#I shall provide it eventually

[deunmiu-dessie]

ⅴ▬ ⁽ 𝑜𝓇𝒸 ⁾

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ♡︎ : ₅˖₇ₖ ˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ♡︎ : mdni----- unedited, NSFW,  explicit content, teratophilia, orc/royalty!human, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation, breeding, spit kink, sloppy kisses, size difference, somnophilia, slight voyeurism, orcish, reader loses all forms of etiquette and just babbles-- stupidly, belly bulge. ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ♡︎: as royalty it's your duty to marry and provide heirs for the kingdom, however, your parents have a different plan for you.

꒰m!orc ₊⊹ afab!reader꒱

 𝐹or as long as you can remember, you have been allured by the forbidden. Whenever your parents commanded you to abstain from a certain act or sternly prohibited you from engaging in another, it ignited a fervor within your being. And inevitably, you succumbed to its allure.

Your relationship with your parents was not a harmonious one. From the time you were but a child, they made it abundantly clear that you were not conceived out of their love for one another, but rather out of an obligation to the throne. To them, you were an inconvenience, a mere hindrance that they longed to be rid of. Thus, you existed in a perpetual state of unease, forever uncertain of their next move.

The castle bustled with activity this week, the number of knights seemed to have multiplied, and your encounters with your parents grew scarce. Your daily meals together became non-existent- not that you were complaining. Instead, during supper, they scorned and mocked you—drawing comparisons to your elder cousin who had recently become betrothed to a Duke. You were aware that they would arrange a marriage for you; it was inevitable, but you hoped it would be to someone who would eventually cherish you as you would them.

Verily, this day seemed naught but a replica of the day prior—a day draped in melancholy. The heavens were adorned with clouds of a somber ashy hue, obscuring the radiant sun in its entirety, and permitting but a scant ray of light to penetrate. You lay sprawled on your bed; the clamor from beyond your door kept you from getting any sleep, so you opt to lay there, eyes shut and breathing even.

The two hefty thuds at your door jolt you awake, your eyes snapping to the entrance. A servant girl stood there, her gaze piercing, and her upper lip curled in a sneer. "The King and Queen request your presence for a meal in the dining chamber."

You release a heavy sigh and nod. "Yes, I shall join them shortly, Nadia." she scoffs and closes the door with a soft thud. Rubbing the remnants of sleep from your eyes, you rose from your bed, slipping into your shoes with a sense of resignation. Hastily, you arranged your disheveled hair and adjusted your attire in the mirror, preparing yourself for the impending encounter. Finally, summoning your resolve, you embarked on the descent towards the dining hall.

 Your stomach churns uncomfortably as you motion towards the knights, fingers twisting nervously as they swing open the heavy oak doors. Stepping into the chamber, you swiftly bow and linger there for a moment, awaiting permission to be seated. "Hail to the Sun and Moon of the realm." Your sire grunts and gestures for you to take a seat; you release a shaky breath and settle across from your mother, who pays you no mind.

Within the dining hall, a profound stillness prevails, accompanied solely by the gentle clatter of utensils upon porcelain plates. You dare to disrupt the silence, your heart constricting within your breast, burdened by your uneasiness. " Pray tell, have I heard true? Have the demons breached the borders, causing mayhem? Is that why the ranks of the noble knights have swelled in recent days?"

The older man looks up from his meal, steely eyes on your face. "I did not deem you astute enough to discern matters of such nature, but aye, it is true. The Orcs shall breach the barrier if we do not do something. The knights from Tvatian shall not grace us with their presence for a week's time, yet our defenses wane with each passing moment."

The sound of your mother's throat being cleared reverberates through the air, abruptly drawing your eyes towards her. "You shall soon attain the age of twenty, my dear. Do you have any intentions of entering into wedlock?" Her voice possesses a cloying sweetness, signifying her ulterior motives; she is forever scheming. As you carefully place your knife and fork on the table, you grant her your undivided focus. "Aye, mother," you reply, your words tinged with a touch of uncertainty.

With a disapproving click of her tongue, she gracefully lifted her goblet to her lips, attempting to conceal the mischievous grin that flickered across her features. "Verily, a little bird has whispered in my ear that Orcs take pleasure in having humans as mere playthings, using them as harlots and passing them amongst themselves. How dreadful."

 Your hands clench beneath the table, and you struggle to suppress the bile that threatens to rise. Your heart thumps sporadically in your chest, almost painfully. What is she implying? "Pray tell, what is the essence of your words?"

"The royal family's expectations are not to be taken lightly, my child. If you persist in shirking your responsibilities by avoiding marriage and offspring, alternative measures must be considered. You shall be delivered to the head Orc at the border; mayhap that will pacify them until the Tavatian knights arrive." Your father had spoken this time, causing you to swiftly turn your gaze towards him. Tears welled up in your eyes, and a soft laughter escaped your lips. "Pray, father, assure me that you jest."

The answer lies within his silence. Your hands collide with the table, your head sways vehemently from side to side. "Nay, nay! You shall not subject me to this. What offense have I caused thee? I have obeyed all your commands unquestioningly, and you are planning to— Nay, I shall not proceed."

As the succulent salmon dances on her fork, your mother's laughter fills the air, resonating with a warmth that belies the gravity of her words. "My dear child, you find yourself bereft of options. You shall be deemed a traitor to the noble lineage and condemned to perish before your very birthday." A lump lodges itself in your throat, and tears stream down your face, as you rue the moment you stepped out of your room. "For what reason do you bear such animosity towards me?"

"Escort her back to her chamber; she's giving me indigestion," your mother states with a grimace.  The knights pause briefly, uncertain of how to guide you away. Dismissing them with a wave of your hand, you rise from your chair and exit the chamber, tears clouding your sight. The journey back is unsettling, with the maids gossiping and gesturing, their disdain evident on their faces, and their disapproving gazes following you.

The door is forcefully slammed shut behind you, and with great urgency, your feet carry you to your bed, where you collapse with a heavy sigh. Almost immediately, your pillow becomes saturated with the tears that pour forth, and you huddle into yourself, simply becoming smaller. 

  Indeed, you knew this would occur eventually, but you hadn't thought you would be handed over to some hideous monster who would likely slay you upon arrival. Violent sobs wrack your body, shaking you to the core, while your nose runs uncontrollably, the pillow muffles a scream of agony.

After half an hour had passed, you lay there, sleep welcoming you with warm arms. The answer to this puzzle would reveal itself upon your awakening.

—

Woken by the sound of shuffling, faint whispers, and delicate clinks, you remain motionless, filled with trepidation, and unwilling to stir from your position. You quickly clench your eyes shut upon hearing the intruder approach. As much as you desired to confront them, you were also intrigued to uncover their intentions within your room.

"Seize her limbs; we must transport her to the dungeon." In an instant, your heart falters, trembling fiercely, and for a moment, your breath is held captive. As your eyes snap open, the ceiling of your chamber looms above you. Swiftly, you strike at the person nearest to you, expressing gratitude to the gods as you hear their curse.

Emerging hastily from the confines of your bed, you sprint towards the exit, a shrill cry escaping your lips as a hand clutches your ankle. You descend abruptly, your chin colliding with the cold marble beneath, silently expressing gratitude for the prudent act of placing your tongue against the roof of your mouth in the final moments.

   Swiftly flipping over, you kick frantically, tears streaming down your face as your legs are forcefully spread apart, and the assailant inserts themselves between your thighs, seizing hold of your arms.

Your vision blurs as a heavy slap is brought across your face. The brief respite from your struggle grants the assailants the opportunity to lay a cloth upon your nostrils. Your eyes flutter shut, darkness casting a shadow upon your vision. The feel of your body being lifted is the only thing you remember.

Within the confines of the cell, you find yourself in a state of contemplation, your head gently leaning against the cold metal bars. The sharp sound of heels striking the ground causes you to straighten up. The passage of time remains elusive, yet the atmosphere hints at the arrival of a new day, shrouded in the quiet of dawn.

Your mother's face came into view, causing you to sneer in disdain as you buried your head in your knees, refusing to meet her gaze. The very sound of her voice sent shivers down your spine, igniting a mixture of anger and sorrow within you. She callously auctioned you off, displaying a complete lack of concern for your well-being.

"I reckoned it would be preferable for you to don your best attire, but it would be futile. A watchman shall be present shortly to guide you to the border, make no disturbance, do you understand? 'Twould be unsightly if you do."

You ignore her, but deep down, you are filled with dread to venture towards the border. You longed to weep and plead with her to refrain from sending you, but it would only wound your pride. Instead, she smiles and draws nigh unto the prison bars. "When we emerge victorious in this war, and if you are still breathing, I shall dispatch you to a brothel. I couldn't possibly have such a defiled child. Revel in your sojourn there, my dear."

The clatter-clack of her footwear slowly vanishing into the distance brings forth a torrent of tears. Why must this befall you? What sin have you committed to warrant such treatment? The jingle-jangle of keys catches your attention; the guard stands before you with a look of pity. "Your majesty, the time has arrived."

You nod in a pitiful manner and rise from the ground, using your soiled hands to dry your tears, leaving traces of dirt on your cheeks. As you draw near to the guard,  he pulls down his sleeve and tenderly wipes your cheeks with a sympathetic smile. You bow softly in gratitude and proceed to walk with him to the carriage.

He assists you inside and closes the door; a click prompts you to peer through the tiny gap. A lock secures the door; as you lock eyes with the guard, he merely sighs and shakes his head. "The Queen has requested this. I beg your pardon, Your Majesty." 

  You remain silent, leaning back in the seat and staring blankly at the castle. You see your father standing at his office window, observing. You avoid his gaze, curling up in the seat. Then, as the carriage sets in motion, your heart swells, and tears flow.

The carriage's abrupt jolt awakens you from your nap; the sun is just beginning to descend, signaling the end of a day filled with endless riding. The only noise is the steady trot of the horses and the occasional whisper of the soldiers. Have you arrived already? You swallow nervously and flinch as the door is forcefully opened. "We have arrived, your highness."

You nod and sit up, clasping his hand to disembark from the carriage. Your eyes swiftly survey the surroundings. Despite the tales, the border seemed relatively serene. You couldn't hear anything from beyond the wall. At length, a throat is cleared,  causing you to look up, and the guard beckons you along. You hesitate for only a moment before fortifying your resolve and walking forward.

After much anticipation, the distant voices grow more distinct. "Captain, 'tis here! Shall we unseal the gates?" The clamor of the ponderous wheels turning and ascending is loud in your ears. The gate opens enough to allow your passage beneath. They weren't wasting time at all. The guard places a hand on your lower back and pushes you forward gently. "The Orc General has agreed to receive you; he's on the other side waiting."

You suppress the lump in your throat and proceed, every gaze fixed upon you. The wall loomed thick and intimidating,  and you couldn't shake off the fear of it collapsing on you as you reached the other side. However, as you eventually crossed over, your gaze locked with his.

Standing tall at a minimum of 9 feet, he possessed a powerful build adorned with thick muscles, and hair decorating his chest. Dark brown hair cascaded down to his waist woven into an intricate braid, contrasting against his pear-colored complexion and a thick beard enveloped his jaw. Scars crisscrossed his body, enhancing his rugged charm.  Despite his blunt tusks, one of which was slightly chipped, there was no denying the outrageous attractiveness of this Orc.

As he takes a step forward, an instinctual reflex compels you to retreat, a shiver of trepidation coursing through your being. Your legs, heavy as if forged from lead, refuse to heed your desperate plea for escape. A subtle chuckle escapes his lips, the corners curling upwards in a smug grin. "Time is not a luxury I possess, little human," he mocks, his voice dripping with impatience. 

  You part your lips to utter a response, but only silence greets your futile attempt. The resounding thud of the closing wall seals your grim destiny, causing your weakened knees to buckle beneath you, surrendering to the tender embrace of the grassy ground. With a deep sigh, he strides towards you, casting a towering shadow over your slumped figure, a chilling reminder of his overpowering presence.

With utmost ease, he effortlessly lifts you, as if you were as light as a feather. Your body tenses in his embrace, a mixture of vulnerability and anticipation. The tears well up, threatening to spill over. Surprisingly, his touch is tender, his hands delicately traversing your legs and back. Summoning your courage, you manage to muster a question, your voice trembling slightly. 

  "Might I inquire about your name?"  Despite your hesitant speech, he pays no mind, his voice resonating with a deep timber that sends a surge of desire coursing through your veins. A flush of warmth spreads across your face, compelling you to avert your gaze and focus on your lap. "I am Loran, the General of the Mammoth Clan."

Silence envelops the air for a fleeting moment before your voice breaks through once more. "My name is (Name)" He acknowledges your introduction with a subtle hum, and together, you navigate through the labyrinthine paths until you arrive at a large tent. With utmost care, he settles you upon a sumptuous bed adorned with furs, then proceeds to position himself near a table, obscuring its contents from your prying eyes. 

  A knot tightens in your throat as you summon the courage to voice your deepest fear. "Might you have intentions of devouring me?" you whisper, recoiling at the childlike vulnerability that tinges on your words.

His laughter causes a flutter in your chest; every aspect of him leaves your insides twisted. At last, he ceases his actions and pivots to meet your gaze, his arms folded. You had to physically remind yourself to avert your eyes from his well-defined muscles. "Would you like me to?" His voice carries a teasing lilt, yet his words hint at something more intimate.

You shake your head in denial and draw your knees closer to your body. He was nothing like the figure you had imagined; you were convinced that your life would have ended by now. Your gaze wanders aimlessly as you delve into your own musings. Unbeknownst to you, he crouches down before you. The calloused tips of his fingers grazing your chin send a shiver down your spine. Your eyes meet his, and you find yourself holding your breath.

"The hour grows late; retire for the night. "

 You offer a silent nod, watching him leave the tent. Following his guidance, you settle back onto the furs. After the tumultuous events of the day, slumber swiftly envelops you, embracing the plush comfort of the bedding.

The warmth seeping into your skin prompts you to wriggle out of the furs. The weight of an arm flung over your stomach arrests you, dread settling in your heart and coiling around it like a vice. Though yesterday's events come rushing back to you and you relax, your tense body melting into Loran's embrace.  

  Despite the circumstances that brought you here, he had shown nothing but kindness, even playfulness - he didin't really make you uneasy, and it seemed as though a burden had been lifted from your shoulders.

In the realm of uncertainty, his actions remained capricious, yet amidst this unpredictability, a newfound liberation enveloped your being, you were free. Loran, with an irresistible allure, draws you nearer, your bodies melding as your front meets his. You place your hands on his chest and gently create distance, huffing as he cuddles closer.

After struggling a bit more, you come to a stop and seize the opportunity to examine him closely. Withdrawing your hand from his chest, you gently place it on his cheek, relishing its velvety texture. Loran possessed a striking appearance. Tracing your fingers along his lips, the sensation of his tusks lightly brushing against your fingertips captivates you once more. Their smoothness leaves you mesmerized. The rounded tips are gentle and harmless; they would not cause any discomfort if you were to share a kiss.

 Blushing with embarrassment, your cheeks turn a rosy hue, and for a fleeting moment, you seek solace by burying your face into his chest. Raising your gaze once more, you cautiously wave your hand before his face, ensuring his continued slumber. With no signs of movement and a steady rhythm of breath, a sigh of relief escapes your lips. 

  Gradually, you shift your position, ascending along his form, while your heart flutters nervously within your chest. With a mixture of fascination and unease, you lean closer, drawn to an inexplicable magnetism emanating from him. His lips, so alluring, entice you irresistibly.

 Placing your hand on his cheek, you lean in with deliberate slowness, capturing his lips with yours. The sensation of his tusks grazing your skin sends a rush of pleasure up your spine. With closed eyes, you deepen the kiss, savoring the unexpected softness of his lips. His taste is intoxicating, akin to a forbidden elixir. You have always been drawn to forbidden pleasures.

With a hint of reluctance, you retreat, allowing your eyes to slowly unveil the world around you. A startled gasp escapes your lips as your gaze meets Loran's. Despite your endeavors to break free from his embrace, his arms encase you like unyielding steel, entrapping you. Loran's chuckle resonates with a profound and drowsy timbre, while his hand ascends to firmly grasp your chin. "Do not flee from me, Sma ni." ( little one )

His lips are on yours, gentle and governing. His other hand gripping your waist and quickly lifting you onto his chest. The sensation of his thick and moist tongue overpowering your mouth elicits a fervent moan from deep within you, while your thighs instinctively clasp around his stomach. As his hands glide up your top, the pads of his fingers diligently work out the tension in your soft skin. Gradually, they find their way to your hips, expertly guiding them to grind against his abdomen.

With a soft whine escaping your mouth, you break the connection of his kiss, and your tongue lazily protrudes, leaving a trail of warm saliva on your chin. A primal growl resonates from deep within his chest, causing your thoughts to blur. Your hands instinctively find their way to his chest, the rough hair gently tickling your palms. The pressure on your hips eases, and his hand tightly grasps your hair, enabling him to sit up and halt the rhythmic grind of your hips.

A soft whimper escapes your lips as the throbbing sensation between your thighs intensifies.  Loran's lips trail along the curve of your throat, delicately nibbling at your tender skin, while his tongue glides with ease. Suddenly, a tearing sound startles you and a rush of cool air caresses your newly bared legs. The remnants of your shredded trousers gracefully descend to the floor, leaving you vulnerable and exposed.

Upon the velvety fur, Loran tenderly positions you, his voracious eyes meticulously exploring the expanse of your body. In a swift motion, he removes the sole obstruction that conceals your body, leaving you vulnerable to his cravings. You clench your thighs, your pussy pulsating with emptiness. This man was sinful; he looked so delectable, his lips shimmering with the remnants of your passionate kisses, and his complexion adorned with a captivating flush.

He lets out a deep groan, settling himself amidst your thighs, the ache in your legs a mere whisper compared to the intensity of his touch, tongue dancing over your nipples, nipping and tugging. Loran's hand travels up your body, his thick fingers entering your warm, wet mouth. You suppress a gag and suck on them shyly, tears welling up in your eyes. As his fingers delve deeper into your throat, you grasp his wrist firmly, your hips grinding against his thick bulge.

Loran pulls his fingers from your mouth, watching the rivulets of saliva drip down his digits. Leaving a glistening trail of moisture along your body, Loran delicately caresses his fingers through the soft curls of hair on your pussy, teasing you with the soft touch of his fingertips. With deliberate precision, he gradually eases one digit into the confines of your snug entrance stretching you. You pull your fleshy bottom lip into your mouth, teeth digging painfully. Your lashes flutter, exposing the whites of your eyes as they roll back in blissful surrender, eyebrows arching. Your mewls are soft and pleading. "Mmph! L-Loran. Please "

Your voice is a siren's call to him, as you whimper and plead for him. His desire to possess you completely, to fuck you full of his cum, to have you swollen with his young, consumes him. The mere thought of it almost brings him to the brink of release. Granting mercy upon your adorable, fucked out face, he finally sinks his finger into your cunt, relishing the exquisite tightness that embraces him, while your delicate hands clutch his braid and tug.

  With his other hand, he gently cups your cheeks between his large, powerful fingers, causing your lips to pucker. His mouth descends upon yours, messy and dominating, leaving a trail of mingled saliva that pools down your flushed cheeks. He chuckles as your eyes wander elsewhere, glazed and hazy with pleasure as he eases a single finger inside you.

A high-pitched sound escapes your lips as he expertly probes a sensitive spot deep within you, causing your hips to tremble and your inner walls to clench around his fingers. Leaning closer, his warm breath brushes against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Ayh lat naka ve cum, sma shara? " His mother tongue is foreign to you, but it sounds absolutely erotic, especially while he's stroking your drooling pussy skillfully. You shudder fervently, emitting mewls and whimpers, as the squelching noises of his thrusts fill the confined space of the tent. “I—uhn~ w-wait p-please, Lor…” You babble nonsensically. ( are you going to cum, little human? )

 Loran, in a teasing mood, complies with your dumb prattling, and moves away from you, fingers slipping out with an erotic pop. A soft whimper escapes your lips, your lower lip jutting out in a pout as tears well up in your eyes from the empty feeling in your pussy, your eyes widen at seeing him suck on his dampened fingers. “N-no, why’d you stop!” 

