodies he’s seen, the carnage, the brutality of mankind. He can see the laughing face of that fat fuck Roba taunting him again, burying him alive, he can feel everything that happened as if he is still in that coffin with the rotting remains of his own Judas; the betrayer.

Simon screams; it’s a raw, throat tearing sound full of hate, fear and desperation. He expels his lungs, emptying them along with his churning emotions, his knuckles grip white on the wheel as he pulls up to his childhood apartment block. Even from the back lot where he ditches the cab, he can see the front door ajar.

Its as if he knows this scene already, the morbid anticipation of some horror his body has already witnessed in some other existence. The gunshot wound in his thigh is but a dull throb at this point and he grips the doorframe as a spike of the sick agony shoots from his leg up his spine. His eyes scan the room, taking it in. the brutality he sees, but does not truly take in, his memory forcing him to relive this moment again and again just as all the others.

His mother lies slumped in her armchair, silver hair clumped with blood from her ruptured temple and a pea-sized hole in her forehead with burn marks and soot around the rim, the center dark as death itself. It’s an execution. Tommy is on the floor, two to his broad back and one in the forehead, not far from his wife Beth. She is worse than the other two, a torn blouse to show a puncture wound just above the left breast. She also has a finishing shot to the head, but the lack of blood around the wound suggests towards her suffering from a stab awhile before her mercy.

Yet the one that causes Simon to audibly cry out is little Joseph, head covered by a blanket so that his cause of death is not apparent. Upon lifting the crusted flannel from his young nephew’s head he can see that the boy had been beaten prior to having taken a shot to the right side of his face. The round had done far more damage to the child’s skull and the image of it cannot fully resolve in Simon’s mind, for it is to terrible to even think of. He gags into his hand as tears begin to fall. The momories of the words of Roba mocking his efforts, the torture, the brainwashing, it’s all too much.

“M…mommy? Mom… wake up please… wake… ANSWER ME!”

Simon’s dream of haunting memories is flushed by the voice of John “Soap” MacTavish crackling from the radio on his vest.

“7-1 in the blind, Ghost do you copy?”

Simon grunts and slaps a hovering mosquito away from his chest rig as he sits up. He instinctively rubs at his eyes but the grime in his gloves only makes his eyes more irritated before his mind can stop the instinct. Cursing, he feels around his battle belt for his optic pouch to retrieve the lens cloth before keying his mic.

“Soap, this is Ghost, how copy..."

Silence is his only reply

"This is Ghost, How copy... Johnny? Johnny, how copy?"

"Solid."

"thought we'd lost ya for a moment... You injured?"

“Im no medic; you fall asleep on the job again? We barely been separated for a couple hours, and you are nappin' in the field.”

“I ran from Graves too, remember? Tried to hail ya, no luck. We've been going for seventy-odd hours straight since last drop, I holed up and passed out.”

“Don’t bring your nightmares into Los Almos Ghost, you’re supposed to leave that shit in the baggage claim.”

“Oh yeah, let me really quick just shed my past like a torn plate carrier, they can give me leave credit for both. At least ya got a few fleshwounds to keep you awake”

“No cynicism, there’s no time in this weather when we’ve got patrols like ants up the favela.”

Simon turns head to the panel van rear window, as if he could not hear the tinny thunder of millions of droplets on a sheet metal vehicle roof to verify Soap’s claim. He props himself up against the inside of the van wall, arm resting on the metal hump of the rear wheel wells.

“If weather is too bad to move, why did you wake me?”

“I know you make too much noise in your sleep, and patrols might hear. Besides, being stuck in someone else’s tin can is a bad idea when they come to scoop the rest of their beans out. Finding us on the end of their spoon would be the final nail in our coffins.”

“So we should move? Dammit Soap, make up your mind!”

He hears soap adjusting himself over the still active mic, a stifled cry barely making it to his earpiece.

“I was hit, got me in the arm and clipped my leg. Don’t know where you are.”

“Soap, listen. There's a church up at the top of the slope, can you try to head there?”

“I’ll try, no promises. I lost my sidearm.”

“Good man. Stay low, stick to corridors. Ill see you in twenty, out.”

Simon carefully unlatches the van’s rear door and peeks out. The aging vehicle’s dome lights do not turn on mercifully, no spotlight to shed upon his location. Combat boots hit damp asphalt and splash through shallow puddles on the rutted road, the sound of his perseverance to put distance between him and the specter that is his past. His chest rig slams into him with every step, the ammunition and kit dragging him much down less than the weight of those unsavory memories,

He tries to focus on happier memories, time with his loved ones before they passed; but a sudden sickness tells him that perhaps thoughts of them were not the way to go. Shove it down, think of the mundane, like the mission compromised and whatever Sheppard is up to. It can’t be good. Or hunger maybe, way to take your mind off of things.

It feels like it has been weeks since he ate anything but the sawdust-like protein bars, the type that come out of the American MRE packs. It is working, taking directing his thought off his damp, sore feet, his exhaustion and the ambient chatter of the mercenaries over the open comms. The rain does make it very uncomfortable, sweaty feet soon logging with seep that splashes on his trousers and wicks into his footwear.

He hates the sensations and the chafing, he hates the second-rate gear he was given, but most of all he hates the people who gave him both, and in the end backstabbed him, soap, and Alejandro. No, no, “remove yourself”, that’s what the shrink Sheppard sent him to for general evaluation had said. Take yourself from one mindset to another, and another yet again, shift your thinking one step at a time. No hate, think of what he likes.

“A good full English breakfast…”

He begins out loud to himself, as if counting on his hand like a preschooler grounds him. He likes the weight of the m4 SOPMOD yanking its sling with each step like a raging guard dog eager to lunge. He likes the feel of its grip in his hand, more trustworthy than the most honest insurance. He sure liked that busty comms officer that met them on the tarmac at 141’s arrival, but he didn’t really like the way she looked at him, or how she found reason to rest her hand on his arm. His eyes were that of a man’s, but the longed-for touch of his mother made him unwilling to allow anyone close, especially women.

“And you’re thinking about Mam again Simon, shed be ashamed of ya on your sight to women. Fucking pig…”

Another toxic trait that psych evaluation had touched on was the self-deprecation, but it’s a medication he’s not too keen to let go of just yet. Even as the soles of his books click on concrete steps, he cannot help but beat himself for every mistake and oversight that got him and Soap in this place. His fist collides with the small church’s side entrance in a series of brisk knocks.

“God have mercy on me for entering this place…”

You hear the gunfire of Los Vaqueros versus the Sicarios ringing out into the night. You aren’t sure if your humanitarian trip was really worth the hype you had initially stoked up within your group of friends. A Mexico trip is supposed to be costal resorts and pina coladas on the beach; not unpaid nursing work between interviews under the cartel’s back porch. But the sad estate of the locals, especially the children, you felt bad buying into any stereotypes but your heard aches for them nonetheless.

Jessica had even pointed that out when she sent her Cuba photos to the group chat, calling to your “Savior complex”. Posting her aesthetic selfies as she called them, more or less just her flaunting herself in unreasonably skimpy bikinis. She really did thrive on attention, her habitual cope of bolstering her confidence was a constant eye rolling fabrication; surely that was more of a fault than continually desiring a heroic role.

You aren’t really sure why you still associate with such narcissists, but then again, she might have an iota of truth to her observations. Allowing your body to sink back against the unforgiving stone wall of the church interior you try to think more positively of your friends who did partially sponsor your flight down, a large expense indeed for someone only half of the way of paying herself through college.

“My daddy’s money doesn’t pay for shit… except the rent, and the phone, and…”

You still feel like a child. He had insisted, not wanting you to struggle on your own but it is still infantilizing to a certain degree. And that’s how you got here; a junior investigative journalist holed up in an empty church, having lost her cameraman in the ensuing chaos of the street skirmishes unfolding. Your leg bounces impatiently with apprehension as a long burst of gunfire echoes from the southeast, loud even through the tall hardwood doors at the church’s atrium.

It really does sound as if it’s getting closer as you hear it again, slightly louder, almost to the effect of a… knock. Your heart drops. You know the reputation of the cartel grunts, often taking opportunity during the larger conflicts with the military police to rob or assault the inhabitants of the poorer sectors. And somehow the people still championed so many of them.

You don’t say a word. Silence greets you from the other side, just before a splintering crack. The doors aging wood breaks free of the rusted catch and blows inward from the heel of a heavy combat boot. A shadow breezes through and straight up the adjoining staircase pausing only long enough to jimmy the door shut again, footfalls going higher into the steeple belfry. It’s in that brief moment of passing over the threshold that you catch a flash of a red, white, and blue shoulder patch.

You dare a spark of hope, you had heard of rumored American presence, but that kind of international breaking-and-entering is always on the down low. There is a strange compelling, deep in your body, urging you to investigate. You fight the feeling for what could have been seconds or hours, the darkness of the chapel interior making time a fleeting incalculable thing. Against any better judgement you rise, leaving your backpack on the stone floor of the chantry and making your own way to the spiral ascent into the steeple. You step light, resting your feet on the far outside of the treads to minimize the creak of them.

Crawling up the steps you realize how each breath must surely sound like a howling wind in the thick-walled stone bell tower, aging ropes and pulleys creaking lightly in the breeze that worms its way through derelict shutters up the wall. You lay low still so only your eyes crest over the final step to survey the landing at the steeples pinnacle.

There in the corner, presumably is the previous intruder, a rifle propped on his knee with its brake just behind the bell arch aperture. Normally you’d expect someone clearly trained enough to hide muzzle flash inside his cover to be immediately alert to your presence but it almost seems as if he is sleeping. In fact, through his soaked poncho you can see a light rhythmic rise and falling telltale of shallow slumber. Like an idiot you decide to look closer, risking life for curiosity.

In the sparse illumination from the overcast moonlight, you see a stitched union jack along with a worn SAS crest. Stitched just below is one you do not recognize: a winged skull with a gladius or dagger through it. You lean your weight causing a slight squeak from an old nail in the rotting floor. The head of the sleeping man shoots up, a rictus of a skull sewn to the face greets your eyes, like a dead thing but the eyes still burn within the hollow sockets.

You feel a scream bubbling but the air behind it doesn’t come up and you merely tumble backward onto your rear. Your ass hits unforgiving planks but your pinwheeling arms find nothing but open air of the stairwell behind you, and your stomach flips as your body continues to tip back from the momentum of your start. For a moment you fear you might fall back and break your neck, but a gloved fist shoots forward and grasps a handful of your jacket yanking you back to the safety of the bellfry platform. Rolling over, you are met again with the same skull mask accompanied by a Browning Hi-Power inches from your face.

“Shhhh lassie, keep her quiet now. You want to tell me who you are and what the fuck you’re doing in a Church in the middle of hick Mexico?”

“I… I could be asking you the same question…”

You aren’t too thrilled with the obviously loaded sidearm shoved up into your face, but you compose yourself enough to pacify the man.

“J…Journalist, mi an independent working for the… well… I cant really say but I can tell you I’m working for an unnamed independent investigative bureau for unbiased reporting on…”

“Save it, you’re a reporter that got lost at a very bad time, that about the shape of it?”

You turn red and nod slowly, not wanting to admit to even yourself the series of unfortunate, unlucky, and just plain stupid choices that brought you here. On the bright side you can at least understand him, your Spanish had been quite insufficient for conversing with any of the locals. You needed to foot the bill for a local translator for all your shoots.

“Its all the same missy, its lucky you ran into me and not…”

He goes silent thinking on how much he should say. His ponderings are interrupted by his radio crackling and a muted thump below.

“Bravo 7-1 requesting entry, Ghost you there? Please respond…”

The man maintains eye contact as he keys his mic.

“Soap, this is Ghost reading you, ill come down and let you in. We have a civilian present.”

“Oh fuck me L.T., getting comfy with the senioritas?”

“Not local Soap, American.”

He’s already slung the rifle and pulling you to your feet.

“Let’s go missy. No time for the pleasantries.”

He does not holster his sidearm, instead tucking it close to his chest, trigger finger up on the slide as he gestures for you to descend the stairs. You oblige, if for anything else but being the only real choice in the matter. Creaking treads back down to the stone floor feels like far greater a distance than the climb had been, but your feet soon rest upon solid ground. At “Ghost’s” direction, as he was called by man over the radio, you open the jammed door. In tumbles a man, distinct by his mohawk cut and the great red stains on his arm and thigh.

You almost have to catch him as he falls over tripping on the threshold. He transfers to Ghosts shoulder and is limped quickly to a worn pew. Ghost barks for you to fasten the door once more and you quickly obey. Returning to the men you see him whip out a short bladed knife, but the other, Soap you presume, grabs his wrist.

“Aww Ghost, they’re m’good pants, you wouldn’t cut em…”

“Take ‘em off or I’m cutting them.”

With a groan he drops his holster clip and shimmies them around his ankles. Under where the red stain was, there is a black pinhole with angry bruising and inflammation all around. A matching stain on the backside of the thigh tells of a through-shot. The rain soaking him to the bone makes the wound quite aromatic, the scent of iron and copper filling the air.

Ghost takes out a basic med kit and tries to clean the wound. His clumsy and rushed attempts at first aid make you cringe. Those instincts kick in and not even thinking twice you shoo the skull-masked man out of your way. Kneeling, you dump the kit out, the only useful items rolling free being a packet of clotting powder and an emergency nylon suture kit. Not ideal but you could make do.

“Hold up missy, I thought you were a reporter.”

“Journalist. I wanted to be at least, but my Dad sent me to nursing school first. Wanted me to become a doctor, or an RN at minimum.”

Ghost throws up his hands as you appear to take offense but Soap chuckles though clenched teeth.

“Even if she wasn’t, she’s got daintier fingers than your sausages, eh L.T?”

“These fatties saved your ass on overwatch far too many times for you to be bitching this much.”

Ghost wiggles his fingers to emphasize the joking jab. Reaching behind his vest he pulls out a metal flask and tosses it to Soap.

“Don’t drink it all. You can fight the pain enough sober.”

Soap nods gratefully as he takes a swig of what must be liquid fire by the grimace and choke he gives out. He follows it with another as you swab his wound.

“What pigswill piss water you put in here, gasoline? It sure burns like it!”

“High proof. Less goes farther.”

You work on almost muscle memory, all those drills on silicone skin finally coming in handy since you dropped out. It’s not like you hated nursing, although it wasn’t really your passion. No, it was more being grouped with the stereotype nursing and premed girls; the bad rap you got form the crazy attitude, and rampant promiscuity in the dorms. It was not fair that a loud minority group of the popular girls got everyone else that identity, and yes of course cynical Jess had to be one of them. She had really been nice otherwise.

Your thoughts and automatic moves are interrupted but a shout as you go deep into a stitch pulling the wound shut tight, the skin bunching to a position to properly heal.