 With a chuckle, the Orc leans in to press a tender kiss on your flushed cheeks, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. "I simply did as you asked, Faushnu," he whispers. Pulling back slightly, he studies your expression - your eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, and your chest rising and falling rapidly. "I did not mean for this," you whimper, grinding your hips against his growing bulge. “M-more. Give me more.” You give him a stern glare, that only turns him on more, his little hostage was so demanding. ( baby ) "Of course, Your Highness," he says, his tone dripping with playful mockery. Loran's large hands firmly grasp your waist, swiftly maneuvering you onto your stomach. With a gentle yet commanding motion, he elevates your hips, causing your face to be buried in the soft furs beneath you. The sensation is almost agonizing as your back arches, eliciting a sharp squeal from your lips. A glob of warm saliva unexpectedly lands on your moistened pussy, causing an involuntary clenching reaction. "What are yo--?" 

  Before you can finish, the sudden roughness of his tongue against your throbbing cunt has you seeing stars. His feral growls reverberate through the air, as his tongue delves and ravishes you with an insatiable fervor. Reduced to a whimpering wreck, tears of rapturous delight cascade down your flushed face.  Desperate to regain control, you weakly press your small hand against the crown of his head, attempting to halt the relentless onslaught. "No more, please, m'gunna cum. Want to cum for you," you manage to slur amidst incoherent babbling, your words a contradictory mix. 

Loran, enraptured by your musings, fingers your pussy once again, effortlessly finding that spongey nerve inside of you and deftly curling his thick finger into it, time and again. A torrent of scorching pleasure engulfs your entire being, as you succumb to an intense climax, your trembling thighs embracing his head while your pussy flutters around his finger.

" Loran! "You slur, thighs still convulsing as the feel of Loran's hands on the fat of your hips seems multiplied, your mind filled with goo. The rustle of fabric falling to the ground barely registers before his thick cock presses into your pussy, hands guiding your hips onto him. Warmth trickles onto your pulsing cunt, his saliva lubing where you connect. You clench around him, emitting obscene moans. 

   He delves deeper, your snugness yielding to his thick, heavy cock. You swear you can feel every pulsating vein, every ridge of him inside of you. You whimper and whine when he fucks half of his big cock into your tiny little hole, and you thrash and let out small mewls of pleasure. "Mmph, Lor--!! it won't fit!" you whimper amidst sobs. 

"Hm?" He utters, his voice a low hum, as he observes with rapt attention as you stretch around his green, monstrous cock. The pressure within your abdomen steadily intensifies, inch by inch, until Loran thrusts in the last couple of inches, his large balls flush against your engorged clit. You're already fucked stupid, pupils blown, and moans strewing from your lips. The Orc takes hold of your hand, guiding it towards your stomach, allowing you to feel the undeniable presence of his shaft protruding from your belly. "Do you feel me? Feel my cock in your insides, my little human?"

With a forceful motion, he retreats, then thrusts forcefully into you, his grip tightening on your hair as he pulls.  A fervent moan escapes your lips, as the resounding collision of his hips against your ass fills the air, the only thing you can hear. The wet squelching of your arousal intermingles with his precum, cascading onto the opulent furs beneath you. His name becomes a sacred mantra, slipping from your tongue like a fervent prayer. "S'good, m'gunna cum, let me cum, please, please."

With a gentle caress, Loran's hand ascends your stomach, pinching your sensitive nipples. You mewl, back arching as you clench and pulse around his thick length, cumming harder than before, a wave of darkness gently tinting your vision. A low, guttural moan reverberates from deep within you, harmonizing with Loran's unyielding thrusts. “That's a good fuckin’ girl.”

The Orc's hand comes down on your ass, observing the quivering flesh. Your violated hole trembles around Loran's thick length, and he snickers, his hips stuttering. "You're mine. Hm? Do you understand, pet?" His thrusts became more profound, faster, not giving you rest, groaning as you nod quickly, whimpering.

You turn your gaze towards him, his fingers constricting in your tresses. "Loran, want you to cum inside me, please." Your feeble arms emerge from beneath your form, delicate hands reaching to spread your pussy wider. "You will, right?"

 Your wanton plea hurls the massive Orc over the brink. Loran's hips slam into yours once more as his scorching cum coats your walls; the copious amount of it had you cumming once more. Loran continues to pump his seed into you, his cock still hard and balls full of cum. He longed to see you swollen with his offspring; he wouldn't stop until he knew you were trapped with him.

You are not permitted to rest until the early morning, curled against his chest with his seed leaking from your stretched opening. Your body is tender, marked with bruises on your neck and chest. Loran places his large hand on your cheek; although he is running late for the meeting, he decides to allow you more time to sleep.

He lifts you gently, thankful that he has cleaned you up and changed the bedding. You snuggle into his warmth, almost convincing him to delay for another hour. "My zemar, it's time to wake up. We must rise before the sun sets." (my heart)

Stirring in his arms, your eyelashes flutter before you slowly open your bleary eyes. Attempting to close them once more, his hearty chuckle resonates, partially rousing you. Placing you gently on the bed, he drapes one of his shirts over you, guiding your arms through the sleeves. Loran picks you up again, cradling you as he carries you out of the tent, shielding your eyes from the glaring sun. The short walk to the other side of the campsite goes unnoticed by you.

He arrives promptly, his raven perched gracefully on its stand. A soft whistle escapes his lips, a signal for the bird to gather the troops. Loran takes his place at the head of the table, positioning you to face him, your legs wrapped around his waist. With spit on his fingers, he traces circles around your cunt, pleased that it had returned to its original state, tight and warm. After lubricating your entrance, he spits on his palm and wraps his member in a firm grip, ensuring that it's slick. 

  Loran aligns himself with your little hole and eases inside, emitting a deep groan at the vice grip; you let out a sleepy moan, tightening around him. His large hands grip the fat of your hips, guiding you down the rest of his thick length. He pulls his shirt over your ass, concealing where his cock is nestled inside of you.

He has to stop himself from fucking you on the table in front of all his tribe members. Once he had you in the perfect position, his soldiers began to file into the room. He couldn't help but notice how your warm, tight hole was becoming slick. Unbeknownst to you, his thick cock was already buried deep within you.

The meeting unfolds seamlessly. With nightfall as their ally, they conspire to dismantle the impenetrable walls of the Kingdom on the morrow. A sacred covenant governs The Mammoth Clan, dictating that the fairer sex and the innocent offspring shall be spared from any affliction. Thus, the innocent shall be granted mercy and protection.

Awakening towards the end, your pussy pulsating and enveloping something thick and long. A twitching motion stirs inside you, nudging your G-spot. A soft moan escapes your lips as you hide your face in his neck. Loran dismisses it as your mere awakening, soothingly caressing your back. Only a fool would miss the evidence of your arousal - the glistening juices trickling down your bare thighs and the hint of green meeting a clenching hole

" Dismissed. "

The orcs file out of the room, speaking amongst each other. Loran's gaze descends upon your petite frame, concealed beneath his garments. He looks feral. Once the auditory commotion subsides, you cautiously lift your head, locking eyes with his penetrating stare.

"Loran, please."

The Orc emits a deep snarl, his lips forcefully meeting yours as he firmly grasps the flesh of your hips, hoisting you off his slick member. Swiftly, he plunges you back down, thrusting into you with fervor, fucking you onto him. You're moaning mess, the spit from your sloppy kiss sliding down your chin and eyes rolling to the back of your head. The sound of wet slapping resonates loudly within the confines of the tent. With a gasp for air, you disengage from him, your hands finding solace on his broad shoulders.

 A particular thrust causes the swollen, mushroom-shaped tip of his cock to abuse your g-spot and your moan is shrill. You climax, your body trembling around him, leaving a creamy, ivory ring at the base of his cock. Stars burst in your vision as you weakly press your lips against his throat, whimpering as he continues to thrust into you, your sensitive and throbbing core tender. " Lor-.. no more.. s’too.. much!" you sputter, sloppily pressing your lips to his and sucking on his large tongue. 

Despite the roughness of his hips snapping into yours, he caresses your sides softly and pulls away from your kiss, licking his lips. "Be a good pet, hm? Let me use my pussy, can you do that for me? " You nod hesitantly, and he smiles, sending your stomach to unfurl languidly. "S'my good girl." You bury your face in his neck with a whimper, but when your blunt little teeth sink into his collarbone it pushes him over the edge; and he stands up with you still bouncing on his cock, thrusting so deeply that you hiss. Ropes of cum paint your pulsing walls, filling you up.

Loran's shallow thrusts ensure not a single drop is wasted as you envelop him in your embrace, closing your eyes and inhaling deeply.

Mayhap, the circumstance of being dispatched to this place was not as grievous as first imagined...

connected with this post!

[barleyo]

Heiress.

Father! Sukuna X Daughter! Reader (smut)

A/N: i got this idea in the middle of the night and i had to write it. the thought of it gave me so many damn ideas, a lot of which i couldn't include in this particular work!! obviously i don't condone what is written. obviously ^_^

Tags: incest (father-daughter), misogyny/sexism, heian era sukuna, p in v, creampie, breeding

Wordcount: 1.7k

!!! DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT/DARK CONTENT !!!

Sukuna may have been a very, very proud man, but he was no fool. He knew that eventually both his name and power would need to be passed down. An heir, he would need. A suitable, strong, merciless heir to take his place. The strategist he was, he decided to start sooner rather than later. 

He had the finest women taken from the surrounding villages. Vetted for imperfections, all of them. Those who were not up to his scathing standards were promptly discarded. Those who passed his tests, which were few, were used as his concubines. 

Women from far and wide were gathered. He would call them into his private quarters, one after the other, every so often. It was a race, of sorts, to see who took first. One woman was lucky and fell pregnant quickly. The baby, however, was not so lucky and was never born. Another had successfully given birth, but the child had physical imperfections. Not suitable.

Damned women, he had often thought, with their cursed, weak bodies. What good were they to him? Residing on his land, getting fat off of his food, coaxing weak, unsatisfactory orgasms from him. Yet none could do him the justice— the service— he deserved of providing a successor?

Yet again, another whore of his fell pregnant. His hopes were never quite high, but he was less than optimistic this time around. For good reason, it seemed, for you were the product that came from your mother. 

A female. 

Bless the poor servant who delivered the baby. They were met with a cold, scornful face when Sukuna heard the news. 

A female.

He scoffed, watching your mother hold you in her arms. The room reeked of tinny blood and afterbirth. 

What good was a female? What would that leave him with? An heiress? The thought was laughable, though hardly humorous. A daughter. Pathetic. Leeching. A daughter could not carry forth her father's legacy. A daughter had no place in a strong lineage.

A daughter had no right to bear his name. 

He felt betrayed that his seed could produce anything but a powerful, fierce warrior. Left with a delicate, shivering babe of the inferior sex, he fell into deep thought. 

A female. What good could you be, indeed? You were born healthy. No defects or deformities. Your heart was in your chest. You had only two eyes and one nose, thankfully not some other ungodly combination. 

"What shall we do with her?" a servant asked, kneeling beside your mother. 

"Leave the child. Dispose of the woman. No use in keeping two of them around, is there?"

Weak as a woman may be, Sukuna would be damned if something usable didn't earn its keep. He would find something worthwhile about you.

You had cursed yourself many times for not being the son your father always wanted. It was glaringly obvious, he scolded you often for your gender. 

"What am I to do with you, girl? Weakness is not something you got from me. Your whore mother must have—"

A constant degrading voice in your ear. Ever present was your father. You could never resent him for it. He was right, after all. His harshness did not take away from his truth. You were female. You were weak. Delicate. Gentle.

And in a stroke of good luck, beautiful. 

There were times where you held value to your father. You rationalized that those times were why he kept you around. 

You spoke well of him. You were a treat for an already conceited man's ego. You were subservient. No task asked of you was denied. Most importantly, you grew into your body well. 

Sukuna hadn't much interest in you, wether positive or negative, until you had matured a bit. The birthday when you had received your first suggestion of curves was when you first remember him paying you any mind. He had asked you what you had wished for on your day. You said that you had everything you wanted. Your answer pleased him.

When you grew taller, he had less room to look down on you. The year you had grown a woman's face, his eyes started to linger onto your lips when you spoke. 

When you hit full maturity, your year of eighteen, you felt a rush of what was as close to approval as you would ever get from your father. 

"Your weakness dishonors me," had slowly changed into "your figure will fetch a decent husband." Slowly. 

"The lord sends for you," Uraume said blankly, standing ramrod straight at your door. 

Odd. Your father had never once sent for you. Even in his best of moods, he had no desire to see you more than necessary. In the home, you were akin to a piece of furniture. Not expected to move and used as pleased. Nobody sought out a sofa, it was a permanent fixture. Not thought of for longer than a few regarding seconds. 

You passed Uraume with a stiff nod and padded down the cold, wooden floors below your feet. Your father, as usual, was in his quarters, silently looming. 

"Father." A simple greeting. He was not one for niceties, you knew that well. 

Sukuna shot his eyes over to you. Not bothering to turn his head, he let his eyes trail you. He examined you like a microbe under a scope. 

He finally spoke. "Woman."

He had taken to calling you that recently. You weren't quite yet a woman, yet not a girl either. You were teetering two lines precariously, and he decided to push you over to one side. Not one for indecisiveness, either.

"Yes, father?"

"You are no heir of mine," he said. "You are not fit to succeed me. Ever. The family name should sooner die with me than travel to the incapable hand of a female."

You braced yourself for another deep-cutting spiel of how you would never take over in his place. Of how a woman's job was to submit. Of how your very birth was a disappointment. 

"However, I do find a certain value in you. You will prove yourself to me, indeed."

"How?"

Sukuna rose to his full height, straightening his back as he glided towards you. He yanked at the outer sash of his robe. 

"What other womb more better suited to give me the perfect heir," he started, silk sliding down his arms as he discarded the kimono that had draped his form, "than that I sired myself?"

"I have planned this out for a long time," Sukuna said, pushing your legs to your chest. "I have no doubt that this will be fruitful."

You had hoped the same. If you could not be what your father wanted, would giving him the solution not be the next best thing? Truly, you were relieved that he had found purpose for you. Perhaps this would save you from marriage to an unbecoming man of lesser means and power than your father. Perhaps this was a saving call being made. 

You had listened to many attempts made by your father to bring about a son. The concubines were tired, certainly, of the nonstop, pointless breeding. The walls were only so thick, and your father was never quiet.

They weren't getting any younger— the women. Their youth had faded, right along with their chances of children. Young women were hard to come by nowadays. 

Just another downside of the sex, your father would likely say, they've got a clear expiration date.

"Quiet now. The pain will fade." 

The stretch of his cock would be uncomfortable enough, naturally, but the first time brought about a special type of stretch. A virgin cunt being broken in. An old wive's tale said that a young girl was the most fertile during her first go-about. Something about the blood from a punctured hymen carrying seed upwards. 

To you, it felt as though the blood slicked you up more. Maybe the old wives knew a thing or two. Red smeared over your inner thighs, but the way it coated your walls helped you hold the weight of Sukuna's cock. An equal trade off, for the most part. 

"I was right to keep you," he continued, slotting himself into you with measured strokes. "I knew that eventually I'd find use for you. Look at you."

Look at yourself, you did. Your surroundings, your bloodied legs. Where you and Sukuna met, somewhere in the middle. Connected by thin, gooey ropes of slick and crimson. 

It didn't feel nearly as clinical as you knew it did for the other women. The thought stirred a bit of pride in your chest. Father tried with you. Other women seemed to be pump and dump. And rough. Though "gentle" was not a word you would use to describe what was happening, it surely was not anywhere close to "rough." There was a touch of passion. What felt like love. Father had even kissed you once, twice. His lips were chapped and he bit yours, but not hard enough for blood to peek through. 

You tried for another, with great success. You leaned your head forward, eyes glazed with tears, and pressed your lips against his. From pleasure and pain, you surmised. A fair mixture, since Sukuna seemed to hit spots you couldn't place your finger one, and since the pinch of your hole accommodating his size was still stinging. 

"I have raised such a greedy thing," he mused, huffing a breath through his nose as he complied and gave you another kiss, this time with tongue, as you had silently demanded with your own weak tongue trying to force his mouth open. 

"Oh, gods," you groaned in a hushed tone. 

You felt a coil snap in your body, and suddenly the heat of a thousand suns crashed through you, starting at your melted brain, and leaking down to your cunt. Whatever essence that managed to slip from the suction you had around Sukuna's length soon mixed with his own cum. 

Milkiness dripped down, a visual confirmation of a successful mating attempt. Sukuna's head tilted back triumphantly. Now it would take, he knew it, and the results would be as he hoped.

"I do not know why I hadn't thought of this sooner," he said, keeping you plugged with his cockhead. "My seed belongs in only the purest of wombs. Yours."

[nebulaafterdark]

The Succession (Pt 5)

Summary: After the battle of Rook’s Rest, Queen Y/N is forced to rule alongside Prince Regent Aemond, in an attempt to keep her children safe and eventually seat her mother, Rhaenyra, on the throne. While attending her husband, on what appears to be his deathbed, she begins to unravel the dark truth of his near passing.

Warning: Suggestive language

Aegon Targaryen x Velaryon (Strong!Reader)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“You do not understand,” Y/N protests. “I need to see my brother, he must be tended first. If he dies, my mother will kill me.”

“If you die, the King shall kill us.” The grand maester taps her chin. “Let’s see the damage.”

Y/N moves her hand from her shoulder. “How bad is it?”

The maester begins cutting away surrounding fabric to reveal the extent of her wound. An open, oozing gash, torn clean from one side through the another.

Alicent rushes in, “what have you done?” She demands.

“Aemond is dead.” Y/N whispers, “I killed him.”

“I meant to yourself, what have you done to yourself?” Alicent demands.

“He stabbed me, and he fell.”

“What of the dragons?”

“Baela and Moondancer are searching for Jaecerys and Vermax. Vhagar is dead, as best I can tell.”

Alicent holds a hand to her head.

“Mayhaps you might look in on my husband?” Y/N says, “tell him I am well and that I love him.”

“You expect me to lie to my injured son?”

“Only the first part would be untrue.” Y/N arches a brow.

“Drink this, your grace. For the pain.” The maester presents her a black vile, milk of the poppy. “We’re going to pack the wound.”

Y/N’s eyes widen, “why?”

“I fear the blade must’ve twisted, your grace. The area has been gouged clean. There is not enough flesh for a stitch to hold.”

“Seven hells,” Y/N grimaces, chugging it down.

Even milk of the poppy does little to dull the pain as they begin pressing against the wound. Her screams can be heard echoing the Red Keep for less than a minute, before she faints.

————————————————————————-

“And now I need you to wake, sister.” A voice says, reaching Y/N in her dreamless sleep.

“Jace, she needs time.”

“There is no time.”

Y/N groans, willing her eyes to open.

Jacaerys pats the side of her face, “there you are.”

“You’re alive?” Y/N croaks out, blinking at him in the dim light.

“As are you.” Her brother says, simply, “at present Daemon’s army is marching on us from Harrenhal and mother is on her way for the throne.”

“That is no matter,” Y/N says, “we were only ever holding it for her.”

Baela looks to her betrothed.

“Sister,” he takes her hand, “what is expected of our mother now…to truly seize power, you understand what it would cost?”

“Aegon is in no state to bend the knee, I’m sure if I could speak with her-”

“I fear there may be no chance, if you, yourself, do not provide a show of strength.”

“Helaena has Dreamfyre and I have Stormborn, my children’s dragons are small. Sunfyre is gone.” Y/N reminds them.

“You’ve Vermax and Moondancer.”

Y/N looks to her brother.

“We will stand with you.” Baela assures her.

“Against our mother, you will stand with me?”

“Surely you have not done this for a crown, which would’ve been yours in time. You have done it for Aegon.” Jace sighs, “he is an idiot, but from what I understand, he loves and cares for you.”

“He does,” Y/N nods.