“Still… burns…”

Soap is biting his knuckles and squinting hard with each pull of the rough nylon thread. You work fast, a little more focused now, cutting free to stitch the exit next. When you complete the task you move to lift his crimson soaked sleeve, but he holds it down.

“J…Just a graze. Don’t need… stitches… yet.”

He visibly deflates, sinking back into the hard wood of the pew, as the roaring pain subsides, and so you turn to Ghost where he slumps against the wall, eyes growing bleary as the exhaustion threatens to take him. You approach still in your nurse mode and lay a hand on his shoulder where some brown crust peeks from under his collar. You slip a finger under the strap of his vest, hooking the shirt below to pull it aside, but he grabs your wrist with that lightning speed of his and regard you with some indescribable look in those haunted eyes. His breath is suddenly rapid as he half whispers:

“D…Don’t fuckin’ t..touch me!”

Those eyes you knew from that moment you could never forget, you didn’t even hear his angered words as you took in the depth of sorrow and terror those eyes had clearly beheld in their lifetime. All that elicited by the gentle touch of a woman; it is a mystery to you, for now.

STAY TUNED FOR PART 2...

[thecoldwhitenorth]

Green With Envy|Thorin Oakenshield x GN!Reader

|Peachy's Oneshot Event: Day 18 (Part 2)

Warnings: Jealousy, Genre-Typical "Racism", Angst?, violence, description of nudity, description of violence, violence against an animal, Non-sexual degradation, Thorin has a big (ego), etc.

Author Note: read Peachy's first for context. I know mine's not as good, but I hope its a satisfactory part two. I wanted this romance free, but open so the there is room for that brotherly love and comradery or feminine-insert-romance.

Now playing: "Over Hill"-Howard Shore

Your thoughts are on the evening prior as you find your company exiting Rivendell. It was good fun, bathing in the fountain. Fili had been the one to drag you along, and the others of the company were already there, a few already stripped naked and frolicking boisterously in the constant flow of water. You were apprehensive at first, curious as to the significance of the statue of the elf water girl that feeds the terraced pool, but seeing Bombur taking an impressively graceful dive into a cannonball at the waters surface broke your reservations.

You too stripped down to nothing but your loin garment, unwilling to have your genitals as free as the rowdy rock-folk splashing with glee in the crystal-clear liquid. A cheer in unison rises as you poise yourself upon the edge of the fountain and with a leap, throw yourself into the cool waters. As you rise with your hair wet slicked over your face, the dwarves holler and hoot at your finally joining in as if one of them.

It devolves quickly from there, hands leaving from protecting your chest from splashes to even joining in a chicken fight atop the shoulders of Gloin who himself sat astride the mighty Dwalin. You had even managed to topple the rival stack of three backward into the water with a war cry not often heard from the throat of a hobbit. Thorin watches from a way off, grinning at the antics of his kin in the sacred pool, knowledge he had cleverly omitted when the point of bathing had been brought up. That grin falters when he sees you, pounding above your chest and letting out an animal bellow before throwing yourself from the topmost terrace to the rippling waters and cackling dwarves below.

Everything came to a quick halt as Gandalf’s rebuke comes sailing across your ears in his telltale aged, yet commanding tone. He just about chases all of you off as the whole company scrambles for their clothes before scattering whilst still in differing degrees of nudity. You still feel joy and a freedom in having expressed yourself so, even as you also flee before the old wizard’s scolding. Your chest does ache however, whether that is from beating upon it with such frenzy or if your voice is not used to such projection is not apparent.

A wayward dragonfly striking your cheek brings you back to the present, Balin is still relaying some ancient dwarven wisdom to you as he walks alongside. The voice of Thorin rises over the group.

“Be on your guard, we are about to step over the edge of the wild.”

He looks your way with a grimace and calls to Balin, breaking him off mid sentence.

“Balin, you know these paths, lead on”

Balin sighs, but nods as he makes his way to the front of the company. The rest of them shuffle on, tired from the last nights watery rampage, and not a full night’s rest proceeding. Thorin sneers as you as you glance back to the parapets and verandas of Rivendell.

“Hobbit, I would suggest that you keep up. Or turn back now, I care not. There will be no other chance after this.”

"Ah, but I have yet to prove you wrong, Master Thorin..."

"You will prove nothing to me hobbit, your domestic docility exhausts its usefulness not extending past charming my own brothers and sowing discord within the company. Gandalf swore to me that your kind have soft feet, but all I see before me are soft hands."

"Your stubbornness will be what turns your company, not I nor my affinity for the sprouts and orchards and my teatime manners."

Thorin only grunts as his pride is surely wounding, but you have made your choice; the burglar as Gandalf had volunteered you to be would not so easily be deterred from the path of their calling. Soldiering on with the group you begin your crossing of the misty mountains, hoping against hope you will one day break through the shell of the dwarven prince. If not for your own validation as one who is universally friendly, then maybe simply to show him that there are more than blood-kin in his corner, standing to fight alongside him.

The road brings you through the foothills and into the craggy peaks of the misty mountains, the many perils of the road becoming more frequent as you behold more of the world outside of Hobbiton. You even bear witness to a thunder battle, stone giants fighting it out in the midst of a terrible downpour. As one of the defeated falls, it clips the mountainside, destroying the path and throwing some of the party from the outcropping they take shelter on.

You are one of those thrown clear and you struggle to hold onto the rain-slicked mountainside, before Thorin of all people jumps down to throw you up to the waiting hands of the other dwarves. Perhaps you finally have broken through, and it’s not a gesture born only for the value of base life.

“You should never have left your warm hole in the ground hobbit; you don’t belong out here. Gandalf would have signed our death warrants by bringing you along, you should never have come.”

His scathing words, going as far as to doubt the seemingly ageless wizard’s choice to bring a hobbit into the company remove any doubt as to the reason he saved you. or at least go to show that he still has no room in his heart for you, but where his cynicism lies. Bofur slaps you on the back trying to give an encouraging smile.

“Oh, don’t ye listen tae him, he’s got a heavier weight than most on his shoulders. Comes out in ugly ways sometimes, but his heart is good.”

Thorin clearly overhears, as his voice drops lower and adopts a venomous bite. His scowl extends from you to be also directed at those dwarves who openly fraternize with you without maintaining any amount of distance maintained due to being differing races.

“We must find shelter for the night. There would be some even of my own kin who would be not suited to travel in the harshness of the rain come darkness. We don’t want any of our weaker members becoming ill.”

No one replies, instead the general mood seems to be a little deflated despite the usual jovial comradery that would proceed a scrape with death for more than one individual. It is not long before a small cavern in the rockface is found, the keen dwarven senses quickly picking it out from clefts and slopes of the cliffside. The company huddles inside with naught but a word to each other, the whole mood sour and gloomy.

Even as the group tucks in for the night, you cannot bring yourself to settle in yourself, the thoughts of home and the constant abrasive behavior from your supposedly fearless leader weighing heavy on your mind. You decide that enough is enough, and if your presence is truly that unnecessary and would go as far to drive a rift between Thorin and his own brethren, you would remove yourself from the environment. Maybe then the group would reach harmony enough to find their way to the lonely mountain.

Now playing: "Hvitserk's Choice"-Trevor Morris

The world swims in a dark vapor, forcing your sight into tunnel vision. You can feel the white-hot burn of the ring which at once it had been large, but as if by magic had shrunk to a snug fit upon your finger. Clearly the creature which calls itself Gollum cannot see you. Smell you perhaps, but its, no “his” movement is violent and directionless flailing at best. The odd ring must grant some manner of invisibility or at least some manner of discombobulation to the wearer’s assailants.

As you flee through the deep cavern into which you have fallen, your thought goes to the past hour’s happenings. Feeling the weight of Thorin’s disdain and rejection you had decided to leave the company for good. Packing your things quietly, what few of them there are, you had made for the cavern mouth. You were just about to step into the overcast night when the far of howl of wargs awoke one of the dwarves who saw you framed in the dim moonlight coming through the cloud cover to the cavern door.

The events of the ensuing panic as the rest roused themselves from the noise, to the floor giving way and you somehow being unnoticed as the dwarves are carried off to the goblin king, you do feel a manner of physical indiscernibility if even the goblins would by whatever manner not notice that they have left one prisoner behind. Maybe Thorin was right with you having been lost ever since you had left home. The words did surely hurt, but perhaps there was more truth behind them than you had thought.

And now you lay, the creature walking past you as the world takes on its dreadful haze. Alone in the dark you are, lost in the depths of the earth, farther from your home in Hobbiton than you ever have been. So you wander, half-heartedly taking turns and corridors, lead by some abstruse magnetism that you yourself do not fully grasp.

The looming light shines towards you from the gash to the open wilds beyond the mountain cavern, but you can still hear the pitiful beast screaming your surname in the distant tunnels. Deciding mercy is better than a life on your hands, you flee into daylight, reality still distorted by the shimmer that wearing the ring creates. Following the hillside down you by some miracle come close to familiar voices.

The dwarf company seems to have already escaped Goblintown with the return and aid of the grey wizard. Gandalf can be heard tallying out the dwarves, stopping at 13, Bombur lagging a little farther behind. He seems frantic as he counts and re-counts the company, finally turning to face Thorin to ask accusingly

“Where is our hobbit?”

The dwarves bicker briefly before Nori confesses that he did indeed witness you slip through the fingers of the goblins, but that was the most he had seen. Thorin sneers and finishes painting the picture for him, channeling all the distrust he has for those not of his blood to come out with the nerves of being constantly chased.

“ill tell you what happened, our burglar saw their chance and they took it! They’ve thought of nothing but their soft bed and warm hearth since they had left home. We will not be seeing our hobbit again; they are long gone.”

The amount of distrust cuts you deeply. The fear you spoke of to him in Rivendell is truly apparent in this moment. A liability he cannot control, unlike his brothers who are like an extension of his hand, you are a think he does not feel close, as “one of them” as he has so often stated. You war within yourself whether you should make yourself seen, if not for a desire to prove the doubting prince wrong.

Even as you walk from behind your hiding place, slipping the ring from your digit and into your pocket, you feel an immense satisfaction watching Thorin whirl around. His jaw is dropped to his chest as the dwarves of the company welcome you back with hearty slaps and deep bellied laughter. There is that spark. A light of something in the prince’s eye, it is yet still obscured by his jealousy by seeing you get along so well with his own kin, some more so than even he.

Just as a small smile cracks his hardened visage, you all hear a familiar terror. Barking and howling of wargs and the low tone of a Gundabad war horn. The face still changes, but to one of disbelief upon beholding upon the rim of the vale on the mountainside, astride an albino warg sitting his old enemy; the defiler. White fleshed also himself, alive and well with his revenge set upon the line of Durin

The company of Thorin Oakenshield stands upon the brink, quite literally, as the evergreen they shelter in gives way at the roots. The rocky slope appears too inhospitable for deep burrowing for the tree; so it falls almost as if to dangle them tauntingly, yet another card stacked against them. You can hear the pale orc taunting in the tongue of the Gundabad.

To this when all hope seems lost, the would be mountain king rises from the failing trunk, bathed in the glow of fire. His jaw is set, resolute and brimming with righteous fury. Its as if time slows to behold his descent to stand upon the same earth that Azog does. Bearing the mighty goblin cleaver high, Thorin advances with the speed not often afforded his kin on their stumpy legs, driven by a superhuman determination.

He cuts down the first warg the leaps to him, but the move is a fatal sacrificial feint as the mounted defiler swings his weapon to collide with the dwarven prince, square in the chest. He is knocked from his feet, a collective outcry from the rest of the company as they behold their leader fall. The albino warg seizes him with its jaws, shaking him about like a wolf with its prey.

You behold the sadistic glee in the pale orc’s face, even as his mount receives a blow from Orcrist across the snout, and Thorin is thrown to rest upon a outcropping with his blade flung from him. You shake your head no, silently begging the universe to intervene as one of the other orcs dismounts to bring the head of Durin’s last pure heir to his white-fleshed chief.

A sudden rage explodes in your mind, like a spark that burns down your back. Your feet are moving before you can tell your body otherwise, carrying you in a blind sprint into the orc that lines his blade up the neck of Thorin. With your elven dagger forward, glowing the cleansing blue, you collide into the much larger Gundabad orc. The point seems to burn right through the orcish iron armor, and right into putrid flesh.

“As easy as a sharp knife through the skin of an orange.”

You think to yourself, even as your instinct draws the blade from punctured plating to drive it into the neck of the gurgling orc. It only spasms for a moment before lying still, and you leap to your feet, spittle flying as you bite off your words with a vengeance you did not know you possessed

“Stay back, spawn of Mordor, or I shall cut you asunder as well!"

Thorin wheezes what sounds like your name from behind but your focus is the Defiler; standing yet undeterred by your words. He is laughing down at you from his mount but his mirth does not dwell. He is cut off quickly when the few dwarves who can scramble free of the fallen tree’s precarious perch fall upon the remaining Gundabad. It is as if the display of defiance from their prince tied to the act of valiant bravery on your part, has stirred the fire in their blood anew. They all but throw themselves into the enemy with such reckless abandon of singing iron and steel that the orcs are driven back.

They stand undaunted, even as the howls of more beasts signal the arrival of reinforcements. So focused are those in the fray that they do not see the immense birds circling the stand of burning trunks that is their battlefield. The great eagles of legend, come from their lofty nests in the misty mountains to give aide to the strivings of mortals. They descend, swooping as massive hunt birds, striking warg and orc alike from the edge of the mountainside shelf.

They come a second time, at this pass grasping the members of the company, carrying the company from where they stand cornered on the slope, wings beating over the cursing of Azog. You yourself are pushed off but land upon the back of one smaller eagle. From your now circling vantage point you watch as one scoops up the prone body of Thorin who still slips to and from consciousness, leaving a patch of bloodied earth where he had lain.

Even as the great birds carry the company off you watch the one that holds the dwarf prince, as he does you. As they climb past the overcast clouds, you can see in the growing dawn even from a distance, Thorin’s eyes as they rest upon you. That lip once set in distrust and disdain now quivers with emotion as tears slip down the hardened face of the dwarf prince. He makes a feeble reach with the last strength in his battered body, his arm failing him too soon. And with the closing of those questioning eyes, he gives himself to the darkness, slipping back into the sleep given him by his wounds. Not dead, but still mortally wounded in both the physical and the emotional.

[thecoldwhitenorth]

Give me a part two of the Thorin one and I’ll passionately kiss you 🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵

OF THE LINEAGE OF DURIN|Part 2

TAGS & WARNINGS: Fluff/Angst, Thorin x Reader, Fantasy, Marriage proposal, Non-sexual intimacy, Mutual personal care, Mild violence, Animal violence (in the context of hunting) etc.

NOW PLAYING: "Temeria Trip"-Jeroen Hoogeveen

It was almost three months after your spur-of-the-moment braiding ceremony before Thorin came to bring you up the mountain. The summer was in full green bloom in the valley, but patches of snow still laid farther up the mountain, covering the obstinate grass between the bramble and rhododendron thickets.