“He has been in talks with our mother for some time, attempting to make terms. That is why he lies injured.” Jace tells her, “his raven did not arrive in time and Rhaenys thought it an attack levied against her. Still I do not wish for his head.”

“Do you think she would do it?” Y/N wonders, “kill him in front of me?”

“You have not seen her these past weeks, since Luce’s death, I cannot say what she’ll do.” Jace loves his mother, fiercely, but he loves his sister too.

“We can anticipate even less of my father’s movements,” Baela admits. “He’s not returned to Dragonstone in nearly as long.”

“I hope to resolve this peacefully.”

“I do not believe our mother thirsts for Aegon’s blood, this is merely a precaution.” Jacaerys tells her. “You must dress, prepare the dragons and the King’s Guard, we do not have much time.”

“We will also raise the smallfolk, they will stand with us.” Y/N says, crying out as she sits upright. “And Aemond’s body, make sure it’s found. I plan to make a gift of it to our mother.”

Jacaerys nods, taking Baela’s hand and setting off to their tasks.

Chérie comes to dress her, pulling out the red dress Rhaenyra gifted her daughter as a symbol of solidarity on the day of Lucerys’ petition. A show of force against the Hightowers, even as she stood beside them.

Y/N shakes her head. “Bring me the green dress.”

Chérie swallows hard, “at once, your grace.”

The green dress is arguably the most beautiful gown she owns. A gold hand embroidered tapestry over emerald green satin. A wedding gift from Aegon. She’s never worn it, save for his rooms upon request, or to have it fitted after the births of their children. This day she stands for her husband and his house. This day she wears Hightower green.

She passes her husband’s apartments on her way to the throne room, turning the knob with familiarity. “Where are the children?”

Aegon looks to her, “in with the maids, shrouded by guards, my darling. I’ve just had the wounds dressed, I did not want them to see.”

Y/N nods, “of course.”

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Aegon smiles.

Y/N shifts between feet. “Thank you, my love. I am headed to the throne room to meet with my mother and discuss terms of the succession.”

Aegon holds a hand out to her, “come.”

Y/N closes the distance between them, lacing their fingers together as she stands at the side of his bed.

“If her only want is my head, let her have it.”

“What?” Y/N reels back, “no.”

“Hush now and listen,” he insists. “My body is broken, the maesters say I will never be whole. You will be free to remarry-”

“Stop it.”

“A fitting father for our children.” Aegon continues, “so long as I live, I will only stand in your way.”

“No,” Y/N tears her hand away from him, “you’re wrong.”

“I say this out of love,” he insists.

“No harm will come to you. Those are my terms, I present my mother with the throne, and the body of the man who killed her child. I offer her the peace I have made and all the good with it. It is nonnegotiable.”

“It needn’t be this way,” Aegon tells her.

“You’re mine, Aegon.” Y/N insists, “my husband, my confidant, my dearest friend. You are still all of those things to me, however many times I need say it, however many years it takes for you to believe me, I have time. We have time.”

Aegon sighs, “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

“A punishment for something, surely.” Y/N lets out a laugh.

Aegon shakes his head, “a gift from the gods.”

Y/N presses a quick kiss to his lips. “I’ll be back.”

“I will be here.”

Y/N closes the doors to her husband’s chambers behind her. “Stay with my husband.” She orders Cole, waiting to collect her in the hallway.

“Your grace, I am needed at your side.” He says.

“No, you will stay here and defend my fucking husband as though your life depends on it, and best believe it does.”

————————————————————————

Rhaenyra meets Daemon along the gates of the Red Keep. The streets are lined with smallfolk and the occasional yellow cloak, clearing a path for them.

Aegon the fourth begins to fuss in his grandsire’s arms.

“I’ll take him,” Rhaenyra offers. The babe quiets almost instantly.

“He well and truly does not like me.”

Rhaenyra only laughs. “It happens that way sometimes, I’m afraid. Though it may help if you smile.”

Daemon scoffs.

The line of bystanders continues down to the throne room, where Jacaerys and Baela stand on either side of Y/N, at the iron throne.

“This is quite the battalion you’ve assembled, daughter.” Rhaenyra remarks, “do you plan to challenge my claim?”

“Not in the least,” Y/N assures her. “I should like nothing more than to see you sit this throne. But I do have terms of my own.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“First and foremost, the guaranteed safety of Aegon and our children.”

“And what of Aemond?” Rhaenyra wonders.

“Bring him,” Y/N says, to the guards.

Daemon watches as a large black sack is carted in and laid at Rhaenyra’s feet.

“I slain him myself, with the help of my brother and his betrothed.” Y/N tells them, “you may see for yourself. Though I must warn you, he fell from the sky. The sight is not a pretty one.”

Daemon is the one to tear back the fabric and confirm that it is, in fact Aemond. Nodding to his wife.

“What other terms do you have?” Rhaenyra asks.

“Alicent, Helaena and her children.” Y/N swallows, “I wish for their safety as well.”

Rhaenyra pauses, as if to consider.

“You should also know that these guards and the smallfolk which line our halls are here for me. In my name, for my claim, not Aegon’s. The White Hart appeared for me; they follow me.”

“And who do you serve?”

“You, mother. Same as I always have.”

“You will bend the knee?” Rhaenyra purses her lips.

“Now, if it pleases you.” Y/N assures her, “so long as my terms are met.”

Rhaenyra nods, “very well. I should like to be crowned in the dragon pit, where I will reaffirm your title as my heir.”

Y/N takes a deep breath as she rises, approaching her mother and taking Aegon IV in her arms. “Thank you, my Queen.”

“Mother.” Rhaenyra corrects her, gently.

————————————————————————

Over the next weeks, Aegon grows tired of lying about. His unlikely budding friendship with Lord Larys seems to be the culprit.

Y/N is halfway to Aegon’s bedchamber when she hears his pained cries. Rushing in to find him collapsed on the floor.

“I can’t, I can’t.” Aegon protests as the grand maester attempts to bring him upright.

“I am so sorry, your grace.” Orwyle apologizes.

“Leave him.” Y/N shoos him away, “leave him.”

“Your grace,” the maester sighs, allowing Aegon to rest against the floor, “I must get him back to bed.”

“I will do it.” Y/N shakes her head.

“My Princess, surely with your injuries you cannot.”

“If I should need your assistance I will call upon you, Grand Maester. At present, I require a quiet word with my husband.”

The maester nods, “yes, your grace.”

Y/N waits until the doors close behind him to address her husband. “Aegon, I know how dearly you desire to walk again. But it has been but a moon turn since you arrived here in such a state they could not say if you would live. You must remain abed.”

“You did not marry a crippled man.” Aegon bites out, bitterly. “I did not father children as a crippled man.”

“You did not marry me with one arm that may never rise above my head or a scar across my face.” Y/N reminds him.

“My cock is ruined, did I tell you that?” Aegon laments, “it is burnt and disgusting, they do not believe it will rise.”

Y/N sighs, lying down at his side, “allow me to worry about that.”

“It is not you.” Aegon explains, “my love, I cannot bear to look upon my own reflection. I do not know the man staring back at me.”

“I hear your words, husband. You are entitled to this grief. But you needn’t punish yourself for it, nor face it alone. We will fight this battle together, as man and wife.”

“It is difficult for me, allowing you to see me in this state of disrepair, I am…they tell me I will never be whole.”

“My heart aches for you,” Y/N tells him, “but I do not pity you. I believe in you.”

Aegon nods, “you’ve no idea how much it pleases me to hear you say this.”

“You are different, I will not deny this. But different needn’t always be a bad thing. However different our circumstances, I can appreciate the distaste for one’s own reflection. I have felt it most my life, I do not look the part of a Targaryen Princess.”

Aegon exhales, looking to his wife. “You are devastatingly beautiful, the fact that you cannot see it is a tragedy all its own.”

“I love this body because you are in it, not the other way round. When you are no longer in pain, we’re going to train your cock, like a dragon to heel.” Y/N points a finger toward it. “Dohaeris, Rȳbās,” serve, obey.

“Ow, fuck,” Aegon protests clutching his side as he laughs.

Y/N covers her mouth to stop her own outburst.

By the time the Grand Maester rushes in, they are curled up on the floor, cackling like animals and holding their wounds. “Your graces!”

Aegon mutters to his wife, some form of gibberish, only she seems to understand.

Nodding as she chokes out, “lykiri.” Be calm. Sending them into such a state the Grand Maester simply excuses himself, without another word.

“Is everything alright?” Alicent asks, standing with a hand to her heart just beyond the door.

He smiles, “the road ahead is long and painful, but his grace laughs. He has joy.”

“And Y/N?” Alicent wonders, “how is she?”

“The wound is clean but slow to heal.”

“Is the arm lost to her?” Will it move?

“There will be pain, but it moves even now.” He rests a hand on Alicent’s shoulder, “better days in due time, your grace.”

Series Taglist: @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark @lovelyteenagebeard @niyahnotnia @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @callsignwidow @hyde-jpg @novelswithariana @klutzylaena @ynbutbetter @ravenqueen27 @danart501 @woodlandwrites @saraiadg @tempo-rary-fix @lxdyred @supernaturalstilinski @httpvomitello @dd122004dd @shadowrose13-blog1 @dracaryxzs @magictrump @vee-mage @mrs-starkgaryen @labellapeaky @multifandom-loser @minttea07 @blackdiamond2317 @baybaybear1 @tea-effect @heavenly1927 @sabyreads @champomiel @8812-342

[applejuicebegood]

I'm sorry if your ask box isn't open I was wondering if you wouldn't mind like an angst with jason todd where the reader is like the complete opposite of like his ex's like she's chubby and isn't this Amazonian woman but so she feels like he is with her out of pity and a huge miscommunication is going on because she doesn't want to bother jason with these self conscious problems she is facing

A/N: This shall be my first attempt at Jason angst so I really hope it's decent!! It will be fluffy towards the end tho dw. Thank you sm for the request dude!! CW: Body-image insecurity, self-doubt, anxiety Masterlist

You always had a complicated relationship with your body. Never fitting into the right molds of beauty provided to you.

Only to grow older and realise that this would be the only body you had in this life - you should love all the parts that came with it. Parts that you would see mirrored in sculptures of gods and paintings of royalty. Why shouldn't you be proud of the fact that it was bodies like yours that were the templates for worship?

And then you saw your boyfriends ex. It was during one of your book-shop dates, he pointed her out before quickly walking to the next aisle thinking that you would be right behind him. Hating that his comfortable bubble with you had been suddenly popped by the presence of a dead love.

But you were stuck, your feet nailed to the floor, gazing at this pillar of a woman. And suddenly the blaring buzz of weight-loss adds and the 'concerns regarding your health' filled up your head. Making you hang your head to glare at your shoes. Jason appeared, looking concerned that you didn't fallow. He came and touched his hand to your back. 'You ok ma'?'

You nodded and tucked your hand back into his, with a cold pit of doubt forming in your stomach.

The next few weeks was a confusing fix of dread and doubt, for the both of you. You became distant, preparing yourself for the eventual confession from Jason that he only got with you because he felt bad. Brushing off his sweet touches and offers for you to spend the night. Resulting in Jason trying to chase after you in fear that his blunt arrogance was driving you away. He was confused, and when he got confused - he got angry. Something he felt an infinite amount of shame regarding because what if his capacity to be stuck in this loop of anger was the thing pushing you away.

You, the one stable thing he found that was able to drowned all of it out. You, he couldn't loose, not because of him.

'Baby.. we- we need to talk' He said, standing from the couch as you tried to escape to the door. You had prepared yourself for these words. Preparing yourself for the stinging pain of loneliness that would fallow as he tells you that you guys should break up. 'Here.. let's just sit' He say's motioning to the couch. At least you would be near him just a bit longer. 'Listen... I know I'm a dick- and that I can be really difficult but.. but baby if I did or said something that's making you so distant.. you need to tell me'. He pleaded, taking your hand into his. This was not in the script you had conjured up in your head. He was supposed to tell you to pack up your stuff and leave. That he had gotten back together with Artemis, someone actually deserving of his praise and unconditional love. Someone who was actually pretty. 'What.. Jace- no.. you.. Wait what are you talking about?' 'I mean- you've been so distant and just off for like weeks now, and if it was something I did.. baby I'm so sorry' 'Your not..? never-mind..' You say, tucking your hands under your thighs. 'So.. did I do someth-' 'No! Gods Jason, no! You didn't do anything I just.. I mean I figured you.. I mean I.. UGh!' You stuttered, simmering in your own frustration. 'Its so stupid..' You mumble, the warmth of Jason's big palm rubbing over your tense back became the rope keeping you from the harsh pit of disappear you were about to be cast into. 'Baby, It is not stupid if it's got you like this. Please, just talk to me..' 'I.. like- I mean Jace, I'm not the prettiest of girls. I'm not skinny.. and I just.. I mean maybe you should be with some-' 'Don't even finish that' He said sternly, grabbing onto both of your shoulders. Making your glossy eyes meet his intense glare. He sighed, taking a moment to place his words in the right order in his head. 'If you think, for even a moment, I would ever fall out of love for you because of how you look- I'm going to throw you off of the balcony' 'Please don't' You giggled, the swell of tears building in the corners of your eyes. 'Is that was this is? You thinking you weren't good enough for me because of your body?' You nod, swiping the tears escaping down your cheeks with the back of your hand. Jason scoffed, seemingly in his own disbelief. He suddenly shifted from the couch to kneeling in front of you, taking both of your hands into his. 'So, not to sound like too much of a pig.. but baby, your body is one of the reasons I fell so hard for you. Your glorious.. every inch of you is perfect' He said. Your fingers reached our to cup his chin and jaw, those rich green eye's looking up at you so lovingly. 'No.. Jace I-' 'Yes. Yes you are. And if I ever start to say or think differently, you better fucking shoot me'. He chuckled, softly rubbing the sides of your thighs. 'But-' 'No'. 'I just-' 'Stop talking' He mumbled kissing your palm as your hand curled around his cheek. You felt whiplashed. This was so far from the expected outcome of this conversation. Weeks of starving yourself of his touch for a false premonition, all for it to end so suddenly. It was this quiet revilement of your doubts. As you looked back into Jasons sorrowful eyes, it was like a fire catching to greater heights as you remembered just why you fell for him. He stood suddenly and bent down to sweep you up from the couch and into his thick arms. Your hands immediately wrapping around his neck as he pressed soft kisses around your cheeks and nose. "Wa- Jay! What are you-?' 'I think.. you are in need of some lovin' tonight Miss L/N. To make up for all this distance.. you owe me that' He said, making his way to his bedroom as his lips traveled down the curve of your neck.

[bella-rose29]

Breathe

Elrond x gn!reader (Rings of Power)

not me coming out of my cave to post an Elrond fic then leave again 👀

also not me not writing anything for over a month (probably, I haven't counted) and then coming out with a near 5k fic oops

the original title for this was 'is he dead or not??? who knows' but I think this one is good too

Word count: 4.9k

Warnings: I think I killed someone writing this/made them need a lobotomy so consider that a warning to anyone who's gonna read (sorry), mentions of death, war, wounds, a child crying, the photo I'm gonna use is a warning in and of itself, I think that's it?

I feel I should add that this fic is actually happy (eventually) 😂 I reread the warnings and thought 'oh oops'

tagging @oblivious-idiot and @uku-lelevillain but if anyone else wants to be tagged in future Elrond works then let me know!

You could not breathe. 

It would eat you alive, all this waiting, chewing on your insides until it worked its way outward and left you but a shell of the person you used to be, and you wouldn’t have any way of stopping it. Your lungs felt tight as you cradled the head of a sobbing child, his mother dead after birthing him and his father out in the fray with the rest of the soldiers of Middle-Earth. He was young, had barely seen his homeland, let alone the world, and he had never seen war before. You were not so lucky as he - war had been your upbringing. You could fight as well as any other of the elven soldiers, but somebody was needed to look after those who could not, and so you had volunteered along with a small band of others: retired fighters and those looking to start out and join the ranks but were not quite good enough yet. You had trained them over the last few days that you had all spent in the safe hold, taking them through the basics of how to grip a sword and the best way to gut an Orc should they break through and make it to the doors of the underground cavern serving as your shelter. 

The child in your lap had stopped sobbing, his cries turned to sniffles, and you carefully lifted his body to nestle into your side. He was too young for war, you thought again, taking in the small points of his ears and the lack of angles on his face. You attempted a smile, hoping it would comfort him a little as you pushed a strand of his hair behind an ear, and whispered to him. “All will be well. They will return to us victorious, and we shall have no need of too many more tears.”

“But how do you know?” Children were inquisitive, which most of the time you adored, but when you are attempting to raise the spirits of a boy who does not know if he will ever see his father again, the questions become rather irritating. 

“Because I have seen many things, and because our armies are strong. They will defeat the darkness and bring light to our lands once more.” It was the best you could do when you did not truly know the answer. You had learned the art of rhetoric years ago, when Elrond Peredhel had first come to Lindon and had quickly discovered that for the elves to see past his half-elven status he would need to become invaluable, or risk being an outcast in the race he had chosen to be counted among. You had been the first to greet him, intrigued by this visitor from the Havens of Sirion when you had been born in Lindon and raised there, and he had been grateful for your tour and kindness. He had spent many an hour sat with you, commenting on his meetings and the politics of Lindon, and how he carefully navigated clashing personalities and difficult conversations, and so you had learned. 

You used it now, that knowledge that Elrond had provided in all those hours, to comfort this child. He had since taken to playing with a stick on the floor next to him, leaning further away from your side to entertain himself as he drew patterns in the dirt, and it gave your lungs the much needed space to breathe a little more. 

It had been hours and hours since the army had left, heading out onto the battlefield to meet Sauron’s forces, and you were getting impatient. Elrond had gone with them, determined to provide what help he could no matter your protests to him entering the fray. You had trained him up, knowing that he could hold his own but wanting to be sure that he would be alright, and when you had suggested that you go with him while tightening the straps of his armour he had placed his hands over yours (his hands were too soft - far too soft for someone about to go into battle), gently coaxing them from where they had fretted with the leather and returning them to your side with a sad smile. “You must stay here, melethel, and protect those who cannot fight.” The term of endearment never failed to heat your cheeks, or send a warmth up your neck and through your chest. “For my peace of mind, please stay here.” He had let go of your hands at that point, moving them up to rest on your shoulders as he looked into your eyes. A lock of hair had fallen over his face, and before you could think you were pushing it back into place, wondering if you had imagined him leaning into your touch that lingered a moment too long for two elves who were only friends and nothing more, his eyes fluttering closed for the barest fraction of a second before he was looking at you again, or if it had truly happened. What you were certain was real was the soft kiss he placed on your forehead, lips brushing the skin with such care and tenderness while his hands on your arms squeezed like you would disappear that it made your eyes sting with tears you refused to shed. Elrond would not see you cry, not now, not when there was a chance it could be the last-

No. You would not think that way. He would come back alive, and if he was hurt then you would stay by his side until he was healed, and then you would continue your lives as you had before - content and in friendship. 

It wasn’t how you wanted things to be with Elrond, which was why you could not breathe. What if he was one of the fallen, and you never saw him smile again, or gaze in wonder at the golden leaves of Lindon or cast a wry glance your way in a council session when somebody said something he thought was silly and knew you would be thinking it too, your eyes already seeking him out? What if you never heard him sing again, or write poems about trivial matters that seemed so important to him? What if you never got to challenge him to a duel again, laughing when your swords clashed and rang out in the clearing you always fled to, and calling him a cheat for tickling you after you pinned him to the floor?

And what if you never told him how you truly felt? That from the moment he had seen you try not to show your tears after climbing too high in a tree and falling, grazing your knee and cutting your calf, and had rushed to your aid because that was what Elrond did, you had loved him. He had been so calm, so gentle that night, the lights of others long gone out as they dwelt in near darkness while your lanterns stayed lit as you gritted your teeth and washed the cut of dirt and bark. You had barely heard him come in, his knock as quiet as your tears, but when his hands wrapped around your own and took the cloth from you, dipping it again in the bowl of water to your side, you barely startled. He had not been in Lindon long and yet already you knew him and his movements as though they were your own, and you trusted him enough to see you so vulnerable, and from the way he had looked at you that night he knew it. Your love for him was strong and true and the greatest thing you had ever felt, and for years you had passed it off as a friendship so powerful that the bond between you was unbreakable. You had friendships like that with others, so it would not have been out of the ordinary to have one more person whom you would love unconditionally until your light died, but when he had been kneeling by your side and cleaning the gash on your calf with a tenderness you had only read about, you had known it was different. 

The child beside you now dropped his stick, the movement bringing you out of your thoughts as he scrambled instead to his feet and started to push through the gathered people to make for the doorway. 

The doorway which was now opening, a messenger stepping through. You stood up, air catching in your throat and making you nearly choke on spit as you struggled to breathe again. Your hand flew to your opposite wrist, under the fabric of your sleeve and touching the chain that rested around the base of your hand - a gift from Elrond in the early hours of the morning before he had left for battle and after he had kissed you on the forehead. “To remember me by,” he had said, a sadness settling over his features that you hated. He unclasped it, gesturing for you to hold out your wrist, and when you complied he had linked the chains so carefully, fingers brushing the underside of your forearm so lightly it sent chills darting over your skin like minnows in a stream. His hold had lingered, and your breath had been held while time seemed to stretch on more than usual for your kind. 

Elrond had that effect on you, it would appear. Making you breathless was a skill of his you weren’t sure he knew he possessed, and at this current moment you wished it was a skill he had never mastered. Your throat felt tight while the messenger caught his breath, tired from sprinting from the battlefield. The fight was over for now, the question was simply who had won.

“Sauron’s forces have been pushed back, and the majority slaughtered. We have won this battle!” the elf cried, and the first wave of relief washed over you and the crowd. The second would come when you knew who was alive out of those that had been sent away that morning, and who would not return this night. 

The thundering of footsteps could just be heard over the cheers of the people gathered in the safe hold, and the first of the elven soldiers appeared in the chamber, tiredness being replaced by joy at seeing their loved ones again and embracing them with a fierceness that even Sauron could not comprehend. There were too many similar soldiers, their armour all the same and their faces all dirtied, and it was a long few minutes before you caught sight of the elf you were searching for. You were sure your face was blank and cold, and your eyebrows furrowed as you attempted to see past the hordes in front of you, but the moment a head of unruly curled hair glinted under the torchlight, clearly moving from soldier to soldier and asking if they were alright, you knew it was Elrond. He seemed to sense your gaze on him, turning his head to look over his shoulder and seek you out, finding you within seconds. He is alive. Elrond is alive. It was a mantra, playing over and over in your head as your feet numbly moved you forward while he did the same, pushing through people to reach you, and before you could truly register it you were in his arms, the coldness of your previous gaze melting and turning into warmth as you looked at him, tracing the small cuts on his face and wrapping your other arm around his waist. He was dirty, and bloodied, and shaking from the cold or from the fight or from something else entirely that you could not name, but he was alive. You squeezed his waist, pulling him closer to you, but didn’t miss the slight wince on his face as you did so. “Elrond, are you hurt?”

“I am fine, melethel. Just a scratch.”

“Do not lie to me, Elrond. Come, let’s get you cleaned up and out of your armour; it must be heavy on your shoulders.” He did not reply, only giving a tired smile in its place, and let you take him by the hand to the room you had commandeered for you both when you had arrived. There were two raised cots, not that Elrond had slept much, as he had been needed in meetings to discuss battle strategies and had, in his usual fashion, not stopped working until he was content that his plan would work. You closed the door behind you and pointed to one of the cots, not looking at him as you told him to sit. He did so in a daze, fingers picking at the leather straps that you had done up for him that morning. It was long past nightfall now, and Elrond likely had not rested since he woke up. You gathered your medicines and poured a dish of water, moving to sit on the stool that Elrond had pulled up for you and putting your supplies on the side table to help him with his armour. You worked in silence, removing piece after piece of metal until it sat on the floor in a neat pile and you had better access to his wound. Cautiously you pressed your fingers to the edge of the cut, trying to gauge how bad it was and immediately regretting it when he hissed in pain and tried to move away. You snatched your hand back, eyes snapping to his face to see it scrunched up in pain. “Elrond,” you spoke, voice quiet in the near-empty room as you placed your hand on his fist. “Elrond. It is alright. Here, help me get this off of you so I can clean it.” He softened, features settling back into a face you knew better than the wrinkled nose and squeezed-shut eyes, and smiled a little as you started tugging at his undershirts.

“You know, if you wanted me to take my clothes off you could have said it earlier.” Had you been standing you were sure your knees would have given way and caused you to hold on to something for support. He must be delirious from the wound, or the amount of time spent on his feet fighting. Elrond never said things like that: not to you, not to anyone. You forced a glare onto your face in lieu of a response, hoping he hadn’t noticed how much he had affected you with one simple sentence, and started to gently pull the fabric up. 

“Stop jesting, Elrond. I need to clean your wound. Unless you would prefer I left you here to get an infection and suffer?”

“You rather enjoy leaving me to suffer, melethel. You do it whenever we fight.”

“I always help you up off the floor after I wipe it with your backside,” you indignantly replied. You were glad he was talking - the silence had been strange. Normally you would not mind sitting in silence with Elrond, but that was when you were safe in Lindon, books in your hands and paper rustling as the pages turned, not when he had just fought a bloody battle and could have died. 

“I recall that last time we fought it was I who helped you off of the floor,” he mused, and you swatted at his arm. 

“Shush. I let you win that one. Now stop talking and help me; your limbs are gangly.” He let out a noise of disbelief at that but lifted his arms anyway, wincing when the shirt went over his head and pulled at the skin of his side. An Orc had found a gap in his armour, pushing its blade through and marking the side of his body with blood. You held your breath at the size of it, and when Elrond asked you how bad it was you answered with your eyes still on his side. “It is… it is nothing I cannot fix.” He seemed content enough with your response, nodding and leaning back on his hands to allow you more room to work. He grunted in pain when you raised the cloth to his skin and started cleaning away the blood and sweat that had stuck there, but otherwise was silent while you worked. 

Time is a strange thing for elves: your lives are so much longer than those other races of Middle-Earth and so often you do not perceive it in the same way - twenty years for some may be the blink of an eye to an elf. You could not have been cleaning and stitching his wound (he had cried out more when the needle had pierced his flesh) for more than an hour or so, and yet it had felt like an eternity. When you were finally done, his wound covered in an elvish salve to stop infection and the spread of whatever evil was in Orcish weaponry and stitched up with a fine thread that would dissolve harmlessly into his skin over time, you brought out another cloth and poured fresh water to clean his face. He was caked in dirt and blood and grime, sticking to his fair skin from all of the sweat he had created in exertion, and if you did not know Elrond like the back of your own hand then you would not have recognised him at all. 

“Let me,” he said, pushing up off of the cot and moving to where you stood by the basin. His hands covered yours, gently attempting to pull the cloth from your grasp and do the rest himself, but your grip was strong. 

“No. I have been sat around doing nothing all day and I might just explode if I do not finish looking after you.” He smiled, the barest of things as the corner of his mouth pulled upwards a little, and his eyes softened. How he could be soft after everything he had seen today amazed you. It had taken you years to stop guarding yourself after you first fought in a battle, not letting anybody see any vulnerability in case they took advantage and thought you weak. It was part of the reason you stayed behind: you had not wanted to find out what would happen if you fought again, not when Elrond had come into your life and, piece by piece, dismantled your high walls. 

“Alright, melethel. Alright.” He had always insisted on calling you that, saying that it didn’t matter that the pair of you were not courting, and who were you to refuse him when he spoke so sweetly? He settled back against the counter, letting his feet drift apart a little so you had room to stand between his legs. He closed his eyes, trusting you to take care of him, and for the first time since he had returned he looked at peace. He seemed unsure where to place his hands, hovering for a moment between your waist and the wood of the cabinet top he perched on before deciding on the latter. You worked away the dirt, revealing more clean skin with every swipe of your cloth, until eventually you were looking at the face of your friend as you remembered it. His hair still needed a wash, as did the rest of him, but Elrond was here, in front of you and more like himself than he had been since he had left in the morning. 

“I think you had more soil on your face than the grounds of Middle-Earth,” you joked, rinsing out the cloth again before bringing it up to his face to wipe the remainder of the grime away. He opened his eyes, a childish grin appearing on his face at your words. 

“Then you have done a fantastic job in removing it all.” He paused, then narrowed his eyes at you in playful suspicion. “At least I assume you have removed it all, and haven’t just smeared it all around my face?” He poked a dirty finger into your cheek, making you laugh and jerk backward to stop him spreading muck everywhere. Elrond stopped moving abruptly, catching your hand and studying a finger. “You’re bleeding.” He blinked at the dried blood on your pointer finger. “Or is that mine?”

“Oh. I had not even realised. I must have stabbed myself with the needle earlier. Really, it is nothing, Elrond.” He didn’t let go however, still looking concerned that you had hurt yourself while tending to him. 

“But if you are hurt-”

“Which one of us was brutally stabbed by an Orc blade? And nearly died?”

“I did not nearly die, melethel, you are being dramatic.”

“As are you, Elrond. I barely even noticed the prick of the needle.” He had brought your hand close to his face, and somehow your body had gone with it. The hand that held the cloth was bracing your weight next to Elrond’s hand, your fingers just touching, and your face was so close to his that you could feel the soft brush of air that he let out every time he breathed. It was so typical of Elrond to be more concerned for others when he himself was the one that needed to be worried over, and it only made you love him more. 

“If you say so,” he hummed, shifting his hold on your hand so that he could bring his lips to the tip of your finger where you had stuck yourself with the needle, pressing the smallest kiss to it. Your breath caught again, and he noticed the hitch. “Melethel? What is it, did I hurt you?” His eyes widened and he rushed to rectify the mistake he thought he had made. “I am so so sorry, I did not mean-”

“You did not hurt me, Elrond, for goodness’ sake!” You cut him off, exasperated and feeling very warm. 

“Then why-” he broke off, eyes searching your face and studying the most likely very visible flush to your features. “Oh,” he said, softer than a leaf of one of the trees of Lindon falling to the earth. You swore his pupils dilated a little, and he tilted his head back ever so slightly as realisation dawned on him. “Oh.” He let go of your hand, fingers slowly moving to your jaw to turn your face back towards his after you had looked to the side in an attempt to hide from the intensity of his gaze. 

“Elrond, what- what?” Your hand he had been holding was now on his shoulder, keeping you upright along with the arm he had somehow snaked around your waist, pulling you even closer to him. 

“Are you- do you…” he fumbled over his words, something he very rarely did, and through the haze of wondering how you had ended up in this situation, his fingers cupping your jaw while his other hand rested on your lower back and he stared into your eyes, flicking between them both to see if he could read you, you felt a swell of pride that you of all people had made Herald Elrond of Lindon speechless.

“Do I what?” you asked, as gently as you could. The hand you had rested on his shoulder was now toying with a strand of hair that curled under his ear against his neck, your other braced on his chest (which you were just now remembering was unclothed), and a small smile was on your face. You knew that he knew the truth now - how could he not? But he wanted to hear it, as did you, because the fear that he might be wrong was lingering and if he was wrong, he might hurt you, which was the last thing Elrond ever wanted to do.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered, eyes similar to that of a wolf cub you had once seen, wide and innocent, but entirely Elrond in the blown out pupils and spark of knowing that he carried. His nose was brushing yours, breath fanning over your face, and now it was your turn to tilt your head back to meet him. “Do you feel that whenever we are apart… your heart aches for the space where I should be stood? That whenever we are together I am complete because you are there and you are so bright and wonderful that you take my breath away more often than I would care to admit - do you feel that too?”

“How could I not, Elrond? How could I not feel that?” You felt the tension dissipate from his shoulders, his body sagging forwards into yours just a little, the action causing his face to come even closer to yours, angled slightly upwards from where he was an inch lower than you sat on the cabinet. 

You couldn’t breathe again, but this time it was because Elrond had pressed his lips to yours so cautiously that you thought you might melt into him. His fingers on your jaw were warm, not urging you one way or the other but just anchoring you, as he always had done from the moment you had met, letting you decide what happened next. You broke off first, resting your forehead against his and catching your breath, and he swallowed thickly, moving to place tiny kisses against your jawline and cheek, pausing only to murmur your name into your skin. Your hand buried itself in his hair, fingers tangling in the curls and knocking out the dust and dirt that had stuck there. It had long since dried of sweat, but the strands were greasy and needed washing, and that thought combined with the memory that he had a wound in his side were enough to make you pull back even further. “You should have a bath,” you said when he looked up at you with adoring but concerned eyes. He paused for a moment, frozen in place while he contemplated what you had said, and then he chuckled, the sound low in his throat. 

“Are you saying I smell, melethel?”

“Yes. Come, I’ll get a bath ready for you.”

“And if I would rather stay here?” His fingers had started lightly stroking your jaw, and with the way he was looking at you it was becoming harder and harder to leave his embrace. You managed to wrinkle your nose and step back, a strength you hadn’t known you possessed taking over and making you move. 

“I’m not kissing you again until you have bathed, Elrond.” He sighed dramatically, retracting his arms and standing up, wincing slightly and favouring his non-injured side while you started transporting water from over the fire.

“Truly? You really would leave me here?”

“If it gets you over here faster, then I shall get in with you.” You had never seen the elf move so quickly before, pulling off his boots and drawing out towels for when the bath was finished with. He hesitated with his trousers, then decided to keep them on, glancing at you to see what you were doing. You were already watching him, making a decision of your own before starting to pull at the strings holding your robes together.

“You don’t have to-”

“Oh I’m keeping my underclothes on, but I shall likely sink right to the bottom if I keep these thick robes on.” He looked relieved, and you stifled a laugh as you headed for the dresser where your clothes were kept, pulling out a pair of fresh trousers. “Here, get changed first if you’re keeping trousers on; you’ll dirty the water immediately.”

He complied, heading behind the partition in the corner of the room and re-emerging a few moments later to find you already in the bath, eyes closed in contentment at the feel of the warm water on your skin. Elrond lifted your head, pushing you forward gently so that he could clamber in behind you and settle back against the tub. You heard him grunt when his wound his the water, and turned to see his face scrunched in pain. “Are you alright?”

“I am alright. Just don’t lean on my side.” He helped you turn in the tub so that you were sideways against him, his wound kept out of the danger of being pressed down upon. 

You stayed in the bath until it got cold and your fingers wrinkled, having washed the dirt off of each other with one of the towels Elrond had brought over, and then when you got out you dried each other off and redressed in fresh clothes, hanging up the wet fabric and making for the bed, curling up next to each other, your head on his chest. Sleep came easily to you, Elrond’s body creating a warmth under you that made up for the dying fire in the cold room, and at some point your breathing matched his. 

For now, you could be content in peace. Another battle would come, the war not yet won, and Sauron’s armies would be at your doors again soon. But not yet. They would need time to gather strength again, to marshal and be ready, and so you had time too before Elrond had to leave again, and time to breathe before you would be sat waiting, and waiting, and take in air before it was stolen from you when he kissed you goodbye. 

[avocado-writing]

May I ask for a companions x Tav headcanons list were Tav loves to cook and see's it as a way to people's hearts?

Astarion

Obviously is sad he cannot partake more, as he sees how much effort and love you put into your cooking.

You make an effort to make richly-flavoured blood dishes he might enjoy, just for him! But everyone thinks it’s just a tad bit morbid (and he agrees) so won’t ask you to go out of your way for him.

“Besides darling, I prefer to sample straight from the source…”

One night you’ve just pressed some parsley leaves to your neck for flavouring for him. He laughs so hard he cries. This is the first time he realises he loves you.

Gale

Oh, the camp’s resident cook is delighted to have a sous-chef!

And then he realises oops, no, he is the sous-chef. At which point he’s just happy to sit and watch you work your magic.

Happy to make dinner in order to pull his weight in the group, but he’s entranced watching you do it, too. You’re a wizard with some knives and a saucepan.

He can feel the love you put into every bite. Always makes sure to go out of his way to compliment you, and loves the way you smile in return ❤️

Wyll

After spending so much time on the road, he’s so happy to be in the presence of a good cook.

With every bite will discuss the flavour palate of your dish, talking about what herbs he can taste, letting you know he appreciates your effort.

He’s not a brilliant chef himself but would love for you to teach him!

In return he saves up to buy you fancy chocolates from the best chocolatier in Baldur’s Gate. It’s the least you deserve, and the way you light up makes his heart beat fast.

Karlach

Whatever you make, she loves.

“Pasta? My favourite! Oh my god, we’re having steak? I love it! Rice tonight? Right on!!”

She doesn’t have a favourite food. Dishes in Avernus were not wide in range, so she’s just happy to eat some different meals for once.

You give her seconds and thirds and she eats them up, going on and on about what a good cook you are.

“You’re so amazing at this! I love you!”

Good thing she’s too engrossed in her food to notice how flustered you are…

Lae’zel

Reluctant to eat anything at first.

“I do not want your istik food. I shall provide for myself.”

But after a few days of smelling how good the food is that you cook, she gives in… still trying to pretend it’s beneath her.

You serve her a small portion to start with, then watch her eyes widen as she realises how delicious it tastes.

She is too proud to ask for more - and you’d not have her any other way - but you make sure to serve her big portions from then on. Her bowl is always scraped clean.

Shadowheart

Isn’t too sure on your cooking at first - she’s used to bland, tasteless meals at the temple - but quickly comes around.

The longer you’re together and the closer you become, the more she opens up about her favourite flavours. Eventually she starts making requests.

“There’s this sort of cake I vaguely remember… if I can get you the honey, could you make it for me?”

Of course you can. You sit down and share it, watching her eyes roll back in delight, the way she licks the crumbs off of her fingers. The two of you are enamoured with each other, but you still fight over the last slice.

[weebsinstash]

I want yandere Alastor being the biggest fucking hypocrite on the block and getting painfully humbled by reality so fucking bad you don't understand

I want a story where you stumble into becoming his friend with benefits, become the person who gets him interested in sex as a physical activity, and then one day you ask him "hey, what are we?" And his response being ABSOLUTELY RUDE AS HELL, albeit unintentionally, and you immediately cut him off from sex because his reply was basically the equivalent of "you're fun to sleep with, but the rest of you? No :)" (and also maybe he didn't even fully mean it, maybe he only partially meant it but he can tell he's forming some kind of new emotion for you and he doesn't want that to become a point of weakness for him so he's pushing you away but once you're actually gone he wants you back more than ANYTHING--)

I want yandere Alastor who laughs in your face if you nervously ask him if you're his girlfriend or something but then when you show up around town with another man less than a week later and he sees how easily you REPLACED HIM, he's just absolutely losing his mind. What do you MEAN you were still sleeping with other men this whole time?!?! The Radio Demon was getting SLOPPY SECONDS??? WHY would you let these-these disgusting bastards DEGRADE YOU-- meanwhile you and him could've been having like hardcore bdsm sex with actual degradation or some semi respectful form of it and he's STILL over here "B B BUT THESE MEN PROBABLY DONT EVEN RESPECT YOU--" and neither did you, you laughed in my fucking face you bitch!!!

yandere Alastor just having to sit and have a fulllll glass of whiskey and ruminate on his thoughts as he tries to come to terms with these sudden EXTREMELY POSSESSIVE feelings and urges he has. What do you MEAN he wasn't providing anything for you that you couldn't get somewhere else AND BETTER AND ALREADY HAVE BEEN? what do you MEAN you're making gifts for and going out and having actual fun dates with some of these men? What do you fucking MEAN YOU'RE 'ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED WITH SOMEONE ELSE NOW' AND WOULDN'T SLEEP WITH ALASTOR EVEN IF HE APOLOGIZED BECAUSE YOU REALLY LIKE THIS GUY--

Alastor hardcore coping, trying not to think about you at all, telling himself he just needs time and this'll all blow over and he wont even think about you anymore, and eventually finds his feet carrying him to your favorite jazz club that he would take you to, AND YOU'RE ALREADY THERE WITH ANOTHER MAN. Now THIS is what causes Alastor to finally have a public episode. No, some RANDO can't come with you HERE, this is YOUR place, OUR place, it's special, it's for Alastor and you ONLY!! basically turns him into a little kid stomping his foot going no no no that's MINE!!!