Much of the trees up the side had long given up on survival, most save for the evergreens long dead and sun-bleached husks. This all to say that the environment surrounding Thorin’s Hall was a direct reflection of the dwarves that inhabited it; old and strong, stuck fast and standing even after death, and obstinate to a fault.

Although not overtly improper to dwell with your courtship partner, or even betrothed, Thorin had insisted on keeping to the traditions of his forebears, not allowing even the temptation for the final sanctity of the marriage bed be pre-emptively sampled. He instead left you with his younger sister, Dís. This is not to say that he did not follow the pattern of works and feats to draw his prospective bride to him.

Too many times you would find him in the cold mountain air, shirtless before the forge with warmth of coals only to his chest. He seemed to make great effort in carrying more than necessary to bring attention to his strength. His greatest feat of the time was at the close of spring, going into the foothills below Ered Luin, on the north banks of Mithlond. He had joined a hunting party, a rare divergence from his regular duty whereupon finding a sizable wild Pig, he goaded it into a standoff.

The ensuing violence ended with the dwarf prince wrestling the boar to the ground and bludgeoning the beast to death with his gauntleted fists while his brothers roared and cheered him on. After field dressing it, He bore the animal on his back all the way up the mountain to the hall; a half day journey, where he threw a feast with the boar as a massive roast centerpiece.

He never once looked your direction, but there was more that one occasion you caught him staring when he thought you could not see him in the reflection of a great mirror in the hall. You had no real concept of dwarf courtship, but a question to the matronly Dís gave you a small insight to the inner workings of the people of the deep.

“Madrith, there is much for you to learn, and I will not be one so cynical to one of the mayflies of Ilúvatar. I cannot expect you to learn so much of our ways when your life is but a fraction of ours. Come to me when you are confused and I will shed light upon the mysteries of the Khazâd. Speak my child, what rests upon your mind as of late?”

“Well, I… I for one do not know how I might address you, I know not the formalities of the dwarf familial hierarchy.”

A smile crosses her face, and she strokes your hair with the tender love a woman of her years might see one as young as yourself; her fingers tangling in the individual locks before reverently softening over your braid. The gesture although foreign and intimate, brings not discomfort but a warmth and satisfaction to a corner of your heart that had long been neglected.

“My dear child, I bear no ill-will to you, nor do I see with eyes blinded by stigma or assumptive premonitions so common to my people. You are clearly one of virtue if you have caught my brother’s eye, and my joy is by no means small to see him flex and flaunt himself for your approval. Ah, but to the matter of how you would address me, it would be too simple for I to be your sister, but on the other hand we cannot have any unfamiliarity between us.”

She thinks for a moment before a look of glee crosses her uncharacteristically perfect face for a dwarf, creasing in the corners of her eyes with the telltale crows feet that are brought on from too many smiles in life.

“Seeing as you are but of only father, and I will be taking you under my wing, I see no reason you shouldn’t call me ‘Amad, for you have not your own.”

The bringing up of the loss of a mother doesn’t hurt as much as you would usually think it to. Rather if it is the filling of such a position by your jovial hostess, or the memory of her is but a whisper, you cannot tell for sure. It matters not, it is an answer to two questions really, now grasping Thorin’s odd behavior of showmanship.

Thinking on the prince brings back those images of him sweating before the seething coals of the forges, his already barrel shape and meaty stockiness complimented by rippling sinew; bulky and veined not as one who merely trains muscle but regularly uses it. A would-be king who does not shy from hard manual work, is a king indeed.

Reminiscing his image seems to summon the man himself as the familiar throat clearing is heard behind you. You turn jut in time to see him walk past you to the great fireplace inside the home of Dís.

“Do you see not my efforts to please you amrâlimê, does the sight of me vex you so that you cannot witness me perform the acts that should impress you?”

“N…No master Thorin, I mean m…my betrothed, I… I did not know for what you put on such a display for, it was not made known to me until just recently. I have seen you, truly I have, I just did not know if I should have said something to congratulate you or otherwise show my appreciation for such effort.”

“You knew not? Then who told you of the custom?”

“Well, it was your sister, but she insisted that for familiarity I call her ‘Amad.”

“She what?!”

Thorin almost goes purple and pounds his fist on the stone mantle, shaking the decorative pottery that stands atop it. He roars and rages, hollering into the spacious dwelling for his sister to come out and face him.

“Dís! Dís! You come and face me this instant, you ugly conniving gnome!”

He slips from common speech into expletives in Khuzdul and back into insults in the common tongue again. He seems unnecessarily angry at this naming scheme, so when She emerges from a back hall looking incredibly smug with herself you are intrigued.

“Is this a jab at me? My little brat of a sister always said she would be the one to tell me what to do, so this is the way you go about it to put yourself above me, making my betrothed go around referring to you as her mother? How does that look on the future king under the mountain?”

“Well, I always did have a better head than you did Thorin, maybe if you acted less of the child, perhaps I would not have to treat you as such.”

“I mentor my nephews because you have not the skill or wit to do so yourself, and I entrust you with my future wife, and your mind goes to what, an opportunity to shame me?”

Dís pouts with exaggerated displeasure, shaking her head and waggling a finger at the jaded Thorin. His temper was one not known for stability, but this seemed unreasonable. Still, she goads her brother for reason unknown.

“Speak not to me in such a way child, you are king of nothing yet.”

Thorin grasps a mug from the table and hurls it at Dís, but it is intercepted by a young blonde dwarf who flies from the same hall Dís emerged from previously. A nigh identical dwarf comes in his wake like a shadow, only his long brown hair contrasting with his brother as he dives for the legs of Thorin. A sidestep from Thorin causes Kili to miss his uncle’s knees by inches.

“And you would set your whelps upon me instead of facing me with the honor of a dwarrow? Very well Dís, I will thrash these Nadnithth of yours so soundly they will naught be able to sit upon their backsides for a fortnight, and have none but you to thank!"

“Less talk Uncle, more fists!”

Fili and Kili leap at their Uncle with reckless abandon, whilst Thorin adapts a more tactical stance, calculating his assailants. He manages to catch Fili around the neck in a reverse naked choke under one arm but receives blows to the side in return. Kili throws a half-hearted kick, not wanting to injure his uncle. The whole altercation seems to be play, all show to blow off steam.

Dís decides to sit and watch the whole thing, as if her home is not about to be torn asunder by the ensuing scuffle. There are shifts in power, for one moment Kili seems to have grappled Thorin to the ground enough to allow Fili a free swing at the prince’s face.

Unfortunately, Thorin manages to move his head back enough that the assailing fist only clips his face, but not before the leather cuff of catches your tie in the braid you did down the front of his face. Everyone stops dead, as if they had just broken their mother’s finest dinnerware, even the amused Dís gasps, spilling her tea into her lap.

“Uncle, I’m… I’m so terribly sorry I… I didn’t mean for it…”

Thorin moves like lightning, ignoring the pressure Kili puts on his neck to deliver both hands to Fili’s head, a thunderous boxing of his ears. He then, with a mighty roar, bucks Kili forward over his back, and on top of the sprawled form of his brother.

“Witness the strength of your prince my beloved, feast your eyes upon the love of your life and his deeds!”

“Uncle, you hurt me, I… I didn’t mean to…”

Thorin plucks your hair tie from where its still lodged in the leather banding of Fili’s cuff and shakes it in his face.

“I would keep easy on you but this? This is a sacred thing to me, not even my own blood may lay hand upon it.”

He approaches you and with reverence places the ribbon in your hand. He bows his head, as does the mortified Dís, and both subdued nephews, all adopting somber poses as if the ribbon is some grave imposing on a covenant, which you suppose in a way, is true to the dwarf.

“My love, could you forgive me for allowing you token to be wrest from me, would you find the grace within you to bestow upon me your grace once more…”

And that is how you find yourself now, sitting upon the lap of Thorin, son of Thrain son of Thror, the future king under the mountain, laying delicate braid after braid in his flowing hair once more.

NOW PLAYING: "Farewell"-Bernth

It is the dawning of November when you find yourself in the chambers preparing for the multiple weeklong ceremony that will be the officiation of your marriage to Thorin II Durinson. It has been but 7 months since you were brought up the mountain to be the future bearer of the heirs of Durin, but the time has felt so short. It must be so much worse for Thorin, considering Dwarf courtships can last decades in some cases, but you fear your shorter lifespan has somehow forced his hand.

You fret over your appearance, the tittering younger dwarrows that assist your preparations do their best to assuage your trepidation. A miracle for such a stubborn race, for them to come to trust one of the mortals with breath as brief as wind itself. Perhaps its all for the sake of their future king, his station aside he is still quite a celebrity among his people.

Dís comes in to check on you, the dwarf women surround you on stools, pinning and readjusting your wedding robe and all the trimmings that accompany it. A lot of heavy and delicate jewelry, innumerable white gems laid into the exquisite craftsmanship. She smiles with a singular tear falling beholding your radiance, but realizing your fears, she shoos the others away and comes upon one of the stools herself.

Now standing face to face with you, she begins to sing softly in her own tongue, something you have yet to learn enough of to understand fully. She gently lays hold of your hair and knots beads from a bag on her waist into your hair. Lock by lock, she builds up your tresses with innumerable braids decorated with intricate gold and ivory. Each one is accompanied by a spoken blessing in Khuzdul.

“You, for a human make quite a ravishing specimen, despite the lack of that perfect shape coveted by dwarrow clanwide, you have a universal beauty, here.”

She lays a hand upon your bosom, feeling how fast your heart beats. Smiling she kisses you on your forehead and whispers to you.

“My dear, dear child… the joy it brings to see my brother in such a state on this day is like none other I have felt. And to see you now, so pure, the thing he has yearned for, for all his years…”

She doesn’t continue, only grasping your shoulders to stand you up straight. She looks you up and down and nods to herself, as if confirming some truth she has held in doubt for so long.

“Are you ready, daughter of man?”

“I do not know truly Dís, there is yet uncertainty within me, how shall I bring this man what he needs, he is so lofty, what could he require of me that I could give. For in truth I fear I could not please him as a woman does. Two-hundred years I a long time to be well versed in the arts of pleasure and lovemaking, and that is only a fraction of my conjugal duties.”

“This is why you hesitate and ruminate young one? Fret not, we have long to learn, also my brother, I know he is too stubborn to get along with a dwarrow long enough to get lucky in such a way. I have no fear he will be as knowledgeable as you on the subject of… well… intercourse. Besides, that is not the point of tonight now is it?”

“What else would we do upon pledging ourselves?”

“Patience child, its as if that is your sole goal in this entire endeavor.”

You blush, realizing your single-minded fear has come out to seem as an obsession. Realization dawns as you recognize that in truth, that has been the greatest distress at the forefront of your thoughts. Would you be enough that Thorin would not bore of you in a few decades, and what of the difference in lifespan, what would happen then when you pass in his arms while he has hundreds of years to go? Would the grief be worth it?

“You see every one of these braids? Each one that I have tied upon your head, each with its own blessing to accompany it. These serve more than beauty, as you know in the culture of the stone-dwellers, the braid of a loved one is a sacred and intimate thing. Each weave tells a different story, each pattern and bead holds a unique meaning. And as the duty of your husband he will untie every braid I have just done, assuming the responsibility of the blessings coming to fruition before he lies with you for the first time.”

She holds up a thicker braid with an especially ornate gold bead set with a rose gem.

“This is the braid of fertility, it bears the blessing of children, grandchildren, and the heirs that will come of your bloodline. When he unties this braid, it is his duty to not only make you with child, but also it is a vow to care, cherish, and mentor every child you bear to him.”

She lifts another, a large braid in the back that splits into three smaller braids with ivory and sapphire beads.

“This one signifies prosperity; not riches in gold alone, but satisfaction in the home, food upon the table and a fire in the hearth. When undone, he shoulders the responsibility to care for you, and make your every day free of the worries outside of the home. It is the greatest provision he could give, a sacrifice of his time, energy; even to his dying breath.”

Dís goes through each braid, detailing the significance and inviolability of each. She comes to a last strand of hair she grasps in the front, one she had left undone.

“And this, is your oath lock, to be left undone, whereupon you both shall braid your hair together at the altar before shearing this singular plait off, as a picture of you both separating from the ways of single life. It is the only thing cut from you, for from this night forward you shall bear things only in increase, not loss.”

She steps from the stool with a misty-eyed smile and looks up into your own tear-streaked face. The beauty and symbolism of the whole ceremony to come has finally sunk in, the degree of commitment, the intimacy of shared life like an unfolding flower, opening to let you smell its fragrance. This is no light thing to be put away easily as the marriages of elves and men, but a lifelong commitment; a private affair within direct family seldom broken off.

The gravity of all this settles in as proof of Thorin’s aloof, yet fervent love for you. The fire of which must burn so exceptionally hot that he would break tradition to allow human blood into the mix. You wipe your eyes, careful not to smudge the delicate makeup that adorns your visage.

You look down at the pure white gown you wear, not silk and lace like a human’s, but of finely woven white gold and silver, trimmed with white furs and mithril. Stepping back into the light coming through the chamber window causes the room to alight with refracting sparkles, so that Dís has to shield her eyes from your radiance.

A younger dwarrow knocks before slipping inside the dressing room. She gazes in awe at your finished appearance, before remembering her errand. Giving a slight bow, she announces.

“Thorin Durinson and his kin await his bride.”

“Go now my child, she will direct you to the hall.”

You exit the room, having your long train picked up by the girl as she follows behind. The following days would be somber but beautiful, a private officiation before the kin, before appearing in front of the inhabitants as the bride of their King, and the future mother of the heirs of Durin.

If you liked this "one" shot, please check my original fantasy piece. chapter 2 part 2 is out now :)

[thecoldwhitenorth]

Hiiiiii my love, so I saw that you write for Thorin and I was wonderinggggg:

Could I possibly have a oneshot thats a Thorin x Female Reader:

This takes place before the events of The Hobbit when Thorin and Erebor gang are living in the Blue Mountains. At the base of such is a Human village. Thorin travels down there every six months or so to trade with the Humans but this time he's there for more than wares.

Getting older, and with no heirs, Thorin doesn't want to leave the burden of being an exiled king to Fili and Kili so he decides to take a wife. As we've seen in Tolkien lore, Dwarrows and Dwarves don't really get along super well so he chooses a human against his better judgement which just so happens to be reader.

He knows not a thing about her beyond what the villagers say, but she catches his eye.

How's it going to play out?

ok ily byeeeeee

OF THE LINEAGE OF DURIN|Thorin x Reader (Part 1)

TAGS & WARNINGS: Fluff/Angst, Thorin x Reader, Fantasy, Marriage proposal, Non-sexual intimacy, Mutual personal care, etc.