This narcissistic ass man really ain't shit, over here responding to your actually extremely valid question of "what are we?" because you were actually trying to respectfully ask him if there were any certain boundaries or if you were now exclusive, and he hits you with some deflective dehumanizing diversion like "what makes you think I would have THOSE kinds of feelings about YOU?" until he's painfully aware you're sleeping with another man, kissing another man, making hot meals for another man, holding his hand tenderly as you take a leisurely stroll, GOD FORBID HE CATCHES WIND OF ANY MARRIAGE TALK, HE WILL FUCKING L O S E IT

Juat the idea of him being so close to having what he wants - your body, heart, AND mind- and he fucks it up big time and ruins your relationship and self esteem so badly. He tries to pretend that he doesn't need your attention and/or affection but the second he doesn't have EITHER, he's a jealous mess trying to literally one-up whomever you're with, show off, impress you, usually digging his hole even deeper. Alastor becoming more unpredictable over time, literally losing sleep over you, absolutely CONVINCED 500% that all of these, shall we say, "more modern men" that you're choosing are not even worth the dirt in the treads of your shoes.

Just twirling my hair kicking my feet thinking bout yandere Alastor, becoming dead-set on genuinely and fully believing he has to save you not just from these men, but also yourself. Oh honey, he's so sorry, CLEARLY this is his fault for not watching over you better. He already knew you were... delicate and naive, but here you are, running around letting these men treat you like some kind of object just because you need what you perceive as acceptance and validation. It almost breaks his heart, truly, but don't worry darlin'! He's a southern gentleman and, SURELY he can turn up the charm and make it clear to you that you MISUNDERSTOOD HIM, right? :) You're going to GIVE HIM ANOTHER CHANCE, right? :)

genuinely, i feel like this man is more likely to try and gaslight you into believing you completely misinterpreted what he said instead of just apologizing let alone ADMITTING that he himself didn't communicate jack shit about shit, wasn't honest or up front about his feelings, and may have even be intentionally cruel to you in a moment of weakness to try and keep his own insecurities at bay, but then is fully capable of convincing, some may even say BRAINWASHING you into believing, oh sweetie, if these DEGENERATE DELIQUENTS somehow convinced you that your best friend and future husband is somehow your enemy, then, CLEARLY he hasn't been keeping you close enough to properly care for you and help you keep a clear head, has he? guess it's a good thing both of you are Sinners and he has NOTHING but time to show you EXACTLY what his intentions are. So, dear doe, which do you like the sound of more: a spring wedding, or a summer wedding, or maaaaaybe you two could even get hitched during some lovely acid rain so your new spouse can demonically laugh at all your screaming "gentleman callers" captive in the wedding audience who "accidentally" weren't put under any gazebos or any sort of protection while being forced to watch Alastor take you away--

[synthetickitsune]

Ashes Settle, Left Behind ✧ y.jh [part 1]

Pairing: Yoon Jeonghan x ghost!reader (gn) Genre: horror-ish angst Summary: Everything eventually comes to an end. Life. Love. Even marriage only lasts until death do us apart. So why should a soul bond be any different? Word count: 10k Warnings: a lot of inaccuracies that we shall all ignore for the sake of the plot (pretty please), mentions of fire, jeonghan has an invisible stalker basically A/N: Things got a little out of hand but lately that's all they do when it comes to me and writing lmao... Anyway, excited to finally be sharing the first part of my addition for @svthub's world tour collab! It ended up being more fun (and longer) than I expected and the second part hopefully shouldn't take too long now - unless I feel like torturing these two more. Also shoutout to @wooahaeproductions for helping me find out about the fire of Seattle that started all this! -> svthub world tour masterlist -> [part 2] (coming soon!)

You feel a shift in the air.

As if a tomb was opened and you could breathe again, see the world again. You see the light at the end of a tunnel. You let it envelope you.

You take a breath but the air doesn’t reach your lungs. You feel light and airy. Not held down by gravity; your lungs not weighted down by ashes and smoke.

You raise your hands and see. See - but not yourself. Just a blur. Like looking at the world through water.

Your body’s not there.

Just a ghost. A lingering memory someone dreamed up after an eternity.

It takes an effort to come to terms with your existence. Again. With a completely new form, in a new time. You’re not sure what’s a bigger shock - your ethereal self or how much everything changed. 

You can’t wander out, caged in another memory kept preserved in the bones of the city you lived in. 

The people are different. The technology is different. It’s hard to understand, but you have nothing better to do than watch the people who come in and walk through the graveyard that is your home. And you learn. It’s not much, but it’s enough.

The modern world is easy to grasp, but life… not so much. There’s only one thing that’s for certain: something changed. 

Something made the change happen. You have no explanation as to how or why. But you know one thing. He has returned.

As if you’ve been longing for eternity, you feel so relieved you could cry.

You can clearly visualize it. Him bursting in through the door, embracing you and spinning with you in his arms with that pretty and carefree smile.

He’s coming home. Finally, he’s coming home again.

You should get the dinner started…

But…

The kitchen burned down.

The house burned down.

The city burned down.

Usually he’d be cursing his alarm right about now, but today Jeonghan is already awake and sipping coffee by the window of his little shop.

Despite only having slept a couple hours, he feels energized and ready to face the day. He’s sure the exhaustion would catch up with him later, but the benefit of being his own boss and living right above his workplace is that he could always spend his lunch break napping in the comfort of his bed if he needed to. Although he isn’t sure he’d manage to keep his eyes closed or get a decent sleep until he figured out his battle plan.

What battle?

Figuring out the decoration for the upcoming city festival. The thought alone makes him breathe deeply and bite back a smile.

It was made very clear throughout the negotiations that he and his shop wasn’t the first choice; the general mood was more along the lines of you’ll have to do because no one else would accept an offer this low. But Jeonghan truthfully didn’t mind, he didn’t even mind the low pay even though it’d barely make him any profit. It was an opportunity to put himself and his business out there and show what he and his team are capable of. 

Having only tipped their toes into the waters of providing decorations for big events, this was huge. There was nothing he loved more than making bouquets for his customers and bringing smiles to faces that he sometimes couldn’t even see, but he also craved success. Not to mention that if his shop got contracted for more deals like this (with better pay, hopefully), he could likely afford to take better care of the people helping him, which was ultimately a stronger drive to make it big than the status of a successful business owner.

“Someone’s up early.” 

He turns in the direction of the voice and sees Joshua and Seungkwan walking in, both with a cup of coffee in their hands. Seeing them, he feels like he could work nonstop for weeks, all the way until the festival.

If everything goes well, maybe they could start doing weddings. Joshua is always going on about wanting to design and make someone's wedding bouquet. He'd be ecstatic if they got the opportunity. Most of them would be, Jeonghan thinks. He's seen some of Jihoon's ideas scribbled on loose pages around the shop. They were perfect, some fit for a neat modern wedding, others straight out of fairytale. Seungkwan daydreams of making little flower crowns for the flower girls and flower boys. 

Weren’t they simply meant to do weddings? It's not an easy business venture to get into, but with the festival... It's a good opportunity. Or maybe he’s just too hopeful.

"Good morning" he greets his friends with a warm smile. "It's gonna be a busy day so why not start straight away?"

"Someone's in a good mood," Seungkwan teases, but he's smiling too. 

The morning routine is a breeze with one extra person. Eventually, Seokmin and Jihoon come in and join too as they all agreed to meet and plan for the big event ahead. The back room is cramped with all of them gathered - another sign they need to make a lot of money and expand.

Although Jeonghan likes it this way, likes how cozy the main space of the shop is.

“Is there any theme they want? Colors, aesthetic?” Joshua asks, “It’d be much easier if there was.”

“No,” Jeonghan sighs, “They didn’t mention anything, so I guess we’re free to do whatever. It’s a history faire so I guess they have no idea either.”

“So something that will survive drunk dudes pissing in it for anything that’s not hanging in the air it is,” Seungkwan claps his hands like it’s a done deal, turning the attention of everyone to himself.

“Don’t ruin your boss’ illusions, dude,” Seokmin scolds him immediately, whisper-shouting as if Jeonghan couldn’t hear.

“He’s right though,” Jihoon points out with a shrug. Jeonghan pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Let’s dream a little and aim for aesthetic over functionality, shall we,” he sighs, “Bushes and weeds might be practical and local but let’s take this opportunity seriously.”

He gives Joshua a sharp glare before he can speak up. He knows his friend isn’t entirely on board with this thing ever since he heard about the details of the meeting Jeonghan attended. He’s not stupid, he knows they’re not taken seriously and that, realistically, it will be a miracle if anyone cares what they do for the decorations. It is a good way to advertise themselves though. 

“We should do something fun,” Seokmin interrupts their little staring contest, “We could make something nice and historical.”

Jeonghan thought about the same thing, the issue is…

“Flowers aren’t really known to last long, you know,” Jihoon points out, “That’s their beauty.”

“It might be a challenge to find any historical inspiration,” Joshua hums in thought, “But it would be cool if we pulled it off.”

Everyone seems to agree, and it shouldn’t be a surprise. After all, Jeonghan's main goal whenever he was hiring was to create a team of people that would fit well together. He didn’t want them to feel like coworkers, and he couldn’t be happier that it truly feels like they’re friends first and colleagues second.

The idea grows and transforms. The idea of teambuilding is thrown around a lot, even though it sounds more like an excuse to hang out instead of doing actual research and hunting for ideas. Some suggestions are better than others, some more logical than others, but Jeonghan decides to sit back and relax. Whatever they do, he’s confident the end result will be great. They’ll do well. Even if this whole thing turns into one big hang out under the guise of working. It might do them well to have fun without any worries. There’s gonna be plenty of time for that later.

The scene is all too familiar. You feel it just as you did those twenty-something years ago, although who really keeps track.

The light returning to your life. The world welcoming you back. It feels like it’s opening its arms to you now.

His arms. The safety, the security. The love. You yearn.

You feel it now almost physically; truly an oxymoron in your predicament.

You kept looking for him in the strange faces coming day after day, but it was never him. Not until now.

He’s coming home.

He’s close.

It makes your whole being tingle, like a magnet drawn to another, like a moth flying too close to a flame yet unable to pull back.

You feel the shift in the air. A rush of fresh breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers and the scent of the meadow where he stole your first kiss.

He’s here.

“This is stupid,” Jeonghan grumbles. His arms are crossed over his chest and there’s a displeased wrinkle between his brows. He wasn’t prepared for the sudden temperature drop between outside and here.

“Inspiration is a mysterious thing,” Joshua smooths that wrinkle away and chuckles, “Besides this is research. And that was your idea if I remember correctly.”

“My idea,” Jeonghan hisses, “Was googling a bunch of stuff and then deciding what had the chance of best results. Not going on a history tour that will be useless.”

“It’s more authentic. We’re going to breathe in the atmosphere of the old city,” the other man shrugs, “And c’mon, can you believe we’ve never been on one of these?”

Yes. Yes, he’s perfectly willing to believe so, because these tours are for tourists and history nuts and they’re neither. They have a flower shop for god’s sake. 

He doesn’t say that aloud, however, because the tour guide appears and as grumpy as the cold might be making him, and as spiteful he might feel towards Joshua for dragging him here so early in the morning on their day off, he won’t spoil the mood. So he schools his expression into a curious smile and listens to the introduction.

It’s not too bad once he gets into it. Although it does absolutely nothing so far as searching for anything decoration-related goes and inspiration is yet to hit him, it’s interesting. More so than he expected. And Joshua being Joshua reads his mind well enough that he asks the questions Jeonghan is also curious about. The younger man gives him a knowing smile whenever Jeonghan nods along to the guide’s explanation. He rolls his eyes at him.

The tour is really nice - unexpectedly, they also discover a half-burned photograph of a couple with flower baskets behind them and also a newspaper clip with a photo of something that looked like a faire with flowers decorating the streets that his companion excitedly pointed out to him. Not that either of these were clear enough to get any real inspiration, but hey, at least they will have something to report back to the guys.

However, as the tour progresses, an uneasy feeling grows in Jeonghan’s stomach. He’s never had any real issue with claustrophobia, so he doesn’t think that’s it. Human bodies are weird though, and their minds even more so. He’s stronger than some irrational fear trying to pull a trick on him. Is it really a phobia though? Is phobia supposed to make him anxious to his bones and hit him with nausea that feels like a cold hand squeezing his stomach? His knees feel like they’ll buckle under him any moment now.

“Hey, Han, are you alright?”

He jumps and only the lump in his throat stops him from yelping when Joshua grabs his shoulder. He’s frowning.

“Sorry, is there anywhere my friend can sit down for a minute?”

He hears his friend speak but the words don’t really register in his mind. He lets himself be led to the side and sat down on a chair. He feels faint. His head is spinning. He barely hears whatever Joshua is saying.

He’s here.

He’s alive.

And in turn, his life makes you remember what it felt like to live.

You don’t need to breathe but in the instant you see him, you forget you ever could.

He looks different, but you’d recognize him anywhere.

His hair is longer. It looks good on him, framing his face like a dark halo. He looks like an angel. Did he come to save you?

The clothes he’s wearing make him seem out of place just like the rest of the group. Just a tourist in a place that he should call home. That he once did call home. You don’t recognize the man next to him, and your heart pangs. His friends used to be yours too.

You move closer without realizing. It feels like your entire body is pulsing with life long forgotten; with a heartbeat you no longer have.

He doesn’t look good.

He seems to feel unwell. The closer you get, the more it seems to hurt him. Love truly is violence.

The man next to him calls his name.

You repeat it. It’s different. It feels different on your tongue, yet it doesn’t feel unfamiliar. You suppose that just comes with the territory.

He looks like he’s about to lose consciousness. You can’t just watch him getting hurt.

You move closer, grabbing onto his arm the second before he can fall.

He doesn’t. Instead he suddenly straightens as shiver runs through his body. He seems disoriented when he looks through you. Almost like he can tell that’s where you are.

You’re dragged along with him by his friend. Even though you’re right in front of his face, he doesn’t see you. He looks like he’s about to faint. Pearls of cold sweat forming on his forehead, his teeth chattering and face deadly pale. His friend moves right through you when he crouches down in front of him.

“Jeonghan? Can you hear me?” he taps your lover’s leg without any reaction, “What’s going on?”

“Breathe,” you whisper. Like a magic trick, he does. He gasps for air like he’s drowning on dry land and his friend panics, shooting up to his feet and shaking his shoulder. 

“Slowly. You don’t belong to me yet,” there’s a bitter smile on your face when again he follows your instructions. Not yet.

It’s a strange and nauseating feeling. You don’t wish him death, but you long to hold and be held. His soul recognizes yours, it yearns for you too. But will his heart? Would his heart?

“Shua?” Jeonghan asks, brows furrowed and eyes vacant. He looks dazed, the color still drained from his face.

“Han? Can you hear me?” the man - Shua - tries again.

“Yeah,” your lover rubs his face, “Yeah, sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“You scared me, man,” the other man sighs, “How do you feel?”

“Good, I’m good now. Isn’t it cold here?” Jeonghan rubs his arms, trying to get the feeling back in them as he stands up. Shua looks ready to catch him if he loses strength again and you feel a sense of pride. He always knew to choose his friends well.

“Yeah, I guess it’s a bit chilly,” Shua responds, apprehensive, and clearly not trusting Jeonghan’s legs not to give up on him again.

“We should head up,” Jeonghan says and tries to orient himself. You can’t let him go. His friend frowns. The temperature didn’t change since they entered, only Jeonghan did - you did. You latch onto his arm. You hold him like he’s the ghost that could disappear at any moment. 

His skin is warm under your touch. He shivers and looks at his arm, right where you hold him, before passing a hand over it. His fingers slip right through you. Nothing helps him chase away the cool sensation it seems.

“I’m not sure, Han,” Shua hesitates, “It’s pretty hot up there and you seem kind of… I don’t want you to feel worse because of the heat.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jeonghan manages a smile. The same smile you used to see every day.

“Are you sure? I don’t know about you but I can’t afford any hospital bill,” his friend jokes, earning himself an eye roll.

Tears burn at your eyes. His friends were always like that - caring, kind, but with a mischievous heart.

“Alright, lemme just check with the guide that it’s okay for us to just leave,” Shua finally concedes, seeing as your lover won’t budge. Jeonghan gives him a nod (and a smile when the man hesitates again - Jeonghan even sits down to finally get him going).

It’s just you and him.

He sighs. As he massages his arm to get some feeling back in it, his warm palm passes through you once more. He grimaces. Can he perhaps feel you? It doesn’t matter how little. Can he tell you’re with him? You know it’s selfish, so so selfish. But you crave acknowledgement. After so long, after waiting for so long…

He looks up, he looks in your direction - he’s still looking as confused and lost as before. A lost young man, a look you’ve seen on him before when he took you on a trip to the countryside. He always looked at you so fondly back then. And now he doesn’t see you at all. You want him to - as selfish and cruel as it is. As foolish as it is. You want it even though your heart would break. He’d be terrified. Perhaps he wouldn’t even recognize you. You don’t think he would but you hope, you wish. It’s not like you have any idea if the same feelings in your heart remained in his.

He keeps running his hand over his arm like an obsession, like he’s trying to ground himself. He massages it, he pokes at it, he pinches it. He must feel your touch somehow, he does - he just doesn’t recognize it, so can it really be said he feels it at all? You should let go. Whatever he feels, it’s not a pleasant feeling. But you can’t. You finally found him again. You can’t let go now. It’d be like letting go of the straw that keeps you from drowning.

“Jeonghan,” you try calling his new name aloud. A mere whisper.

Yet he whips his head up and gasps. His pupils shrink, his mouth hangs open in a silent scream. He freezes. Not a simple scare freeze - no, the type of fear rooted deep in human instinct, the fear of something unknown and unnatural, something that seems human but isn’t.

He meets your eyes. You truly think he does. His breath gets stuck in his chest.

“-aaand we’re clear to go!” Shua announces cheerfully, returning back in a rush - then he speeds up more when he sees Jeonghan, his face immediately falling. “Hey, you good?”

He needs to shake Jeonghan’s shoulder to get his friend to look at him. He gets no other reaction than a few blinks.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he tries to lighten the mood, although his brow is furrowed in worry.

Jeonghan is pale as a sheet. You notice he bites his tongue, he resolves himself to push back his true feelings - you’ve learned to read him like an open book. It only causes you more pain now.

“I just got a bit nauseous,” Jeonghan lies through his teeth, “I think I messed up my breakfast.”

“That’s why I keep telling you to consider the kitchen more of a decoration,” Shua huffs while he helps Jeonghan stand up, insists on it despite the other’s protests. He watches out for him even as he stands straight and steady.

“Let’s just go,” Jeonghan groans, “I think I should lie down.”

You don’t let go. You see his hand twitch as if he wants to touch his arm again but he stops himself.

You hang onto his arm. You haven’t managed to leave the buried remains of the past before, held back by an invisible force. It must’ve been fate looking out for you.

Or maybe it wasn’t, maybe you’re meant to haunt this place. 

Whatever happens though, trapped here or not, you will hold onto him until the last second.

You hold your redundant breath as you’re all nearing the exit.

You’re carried out, anchored to your lover. 

The sun shines through you.

“So, how did it go?” No surprise Jihoon is already back. They really should have bit the bullet and volunteered to drag him around. Looking back, Joshua really should’ve picked him over Jeonghan.

“Well…” Joshua hesitates and Jeonghan rolls his eyes.

His arms still feels off. It’s cold - he thought maybe it was the wind blowing directly at it once they came out of the underground. (Not a leaf moved on the ground, but Jeonghan will ignore the fact. Maybe he just offended the wind in some way.) Maybe there really was something wrong with him. Could he eat some parasite in his food lately? Maybe. Honestly he would take anything over what he saw down there. Anything over being possessed by a ghost. He has too many things to achieve. He cannot afford to lose control of his body; wailing and being creepy is bad for the business.