NOW PLAYING: "Coming Home"-Inon Zur

It was spring 2940 of the third age when Thorin, son of Thrain did find himself in the village for the last time. Home to none but humans and the odd elf or dwarf ostracized from their kin, it was a settlement of such little consequence that the name yet eludes us. However, this town is not the focus of our account, nay but the limelight would lie on a young lass of the human folk, the daughter of a notable merchant in the town.

Now by no means was this man rich, but his business was with the exiled king, mainly that of trading the exquisite and durable dwarven craft for essential goods the stalwart rock-dwellers could not fashion themselves. Be it cloth for the dwarven women of Thorin’s gate, or merely food to supplement the Naugrim in their winter food stores.

And it was upon this day that Thorin brings raw and refined metals along with the diverse crafts of his people with intent of leaving with one thing and one thing only. A bride, to preserve the line of his fathers, the sons and daughters of Durinsfolk…

It was his one hundred and ninety-fifth year, so long in exile that he almost forgotten what the halls of the lonely mountain smelled of, chiseled rock and stone. Thorin is astride his horse, his stature barely enough to control the beast, but his pride to great to mount a pony. Down the northeast side of the pass to Thorin’s Gate he rides with a wagon in tow, a place his people had settled when removed from their rightful home by the fire drake Smaug.

Speaking of pride, the man realises that this will be another strike against his ego; for naught he could find wife among the dwarven women, all taken by another man, or by their own obstinance. For the sake of his own sister, he would not saddle his nephews with the weight of the throne nor heirs, for they had their own directions and destiny. The line of Durin was for Thorin to uphold.

He hears the cry of a raven and looks skyward to see a lone black silhouette headed east. The fowl shall return to nest upon the lonely mountain once more, the thrushes and ravens of Erebor will sing of a new age. He remembers the solemn prophecy, and his heart rises for his people. He receives the resolve he needs as the last hairpin bend on the mountain road brings the village in sight, nestled into the side of the mountain and feathering into sparse houses over the foothills.

He leans in the saddle to run an enormous, calloused hand up his steeds nape, a trusting gesture, one of affection and finality. A low rumble reverberates in the horses belly and he shakes his head snorting as if bothered by flies.

“We don’t have much farther to go Mikil, buck up now.”

He sets his heavy booted heels into its flanks and urges the horse and the cart forward. Begrudgingly the beast moves into the morning light cascading across the now open last stretch of the pass. Those same rays illuminate the coat for the mount’s namesake, shimmering copper.

Silence is his company for the last few miles into the town; there he is greeted by rowdy children in the market square. Not necessarily paying him homage or mind but merely being there creating noise. Something he will have to look forward to in raising up an heir for Durin.

“Nay, I cannot dwell on my premonitions and presumptions.”

He thinks to himself, even as he hears those same words in his sister’s voice encouraging an open heart. Not something common for dwarves, but for the bearing of children, a little patience and longsuffering is mandatory. He dismounts and barely has his fist up to the entrance of the shop he came all this way for when the door swings open ahead of him, and there she stands...

You open the door to find the exiled dwarf king, hand raised to knock on a door already passed from him. He regains his composure, and despite his tall stature for a dwarf, he must still turn his head upwards to behold your face. You greet him as warmly as ever, uncharacteristic of a human to dwarf:

“M… Master Thorin! How delightful of you to come and see my father and I again so soon. Have you more wares for us to trade, or is this merely a social call, since being out of the customary timing?”

He seems to hold his words carefully, the practiced scowl leaving his face upon seeing you. Gesturing to the cart, he utters low as if to speak but halts himself to greet you with proper etiquette.

“My lady, you have grown since I last saw you. I… I do have business with your father if he is indeed in. Its not urgent, but I… I must not elaborate farther, where is he?”

“He will return shortly; won’t you wait a moment for him? The way down the mountain is difficult and you would do well for a warm pint, yes?”

Thorin tries to hide his gratitude behind his rough façade with a grunt and nod, kicking the snow-slicked mud from the soles of his heavy boots upon the chiseled stone of the doorpost. He walks into the tidy storefront. It’s more of a warehouse with a home above, seeing as Your father does similar to the dwarf, taking wares eastward into the north moors, as far as the village of Bree.

Thorin does not know where to stand really and decides to sit upon a stool tucked into the corner of the entryway. You return with a tall mug of wintermeade, frothing and smelling of honey and herbs. You shake your head tutting to the Dwarf prince as if a disapproving mother.

“Ah, but you must come sit by the hearth, please would you bestow me the honor of entertaining you fully?”

He would protest for his own pride, but for a reason he cannot give he feels his resolve melt. perhaps your way of treating him from your tone to the familiar friendliness laced with reverence given his birthright. He unbuckles the armored boots and leaves them by the door, a little embarrassed by his woolen socks being the only barrier between the floor and what he assumes you must surely think are the most unsightly feet. Resting into one of the fur covered chairs adjacent to the great fire in the back of the building, he accepts the warm beverage from your hands. He lies back to relax as he awaits your father but he feels your delicate hands come to grasp the toe of his aforementioned socks. Sitting more upright in a mild panic he is about to object, but you hush him again.

“Rest yourself Master Thorin, I cannot have your feet fail you when your whole life is to be upon them. And to be wet from the mountain melt? Frostbite or an infection would not do you well I would fear.”

You gently remove the damp garments and hang them upon the rack that suspends the pots over the coals. He does not correct you, despite the fact that dwarves are hardy and resist most diseases and even some poisons. He watches your expression to see if you will show your distaste, but you visage never changes, remaining one of simplistic grace and kindness. You merely cover his lower half along with his embarrassment with a clean blanket.

Thorin averts his gaze to the floor, unsure how to proceed. Small talk was never at the forefront of his skills as was swordsmanship or metalworking, and he finds himself at a loss in the presence of such a beauty he hadn’t really laid eyes on before. The outward does not disappoint, however it is the demure nature so far removed from the haughty dwarrows that were his prospect before that leaves him so speechless.

He thinks back to when he first established a regular trading agreement with your father years before. When your father had moved in with a young daughter and no mother in sight, the difference in the village raised children and you were immediately apparent. Where the whelps that ran the streets would hide behind their mothers or flee outright, the older ones mockingly holding a hand flat at shoulder level to denote the small stature of the stalwart prince.

The line of Durin is known for the gift of longevity, not height. And despite a born strength that rivaled even dedicated human acrobats and warriors, tallness seemed to be a sore spot for the dwarves. Even though your father had only bowed when approached with proposition, he had noticed how you had dropped a curtsey low enough that your eyes would have to look up to observe him. A gesture beyond respect for royalty of another race, extending to a courtesy addressing the possible insecurities of said race.

Even then, your young age had not detracted at all from your maturity, taking care of your father and his guest while they discussed merchandise needs and fair exchange. The demure nature with which you carried yourself, contrasted with the strong feminine care you exuded, spiced with a little bit of gumption was what struck Thorin initially. But now seeing the woman you had become, his confidence in breaking tradition for the royal line of Durin for the sake of his own peace is satisfied.

“My father is here, Master Thorin.”

The sweet and half whispered voice in his ear breaks him from his reminiscing daydream, one voice that could also put him to sleep, unlike the haranguing he hears of from the other dwarf marriages so frequently. Almost two hundred years on the earth and he had yet to find a dwarrow as virtuous as the twenty-odd human girl he is considering.

You step out as your father enters, shaking the last of the cold from his bones as he settles himself opposite the dwarf prince. Your only vice in life being gossip, causing you to rest just outside of eyesight to listen in on the conversation.

“Now, Master Thorin to what might I owe the pleasure of you visiting us on a day dreary as this? Was the earlier supplies not enough for your tribe in the mountains?”

“Aelmar, I must be honest with you, I did not foresee myself coming hence for the next few months, but I have a matter of utmost urgency that must be accounted for. There is not long for me to do so.”

“But you are over a hundred years old, and with many more to go, not to mention the gift of your forebears. What could possibly be of such urgency to vex you enough to return to my home so soon?”

“It’s not to displease you Aelmar, we have our differences and our foibles, yet I do have a need of you, a human. I… I am not one for the humble, knowing I have an ego, as is the way of my kin, but I have come to a certain crossroads.”

“Oh?”

“I am not old, not by the standard of a dwarf. Yet I lack something I must fulfil before I am to complete the destiny which is promised me. My nephews, I cannot saddle them with the weight of kingship in tumultuous times as this. Therefore, it is I that must furnish an heir to the line of Durin.”

“For what purpose do you come here for that then?”

“I cannot find a woman suitable among my own blood, not one I would be willing to have a family with at the least.”

There is silence for a moment as the two men look at each other as if to telepathically convey the greater meaning of these words. The dwarf prince is the one who breaks it:

“It is for this very reason I come to you, a man I at least share a small amount of trust with, trust enough that I would leave the line of my own kin in his hands. Aelmar, I have come to ask for as you would say, your daughter’s hand.”

You clutch at your chest as your breath catches. It seems your father is left similarly as the dwarf prince looks down at his hands as if ashamed. A singular gold inlaid ivory bead rolls around his palm.

“I have naught to offer her until I would take back the hall of my fathers from the witless worm that stole it and its riches from us. I would see the kingdom under the mountain restored, but for what end would I for no heir?”

“And why a human? Have you left scorned every one of your own women?”

“I know my people have a distaste for outsiders, but I would rather face the mild disdain for taking a human, than the century long ire of an obstinate dwarrow. It is not a choice made easily but…”

“You know nothing of my daughter, why would you even have sight upon her in the first place?”

At this Thorin gives a longer pause, as if he is taking a moment to free himself of the pride that keeps him from admitting his reasons. He seems to bite off the words as he admits:

“I have seen and heard the virtues of your daughter, you are a well-known man in the town, and you and I have done business for long enough that I feel I can be forthright with you. Your human daughter displays more virtue than any of the dwarrow I have seen take upon themselves from forty years of adulthood.”

“I will trade you wares, but my child is not a commodity you can come and ask price of.

At this your heart swells with a foreign emotion, a mixed feeling of longing and the assurance that where you are headed is where you need to be. You resist the urge to barge in in the conversation, placing your own opinions into the open and taking control of your future instead of leaving it to the will of your father.

You think for a moment, visualizing your life as the bride of a dwarf prince. What struggles would you face, and what flaws of Durinsfolk or dwarves in general would you have to resign yourself to tolerate? What would be the effects of your drastically shorter lifespan in the long run?

You think of the rumors, of what the Dwarf prince truly is like. The expectation of you from him, and undoubtedly his kin would surely be too great for a human girl of your age to bear. But then you center your focus to Thorin himself, his comely visage, not bulbous like so many other dwarves. His large and rough hands, making human men seem feminine when compared to the broad palms and thick callouses from labor not meant for royalty like himself. The well groomed locks, wavy and cascading past his shoulders.

To the Dwarves, that hair is sacred; to touch would be intimate and private. Yet you find yourself drawn almost magnetically to him. You find your feet moving in their own accord, carrying you independent of the will of your heart guiding you. You do not even hear your fathers voice, even as you pull the tie from your own hair, letting the locks cascade loose around your face and down your back.

The world has narrowed to you and Thorin, he looking on with those piercing eyes full of wisdom and yet so much fear as you kneel before him looking up into those very eyes. He hesitates a moment, but seeing you so willingly surrendered to him despite not knowing him on any deep personal level, He leans forward grasping a portion of the front of your hair. Those thick and muscular fingers are surprisingly deft and quickly form an elaborate braid.

As he works, he whispers in his own tongue, khuzdul, his velvety deep voice a soothing accompaniment to the act of intwining your silken tresses. It is only a minute, and he has reached the end of your hair, skillfully weaving that ornate gold-gilded bead into the tail of the braid. He holds his finished work for a second longer to admire the lovely color, the back of his broad hand resting against your shoulder. Your father speaks again, resignation but peace in his tone.

“I suppose that is settled then…”

Thorin slides off the human-sized chair and comes to knee in front of you, he grasps your hands and places them upon his own silver streaked hair, the long waves of them cascading past his shoulders. You take the time to run your fingers through it, breaking apart the slight knots and matting typical of a man’s wind-blown mop.

“You must show that I too am off limits.”

You chose not to point out how odd that sounds for a man who couldn’t find mate in his own flesh and blood, instead taking a handful of his hair and weaving it. You try to be as careful and skilled as he, but you suppose that your effort is no match for 190 years of practice. Still he seems content, even enough to shut his eyes an allow himself to nod off as you try and retry you braid until you are satisfied. You finish off the weave with you own hair tie, the only piece of yourself you could give as part of it.

The ritual is complete, the bond made, and the pledge silently sworn. You have no extensive knowledge on dwarven courtship, save for the braid of betrothal. He says no more, only regarding you with a mix of satisfaction and worry, but surely, he is no doubt satisfied. He uses his strength to haul you to your feet to stand a head over him once more.

“Your kindness and sensibility are what did bring me to you at first, however, from this day forward you kneel to only one. You are my bride to be, you will be the one to bring an heir to the sons of Durin, and with the strength of my hand I shall lift you from the troubles this mortal realm has to offer you. For the livelihood of my kin, is why I do this with you.”

His words ring true in your mind, a man of honor such as he will keep his promises. You can only hope to not disappoint him who would once more be king under the mountain.

[thecoldwhitenorth]

{Written for PeachyMilk, I think of you everytime I write her...}

A TOKEN IN A TOWER

Tags & Warnings: medieval, fantasy, imprisonment, suggestive themes, partial nudity, full nudity, sexual themes, sexual intercourse, consensual sex, breeding, etc...

"Please, would you give me this one thing?”

Dänyl's jaw quite literally drops at the sight of Lady Ella's panty-clad rear on full display. An accident is one thing but he is intoxicated by the swell of peculiar emotion he feels knowing she has willingly uncovered herself to him. The excitement it creates is barely comparable to when she kissed him, or even when she bore her breasts out for his viewing pleasure, it goes so much deeper.

The amount of love, trust, and surrender in that motion shows more than lust or want. Despite the fact that he is the caged one and she is free to escape elsewhere references her purest single-minded desire: it is not about stripping her shackles of being a mere plaything on a political game board, its truly what she yearns for. Her face flushes, and she whispers huskily:

"Do you see what I have worn for you? My sister told me things... not just the way we might break free, but also of desires and of sensations. And most of the pleasure of a man, their gaze, and how to tempt."

“M… my lady, do you always wear such… provocative things?”

“Nay, I am to be a lady of the proper and practical. However, I... I must admit that I have worn things like this around you more than once. I… I am abashed to admit this, but I did hope you would have seen them sooner, rather than being in a state of affairs such as this.”

She reaches behind with one hand and squeeze one of her soft, round buttocks, its not a great handful, but she is clearly blessed with a tantalising figure. Biting her lip, she gives the best “ravage me” eyes that she can. She had practiced in the mirror at her older sister’s instruction, and she hopes it achieves the desired effect.

And as if to immediately confirm her efforts to that promiscuous allure, the young prisoner rises, all thought of his captivity fleeing him. He approaches with instinctual direction, coming close to the bars and reaching through with a quaking hand to touch her exposed skin. She gives a half yelp, half moan for the coldness of his hand from being left in the harsh element of the prison, coupled with the arousal of her greatest fantasy being so close to fulfillment.

There had been many a time she had lain in bed into the morning listening to the young men train in the courtyard below. She could pick out his voice, his grunts, and his strain from all the others. It had not been a handful of moments she had shut her eyes and run her small fingers over her delicate folds, imagining Dänyl making those same sounds of exertion over her naked body.

All the times she had managed to glimpse him when he would change his sweat-soaked gambeson for a clean doublet behind the stable, washing his body with the cool water from the well. She had never been close enough to catch sight of his manhood, not the size nor shape. But now she could see by looking over her shoulder that he was at least aroused. His hosen peaks with a prominent engorgement and she shivers, unfamiliar with what “big” could mean, only knowing whatever created that bulge was far larger than her fingers.

She pushes herself back until her derriere presses against the bars, not intending to but the process spreading herself so that she is laid bare, the gentle fabric of her underwear pulling deliciously taut against her folds. The pressure is a delightful tease as she feels his other had come up to explore her. However, it seems as if he is too timid to touch near the growing wetness that permeates the silken garment.

“Are… are you sure of what you are doing my love?”

Her voice so soft calling him an endearment, such a simple thing, but it drives his instinct into a fever pitch. He inhales with shaking breath, taking in the sweet and slight scent of her sweat that somehow overpowers the dankness of the mildewed stone walls.

“Nay… I… I have no knowledge of such things, its not like I haven’t.. well… touched my own body but… I… I know not the mechanism of… well… intercourse.”

She chuckles with that sweet lilting voice that always disarms him. Her free hand reaches back to grasp his wrist, pushing his hand down to touch the warmth emanating from her core. She is delighted to show this impressionable lad how to ravage a woman, regardless of her own virgin lack of experience.

“I will show you how it must be done, my precious golden boy… now you… you must lick… um taste me there. Its… not part of anything it… oh my, what am I even saying!”

Crimson flush returns to her soft countenance as embarrassment sinks in at hearing her own words. This however does not deter Dänyl, already drunk on the image of his beloved spread before him. He wastes no time getting back on his knees so that his visage is mere inches from her wetness. One finger works under the taut fabric, and he tugs the damp fabric aside to reveal her femineity, like a rose wet with dew, perfect in its every way without blemish.

“D…do not describe it in such a way! It is so humiliating, I wish myself to vanish from here!”

He must have thought out loud. Despite her protesting words, she unconsciously grinds herself farther into the bars, encouraging him farther. He comes closer, the intoxicating pheromones making him a hazy man of no thought and only sensual action. Gently he runs his tongue up her quivering folds, eliciting a high moan from the startled girl. She bites her lip, feeling her knees already growing weak. From either the position or his ministrations, she knows not.

“W…wait a moment.”

She leans forward almost falling as she grasps the seat of the wooden chair on the opposite wall the guard had previously sat in. She pulls it closer propping herself on it just as she feels those two familiar hands grabbing her hips and pulling her back against the bars. His tongue pierces inside for a moment before going back to running up and down. His desperation is palpable, he is devouring her like it’s his last meal, and no longer can she keep herself quiet.

She starts with little gasps at first but lets her lungs fully project her pleasure as she feels the ecstasy between her legs. Her mind clears of troubles and reservation, and she can only gasp “more” between her moans.

“In… inside… you must p…put it inside… I… I need it!”

“Put what inside my lady?

His speaking into her folds sends delightful vibrations through her core and she gasps out.

“Y… your c… cock. I need you to put in inside me. As… as deep as you can!”

At this revelation, Dänyl feels a little disturbed but his born intuition is what’s driving him, not clarity and decency. He quickly fumbles with the knot of his hosen, letting them fall from his strong legs. The vulgarity of it is simultaneously perturbing, but far more arousing. He holds himself stupidly, unsure of how to proceed.

“What do I do miss Ella?”

“Oh for… Shove your hard dick inside my soaked little hole and rail me like you would die otherwise! For I shall! Please I beg of you, I know not from whence this need arises, but all I can think is breed me, BREED ME!”

She half screams in a primal desperation, nigh shoving herself against the bars in her purest desire. He complies, not fearful but also feeling a magnetism his own reservations cannot fight. He doesn’t know how the understanding is with him, but he already comprehends what he must do, pressing the head against her wetness.

Ella gasps silently as she feels the burning stretch of him entering her, its just the tip, but it feels like a mile. Her brow drops as she fights the immense pleasure coupled with searing pain. He keeps pushing but all that grows is the discomfort. Eyes watering, she is sure she will break if he doesn’t relent.

“W…wait… something is…”

It tears, she feels the stinging release as he sinks inside her to the base, the very moment she is deflowered, imprinted in throbbing of both kinds. Gasping, she runs a hand over her belly trying to massage the aching away. An intrusive thought makes her feel lower between her legs, instinctively to touch herself, and there she feels him, hilted within her. The gravity of everything culminating in this very moment strikes her, and the floodgates of her beautiful eyes finally breaks free.

“M… my lady? Ella? Wh… what happened, are you alright? Should I take it out?”

“NO!”

She screams, and then a softer:

“N… no. this… this is everything I had ever dreamed of, not quite the circumstances, but it was you I had wanted, desired in my heart, yearned for your touch.”

She drops off, back to her mewling due to his unconsciously moving in and out the slightest amount. She sighs, breathing the pain into a dull pressure until that and the pleasure are all that remain.

“T… tell me, what things did you ponder when… when you touched yourself before.”

“Miss Ella?”

“Please, I want to know the depths of debauchery in your mind. Who… or what didst thou think of when you felt desperate for release?”

He begins to move a little faster, clearly also enamored by the prospect of reminiscing his desire. His hands grab her hips a little tighter though the bars and she feels him bumping into the sensitive nerves that are her clit as his thrusts become more violent

“I… I feel like a detestable man describing it… but… I must confess I imagined you, the few times I had glimpsed your bosom, I thought of nothing more than covering you with my release… if I may be so vulgar.”

The irony of his embarrassment isn’t lost on him as he is unable to stop himself from pounding into her. Her voice has moved on from little gasps and moans to full on keening. She looks back at him, wheezing between thrusts.

“You longed to cover m… my body with your... And m… mark me as thy own?”

He nods, unable to break his pace, even if he so desired.

“Th… then do so. P… paint my d… depths with your v… very essence and m… mark me forever, insomuch th… that I would naught remember m… my own name!

One of her hands flies up to clumsily grasp his hand locked into a tight grasp of her wide hips. She can feel his length as it scrapes her inside, crashing over her cervix and stretching her far past what a few of her dainty digits could. Her begging begins as a low breath, but grows into a fevered mantra:

“Breed me, b… breed me!”

Her words encourage him, and though it has been barely a few minutes he feels himself drawing into that familiar tightness before an orgasm. She feels his growing urgency and digs her nails into his hand.

“D… do it, Let it o… out inside me! Fill me to the brim!"

“My lady I am scared, are… are you sure?”

She grabs backwards at his doublet, her legs forcing herself against the biting metal bars, but she pays it no mind. So desperate is she that he would not pull out before impregnating her, that the pain and cold of the hard metal does not even register.

“NO! Don’t you d… dare take it out of m…me! I need you, I n…need it, so I BEG OF YOU!

He doesn’t ask again, his climax already upon him, only having time to gasp his lover’s name before feeling himself about to release. She screams her reply.

“Inside, INSIDE! Give me your child, my golden boy! M…make me pregnant!”

                Ella feels the full length sink within her, throbbing before coming undone, a few quick twitches and a warmth fills her belly. The feeling is not a jet of liquid, but a small tickle from the force of body- hot ejaculation. She lets herself drool and pant as her knees quake from the last brutal seconds. She would fall but for his firm grip still remaining upon her hips. He starts to withdraw himself from her, but she clenches on him, that grip tightening again.

“No… p…please don’t take it out yet… I want to make sure it all stays inside.”

The conjoined pair catches their breath, partly ashamed but undoubtedly exhilarated by the taboo act they just committed, in a prison no less. Ella straightens up, putting a foot up on the chair to remain spread enough to allow him to stay within her until he turns flaccid. Reaching her arms above her head and through the bars, she pulls his head in to kiss her neck, and he places a mark there too.

She shudders at the thought, being branded like his own possession, a mark for all to see? She shakes again, aftershocks of her being so thoroughly taken, and speaks in a hoarse whisper.

“I shall come again to you, and you will do this another time, you must breed me until I am with child, and I can then abdicate my position as well.”

“And when would I be free?”

“From me, never. but when I can get you out, you will have nowhere to hide yourself from my hunger for you. I truly wish to be connected like this forever.”

And so there they stood, finally able to control one small thing, making a step towards true freedom from the system that mankind had once more created. They remained until her clenching pushed his now soft cock from her and a trickle of his essence ran down her curvy thighs. Then, and only then did she untie the sides of her delicate undergarment, fold it into a little parcel, and hand it to him through the bars.

“Here, a token, to smell my comfort when you lose courage, and to keep you ready for me when I return, and as a piece of my undying affection for you.”

“m… my lady, I… I will guard it to my dying breath!”

He holds the folded panties like the greatest gift he had ever received. And that glow, the one so often missing from his person since he had first left to become a raven, returns to his countenance once more.

             

HOLY MOLY, 2500 words about fucking... love you peachy!

[thecoldwhitenorth]

For ALL of my fics, the (NSFW)chapters are important. Any chapters with (NSFW) are purely sexual so for anyone who doesn't want full on smut doesn't have to read it to understand the story.

Unfortunately this means I'm technically writing "smutshots" so... yeah, I technically have become the very thing I sought to destroy. The only thing I will say in my defense is any full on smut content I have IS pertinent to the story and not fucking for the sake of fucking.

Sorry in advance.

[peachymilkandcream]

I Don't Remember You|Part 12|Bucky Barnes x Reader

WARNINGS: mentions of past dubcon, violence, brainwashing, canon typical violence and angst, Bucky is emotionally constipated, 40s typical misogyny, smut, torture, etc,

What's Playing: "Washing Machine Heart" ~Mitski

Despite everything, Bucky still remained distant to you. It was like he didn’t quite trust himself. Didn't trust what could happen should those code words fall into the wrong hands. It hurt, but you understood. There was so much to the new Bucky that you hadn't been let in on. So much that he kept secret. You figured he'd tell you when he was ready, and if that day never came...you were just happy to have him by your side again. The skeletons in his closet could remain hidden for now, too painful to bring up.

You just wished that he would tell you his decisions every once and a while.

"What do you mean you're going back in the ice?!" You followed after him, wishing that he'd slow down from that determined stride of his.

"I told you, it's too dangerous for me to stay like this. I have to take the necessary precautions until I know it's safe."

"Don't do anything crazy Bucky, we can talk about this!"

"I've already made my mind up."

You grab his left shoulder and he recoils, so suddenly that you stop when he does.

"Don't. Don't touch it."

"I'm sorry- I didn't mean-"

"You don't understand- This isn't some war memories, something that some shitty therapy can work through and overcome. Don't you get it? You're just casually touching a weapon like it's nothing. Like it isn't stained in blood."

"Then help me understand Bucky. You can't expect me to know without letting me in."

He just turns from you, continuing to walk away, put distance between you.

"I thought everything was okay! I thought we were okay."

This time, he stops, facing you once more. "We are okay. If you just trust me then I can make sure that we stay that way."

"Then trust me enough to tell me everything. Talk to me about happened."

"I can't." His tone was clipped, defensive.

"You love me, right?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you'll have to let me in eventually."

"I will. One day. Just don't...rush me."

"Fine, I can agree to that. So long as you promise me that day will come."

Bucky hesitates, not wanting to promise something so vulnerable. The last thing he could bear is if you turned against him, disgusted by the man he had become. "I can't."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want to lose you again! I can't! Alright!? Is that enough for you!? I know who you're pretending I am, the same stupid, arrogant jerk from Brooklyn! That's not who I am anymore, I'm a machine, a weapon. If you knew the details..." He shakes his head, looking off. "You'd never look at me the same. I couldn't...I couldn't take it."

You look down at the floor, wondering if Bucky was right. If hearing those terrible things he was forced to do would change how you felt about him. If the romantic memories weren't enough to cling onto and keep you two afloat. Would Bucky's past drag you down into the depths and drown what you had?

Bucky takes in your doubtful countenance, feeling a pang of guilt and worry at the same time. Guilty for making you feel this way, and worried that you might decide he wasn't worth it. Who wanted a man who couldn't be honest with them? Feeling the need to rectify the situation he steps forward, pulling you into his chest, resting his head on top of yours.

"You deserve honesty. You deserve to know everything and make your own choice. I don't know when or if ever, but I'll work on it. On trying to tell you everything. If you'll just be patient with me."

You don't answer verbally, nodding your head as tears spill down your cheeks. You were losing him all over again, just when you'd gotten him back.

"I want you to be there, when I go under."

"I can't Bucky, I don't want to see it."

"I know, but I want to see you there. I have to. Please, for me."

Another nod as Bucky takes your hand, pulling you along with him to the chamber where he'd be frozen to the world once more.

His lips press against yours as he takes his place, keeping his eyes on you the whole time until they finally shut in cryo-sleep.

"I'll be right here when you wake up." You promised softly.

No one told you that Bucky had been woken up. Nor what was going on beyond the sanctuary where they had moved you. The outside world moving on without you. It was all to keep you safe, that's what you'd been told as you were moved along with the rest of the population further within the nation. Far from the explosions and gunshots going on outside of the bolted tight doors of underground shelters.

You should've known something terrible would happen the moment they stopped letting you visit Bucky in his sleep. You'd taken the time to see him, hope that somewhere in his subconscious he knew, knew and didn't feel so alone. When you were suddenly barred from doing so, something about being "in the way", that's when you should've pressed Steve for answers. But since he had left Wakanda to stay on the run, you were once again left to float all on your own, grasping onto any bit of information.

Now here you were, cowering with the rest. A fight going on outside and no news of what was possibly going on. The moment you saw Steve again, you promised to have his head for keeping you in the dark like this.

The fighting finally died down, silence reigning in the bunker. It would mean that someone was coming to get you, that you could get out of this and demand answers. See why the hell you weren't allowed to see Bucky anymore, make sure he was alright.

A scream from around you broke your thoughts, in the dim light it was hard to focus on what had exactly happened. Until you saw it with your own eyes. People vanishing, others screaming. Real human beings just turning to dust. What the hell was happening?