“I feel better now,” he pats Joshua’s shoulder. It’s not a lie - or it won’t be in a while, once he gets lost in work. His arm still feels cold. Occasionally the feeling skims over his skin like a ghostly touch. He doesn’t want to entertain that thought. “Nothing to worry about, I just got a little dizzy. Maybe I slept too little?”

He thinks aloud, overacting but it works to make Joshua sigh in exasperation and Jihoon nod in understanding. Of course he would understand. 

“Look, just be careful, okay? We can get through one day without you, boss,” there’s a teasing lilt to Joshua’s voice when he calls him that but he coos at his friend anyway.

“Why don’t I start with the orders for tomorrow then, that’s easy enough,” he doesn’t wait for their agreement and instead goes to the back. Joshua will explain everything to Jihoon and he doesn’t necessarily need to be around for that. He knows they won’t protest if he takes on whatever he feels like, both a little too caring for their own good. That’s why he wants them to have easy lives, do well and be rich. A goal that will be a challenge if he starts losing his mind and seeing things suddenly. He shakes his head. Work. Focus on work and it’s gonna be fine.

And it is. They keep it cool in the back so the flowers don’t wilt as quickly. He would need to focus to feel the difference of temperatures on his body - so he won’t do that. He doesn’t need to think about much else while he prepares one bouquet after another, picking the right flowers, twisting stems together, tying bows… Although they should be getting ready for the festival and among other deals they have, they need to keep the core of the business running. It’s back to basics, but he loves it. He genuinely enjoys preparing the orders. Some of them are more specific than others, but he likes the artistic freedom of those in which he can just follow what occasion the bouquet is meant for and put his own twist to it. It’s an honor that so many people trust them to convey their feelings… or at least to create something pretty. He gets it, sometimes you just want to give someone a pretty flower without thinking about what it means.

He gets so into the work that he forgets about anything else and by the time Seokmin comes to get him, he’s done with everything. 

“You were faking it, weren’t you?” Seokmin accuses once he sees all the orders that needed to be prepared for tomorrow done and stored away. Jeonghan rolls his eyes.

“Joshua is just too dramatic. You know him,” he sighs. His friend doesn’t seem convinced.

“Well, he looked really worried,” the younger man shifts on his spot nervously, “He said you looked like you’ll pass out. Like you saw a ghost.”

Jeonghan flinches a little. But he recovers quickly, gasping in a split second and hitting Seokmin’s shoulder lightly with a declaration of: “Don’t say scary things like that!”

Seokmin teases him for a while, but it’s fair enough. Jeonghan’s never been too scared of ghosts and such, never worried about being trapped underground forever - actually he doesn’t think there was ever a time his friends saw him scared, and the jokes remind him of that. Right. Ghosts aren’t real. He must’ve been just lightheaded or something. Maybe he’s more stressed about the planning than he realized previously.

“Right, I’ll do a coffee run, you want something?” Seokmin remembers, quickly getting to why he actually came.

“I’ll come with you, it’s hard to carry everything alone,” Jeonghan says as he washes his hands. 

He thinks about grabbing the jacket he keeps at the shop, but thinks better of it. It’s windy outside and Seokmin suggests he returns for it, but he absolutely won’t. The cold feeling shifted, resting around his hand as if assuring him it’s not going anywhere. Hand in unlovable hand - who said that? He shakes his head. It’s easier to ignore the sensation with the wind blowing this and that way, and Seokmin is good at distracting him.

They talk about the results of Seokmin and Seungkwan’s “research” while they wait in line and for their order to be made. It seems they were about as successful as him and Joshua, so Jihoon is their biggest hope. Not that it matters, it’s unreasonable to think anyone at the festival would care about the historical accuracy of the flowers used as decorations, and their shop focuses on the symbolism anyway, but Jeonghan likes little details like that. Even if it makes their work much harder. It would be nice to have something traditional or local for the centerpiece at least.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Seokmin asks all of a sudden. It takes him by surprise, but soon the expression is replaced by a soft smile. He nods. 

He’s not. But maybe the time he spends with his friends will help. Or maybe he’ll go mad and these are the last precious moments he has with them. Fortunately, the human mind isn’t capable of comprehending things in their entirety, and so even if his thoughts are gloomy, he can still smile. He’s grateful for that.  

“It was nothing. Maybe phobias are like allergies?” Jeonghan suggests, wondering, “Maybe they can just pop up randomly or disappear.”

“So you think I could get over my fear of bugs?” Seokmin considers the idea seriously.

“I’ll give you a raise if you do,” Jeonghan smirks and easily dodges his friend’s elbow aimed at his ribs. This is definitely better than obsessing over something out of his control. Something that might be all in his head.

(He still looks over his shoulder as they exit the cafe.)

As they sit at the round table - as Seokmin jokes - it’s very obvious everyone had a great time but it wasn’t really a productive means of reaching their research goal. They skip only quickly over his and Joshua’s trip, everyone well familiar with its less than ideal ending.

Jihoon of course agrees that local flora of history would be a great research topic for a thesis, but for now the idea remains to be extensively explored in resources that could be found at local libraries. (The silver lining though, clearly, is the stack of books in his bag resting against the wall.)

Seungkwan and Seokmin, who visited the botanical garden, did manage to get some interesting and useful information. A little miracle nobody counted on happening. They also went above and beyond to ask the visitors of the park about their favorite flowers. (“To make it like it’s made for them!” they claim, although the notion is as ridiculous as it is cute.)

Jeonghan enjoys listening to his friends, he really does. His eyes hurt with the effort to keep them on the person talking, always switching. He’s trying. But he’s so nauseous that it feels like he’s being continuously punched in the stomach.

His head feels like it’s full of cotton and fog, not a single thought forms itself in its entirety. All of them are just incoherent, broken pieces littering his mind. Jeonghan has never dived in his entire life, but he thinks he knows what it feels like now. He feels as though an entire ocean is pressing down on him. The meeting can’t end soon enough - as much as he loves listening to the chaos.

His friends fortunately aren’t blind and with all of them being aware of his almost collapse earlier, they don’t take long to catch on to Jeonghan not feeling his best. It takes some convincing that he’ll be fine, that he just needs to eat and rest, even as he’s putting all his strength into not doubling over and curling into fetal position to ease the sudden sinking fear gripping his entire body. They follow him the entire way to his door just upstairs. It’s comical, him and his four little ducklings. It eases the tension in his body and the fear, but he would lie if he said he doesn’t prefer to isolate himself whenever he’s not feeling well. He’s strong enough to lie and tell them he’ll be fine on his own.

The door closes behind him with what feels like finality. It feels like he just closed the door to his old life, though he wouldn’t hesitate to say it feels like he left his old world - whatever that means when there’s no other world. His apartment looks like it always did, like it did when he left this morning. It feels like that was eternity ago - he can summon the memories of his excitement, the energy he felt. There’s none left in him now. 

He lets his bag fall to the floor and lay there. He doesn’t bother to hang up his keys and lets them rest on the little shelf next to some trinkets the guys brought back from their holidays over the years. 

He drags himself to the living room and throws himself down on the sofa. He’s staring at the white ceiling, watches the stripes of lights and shadows following one after another where the glow of the street lamp is blocked by his blinds. It’s too quiet. 

He should wash up. There are many things he should do, actually, but he has no strength or will to get up. His stomach feels uncomfortable and his muscles are tense. That probably doesn’t help with how he’s feeling. He takes a couple deep breaths, slows down his breathing even if it feels like he’s going to pass out.

His head throbs, but it’s better than the nausea twisting his stomach. He thinks he’ll faint soon, something bad is bound to happen to him, his body overcome with heat, then cold, all within a minute. His breathing is getting heavier. He tries closing his eyes, searching for any small relief. Instead he’s more aware of his body. 

Something tells him to move, something so primal he doesn’t dare to disobey. Like his own body knows if something doesn’t happen right now, he’s gonna die. He groans when he pushes himself up, clinging to the back of the couch. He needs water. He makes it to the bathroom, supporting himself on the walls. It only gets worse. It keeps getting worse and worse and he’s lightheaded. 

He holds himself up against the sink and turns on the water. It feels icy against his skin, but that’s what he needs. He splashes his face with it, and the relief is slow but it’s there. He drinks out of his palms and the cold water sliding down his throat helps. He’s nauseous still, he feels dizzy, but not on the verge of breakdown. 

At least that’s until he looks up.

The mirror on the wall shows two reflections. 

He shrieks so loud his throat burns despite the cold water sticking to it. 

He thinks he blacks out for a second. 

But when he opens his eyes, he’s still standing in his bathroom. His hands are cramped, curled around the edges of the sink so that he doesn’t fall. 

The mirror still shows another person behind him. 

His own shriek resonates in his head and his throat burns more at the memory.

Part of him wishes that what he saw looked like a monster. Something straight out of a horror movie, something inhumane. But it’s just a person. Barely there, a shadow of a human being. Something that isn’t there when he turns to looks back.

He closes his eyes tightly and only blinks them open after a few long minutes. He doesn’t know what he expected, but what he feels is a resignation. Something in him gives up when the person doesn’t disappear when he looks into the mirror again. He refuses to check if something hasn’t changed and the stranger hasn’t manifested in his home - he’s seen enough horror movies for that. He’d rather keep his eyes on the reflection. 

“I lost my mind,” he laughs, his head hanging between his shoulders. Tears pool in his eyes. Was it stress? Was it karma for the pranks he played? What was it that finally did him in?

He looks up and the ghost is wearing a sad smile. As if it’s pitying him. He laughs again. Even the creation of his own shattering mind thinks him a pathetic clown.

“You should sleep,” a voice says, and at the same time: “I should sleep.” He says.

He hears it, but it takes a second to comprehend that the echo of his voice wasn’t truly his voice, but some other, second voice. The ghostly figure behind him never moved its lips. Never moved. Never spoke. It just keeps staring.

Has he seen the face before?

The underground flashes in front of his eyes. The split-second trick of the light he saw there. Goosebumps erupt all over his body. Could it be the same face?

Surely he just saw something, some picture - the picture on the tour? It must be a waking nightmare, just a stranger’s face he saw once. It’s said you never forget a face you’ve seen and this must be it. Maybe he slept less than he thought. He must be exhausted, his body must be shutting down. That’s why he’s losing it. His vision starts swimming. He’s dizzy from staring at the figure so intensely.

Something like sleep paralysis maybe? He’s awake but ready to pass out from exhaustion. That must be it.

“Sleep,” he speaks again, and like before, there’s the echo of the second voice. He’s sure it’s just his sleep paralysis demon speaking. He’s pathetic enough that even demons would pity him.

Sleep… He needs to go to sleep. That much is obvious. But sleep seems like the stupid thing to do. He rubs his face again, splashes more cold water on it, but the ghost doesn’t disappear. So he does the unthinkable.

He turns around suddenly. So suddenly his head hurts and he almost loses his balance. He winces, but there is no one. No solid figure, no ghastly figure, nothing. Cautiously, he reaches forward, but he feels nothing. There’s the need to check the mirror again gnawing at the back of his mind, but he doesn’t. Instead he turns off the light so he can’t see at all. He extends his hand again but still - nothing. He takes a couple deep breaths and bolts. 

He’s stumbling and banging against the walls, but he makes it to his bedroom. He jumps on his bed, covers his body with a blanket and pants. His body is shivering, trembling, tight like his every muscle is cramped. It’s hard to breathe, the lump in his throat taking up too much space, the air can’t get through. He remembers the phone in his pocket and takes it out. It lights up and he can finally see again. 

It’s just him under the blanket. Only his body and nothing else. He sits up again. It makes him dizzy, the blanket falls. The phone lights up the room but it’s empty. It’s just him.

He sighs. 

He falls back, staring at the ceiling like he did before. The nausea is gone for the most part, and now that he’s lying down, he doesn’t feel like he’s gonna pass out in the next second. There is only the dread and anxiety left that make him lightheaded and wide awake despite the exhaustion. He knows his body will give out before his mind does, but that’s worse. He knows it’s gonna create nasty nightmares to haunt him, and it’s the last thing he needs today. He honestly feels like crying. He feels like calling someone - but what’s he gonna say? ‘Hey, I think I saw a ghost in my bathroom, can you come over?’ That sounds way too pathetic. It’s too late to ask anyone to come over, and to ask if they could stay over too. At least without a good reason. He knows he can rely on his friends, knows they wouldn’t ask questions and be there within minutes, but his pride won’t allow it. And looking like he does - he can imagine the mess that he is right now - they might not ask, but they’d be worried. Jeonghan doesn’t want that above all. 

So he takes a couple of deep breaths. If there is a ghost in his bathroom… If there is a ghost anywhere, if he is possessed… What’s he supposed to do about it at midnight? Nothing. There’s nothing he can do. 

He reasons with himself. He’s exhausted. He can feel his very bones weighing him down, and he already had some sort of breakdown earlier on the tour. Must be stress. Must be hunger - he doesn’t feel hungry at all, but except for breakfast, did he eat anything the whole day? He can only remember the breakfast and the toast Seungkwan basically forced down his throat. Must be that he’s starving. Must be the lack of sleep. Even though he felt energized, that doesn’t mean he was. His body must’ve lied to him - and now his own eyes and mind are lying to him. That must be it. There’s no way ghosts exist. 

He turns to his side and checks the calendar. It shouldn’t be too busy tomorrow, that should give them plenty of chances to brainstorm about the festival some more. He focuses on that. The festival. The orders they should get done tomorrow. All the practical and necessary day-to-day things. He should get some groceries too. A warm, home cooked meal would do him good, even if it was something simple that he cooked. It all must’ve been just exhaustion and hunger. 

He lets the screen go dark. He can barely make out his reflection in the dim light coming in through the window. Only his reflection. That soothes him a little. He can’t keep his eyes open anymore anyway. He listens to the sounds of the apartment and everything sounds as it should. No movement, no steps, no doors making funny sounds. He’ll laugh about it in the morning. He’ll tell the guys and they’ll laugh about it together. That’s how it’s gonna be. He allows himself a tiny smile.

Just a sleep paralysis that came too early. 

Errors happen even in the human body. 

That’s just how it is. 

You watch him fall asleep.

You don’t have a body, yet it feels like you do all the same. The pain feels real, even if it doesn’t have anywhere to anchor itself to. Passing points, your own ghosts of neurons shooting signals to each other in a messed up web all over your being. You are a nebula of pain.

It was obvious what’s going to happen. You knew it well. Yet it left your heart shattered on his bathroom floor. 

What hurts more - the terror in his eyes or that he doesn’t recognize you? Well, he has his own life now, one without you, so you suppose there’s only so many memories he can carry with himself. And you simply have no place among them.

It hurts. You want to scream, but you can’t - not in a way that would bring relief. And what if he hears you? In what universe could you endure seeing more of his panic? You know the answer.

Seeing him so exhausted hurt you too. Was it hard carrying you around? Bringing a second soul probably leaves a toll on the body just like carrying another body would. You wished to speak to him, but how could you utter a word when seeing you made him react the way he did. You don’t want him to lose his mind. You’ll have to be smart. You don’t want to hurt him more than you’re already doing. You can carry the hurt of the situation, you can withstand the hurt he causes you because it’s not his fault. Not his fault at all. Not yours either, you think, you hope, but you definitely have more power here. You comfort yourself with the knowledge you could probably talk to him. Just not tonight when the fear is fresh. 

You move closer to him, gently move some of his hair away from his face as if you were a cold breeze blowing in through the window. He looks angelic. His features are much softer than you remember, but he’s as handsome as he always was. You lie down beside him, admiring him in his sleep. It’s not gonna be a restful night. You see the first frown twist his face, and it stabs you right in your chest. You can’t protect him from nightmares, but you’ll share the pain.

Even if he won’t know.

“Wow,” Jihoon exclaims the moment he sees him, “You look-”

“- awful.”

“- like shit.”

Both Seokmin and Joshua pipe in. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

As expected, the night wasn’t kind to him at all. Well, perhaps he could find some silver lining in the fact that despite the night being quite hot, he was so exhausted he didn’t even notice. And despite the nightmares and the heat, he didn’t wake up sweaty and disgusting.

Anyway, he didn’t have the courage to wander into his bathroom and avoided mirrors like the plague, so he probably looks a mess anyway. 

(It was pathetic enough to crawl on the floor and blindly feel for his toothbrush and toothpaste on the sink without really stepping inside. To take a shower there was out of the question. Okay, maybe he was a little disgusting.)

“I couldn’t sleep well,” he shrugs, “Neighbours decided to have a party.”

The young couple living in the apartment above his own were actually the ideal neighbors, but that was good - with no reason to talk about them much, the lie would go unnoticed. He got several understanding nods in response.

“And… you feeling okay?” Seungkwan asks, and he’s once again touched by his friends’ concern that is mirrored on all three faces.

“Yeah,” he tries a small smile, “Would be better if I got actual sleep but it is what it is.”

“You can sneak out during lunch break, we won’t tell the boss,” Seokmin gives him an exaggerated wink. He scoffs, but smiles anyway. It’s genuine.

This is better. Normal is better. Last night feels like a fever dream compared to this. Just a joke played on him by his exhausted body and mind. He’s still shaken by it, though, the cracks it left in his confidence in himself and what reality is are still too sharp to joke about it. He hopes that by tomorrow he gets some quality sleep and his shit together.

“Anyway, let’s get to work so Friday isn’t a pain in the ass,” he claps, rolling his eyes at Seungkwan’s mock salute. 

He’s more grateful than he could ever express for these guys. The nightmare of last night is easily forgettable and written off as a glitch in the matrix with them around. 

When a cold breeze circles and brushes around his wrist though, as if lingering like a lover’s touch, he shivers and breaks out in cold sweat anyway. He turns around. He sees nothing. 

As it should be.

(Then why does he feel the hairs at the back of his neck stand up?)

You’ve always admired his hard working nature. The honesty and dedication with which he works. It’s quite the change from the man you used to know back then - you’d never think you’ll get to see him one day selling flowers, but it seems to suit the present day version of him. Very little of him changed in the aspects that matter. Bodies are no more than a shell to be eventually discarded - or that’s how you came to think of them over your short experience of being just a wandering soul.

You’re careful not to hover too close too often. He flinches any time the wind blows in, even if it’s a work of nature and not your touch. And so you lost your excuse to touch him. It still makes you uneasy to keep your distance. Your heart is filled with anxiety whenever you lose contact with him, terrified of being dragged back into the underground by the same mysterious power that allowed you to leave when you latched onto him.

Jeonghan’s friends watch him closely - trying to be as inconspicuous as they can to go unnoticed by him. Yet he does notice them, smiling a little to himself. He seems troubled but he hides it well. At least from everyone who can’t float around him and see him when nobody is looking. It pains your heart, it really does. But it can’t be helped - you can’t help it. Your instinct screams to stay close to your lover after what, decades - centuries? No way you’re letting him disappear from you now.

It’s painful to watch him be cautious and on guard, to be the only one aware of it, and the only one on the receiving end of this icy attitude. You don’t blame him. But it hurts. You’re tempted, oh so tempted, to take advantage of the moments when he speaks to his friends, moments when you know he’d fake being alright, to touch him. To wrap your arms around him and hold him. Just for a second.

He’s yours. Can’t he see? Can’t he feel it? His soul is yours, yours is his. Doesn’t he know?

It makes you angry. Some part of you is furious with him for not feeling the tug of your bond. It’s so deeply interwoven in your heart, bound to your very existence. Why else would you be awakened to your afterlife if not to meet him? To be one with him again?

And he doesn’t even bother to care about you.

All he seems to care about is how repulsive your touch is to him. When he’s left alone in the room, he turns around helplessly, desperately searching for something that is not there, yet something that makes his skin crawl, that invades his space, that he can’t run away from. 

Why would he run?

His eyes are wide and panicked, teary. You can see yourself in their reflection and you feel shame that makes you draw back.

But he’s still scared. He doesn’t know you back away from him.

He’s still backing himself into a corner, or against a wall, or a desk, or against soft blooming flowers that stop him in his tracks. And then you are reminded of his gentle touch and tender caresses and you want to weep. 