Panic ensued, people banging on the doors to be let out, thinking that some terrible evil had befallen them down here. You were just trying to get your breathing under control, rationalizing what you had just witnessed.

When the demands for freedom grew loud enough, only then did the doors slowly creak open, flooding the chamber with fresh sunlight. The exodus to above ground quick and frantic.

You joined them, looking around at the haunted faces of those who had freed you. "What's going on?" Your question one of many, hysterical civilians who had just watched loved ones disappear. As you looked, your eyes fell on Steve. So he was here. But he looked different, and not just because of the facial hair. He looked haunted, distraught.

"Steve? What is it? Can you finally tell me what the hell is going on here?"

Your anger vanished the closer you got to him, terror gripping you instead.

"What's wrong? Is it Bucky?"

The silence was thick and loaded.

"No..not again...don't tell me I lost him again..."

Your begging fell on deaf ears, since it was already too late.

[thecoldwhitenorth]

supporting my wife here ❤️

[thecoldwhitenorth]

{Written for PeachyMilk, I think of you everytime I write her...}

A TOKEN IN A TOWER

Tags & Warnings: medieval, fantasy, mild violence, inprisonment, verbal abuse, mild suggestion, suggestive themes, partial nudity, political corruption, mention of arranged marriage, etc...

Ella lies upon Dänyl’s chest, the rocking of the carriage constant white noise in the background as she half dozes. She mumbles to him something of no consequence and tries to wriggle deeper into his embrace. He feels as though his readiness is compromised by her having undone his gambeson and shoved her arm up to the elbow inside for “warmth” as she put it, but he supposes there’s no real reason for vigilance at this point.

He has struck a royal from another country, and promptly thereafter made off with the Lady-Elect of his own kingdom. She will obviously hold none of the blame for the actions of the past day should they be caught. She will remain a tool to the kingdom, ever her worth being that of a voucher given as a treaty

There shall be no regard made for him, but a vassal he is, common boy of common blood, a slave to the hierarchy that had collapsed the kingdoms of man so long ago. He hopes they would find peace in fleeing but there is a gnawing  pit that chews at his soul, a sickness in his guts that whispers ruin and tempts the negative.

He bites the inside of his mouth to force it back down, teeth for teeth, shutting out the possibility of failure, of once again losing hold of his precious woman to the grip of the destiny that would inevitably give her in hand to a man who… who…

“You cannot suffer your mind on such things, my dear knight.”

Her long slender fingers trace his jaw, not square like a man of many years of hardship, but still chiseled as a strong young man’s; muscle set with determination. Those goddess fingers, the soothing coolness women tend to have, the gentleness of her body leaned against his. All this a much stronger sedative to his racing heart and over-thoughts of doom and ruin.

“You are a brave and able man, and I trust you with my own wellbeing completely.”

She kisses her fingertips and places them upon his cheek. He closes his eyes, satisfied as the shaking wheels over the rutted roads bounce a gentle rhythm through the carriages suspension. His eyes are fluttering closed when he hears hoofbeats approaching from behind. A faster and much more intense rhythm compared to the clatter of the driving horses that pull the carriage.

War stallions. He would recognize the snapping bray they let out over the bit as the armored rider urges the beast faster. A truly beautiful yet violent union of man and animal, between the two so much blood laced with vengeance and adrenaline, all to bring forth the will of their commander to the last breath.

The Ravens have found them and if Dänyl is honest, he was sure it would have been a much shorter time of recapturing the both of them. Delphena must have stalled for the two of them, he can be grateful for that. Their driver urges the horses into a gallop, past what would be sustainable for long in a carriage of that size and weight.

Still with a palpable determination they surge, as if the animals themselves too feel the plight of their young passengers. The race is on, carriage against armor, which would run out of energy first under their burden. Like a miracle, encouragement to the very soul, the carriage seems to pull ahead for a precious few furlongs. But all too quickly the load of it slowly but surely drains the strength of the horses, and the gap between them and their pursuers closes.

The river that makes up the west border of the kingdom is in sight when without warning a wheel cracks and partially gives way. This leaves the one side of the carriage spongey and unwieldy to steer, dragging the driving horses even more. Their energy expels quickly and they slow a little, until one obstinate stone located center of the road catches the damaged wheel with its stupid bald crown, poking from the ground like a mole afraid of the dark.

Wood splinters, metal banding folds, and the carriage drops to one side. Now wheel-less, the axle digs itself traitorously into the road’s surface. The crippled vehicle and its panting horses come to a stop a mere hundred feet from the bridge crossing. Only a stone’s throw or two from diplomatic immunity over the border.

Dänyl grasps Lady Ella around her waist and hauls her out of the carriage door, desperate enough to make a run for it, pursuing steeds be damned. But its too late, even as he sets her upon her feet, four mounted ravens circle the site, blocking any exit. One dismounts, his twin helm plumes denoting his rank as captain. He approaches the couple with haste. Dänyl stands in front of Ella, an interception to the raven’s advance despite the fact that she is in no real danger.

However, the approaching guard’s focus is not on the Lady, but on the young man shielding her. In one fluid motion he grasps the black metal armet, and casts it without ceremony to the ground. Before he can protest or adopt a proper defensive stance the man throws his arms around Dänyl.

“Oh my dear, dear boy… there was rumor you had perished upon the fields of Endar! I hadn’t known you had been summoned by my Lady directly.”

“M… master Quentin?”

Quentin only nods, Grasping the young man on either side of his face to kiss his forehead with all of the love of a father finding his prodigal son. He holds him for a moment, allowing the façade of his emotionless command and officer’s duty to slip, just for a breath. A single tear shed, in front of his subordinates no less, and then he has regained himself.

“My boy, you have gotten yourself in quite a lot of trouble. I only wish at this time you had made it ahead of us that I would not have to carry you back.”

“I must protect her master, I cannon live with myself should she be passed like a plate of roasted meat to that shameless fat knave that calls himself ‘prince’.”

“it is a difficult thing little lion… alas tis’ the way the royalty is. Manners are more common that morals, and Gold more familiar than the reaches and plights of the peasantry. Surely you must understand my son.”

The young man shakes his head, the emotion of seeing his swordmaster again coupled with the helplessness of the entire circumstance bearing him down with its immense weight once again, almost to tears. He grasps the sleeves of Quentin’s Gambeson, even as the other ravens dismount, approaching.

“What is to be done master? What is there that I might do, am I to be perpetually too weak and helpless to bring an end to the injustice I see around me? Am I forever to bear the wounds of violent and hateful men like a straw dummy?”

The silver-haired captain shakes his head, unable to answer to the young man’s plea. Two of the ravens force his arms together, while the third bands heavy shackles around his wrists.

“Leave them in front, he’ll come quietly, won't you my boy?”

Dänyl only nods, the defeat written so deep in his face it might stay there eternally. Ella looks on, unable to do anything, bearing station but lacking authority. She can only reach for her savior of the previous night before one of the ravens takes her hand and gently forces her away to one of the driving horses. With the coachman having long fled and arguably of no consequence, he severs the animal from the stuck-fast carriage. He helps her climb astride it, tying off its halter to a lead fastened to his own saddle.

The same is done for the second horse, Dänyl in chains hoisted upon its back to be lead by his own teacher, back to be tried for the assault of a rapist prince. Grave injustice as it is, such is the ways of the kingdoms of man, rewarding the unrighteous and corrupt, whilst the ones that lie below are crushed and the few who would stand tall are made examples of. Not for the sake of evil, but for the arrogance and traditions of a once more debauched rulership for humanity.

And this is how it comes that Dänyl sits in the damp cell of the castle’s barracks, a home not much different from the shadowed and dusty halls of the Fortress Endar. There is the lack of companionship, however; the lower crime of the citadel leading to him being the sole occupant of the jailhouse most assumed to be abandoned, save for the rotation of the guards.

Most won’t look at him, perceiving him a disgrace to the service, a traitor, or one who committed treason. All but one. Meirana herself, somehow getting herself not only out of any penalty her lackadaisical care towards her escort position; not only letting the Lady Ella out of her sight, but also allowing the prince to get near her in a compromising position.

For the sake of fairness its only just to place equal blame upon the young prisoner for his actions, permitting the prince to evade his watch, and slip out. And for this Meirana cannot find answer for why this young guardsman, who in righteous fury stood to defend his sovereign, would be punished for it. Was it not his duty, and was it not accomplished well?

It is for this reason she volunteered for a shift in the watch, certainly nothing else. This is what she tells herself looking on to the pitiful and defeated man, stripped of all but his tunic and hosen.

"You really are a fool, giving of yourself to such an ungrateful Princess… surely if she cared for you as you do for her, she would have found a way to free you for your service. Or perhaps she loves you not at all?”

Dänyl doesn’t answer, let alone look up so she approaches the bars, giving an exaggerated pout. She squats down, adjusting herself to be comfortable while she toys with the young raven.

“Royals are all the same you see; my prince, I knew it of him, the capability of his debauchery and abuse. He keeps… shall I say… playthings back home, entertainment that he does away with when he tires of them. See, but none but the king could do a thing about it and he is so preoccupied with conquest and, well, I suppose he is too old to be bothered with the actions of one of his many heirs.”

“You knew he was a detestable knave, yet you gave me not a warning to be wary of him?”

“Ah, the lion still bites I see. That’s what your master calls you, is it not? Your namesake a picture a valor and bravery but you are more violent and barbaric, like a bear!”

She exclaims with glee, overdramatic joy expressed as she claps her hands to her face, feigning either fear or admiration. The prisoner cannot truly get a read on her, so erratic and enigmatic her ways from their first interaction in the carriage to even now. She mocks one moment, seems to almost philander the very next, and in finality sprinkles enough of the reasonable in the mix that it seems she is more than one person inhabiting a singular body.

“Ah yes, you should know I am rather disdainful of men, especially the brutish and single-minded ‘strong’ that would often capture the maiden’s heart. You see, they always act from the wrong head…”

She makes a vulgar motion implying a male pleasuring himself. She smiles condescendingly and titters with feline-like chortle at his reaction. She points a delicately ornate gauntleted hand at him

“But, you are no different, see? The way thou did grasp me like I was an animal, and wrapped thy fingers around my delicate neck. I feared for a moment that you would mete upon me the same horror the prince was endeavoring to do to your lofty Lady Ella. But I could not fight your strength and rage. Surely you would desire such a thing, wouldn’t you, to lay your hands upon my body again, like the beast you are?”

Dänyl thunders over to the bars, grasping them with boiling over anger. He shakes them violently as he spits his words at the vindictive spellsword.

“You speak as a poison to me, play upon my vulnerability for your amusement and slander my Lady, and for what? Do you find it risible?”

The woman leaps back startled but quickly settles remembering there is a metal barrier between the two. She returns that familiar cynical smile, and runs her hands seductively up her body, over the padding and mail that make up her midriff and over the steel lamellar that covers over her bust. She exaggeratedly bites her lip and breaks into a fit of laughter.

“My oh my, it is truly a sight beholden to rile you up. You really do carry your heart for your precious damsel in destress. Will she come save you? I think she cannot.”

She sighs and sits back down a few paces from the cell’s barred front. Wiping her eyes, as if her mirth brought tears, she settles back. The mocking spellsword goes quiet for a brief interlude, a rare moment of thoughtful silent contemplation.

“Have you bored of me already? How can you treat others such, I am already stripped of my rank, arranged to be punished or even executed and set to lose one of my dearest… friends.”

“I treat as anyone would treat their pet, or someone beneath them. As for your discipline, I know not. There must be conspiracy afoot, it does not seem sensible that you should be here, and I receive not even reprimand for my part in this.”

Her eyes take on a specific and knowing darkness, and she swivels in her seat to look down the approach hall leading in from the barracks proper. Upon seeing no one she once more scoots towards her tormented spectacle, coming to bring her face inches from his she swallows some manner of foreboding to spill her suspicion.

“Naught that I have proof of anything but there has been odd personage in our court. If I may be truthful about one thing, is this whole conundrum brings me sickness of a like I have never had.”

“You believe this whole happening is a setup of some manner or another?”

Meirana straightens up in her seat, slapping her knees and shrugging off any solemnity previously borne by any part of her, adopting that same old sarcasm so common to her every breath. Her smile returns, along with her predatory eyes and honeyed words.

“Who said anything about a setup? Deception and fraud are a way of life to the nobility, hm? You have no hope, oh poor little lion. He must find a way to be clever, shall he not?”

She spits, in a rather unladylike manner upon the floor and then proceeds to completely ignore Dänyl, as if they had never conversed in the first place. She plays with herself, preening and readjusting her armor needlessly for a brief few minutes before there comes a sound on the doorlatch to the cell block.

In struts one of the generic raven guards, come to relive the guest of her duties. Yet another personality shift occurs in how she gives her statement to the new rotation. Curt, to the point, and with that self respecting voice of discipline all guards develop in training. However she lies straight to the raven’s face when asked if they spoke to eachother.

“Nay, he didn’t have anything to say, and naught did I.”

She turns and winks at Dänyl before walking closer to speak a final low message before her departure.

“You must hold on, for her… find a way out, or don’t, it is you we are speaking of in the end. Either way you must get yourself your freedom; after all, I do so long to have those beastly hands of yours wrapped around my throat once more.”

She makes this one final statement, meager encouragement laced with vindictive teasing. Rolling her eyes back and letting her tongue loll out she gives a quiet fake gasp, flirtation and derision handed to him in one sour spectacle. She chuckles at his reaction and stands to leave. The young captive shouts after her.

“You are unwell, cruel and sick in the head…”

To this Meirana gives the best female approximation of a deep belly laugh and blows him a kiss as she saunters away to the exit. The filling in raven takes a seat, shaking his head, not understanding but not truly wishing to know. Dänyl nods at him, acknowledging him as an old comrade, but too wounded to manage pleasantries. The guardsman doesn’t push on his end either, satisfied to leave the air empty and focus on his sole duty; merely being present.

The prisoner resigns himself to looking out the high barred window opposite the cell door, the sky giving way from a grey-blue to fiery reds and purples. He thinks to himself what a good omen a beautiful sunset should be, especially after such an overcast day, but the irony of his situation is not lost on him.

There is no hope for him. Something comes to mind, the altered seaman’s rhyme his uncle had told him once to communicate the unpredictable nature of the sea. “burning skies in the morning is the mariner’s warning, but for a red sky come night, should the sailor take fright.” An ironic and almost humorous dichotomy of his existence, never succeeding no matter what good or ill he should achieve.

Curling into a fetal position on the thankfully fresh, but no less abrasive straw floor, he allows that couplet to knock around in his mind. A rattling thought that puts him into a fitful and uncomfortable slumber.

Hot tears threaten to break free of her eyes as Lady Ella hustles herself down the side hall to the Duke, her father’s solar. She breathes had against the restrictive bodice that crushes her generous chest into her ribs, making any manner of exertion a labor to even consider. Holding her dress up in white-knuckled fists to keep from tripping, she redoubles her stride. She reaches the door and falls against it, catching her breath, pulling the boning away from her bosom to gulp greater amounts of air.

Straightening, she knocks and doesn’t wait for a reply to enter. At the great walnut desk that sits in the corner with a grand stained-glass window backing it, the Duke reclines, fondling a single lock of hair tied with gold ribbon at one end. Beautiful ginger curls, a little faded from being cut from the head that graced them; that of his late wife, Ella’s mother.

With him sits a narrow and hawklike man, black and white silk placing his look somewhere between an old count, and a jester. A large beak-like nose, and beady eyes that seem to appraise everything it looks at fall on her as she enters. The gaze is immediately disquieting, not to the discomfort she felt as the prince when he would ogle her body when she wasn’t looking, but a different kind of objectification.

She was a pawn, or puzzle piece to this man. She could feel his scheming and conniving nature intrinsically. He regards her for a moment longer, says something low and quiet to the Duke and turns to leave. As he walks by her, he whispers to her in a voice smooth and disarming.

“Well, well, m’Lady Racheal, what a pleasure to see the prospect up and about early.”

It’s a formal greeting but being called a “prospect” does not sit right with her.  That terminology equating her to an item of exchange yet again, meat for the market. A closer look at the silver pin that clasps his odd half-cape atop his angular shoulders shows the coat of arms of Aftharrd, A snake being brutally subdued by what looks to be a goat and minotaur hybrid that holds a clutch of three arrows in the opposing hand. A macabre and dark symbolism reflective of the domination and brutality of the growing empire. She turns her face away from him only giving a nod and small bow for the sake of propriety.

The duke looks up at his daughter, the dark circles of the past few sleepless nights evident on his furrowed brow. He looks weary unto death, ill even. His regard of his own daughter seems vacant and loveless, as if he is possessed by something that hollowed him out. His mouth works lightly as if to try to speak, but he only croaks mumbled syllables that coherently do not add up to any kind of speech.

Ella comes around the desk and wraps her arms around the neck, above those broad shoulders she could always lean upon as a small girl. She scoots herself into her fathers lap, and remains for a moment, but no reciprocal affection comes from the gentle giant. His eyes are glassed as he finally Is able to whisper a choked:

“E…Ella, my ch…child…”

“Papa, are you not well? You… you seem to be taken by some blight, and rest is far from you. Please, you must send these visitors from whence they came, they bring naught but darkness and evil with them.”

She looks up at the thin man, who stands in the shadow of the door as if ready to exit, but having changed his mind simply stand to look on the pair with his beady eyes. He is smiling in a richtus, not one of friendly nature at all anymore, but one merely of stretched lips and pulled gums, the mechanical aspect lacking any emotion behind it. He withdraws what resembles a golden rodent skull attached to a matching chain from his pocket and rubs a gloved thumb over the shining metallic cranium.

At this the duke suddenly seems alert, but in a distant, controlled way. His eyes still do not see his daughter, not recognizing her for more than an object in his field of view. He begins to stand, toppling her from upon his knee, insomuch that she must quickly grasp the edge of the great hardwood desk to keep from striking her head. He walks to the high stained window and places his palm flat on the connected panes, a great mural of a wounded knight reaching for a fair winged maiden, halo and cherubs accompanying. Again, his mouth works, uttering gasps and minute mutterings of nonsense before he speaks.

“Wh…What of thy grievances do you come to trrrr… trouble me with Ellaaaahh…”

It is heartbreaking to hear from his own lips. His words slur and stutter as he provides his curt enquiry, halting speech of someone under the influence of something, be it substance or something arguably more sinister. Nonetheless , the picture of the latter still stands at the door caressing the same talisman. He smiles maliciously at the young lady before clearing his throat to speak to her

“Tsk, you must’nt bother your father, he is an incredibly busy man.”

“Oh? And what would a baleful outsider know of the estate of my father and his duties?”

A gloved hand covers his heart in mock offense, but the withering glee in his visage does not change. He takes a few steps towards her, and she in turn backs up paces to match. He shakes his head and with a flourishing bow he officially introduces himself.

“I would know much for I, Legate Aran Mendax, am the ambassador to your modest realm. I and my envoy from the great and almighty lands of Alftarrd are in the process of annexation of the smaller states, to join a new united empire of man! And this is the first step on a starways to prosperity and dominion. Let us just remark here that there are… sacrifices to be made for that goal.”

“So you also are from that place of bred vipers and snipes? That swordswoman who failed to protect me from your pompous royal rapist had a tongue sharper than her blade and a heart black as coal. Now pray tell, do you even possess a thing like a heart?”

“Rescind yourself from your petulance girl, there is too much for a child like yourself to understand regardless. Now do you wish to babble on about the affairs of state, or is there another burning question in that pretty mouth of yours?”

She huffs, turning a deeper red from rage and embarrassment. Why is her father unreceptive to her? He wont even look at her. This must be this ugly bastard’s doing, the swordswoman displayed magic, what’s to say he couldn’t do likewise? She steels her resolve, putting aside her temporary wrath to inquire of the man.

“Where is my guardsman.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know miss Ella.”

His smile widens and he bobs his head as if thinking. He doesn’t feint for long however deciding it could be fun to torment this delicate girl. His sadism flares as he replies

“I suppose it couldn’t do harm to tell you where. He is kept in the jailhouse, a cellar to the old fort tower under the barracks.”

“Why? Why must he be kept there when he gave his all to do his job of shielding his Lady from the likes of your heir elect?”

“Ah, but his job and his duty are two entirely independent things, not to mention, he struck a royal. His duty is his morals, yet his job is dictated by the ones with authority and jurisdiction. He answered to the captain, who answers to his commander, who answers to the duke, who will inevitably answer to me.”

“But… but thou hast no power in this place, even among the common you are not even welcome!”

“For what do I care of the common, they are the breadwinners who put their blood and effort on my plate and beg me to eat it, they're taxed and I, no WE profit. It is nothing old, miss Ella. Regardless of your nor any other’s struggle we shall be dictating all here. All we could want or desire, while we protect you from what threats you might face as a lesser nation.”

“And what of him, you would have him bear his captivity in reward for his morality?”

“As I said, I care not of morality, he will serve his purpose and I shall do away with him, if I’m not mistaken that same spellsword you so despise it down with him right now. She shall… watch him, quite closely, intimately dare I say.”

                At this not fully clear revelation she regains the flushed facial tones but for anger, and not embarrassment this time. Her dainty fists ball up as she hisses with venomous indignation, as a woman scorned. She would not take this lightly, not to her kingdom, her father, nor the boy she so cherishes. She pecks her unresponsive papa on the stubbled cheekbone, and turns to leave.

“I must go to him immediately! This… this is unrighteous, barbaric even, that you would reward the villain who attempted to sully me whilst punishing my protector? I must, no I shall get him out of his hell.”

The hawklike man’s grin returns, and he adjusts his eyeglass with one black glove as he leaves the young Lady with the concluding verdict.

“Oh fret not, he will be released, just as soon as the prince leaves with you, the Lady, as his prize one month from hence.”

Dänyl rolls over on the cold floor, the dry straw being a paltry barrier to the sapping frigidity of the stone flagging. He dreams fitfully, sleep never coming fully to him as the images of past memories flash across the back of his eyelids

He hears familiar footsteps approach, ones he would recognize anywhere. His dear friend, his beloved, his goddess stands before him in the flickering lantern light. The guard is nowhere to be seen, his stool empty.

Her tears fall freely, the delicate young woman in her fighting for strength, but losing to the fearful little girl that cannot bear the thought of the future she is headed for. She rushes forward to him as he props himself against the bars, shivering in the cool night breeze pushing its fingers through the high window. She flutters in her long dress to the wrought iron lattice that separates them and kneels, her hands reaching through the bars to cup his face.

“oh my… your body its… so… you are frozen solid! How could you be left like this?”

She drops her woolen shawl from around her neck and pushes the heavy weave between the irons, leaving her shoulders bare except for the lace that wraps the neckline of her dress. She makes eye contact with Dänyl, her doe eyes large and sparkling with a bittersweet mix of love and trepidation. She slowly and deliberately reaches up to that lace and hooking a finger in it, slowly plunges the fabric down, revealing a little more of the bosom that repetitively holds her golden boy as captive as the cell he currently resides in. But this time it does not seem to have effect.

“You must keep yourself warm, you have much yet to do, and I cannot have you perishing in here from frostbite.”

“How? How would I be of any benefit in here? My Lady, you… you must forget me. I have extended myself past what my bones can carry me and have been yet again crushed by those made fat by my efforts. What honor can I bring when there is not a need for it among the ones I swear myself to?”

“Dänyl. I believe it is in a time so serious as this that I must use your given name, but do you truly, truly wish that I would leave you and forsake your very memory to continue living while you waste to nothing?”

“Y… yes…”

But his head shakes in the negative even as his tongue lashes the lie at his dearest friend. She stands, looking down at him and smiles, turning as if to go from his presence. Instead of walking off she speaks, her voice shaking with grief or nerves, he cannot be sure to which.

“I beg of you one thing before I leave you forever… one final boon, a favor to rescue me from a future of dread and maltreatment at the hand of the one I would call ‘husband’.”

She spits the last word as if it is something filthy or repulsive. She doesn’t turn to him, instead grasping her long dress halfway down in shaking fists as if she is about to curtsey. Looking over her shoulder at his still form slumped hopeless against the prison bars she gives her trembling appeal.

“M… my sister has a lover, a man she has pined after for years, yet never could truly love him freely. She took a wager upon her own reputation, risking her station and his life by choosing to premaritally bear his child; but you know this, yes? She spoke to me, my father relented and she has found an escape, pushing her responsibility onto me for the birthright of an heir, but… I cannot bear it, for the sake of the cruelty I and my child would surely suffer.”

Her voice cracks at the last and she inhales deeply, steeling herself. Forcing a smile, she closes her eyes and in one swift motion, hikes the back of her dress up over her rear. Dainty silk and lace is tied tightly over her curves there, the fragile seams cutting into the flesh slightly, suggesting softness of the skin underneath. The delicate fabric only barely covers her there, more of a temptation than actually practical.

Ella’s embarrassment dissolves when she sees the immediate shift in demeanor that her intentionally lewd display has created. Her heart enters a new octave of speed, racing as she arches her back, pushing her generous buttocks towards the cold metal of the prison bars. He hasn’t moved, his eyes riveted to her uncovered body. She dares a little of an overemphasis in the sway of her hips as she slowly steps back. Her voice comes out in a hoarse whisper for her final request.

“I would have it be you, the one to break me from the bindings that hold me down to such a terrible sentence. Therefore I beg of you, if you have any more love for me to give, then deflower me, that I might bear that love inside me. Give me your child, and my freedom.”

[thecoldwhitenorth]

Hey. I don’t know how to tell you this..but I really like you. I have a mad crush on you. ☺️💕

we should get married!!! 😜 oh, wait a minute...

[thecoldwhitenorth]

AMBIENCE? Yes please...

Asked literally nobody. But I'm doing it anyways to hopefully bring a more enjoyable and immersive experience to you all!

For anyone listening to white girl pop while reading horror/thriller, that might take some of the edge of my amateur storytelling. Let's be so real here I need all the help I can get so I'll (eventually) make spotify lists for each fic.

[thecoldwhitenorth]

INTERSECTING Part 6

WARNINGS: blood, violence, conspiracy, government overreach, death, angst, depression, mental health struggles, supernatural themes, horror themes, gore, body horror, animal attack, potential animal violence, gun violence, dismemberment, references to extreme violence, expletives, not proof read, etc.

NOW PLAYING: “Eye For Detail”-Jay Varton

Department of Defense recovery and transcription archive database 3004, recovered Webster-Chicago experimental Mag reel. No date, no name of the speaker, contemporary records dictate an estimate to be 1938-1942, the edition of tape matching prototypes of the period. Begin playback. “I don’t know who this will reach, but for he record, I am doctor  ████████ of the  ████ committee general. I have spent the last 4 years working with contracts through the DOD and ████. They… they found it, or something rather. Its… its not a mirror or a beacon or gate or any of the other terms coined in the historical records that date…"

There is a rustling of paper and a sound like a folder hitting the floor and scattering. The doctor seems to get more flustered by this and mutters maniacally under his breath cursing and mumbling to himself. The speaker resumes.

“Theres… theres so much… I have papers all the way back to 94… 1794… there’s laminates and photos of old journals almost illegible… but… but…” Speaker goes silent again, hollow coughs and sobs “It’s… it’s all here… I shouldn’t have this but I… it must have been a mix up at the archives, I… im going to disappear for this. They already know, they always know, about me and… and this… they… that I have and now read it…. Oh shit, shit, shit…” He rummages for a little and then the scrape of what sounds like chalk punctuates his resumed ramblings.

“I’m only here as an astrophysics consultant to ████████, but somehow I think this is no mistake. They want me to have this, to solve this its not a gate… its… exclusion, like a finger through perfectly reflective water, a fourth plane. Its… its an intersection. Two worlds, or realities, or timelines… I… its all theory… like we could experience the effects of the 4th dimension, but not be subject to its movement… like passing through a wall… an invisible wall… replacement of the very ground like a tablecloth to be pulled from beneath you once the exclusion closes, when the worlds… drift back apart… the water is rippled but the reflection no longer intersects the surface… like… oh God…”

He scrambles and trips over paper and clutter, seizing the mic with a pang of static. He is almost too close when he whispers. “I can feel it… its too close. Its all science but the real question is why… that mortal men would walk between planes as demigods, its never about how and the mechanics… they… they want something…. They want to find something. Its not good, its never good; these people, if they even are anymore, they search for their roots, for the old things… its not about the stars and the conquest of the deep, but the shadowed side, the hidden and occult. Forbidden hidden in plain sight… they want something from this world. Their birthright? A weapon. They don’t mean well… the fist of them… the fist of them… oh God, have mercy, oh God…"

He descends into almost complete disjointed nonsense, the repeated woes and references continue for awhile when suddenly with a violent scuffle silence falls. There's no sound except shaky inhalation inches from the tinny microphone. His last quaking words come through

“They want their divinity back, something they gave, and they turn to what we would see as demons and rituals to restore what they sold. I… I always laughed at the ravings about conspiracy but now… I’m so very afraid… I… I…” He drops off to deathly quiet once more, and a faint sound comes from far off the microphone’s pickup range. Voices in a hallway. There's the sound of a door splintering without warning, a short crying out, and several muted gunshots. There is only silence for the last five minutes, accented by light footfalls around the room. There is no further recordings for the remainder of the tape’s length or on side B. End of transcription, runtime eight minutes and twelve seconds. Audio forwarded to ████████ Sector 3 “Project Babel”.