He might be terrified of the summer breeze, but he never harms the flowers. He stops himself before he can knock them over.

You’re a monster, and it hurts. You’re a monster but it hurts. You’re a monster despite and because it hurts. Being a ghost cannot possibly be described in any other way than the simple statement I am in pain.

You don’t want to hurt him. Yet it seems that’s all you can do.

You’re angry and you’re hurt, your emotions come and go like the waves at the sea.

And he’s hiding it all so well, acting like he lost his balance when his friends start returning. He laughs, pretty and bright. Like he was never on the verge of tears.

Truth be told though, it’s hard. He wants to break down, but he can’t and he won’t. Jeonghan won’t let them see him cry, he won’t tell them anything. He’ll let them tease him, he’ll whine at them. He’ll laugh. It’s important as a business owner to be able to act, to pretend. It’s what he’s always done. He doesn’t need help. He can do this.

It’s harder to let the work swallow him whole, however. He feels eyes on him. Hand frozen just a breath away from his skin. It makes him jumpy, but fortunately that can be easily written off and joked about as just him dozing off. It wouldn’t be the first time lack of sleep made him act weird, and for once he’s glad for that. At the same time, though, it stings. 

He wants to be comforted, to be reassured. At the same time, he doesn’t want his friends to be concerned about something that might just be his mind playing tricks on him. But it really doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. He can’t explain it; the impending sense of doom, like he’s about to have a heart attack. The fear so strong and urgent it enables him to act with absolute serenity. Jeonghan knows it’s not just the exhaustion - which means that yesterday was no play of the shadows in his bathroom either. It makes him nauseous all over again. It makes the scent of flowers overwhelming.

He makes it through the maintenance and prep for tomorrow with only a few tiny hiccups. Mostly due to the efforts of his friends to keep him entertained. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to thank them. They might quite literally be saving his life - or his sanity at the very least. But isn’t it the same thing at the end of the day - his life and his ability to comprehend that he’s living this life.

After the necessary is done at a record pace, a couple hours earlier than it would take under normal circumstances, they sit down according to plan to brainstorm. It’s more fun now that they abandoned the pressure of sticking to tradition and history - which in hindsight should be obvious to be impossible. It’s not like even if they wanted to, even if they could, it would be viable to only use the local wildflowers for all the decor.

Jihoon also shocks everyone when, unlike Seungkwan, he provides the list of artists and other entertainers who’ll be present at the festival. (“What? I have friends too, you know,” he scoffs when everyone turns to look at him with their mouths hanging open and Seungkwan grumbling to himself.) 

Most of the musicians are local and undiscovered artists, but it helps with imagining the vibe the festival will have. It’s starting to come together when they look up the official program and list of activities that will be available. Surprisingly it seems that it truly aims to celebrate the city’s history, if one’s willing to look past the few necessary activities for children that are planned. And memories, remembering, cherishing, all that is so easy to express through flower language. 

A little too easy. 

And Jeonghan is yet again grateful to his friends for a thing he’d find a little annoying any other day.

“We don’t have to have it figured out today,” he tries to join the conversation again, tries to steer it in a more productive direction. It’s hardly a conversation anymore, rather a contest of who can be the loudest. Jeonghan’s eyes meet with Jihoon’s who shrugs and lifts the paper in front of him. There’s a rough drawing of what looks like possible table decoration with arrows and names pointing to individual flowers that Jeonghan can’t make out through the flurry of hands thrown around in wild gestures. Jihoon mouths a what do you think? to him anyway, although he can’t quite respond.

He runs a hand through his hair just as Seungkwan scolds Joshua for apparently making the centerpiece look too much like a funeral decoration.

If something really has possessed him, he wonders what the entity must be thinking…

“Jeonghan was saying something,” Jihoon grumbles out of nowhere, and even though Jeonghan himself could barely make out what the other was saying, the room goes quiet and all the four heads turn in his direction. He sighs. Like he needs more eyes on him. At least these he can see.

“We don’t have to get everything finalized today,” Jeonghan reminds everyone and starts picking different colored highlighters from the table. He swipes different colors over the individual items on the list of everything they were contracted to provide. He tries to be fair with the division of labor and closely monitors the reaction when he slides the paper further down the table for everyone to check out. 

“I think it’s best if everyone picks out something and comes up with ideas for that,” Jeonghan suggests, “We have enough time, so let’s meet about it in two weeks. And if you have any ideas for the other things, write them down too.”

“Do you want to pick first?” Seokmin asks but Jeonghan shakes his head.

“I’m fine with whatever,” he waves them off. It’s not like he could get himself to consider and focus right now. Honestly he can’t be sure yet how big of a deal whatever’s happening to him is, so it’s better this way. If there’s a risk of him not doing as good of a job as he could, why take something one of the guys would enjoy?

He watches with fond eyes as his friends bicker over the colors more seriously than the tasks. He spins the pen he’s holding between his fingers. The eyes he feels on his back constantly never disappear but somehow it seems like he’s not the main focus now. Is he losing his mind for real? Jeonghan rubs his eyes. 

It’s like he can feel it. Like he can feel something hover around. He doesn’t see anything, truth be told he doesn’t feel anything unless… It feels foolish to say until it touches him because there’s nothing there but there’s no better way to explain it. If that something was a person, he can feel their gaze shifting. If it was a person, who could it be? He made his fair share of mistakes in his life, but he doesn’t think he’s ever hurt anyone enough for them to haunt him.

“Well, that leaves the centerpiece for you,” Joshua slides the paper back to him. He whines.

“Is it because Seungkwan hates your idea?” Jeonghan complains. He doesn’t care, not much anyway (although it does put a lot of pressure on him), as long as they’re happy but he is worried. It’s a big responsibility, and if this whole issue he’s having will drag on, can he do a good job? He doesn’t want to let them down.

“It’s because you’re the owner. You should be the star,” Seungkwan pushes at his shoulder. Jeonghan hopes his smile is convincing enough. He hopes they’ll read the anxiety only for the half of the worries they’re meant to see.

“Always being nice to me only when it’s convenient, I see,” he sighs, shaking his head. At least he can smile for real now. At least he can forget somewhat about the eyes when he play-fights with them. 

They throw around ideas for a while longer and go through the timeline again - when is the next meeting with the organizers, when are they going to need to make the order, when to start with the work. That’s gonna be the main issue - to manage everything in time along with the other jobs they have. It’s not like there aren’t ways to get around it, but it’s another huge thing on Jeonghan’s plate to figure out.

It’s not exactly a tiring day and all things considered, Jeonghan feels quite refreshed when he makes it home. Mostly because Joshua insists on hanging out with him for a while, so that takes away the anxious edge he feels about coming home. Still, he thinks it must be because the other man worries about his breakdown yesterday and it irritates him a little.

He doesn’t even know a half of it - if he knew the whole story, Jeonghan’s positive Joshua would treat him differently. Like a freak. Then the guilt hits. Joshua is too kind for his own good and Jeonghan’s paranoid. Of course his best friend would try to understand, he’d probably help him come up with a logical solution and offer support. It’s just Jeonghan’s mind trying to isolate him like it always does when he’s going through something. He wishes he could blame it on whatever nightmare he’s dreamed up, but he really can’t.

Once the door closes behind Joshua, Jeonghan feels like his heart dropped into his stomach. He can’t swallow. He can barely breathe. Not that there’s anything preventing him, but he can’t set any rhythm to taking breaths that would allow him not to choke. He’s gasping for breath, his ears ringing.

The eyes are on him.

They were the whole time, but he could push it to the back of his mind. Now it’s all coming back to him in full force.

He can feel them, burning into his back.

When he turns around, there will be nothing there.

He does, slowly, hesitantly, eyes glued to the floor. It takes all his will power to look up.

Nothing.

He smiles bitterly. At this point he’d prefer it if he was hallucinating as well. He wants to see that thing that he saw in the bathroom yesterday. Anything that would make it more real and less like a delusion brought on by a sudden attack of claustrophobia. Because he’s not going insane. He won’t lose his mind from a silly visit of a historical site that Joshua brought him on. 

Then a thought hits him - what if Joshua finds out about it somehow? If his best friend ever learns about what Jeonghan is going through, he’ll feel guilty. Like he’s not already beating himself over that sudden spell of nausea that overcame him then and over Jeonghan’s exhaustion and weakness.

He has to solve this. He has to figure it out, at least. Make any kind of first step of getting rid of this. Yesterday, he could easily dismiss it as a punishment for pushing himself too much - what else could he do? It was late, he needed to sleep. His own body protected him from the horrors that he can’t avoid today in the daylight. Sure, he’s still exhausted, but it simply doesn’t make sense.

Nothing makes sense. There’s no reason for him to have a psychotic break, so why? Why is this happening right when he most needs to be in a good condition? His fists clench and unclench, his jaw set. His eyes burn holes into the air in front of him. He can feel something there. He knows it’s there. He doesn’t understand why, he doesn’t understand what he’s dealing with, but he’s going to figure it out. Now.

Jeonghan struts into the bathroom and in the mirror - nothing. Only him. He takes a couple of deep angry breaths that sound too loud in the silent bathroom.

Not a speck of dust stirs. There’s no breeze. No cold ghostly touches brushing against his skin. If it was a dream, a trick of his exhausted body and mind, so be it. But he needs to be sure.“Show yourself,” he spits, “If there’s anything - anyone - following me, show yourself right now.”

[l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft]

HI, CAN I TELL YOU ABOUT THE AKKALA CITADEL?????

Yes? Wonderful. Come, friend, have a seat. I have...a lot to say lol

Eight years later and I am STILL not over how absolutely genius this fortress is, like are you kidding me????? Everything from location to design to its inside defenses is just *chef's kiss* PHENOMINAL, and so because I have no filter, I am going to barf all my thoughts I've had on it in the past many many years.

Before we begin, shoutout to the WONDERFUL video by Zeltik that touches on this a bit and gave me a wonderful basis for my brainrot in the first place. Definitely go and watch it it's fabulous NOW! Let's get into the madness shall we? First let's talk about the location cos OHHHH MY GOSH. This was, hands down, THE best place they could have possibly put a fortress of this magnitude in Hyrule and I am going to tell you why. First of all, allllllll along the northern and northwestern border of Hyrule, there's those massive canyons

Passing over that in a way that would be effective military-wise is kind of impossible, so it provides a natural defense from invaders from those directions.

If you were to come from the South, you would hit the Gerudo desert and not only have to face the might of the Gerudo military, but also cross this EXPANSIVE, scorching desert before you can even make it to Hyrule field, and by that time, the royal leader could have very easily sent an army to intercept anyone trying to attack, so that's right out.

Which leaves coming from the Faron region next which is okay??? I guess??? but that's a LOT of swamp and forest you have to cross through, AND you go right past the Great Plateau where any army would have been seen and intercepted eventually. This takes us closer to the eastern coast of Hyrule, and you would be hard pressed to try and travel through Necluda, cos just l o o k at all these mountains you'd have to cross:

Horrible. And you probably don't want to go through Zora's Domain cos that's yet another heavily fortified and well prepared city in and of itself (please ask me about this one too I beg of you I love talking about Zora's Domain)

Any military leader with a brain isn't going to go through Death Mountain for obvious reasons, so really, all that leaves is this tiiiiiinnnyyy vulnerable spot in Akkala

And where did they put the citadel??? Right at the heart of that vulnerable spot >:D Like a boss.

AND SO! if invaders came in from that coastline, they have three options: They can take the path through the Akkala Highlands, they can go through the Torin Wetlands and up to the pass it connects to, or they can take the trail up to the Sokkala Bridges. All of these are TERRIBLE OPTIONS Akkala Highlands path: If they come up this way at the start

this will work allll the way until they get about here:

once they get here though, you are now not only bottlenecking an entire army meant to invade a kingdom (so probably roughly 1,000-1,300 people), but you're also directly under the shadow of the Akkala Citadel. There are archers there to fire on you, and they had a canon post on that side to potentially fire either at the incoming soldiers or fire at the opposite canyon wall to rain debris and rocks on them.

TERRIBLE for the other army.

And even if some did manage to survive, it would be painfully easy for the infantry at Akkala Citadel to send foot soldiers down below to cut them off.

SO THERE GOES THAT OPTION (and admittedly, I think it's probably the worst of the three)

Next option is to go through the Torin Wetlands and up into that same pass by the Citadel

this is ALSO a bad idea because the Torin Wetlands are a DELIGHTFUL tactical advantage for Hyrule. Once you get to that pass, you have the same problems as option one, but now you first have to pass through this wide marshland to get there. This will immediately slow down your army, and if that wasn't bad enough it's also in clear freakin view of the citadel and so they would be able to send their entire militia of archers and potentially even cannoneers to fire on the advancing army and take a bunch of them out before they could even make it to that pass.

So a smart general may say the best option is to go around the long way.

now this eliminates the pass and also slowing down at the marsh, and you could even make it almost all the way to the citadel without hardly any losses probably BUT! The first hurdle is those bridges. Wonderful for Hyrule, terrible for the opposing army. The three Sokkala bridges are SMALL, even smaller than the pass an army would have to go through with the other two options. This military leader would basically have to send their soldiers single file unless they have a way to expand the bridges to make them wider (which, admittedly, could be possible with a bit of foresight, but for now for simplicity's sake let's just assume they didn't think that far ahead).

This brings in an EXTREMELY slowly advancing army right to the heart of the Akkala Citadel's battery.

There are three locations with canons we see in BOTW that cover pretty much the entire open area the opposing army would come in on. And when you look at the amount of space each post covered

There is not a SINGLE spot in that valley a cannoneer couldn't easily reach. And, of course they would continue to have archers to pick off individual soldiers as well.

And if SOMEHOW

BY SOME MIRACLE

enough soldiers make it through that hell to be enough of a problem, there are plenty more soldiers in the citadel to cut them off as they come up the hill AND IF THAT'S NOT ENOUGH! there was this:

by the time we get to botw, it has been destroyed, but that is ANOTHER smaller stronghold that was probably pretty well manned in and of itself.

AND WHAT'S MORE

There's even this long cliff road with very little room to operate, so it would be extremely easy for the citadel to send over some soldiers to post up there and cut off anyone who tried to make it past. And with so little room to operate, it would not go well.

Ain't NOTHING getting past the Akkala Citadel, guys.

And that isn't even touching on the fact that the whole thing is build of solid stone??? And carved into a mountain??? The entire reason it fell in the first place was because the Guardians had enough of fire power to destroy the citadel that they had never seen before (also they could climb walls but that's a side note). This implies that no one in Hyrule or the neighbouring kingdoms had even CLOSE to that level of destructive power, so to try and raze it to the ground would have been impossible.

AND!! it was the most heavily fortified fortress in Hyrule second to the castle itself, and to most likely their military personnel would have been equal too, if not slightly more than even Hyrule Castle. That's A LOT of people!! With most likely endless support and resources from the castle and villages nearby as well.

It was placed geniously, it had impenetrable defense, it had a potentially endless supply of resources and people to use said resources, it was just

argjfbdkjgbks You guys don't understand how much I THINK about this place aghhhhhhhhhh

[suiana]

✎ yandere! hacker headcanons . . .

✎ warnings . . .

― online stalking, blackmailing, possessiveness, etc.

(gn! reader x male yandere! oc)

‎

✎ yandere! hacker who happens to stumble upon your Instagram page and is immediately enchanted by your beautiful appearance.

✎ yandere! hacker who stalks your page to try to find out more about you and to find more pictures of your beautiful face. imagine his disappointment when he finds out that you do not own any other pages.

✎ yandere! hacker who resorts to stalking your friends and their pages to get more pictures and information on you.

✎ yandere! hacker who becomes enraged when he discovers that you already happen to have a significant other. worry not, for he is a hacker and only needs a few clicks of his mouse to find out more information about your significant other.

✎ yandere! hacker who blackmails and threatens your significant other to leak their information to certain people in the underground industry. if they will not willingly leave you, he shall make their life a living hell.

✎ yandere! hacker who is pleased when your significant other agrees to leave you. great! now it's time to approach and get to know you better.

✎ yandere! hacker who becomes a good friend of yours and becomes an online bestie whom you can confide in.

✎ yandere! hacker who hacks your devices and leaves you spooked, resulting in you venting to him about your device glitching.

✎ yandere! hacker who successfully attempts to frame your ex significant other by leaving their initials on the end of a very creepy and detailed message you found in your notes app.

✎ yandere! hacker who you eventually fall in love with for sticking with you. after all, he is all you have left after all your friends suddenly asked to stop being friends with a rather worried expression on their faces. you still wonder from time to time what caused them to act in such a frantic manner.

✎ yandere! hacker who is shaking in happiness when you confess to him and ask him to be your boyfriend. it was so worth it to blackmail your friends!

✎ yandere! hacker, who you become emotionally dependent on through his subtle manipulation, is madly in love with you and would do anything to keep you safe with him. perhaps he should book a flight to your country and surprise you? oh, he can't wait to spend the rest of his life with you! he'll be able to provide with you too as he's a renowned hacker that gets paid a lot which means that you won't have to work. isn't that great! now you won't need to leave him! you won't be able to leave him. your hacker boyfriend is so grateful for having come across your Instagram page. if he hadn't, he wouldn't have such a wonderful darling <3

✎ "my sweet darling, I love you ♡"

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part six

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: suggestive content

word count: 8.6k

previous part | next part | series masterlist

The balconies that overlook the capital city are one of the loveliest features of the Red Keep. Lady Tyrell finds it rather unlikely that Maegor the Cruel spent much of his time considering the optimally ambient spots to break fast, but it is almost amusing how distinctly suited the terraces are for taking morning meals. It is at her suggestion that Cregan Stark joins her in breaking his fast upon one of such balconies, and while she has chosen the location it is he whom requested to dine together at such an early hour. The matter of the Hightowers still weighing heavily upon his mind, he has hoped to ask after the progress that has been made in communicating with Highgarden upon behalf of the Northern council.

It is as splendid a morning as can be wished; soft sunlight extending out over the rooftops of the city below, a gentle breeze that smells faintly of the sea rustling the vines that climb along the arches that are adhered to the stone railing. A great spread of food has been prepared for them, and while the lady cannot claim to enjoy the earliest hours of the day much, she is reminded then of how sincerely she appreciates the food presented at morning meals. The flaky pastries topped with lightly whipped creams, thick-cut toasts drizzled in honey and topped with fresh fruits, sizzled bacon in long strips that smells faintly of sweet smoke, eggs with their golden yolks glistening and sprinkled with garden herbs and salts. Quite a delicious collection has been brought up at her request, courtesy of having long since formed good relations with the kitchen staff. It is quite a beneficial relationship to invest in, according to her own silent opinion. 

With a look of calm pleasure, she begins helping herself to the various foods that sit upon ornamented plates and trays. The gentle serenity upon her face while she carefully selects her breakfast softens Cregan’s eyes – rare is it that she looks so genuinely peaceful. The wind picks up a strand of her loose hair, lifting it languidly about her cheeks, and the delicate slip of a gown she wears is a light and neutral shade. It is a picture of natural comfort that he imagines few are fortunate enough to bear witness to, and the quiet delight that pulls at her lips when a bite of puff pastry and cream enters her mouth is not one Cregan shall soon forget. With silent certainty, he resolves to provide an impressive selection of foods for her to break her fast with the next time they dine in the earlier hours. 

As a drop of thick cream graces the edge of her rosy lips, it is impossible for the Lord of Winterfell to not notice because of how intently he is gazing after her. His eyes drop to his lap, and after a moment of serious consideration he produces an ivory handkerchief and shifts in his chair so that he might lean in closer to her. Her wide eyes flick up to him in soft question as he extends his arm courteously in a subtle motion towards her mouth. One hand is raised elegantly to her chin, as she herself realizes what he is implying, but before she can brush the sugary substance away Cregan clears his throat quietly.