This project and its affiliates are classified property of the Department of Defense, under censoring of ████. This digital backup to the original material, and the original material itself are classified property of the Department of Defense, attempts to view, distribute or tamper with this material in violation of any clearance or non-disclosure agreement will end in legal action and termination. Should you be a civilian who come into possession of this material, please report yourself to the nearest FBI or CIA field office, your agent will be in touch. Any attempt to view, distribute or tamper with this material will violate citizen statute ██████, ending in legal action and termination. No compensation to family or loved ones is required on the part of the FBI, CIA, or DOD, or any affiliated intelligence agency should you knowing or unknowingly violate these terms. Should you receive a call in person, DO NOT RESIST.

NOW PLAYING: “Fear Is Temporary”-Jo Wandrini

Byron is moaning like a beaten child as the waves slap the under the bow of David’s boat. The adrenaline has long worn off and the waves of agony tear up his arm and burn his spine. Jason doesn’t know what else to do for the large man, he’s occupied himself with being a living tie-down for the jerrycans and drums as they rush back to shore at speeds far too high for the condition of the water.

He can hear the keel sing with every blow the growing waves deliver, and the aged outboard is making more of a vibrating racket on account of being pushed far past what the worn components can handle. David still appears as ash, face grim and written deep with fear and confusion. He had refused to let the rotting extremity on his vessel as evidence or otherwise, opting instead to throw it overboard the ferry after Jason had fulfilled his morbid curiosity examining it.

There was no sign of the thing, the creature that fled into the churning ocean, leaving its grotesque limb behind to baffle the group and haunt them with the suggestions its grisly appearance made. Even as the shore comes into sight over the mist bound swells every man cannot shake the primal fear the image of the creature's frame cast in the ambiance of the porthole’s dim light had created in each of them.

A pair stands on the beginning of the marina’s long jetty, both short, but one undoubtedly more broad and masculine. Matvey and Minnie no doubt, but something seems off, almost heavy as the vessel shudders its way abreast the rubber buffers of the dock at far to great a speed. All aboard stumble as the bow makes contact with the bumpers and a squeal of aluminum on rubber sounds. The boat rebounds off and coasts to a stop, the engine finally giving its last sputters before death.

Jason and Bane haul the wailing Scotsman to his feet, the medic rushing over from her place standing beside the somehow still stoic Matvey. A fresh outcry cuts into the night as the bandages are carefully removed from the stumps left of the fingers. Minnie is appalled by the ragged ends resembling being chewed by teeth, but works as best she can packing the wounds with gauze to stop the fresh bleeding.

“I… this won’t cut it, I need a fresh suture kit and… and like a lot of morphine, or even fentanyl.”

She looks at Byron’s face twisted in agony, trails washed clean over his dirt smudged cheeks where tears of pain had broken through the lumberjack’s tough exterior. He’s getting cold to the touch, sweating profusely despite the air being close to 30 degrees. Mumbling punctuates his heavy, labored breaths, further evidence of shock.

Dusk is already upon them as they rush to the clinic a half mile up the rise, leaving Matvey and Bane to unload the boat. David grabs the Marlin 1895 off the cab rack in his truck, still parked at the marina’s gravel lot, and hurries to catch up with the three headed up the hill. Jason is talking far to quickly about monsters and things that disappear in the dark, Minnie struggling to keep up, let alone grasp the magnitude of the altercation mere hours before.

“It was tall, like hunched but still six feet, its neck scraped the ceiling in the kitchen, and its smell, oh gosh, don’t make me relive it. Even before I drew blood it… it was horrible.”

“You’re telling me you shot the bogeyman’s arm off, or did you straight up describe some urban odyssey bullshit? You sure it wasn’t just some wolf with mange or rabies?”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t an animal, and it wasn’t human. It was faster than anything its size had any right to be. I’m not even sure it was alive.”

They come up to the conjoined building that made up the town’s administrative center. All stop short at the sight of the door broken inwards, a dark maw welcoming them into the clinic.

“I closed that door myself when I left this afternoon… I’m… I’m sure of it.”

David approaches the door first running a hand along the latch plate of the frame. Its cracked and bent out as if some great brutish strength wrenched the door inwards, shearing the latch clean off. Theres a number of deep dents in the sheet metal making up the door itself, paint flaked off the deformations, resting like snow among the tiny shards of tempered glass that used to be the small window.

“Wild animal?”

Minnie asks hopefully, but the pallid complexion returning to the men and Byron’s newfound silence speaks of primal fear to the otherwise. Jason pulls out the now un-jammed handgun, only two shots remaining while David flips the tang safety on his lever action.

Even with six rounds of 45-70 government between him and whatever the beast is, he can’t help but feel a weight of terror unlike anything he has ever experienced settle black and overwhelming on his shoulders. It’s a deep and existential fear, a prey animal instinct even as he forces himself to set foot within the dark building.

Even in the gloom of darkness, David is somehow able to see slightly, as if his senses have sharpened to a razor’s edge to compensate for the danger. He squeaks, his voice cracking; he clears his throat and tries again.

“Kelanya? You still here?”

There’s no reply, not even a shuffling or other noise of movement. The group moves farther in, Minnie and Jason with Byron in tow heading for the only exam room down the hall next to the janitorial closet. Even silent, the man is clearly at the end of his ability to contain his discomfort for much longer.

David walks in farther, keeping his head on a constant swivel, eyes scanning the darkest corners in the small building. He keeps the rifle forwards, not wanting to meet whatever had caved the front entry in, or for what purpose. Mouth tasting like dust and the blood of a nervously chewed inner cheek, he tries and fails to calm the noise of his racing heart even as he hears rummaging through the opposite wall of the exam room.

Minnie is getting frustrated, and instead of noisily rummaging opts to start yanking drawers from their slides, and dumping loads of sealed needles, medical cotton, and other medicinal necessities onto the floor. With an exasperated huff she tells the two to stay put while she goes to look for painkillers, and hopefully some kind of localized anesthesia.

Walking down the hall a little way to a storage room, she finds metal racks bearing all manner of prescription drugs and antibiotics in what used to be a cooled enclosure lit by a single east facing frosted window. Tipping through a shelf of Tylenol and ancient looking ibuprofen, she finds a carton of expired vacuum vials of morphine. Hopefully still viable enough to do the trick. In a pinch like this she couldn’t justify attempting to suture with nothing for Byron to use as a cope for the needle’s sting on top of the dull pain already burning the nerves up the whole left arm.

She exits, using her hand to guide herself out of the room, feeling out the doorframe in the lower light of the hall. A wet tear alerts her to something to her right side, through the door to the break room. Its dim, darker than any corner of the building thus far, nestled in the corner of the far wall constructed between the community hall and the clinic.

Creeping closer, not daring to breathe, she feels trepidation tickling the back of her neck as her eyes adjust to the low light. She closes her eyes and counts to ten, hoping to trick her pupils into resetting their vision. Upon opening its not much better but the shadows are more distinct from the shape in the middle of the room.

On the floor, it looks like a vague blob on the floor beside the coffee counter. Its too large for a single individual, and it appears to be gyrating oddly. An intuition explodes to the forefront of her mind; instinct fighting its way into the drivers seat, but not before her fear causes her to utter a shaky

“K… Kelanya?”

The slight sound of that whispered name shifts the atmosphere immediately, like pressure leaving the whole building. The shadowed blob snaps up with a sound like stepping on pasta what appears to be a head looking right at her. But its wrong, too long to be human, almost canine but that would still fail to capture the alien nature of the shape.

Then it unfolds. That’s the only way she could put the movement into words. It unravels itself from its position low on the floor, slowly standing on shorter hind legs that bend wrong. A torso too thin in its profile turns into narrow shoulders not meant to support the physiology above it. Arms that fall to almost past the knees, or one arm rather. The other appears to be missing at the elbow. An abnormally long neck supports the drooping head, holding something in the clicking jaw.

Jason pokes his head around the corner, shining his light looking for what is taking Minnie so long. Remembering the pitiful maglight still looped in his belt he draws it, illuminating minnie with her back turned, and in front of her, an abomination beyond description.

Grey skin, pale like that of a being never having seen the light of day for any extended time. It sags in some areas while tight in others like a mummified corpse. A rictus that spreads too far up what should be humanoid cheeks, and an elongated canid jaw with a bloody torn arm clamped in its yellowed and chipped teeth.

With a crackle of shifting bone and tendons it takes the arm from its mouth and holds it to the stump still sloughing ichor. The black sludge seems alive and magnetic, stringing out almost grasping the foreign limb to attach it as simply as a spare tire. The arm is… consumed, changed to fit the beast better, the fingers snap and reshape in seconds. Not matching the surviving limb, but as a cruel copy, stolen from the woman gored on the floor.

Little remains of what to identify her by, her ragged form so unnecessarily brutalized. The strange mouth of the creature splits into a grin that somehow opens even to the neck, like the jaw splits to fit the cruel and intelligent joy on the thing’s face. The eyes, two black beads inset above the maw show none of the emotion the mouth does, hollow and lifeless with a cataract like dullness.

Its only seconds taking the sight in, but it feels like an eternity when the beast straightens with another crunch of rotting joints, satisfied. It mockingly echoes a single word, more from its emaciated torso than its incomprehensible mouth.

“Kelanya?”

This seems to break the spell on Minnie and she screams loud and with unparalleled terror. She turns to flee, running towards the entrance and stumbling over herself in her haste. The thing gives a cry, mixing the most chilling elements of a bark, a scream, and guttural bellowing as it crashes after her.

Its speed is unnatural, Jason ducking out of Minnies path as the thing barrels after her. Her legs move faster than she thought possible, carrying her out the doorway just as the thing wraps the fingers of one hand around her ankle. It trips her, her body continuing forward as her one leg is held still.

It can only hold her for a moment as with a thunderous roar, 400 grains of 45-70 punches the creature sideways into the doorframe. Its forward momentum carries its grotesque body over Minnie as she falls face-first onto the flagstone of the walkout.

David emerges from the door, locking another round in the chamber. The creature has barely stood when he puts another bullet into it center mass. The energy of the round shatters the creature's spine and it's torso leans as the battered backbone now juts grotesquely from the terrible wound.

It still stands somehow, shrieking with what can only be rage. David sets his jaw, moving closer as he fires repeatedly, punching ragged holes into rancid flesh, ripping chunks of meat and bone off the flailing creature. It is on the ground gurgling and struggling, missing a leg and the other arm while its pelvis barely holds up its spilling entrails when his rifle closes on the last shell. By some hideous miracle its still alive.

It's neck twitches violently, placing the last bullet instead of a clean headshot directly into the disgustingly long and hunched neck, nearly severing it from the mangled body. This finally stays the furious movement of the mostly severed limbs of shattered bones and eviscerated muscle, yet the ugly jaw still snaps and works with fury.

By this moment Jason has stumbled out with Byron in tow, just in time to witness the repulsive entity in all its revolting glory under the pale light of moon through clouds. The legs look almost human, but the feet elongated to stand on tiptoe like most quadrupeds, the familiar extra joint in the hands that bends wrong, and the mouth.

That terrible maw looks as if someone took a human skull and attempted to attach multiple additional jawbones to it and stretch mismatched grey skin over the whole unholy amalgamation. Perhaps the most frightening aspect of the thing, aside from its literally undying ferocity, was the remnant of a canvass and cotton woven airborne cross belt, half absorbed by the grey flesh of the chest.

David has had enough, his initial adrenalized fear turning to anger and frustration. He stomps on the creature’s head once, twice, and on the third time the skull caves. The thing finally stills with a gurgle of ichor from the mess of the skull. No brain resides within the brittle bone, instead a gelatinous mass of black, squid-like is the only word to describe it.

Nobody says a word, even Minnie through her lacerated face and bloody nose only looks on in horror, still lying prone on the ground. Jason approaches her carefully, noticing she shakes like an autumn leaf blown about in a vengeful tempest. She’s making little gasping noises, and she shrieks when his hand lies on her shoulder. She flips over backpedaling across the concrete, arm coming up to protect her stomach, leaving a red brown streak on her grey hoodie as she curls into the fetal position.

“N…No! I… I have to protect it!"

He tries to console her, but she’s clearly disoriented. Her shot nerves begin to shut down from the terror of fleeing the cruel hunger the thing exuded like a palpable scent. All he can do is wrap her in a protective hug from behind as she holds her belly protectively and babbles on about how she “can’t let it die”.

Byron approaches the ragged torso in a spell, dropping to his knees and shoving his good hand into the mass of disgusting insides. Ice cold, just like the arm it feels dead as a rotting cadaver, the smell matching that profile as well.

He gags as he finds what seems to be the stomach, gripping it and ripping it out. It splits, spilling its mess on the ground consisting of mostly dark sludge and a small sparkling object. Byron pulls out the acid eaten remains of a finger, with a glittering tungsten band still holding on with silent resolve. The fear, the stress, and the energy of the last 48 hours finally breaks over Byron, silent sobs raking his beaten body as he removes the wedding band from the remnants of the finger and holds it up into the frail moonlight.

Like a beacon the Mountaintop lights become visible through the clouds of night as they clear. That same iridescent purple-green yet not brown shimmer has returned, burning with a growing intensity. There are other illuminations shining up the mountainside, headlights and spotlights moving from the supposed makeshift outpost past the cordoned off airstrip. Its the military, and they’re heading straight to the foreboding glow. It has to be all connected, whatever this thing is and that ugly light, the military presence. David clears his throat.

“We should get going, meet back with the others, maybe alert Eugene and update some of the other adults of the situation. We should have done it yesterday when we landed…”

Just then, Bane comes running up the two-track road, waving his maglight. He stumbles to a stop as he spots the remains lying on the patchy earth.

“I… I heard shots, is that… It?

He gestures at the gory mess unwilling to bear its full image. The smell is more than enough of an impression to be burned permanently into the mind.

“Yeah, what’s left of it. Fucker wouldn’t die until I caved its head in.”

“Well, we have a problem.”

“Other than bigmouth here?”

David kicks the jaw of the creature one last time, and it spasms on its own causing the two to jump. The muscle on the one side flexes periodically making the teeth of the one side of the ruined mouth chatter and grind. A familiar sound to the men.

“Holy crap, it really is that thing from the boat, would have liked to have seen it before you turned it to pulp, but…”

“No. you don’t”

Jason quips with sardonic disgust, shaking his head at the young man. Minnie has gone mostly silent in his embrace.

“It spoke, or mimicked her, said a name. I never want to see or hear something like that again.”

“it might be sooner than later… we were unloading and Father Yakov came down from the church. He told us he was checking on everyone in light on the power outage- Said he found 3 homes with a door or window broken in."

He looks to each of the other’s falling faces, the spark of hope from such a small victory dying on their collective visage as fast as it had come. Jason dares to address the one question they all would rather not consider the answer to.

"Was it looting, or some kind of attempt at exodus? Were there survivors?"

"Signs of struggle... some blood but no bodies found. Its like someone or something broke in and... took every one of them."