“May I, my lady?” His brows are drawn low over his eyes, which narrow in thought as he speaks in that warm Northern timbre. The morning wind sweeps strands of red hair against his face, and Lady Tyrell’s hand stills before it can reach the corners of her lips. She stares back at him wary hesitation – a lowering of her chin, a twitch to her bright eyes as they study him carefully. Cregan waits with steady patience, arm still outreached as his handkerchief catches a soft gust, accepting of whatever her answer might be. 

Not completely unfamiliar is the tightening of her chest at his words, causing her mind to race as her heartrate upsurges in abrupt uncertainty. A pulse that can be felt thrumming low and deep at the base of her neck and the bend of her wrist, a swallow that passes with some difficulty down her throat which has gone dry. With all the tentativeness of an alley cat allowing a stranger to approach, Lady Tyrell provides the smallest incline of her head to indicate he may proceed as he wishes. It is all Cregan can do to stop the edges of his mouth from twitching upwards.

With utmost seriousness and propriety, his eyes remain firmly drawn to her lips as he presses the soft fabric of his handkerchief to the side of her mouth. She is keenly aware of the way her expression becomes more pliant, her eyes half-lidded and gentler as she allows him a physical closeness she does not usually give to others. His touch is tender; it is with one slow movement that he wipes the cream from her lips. As he leans forward to complete the motion, she once again catches sight of the dotting of warm freckles upon his face, reddish like his hair. When the lord draws away, it is out of habit that her tongue darts forth from her mouth gently to lick at where the sweet cream had been, her lips rolling over top of each other before she takes a quiet breath. 

Cregan feels his mouth go dry at the sight of her tongue upon her lips, where his hand had just been only a moment ago.

Poignantly ignoring the coil of heat in his lower stomach at the action, he folds his handkerchief slowly and returns it to his pocket with an especially purposeful inhale through his nose. His hand flexes with tense, displaced energy before he returns his attention to the generous plates of food that have been set atop the white linen of the embroidered tablecloth. As he reaches for a thick strip of the juicy bacon, his eyes remain drawn to his task while he speaks.

“Have you written to your lady mother regarding the matter of the Hightower boy?” Cregan takes his polished silverware into his hands, the metal catching a slight shimmer of bright sunlight. As he slices an egg topped with the crispy meat, he flicks his eyes to meet hers as she nods delicately. 

“I sent the raven the day we first spoke of it. I imagine she has already received it and should be sending word in response sooner rather than late.” A hand is lifted to brush loose hair from her face – she has grown used to having it arranged when she dines with others. Much time has passed since she has taken such a casual meal with someone, certainly not in the early hours of the day. Cregan leans forward at this, expression growing warier as the situation fills his mind once more. The lush vines snaking up the stone pillars and archways whisper softly in a light breeze, and the faint murmur of raised voices can be heard, carried up from the castle and capital by the wind.

It is not that Cregan is mistrustful of her mother, it is only that he does not know the woman. She must be quite capable, to be the acting head of House Tyrell and to have spared them from any amount of loss during the war, but the Lord of Winterfell does not know if this is a comfort or a concern just yet. And the matter of a Hightower hostage is a delicate situation, one even Cregan finds himself unsure upon the morality of. Garmund Hightower is barely older than Cregan’s own son, and yet is to be utilized as such a crucial piece in this securing of peace. “In your opinion, my lady, what will your mother think of such a plot? To weaponize a child in this manner…”

He does not wish to imply that the Lady of Highgarden would possess a gentle, womanly spirit that might prevent her from carrying out such a threat, but Lord Corwyn Corbray has expressed his concern upon the matter to Cregan in private. At his delicate questioning, Lady Tyrell lets out a soft snort of a breath, her eyes glancing up to the stone roofing above them. The ghost of a bitterly wry smile bites at the corners of her mouth, and she parts her lips for a moment, eyes narrowing sardonically as she searches for the words. “There is something to be said about the determination with which my mother leads our House. I would not let her neutrality during the war lead you to think she has no taste for bloodshed. It is pointless loss that she dislikes. She shall deliver the warning to Oldtown, you can be sure of it. Surer yet that she would carry out the promise if she is not obeyed.”

Cregan pauses, halfway through chewing his bacon, eyes meeting hers as she looks back to his face. With a curt nod, he presses his lips together and swallows, having gained a clearer picture of the woman he is dealing with at present. If the Lady of Highgarden is anything alike to her eldest daughter, the Lord of Winterfell feels it is in the Hightowers’ best interest to submit and stand down. “If a peace can be secured, the Realm will be all the more grateful to House Tyrell for it.”

“The Realm’s gratitude is often of unfortunately little value, my lord,” The Lady Tyrell muses with a sparkle of amusement in her eyes as she uses her knife to smooth berry jam onto a flaky biscuit. The red strawberry puree glistens tantalizingly in the clear light of the morning. “Your gratitude, in contrast, has proven delightfully useful.”

In truth, Cregan’s request to dine had been delivered on the premise of discussing the raven sent by her to Highgarden. Yet there is not much to be said upon the matter – she has sent her letter and awaits a response alongside the rest of the acting council. There is no need to sit for an entire meal over an issue that could have been asked after and answered about in a swift exchange. Yet neither of them seems too eager to point this out, nor to rush through the delicious breakfast and lovely morning weather upon the terrace. She watches as Cregan piles fried eggs onto his plate, careful not to break the yolks just yet.

Despite his previous irritation at the thought of being manipulated by her, Cregan finds himself nearly smiling at her words. When she had asked for something in return for her assistance at his council meeting, he had been prepared to sacrifice something that might pain him. It was to his great surprise that she asked for something so genuine and pure in nature, and it has been his honest pleasure to continue to accommodate her over the past two days. 

“Princess Jaehaera’s Septa informs me that she has been faring much better since your visiting began.” His remark is tinged with soft approval, the usual gruffness to his tone shifting into a rumbling, melted ease. Both yesterday and the day before, Cregan has been true to his word and brought Lady Tyrell by the Queen’s Chambers to see the princess and spend time with her. On their way out of the rooms last night, the Septa had taken Cregan by the arm, tears in the old woman’s eyes, and graciously thanked him for allowing Jaehaera to see the lady. From the time spent watching Jaehaera and Lady Tyrell together, it is increasingly obvious just how much the two love each other. Cregan cannot help the guilt that fills his heart, knowing that he has been separating them since his arrival at the castle.

The softening on Lady Tyrell’s face comes with a sweet promptness upon hearing the girl’s name. She gives a gentle smile, her eyes dropping to the table as a rush of pride and love swells in a tender crescendo within the often-empty hollow of her chest. “She has always been a tender-hearted child. I cannot imagine how difficult this has been for her.”

With a pause, the lady’s smile wavers with the weight of what the war has cost. She fights back the urge to worry her teeth into the skin of her mouth, instead raising her eyebrows and letting out a soft breath. It is far too early in the morning to allow such heaviness to sit upon her shoulders and her mind – lest she wish to spend the remainder of the day bedridden by the affliction of guilt and sorrow. Instead, she forces her thoughts to return to Jaehaera. “She is exceptionally bright. She learned to read before other children her age, in both the common tongue and Valyrian. I have never had the mind for it, but she took to it so quickly. There is much upon her thoughts, it is only that she is shy.”

It is with a devoted attention that Cregan listens, eyes fixated upon the way her countenance lightens as she speaks of the princess. Within the shadow of the shaded balcony, a spread of delicious morning foods and the sparkle of genuine fondness dancing about her eyes, the Lord of Winterfell experiences the closest thing to peace that has settled upon his weary heart since his arrival to the tumultuous viper’s den that is King’s Landing. Such a feeling is reflected upon his features – his brows raised gently, his jaw eased and loosened as he tilts his head to observe her further. “The princess seems quite comfortable in your presence, my lady. You have a way with her.”

A soft breath of mirth is exhaled from her mouth, her hand absentmindedly stirring a tiny spoon into her morning tea. The cloud of milk she poured disperses into the dark liquid slowly, turning it to a gently creamier shade. Scents of bergamot and floral notes waft up to her nose in dreamlike swirls. “I have known her since she was but a babe. Spending so much time with my own younger sister has helped, since Cassia and I are rather far apart in age. I was seven when she was born.”

“A rather large gap, for siblings of a noble house. Mine own brother was only two youngers my younger, and Sara is but three.” The remark is an easy musing, low and casual as Cregan attends once more to his breakfast. It is simple to get lost in conversation with her, more so now that it is not shrouded in deceit and performance. Lady Tyrell gives a small shrug at this, well aware of how odd it is to have such large gaps with her siblings. While Cassia is seven years her younger, her brother Lyonel is only three. Nineteen years passed between Lady Tyrell’s birth, and the long-awaited birth of the heir of Highgarden.

“it is not for a lack of trying, by any account. My mother did very much wish to provide a son. It only took much longer than intended.” For years, Lady Tyrell had watched silently as her mother consulted with every maester she could find, hoping for some cure to whatever might be causing the seed to not take. As the years went by, it would seem her father’s age might be the problem, but few were willing to suggest this as it is much more commonly accepted to blame the woman. Highgarden had been overjoyed when a second pregnancy finally took, only to be given yet another daughter. Lady Tyrell had not minded in the slightest – a son would have been raised as the heir to House Tyrell and Cassia was instead given to her. A darling sister, the sibling she had always wanted. “My mother tried to shield me from it, afraid it would make me hesitant to have children of my own. But I have always longed for it, in truth. Daughters as much as sons, perhaps out of spite.”

The wry smile upon her lips widens at this, some faint amusement at her own stubbornness dazzling in her eyes before she takes a sip of her tea. Heavy is the breath that falls from Cregan’s lips at her words, heavier yet the way his lids lower slightly over his eyes. It should not be surprising, given how good she is with Jaehaera, but the confirmation of her inclination only serves to strengthen the draw he is becoming increasingly aware of. His lips part – and close at once, despite himself, instead swallowing thickly. A twitch of his jaw is the only indication of anything amiss in his mind. It is with decided intention that he focuses his thoughts upon those better suited to propriety and civility. 

“Your lord husband shall be quite fortunate, in that regard.” Is the most restrained phrase he can manage in return. With some great luck, she does not seem to be paying his reaction much mind and is instead staring wistfully out over the city’s rooftops far below, the handle of her teacup held delicately between her fingers.

“Whomever the stranger shall be, I suppose. The prospect of having children with a man I do not know does not sit well with me, I must confess. Yet is it not the burden for all highborn ladies to bear? Complaining of it is for naught.” Lady Tyrell does not seem altogether thrilled at the prospect of a decidedly upcoming betrothal, a curl of her lip showcasing quite plainly how little she desires such a future. A slight sigh finds its way out of her mouth, and she rests her hand upon the palm of her hand, eyes still cast to the horizon. To a gull drifting lazily over the city, wings outstretched upon an ocean-bound wind.  

“It is not the most ideal prospect, nay,” There is a gentleness to his tone, a consistent presence at their breakfast that morning that does not go completely unnoticed by her, nor is it commented upon. “Lucky am I, that mine own son was born of love that is true.”

Her eyes return to Cregan’s face at his words, studying it with a soft wistfulness as she notices his attention wander down to his hands. The tenderness with which he speaks of his late wife and young son give her pause, and she cannot help the tendrils of curiosity stirring within her. Such softness and devotion, from a man so stoic and steadfast. “Love.”

It is a quiet echo, floating gingerly between them as a hesitant question. Summoned back from softly nostalgic reminiscing, Cregan returns his attention to her. The wondering in her eyes has an innocent yet weary confusion to it, alighting something warmer within his chest. For all her scheming and her wickedly brilliant mind, he can sense this has eluded her. With a slow blink, he hopes silently not to offend or overstep. “Have you ever been in love, my lady?”

An almost imperceptible breath. The digging of nails into palms, the drop of her eyes. A soft tap of her heeled shoe that is muffled by the light fabrics of her morning gown. A blink as measured as his, when she tilts her chin down and stares wordlessly into her tea. The molten heat of anger, the trickling of a tempered sadness which sizzles upon collision. It is much easier to forget and she is much more suited to banishing such thoughts from her head. A flap of a gull’s wings above and she speaks with a detached and observational cadence. “I thought I was, once. It turns out I am occasionally a terrible judge of character.”

This, Cregan is not expecting to hear. His brows furrow, drawn above his stormy eyes as a look of pensive confusion flickers briefly across his stern countenance. Calloused fingers brush the tip of the fork he holds within his hands, while he briefly considers the unreadable expression upon her face. For all her studying, all her carefully crafted productions, it would seem unlikely for a girl so cautious to be wrong upon such matters. “I do not imagine you misjudging a person.”

“Harboring affection for someone can leave one blind to their true nature. It is not a weakness I am quick to subject myself to. Akin to aiming a sword at my chest, I imagine.” Bitterness wins out amongst her remaining emotions and pulls tightly at her lips and the corners of her eyes that crease with mordant amusement. A curl of her mouth as she sips her tea, allowing the pleasant bitterness to counteract her own sour discontent. “As if one needs more to fear, in such times.”

An offhanded note, said into a half-sipped teacup with a mild raise of her shoulders. But Cregan has seen the weight behind it, the truth of the matter on the few occasions he had seen any semblance of truth prior to that night in her chambers. The anxious way she had gazed up at him, as if afraid he might harm her and there would be nothing she could do to defend herself. And there had been the attempted assault, which Cregan has far from forgotten about. The thought of her unable to protect herself is one that does not sit soundly with him.

“Less to fear if you are the one holding the sword, my lady.” The Lord of Winterfell’s quiet yet steady observation causes her eyes to flicker up to him questioningly as she sets her teacup down upon the saucer. The seriousness in his gaze is not lost upon her, and it is without clarification that she understands the literal sense of the phrase. Tilting her head, a quizzically amused expression flutters onto her face. 

“I cannot wield a sword. I am too weak, I have not the build for it.” Lady Tyrell feels an ease at the shift of the conversation, at the ridiculousness of his proposal. Leaning back in her chair, she crosses her legs beneath the skirts of her gown and fixes him with an appraising gaze. The chatter of voices drifts slowly up to the balcony in a more insistent volume, signaling that most of the castle has arisen for the day regardless of debauchery engaged in the previous night. The toasts have gone rather cold, but she selects one for her plate nonetheless.

“You are weak because you have not practiced. The more you practice, the less weak you shall become.” It might have been a biting comment if it came from anyone else, but she knows well enough by now there is no point in searching for cruelly aimed jabs within his words. Only with direct practicality does he speak, and she sees the honest truth in it quite plainly. All she can do is raise her eyebrows in quiet agreement, maneuvering her fork and knife gracefully to cut into her fluffy toast. Cregan watches silently for only a moment, before a smile quite nearly pulls at his lips. “That is something I can remedy, my lady.”

Boots echoing within the quiet passages that snake through the lowers portions of the Red Keep, the Lord of Winterfell is mildly aware of the realization that he might starve if he allows himself to give each free moment of his time to the lady instead of taking meals. His chair had been pushed back as soon as the afternoon meeting concluded and the plans for that evening had been decided upon. The scratch of wood on stone, of click of shoes upon the floor, the unhinging of the lock and he had disappeared. A small glance from one of his retainers, yet no further commentary upon his great rush to the sunlit and silent halls that line the far side of the castle, golden in buttery afternoon sun that falls in warm swoops across the expansive stone. One might think him in a hurry to devour his lunch, with the quickness that his heavy steps carry him down the corridors. Nourishment is indeed what he seeks, albeit for a different organ and of a debatable degree of good for him.

It had been with little thought that he had promised her time in these few moments of respite he savored during the afternoons, usually taken within the silence of his rooms. His dining hours the last two nights had been offered to her as well, so that he might take her to see the Princess Jaehaera. It quite nearly mystifies him, the ease with which he is willing to discard a meal if only to attend to her. It would have, save he swears he has felt the stirrings of this sensation before. Different, this time, but recognizable nonetheless. If only he is not so hesitant to name it, he might have a better grasp upon the situation.

And there it is again within the veins of his heart as he catches sight of her, covered in the warm sun streaming in through the open window in front of her. As if the sun itself has delivered her down from the sky, the edges of her hair and the bow of her lip almost glowing under the golden rays. She, who at night is of starlight, takes so easily to the sun during the daytime hours. The image of her within the Queen’s Ballroom, shimmering silver and soft smiles as a crowd cheers for her, remains prominently painted as a primary reference of her brilliance in his mind. The delicate glow she possesses in the evening, alone or attending to Jaehaera, is the only picture he might think after more often. 

She turns at the sound of his approach, eyes flickering to the wooden sword within his hand. In her mind, a debate upon the seriousness of his proposition earlier has been occurring. But as Cregan descends the staircase to meet her in the empty hall, Lady Tyrell finds he is indeed serious after all. As if she should have expected anything less from him, all Northern stoicism and drawn brows. Her hands fold elegantly in front of her gown and she lowers her chin with a look of wary amusement that might be viewed as affectionate if she were not so mistrusting of others. 

“Are you quite sure you wish to do this, my lord? I might be wholly unteachable.” Light and goading is the tone with which she addresses him, standing before him with a delicate raise of one eyebrow. Cregan dips his head, his eyes running down her figure for a brief moment as he offers her the pretend sword with an outstretched arm. It is with slow allowance that she sees more of his shrouded Northern wit, those ghosting half-smiles that grace the edges of his mouth as he does his utmost to be a gentleman. Shaking his head, he feels the brushing of her fingers upon his palm as she takes the sword from him.

“You have the mind for warfare. It is only right that you engage in the physicality of it as well, my lady.” A quiet assurance, steady in the consistent manner he always is, his eyes shining in wordless approval as she appraises the wooden sword, her gaze running studiously up its length. It is not too heavy in her hand, designed to mimic a longsword rather than the greatsword occasionally worn upon Cregan’s back. The heirloom weapon of his great house, Ice, which she has only witnessed him bearing when holding court. Her hands slot themselves at the base of the hilt, while she attempts to familiarize herself with the weight of it within her grasp. Uncertainty curls in hazy flickers through her arms as she frowns, unsure of how to mirror the manner that she has seen men hold swords before. This earns her a soft breath of what she might hesitantly deem as amusement from the lord. 

It is his natural instinct to correct her poor form, no fault of her own as she has not received instruction before. His figure draws behind her, his broad shoulders eclipsing her back as the scent of cedarwood and leather and the faintest hint of amber rise to her senses. Her grip tightens slightly upon the hilt and Cregan grows still as her shoulders rise, her chest tightening as she inhales a sharp breath. He shall not forget why he is instructing her at all. 

“May I?” Heavy and whispered upon his lips. Although she cannot see his face, the breath of his quiet words brushes the top of her hair. It is with a moment of weighty silence that she considers and slowly accepts. There is no point in learning if she does so improperly.

“You may.” Her shoulders square and she raises her chin, loosing her grip upon the wood of the sword as Cregan reaches around her frame with a steady arm. His hand envelopes her much smaller one, encasing it fully as he guides her left hand down to the faux pommel, the wood round and smooth against her skin. Cregan’s hand is warm, calloused from his time spent training and upon the battlefield, yet cradles hers softly as he positions it as he pleases. 

His other arm wraps around her slowly, before he pauses once again. Her heartbeat quickens traitorously within her chest and at the pressure points of her wrists at the touch and proximity, her veins thrumming low with his steady presence so close to her. She does not dare to move, does not dare to risk brushing against him further. His right hand hovers above her own as he dips his head, the low cadence of his voice spoken as if a secret. “May I, my lady?”

Hushed repetition in a thick tone, met only with a silent nod this time. Her eyelashes flutter in near annoyance at the intensity of it all: surely, this is not the atmosphere in which men learn to wield their weapons. In that fleeting moment she wonders if she ought to have someone else teach her, someone who did not evoke such an infuriating reaction beneath her warming skin. His fingers close overtop of her right hand, leading it up to rest against the cross-guard. Her eyelids lower, watching the nearly tender manner in which his rough skin waits upon hers. A flicker of heat emanates – as if from a fire, if only in her affected state – from his nearness to her back. 

With his step back, taken to better appraise the corrections he has made to her form, she can allow breath to flow freely through her body. Until he moves, she is unaware of the blockage that bottles the air in her lungs. Her eyes remain fixated pointedly on the wooden sword, maintaining the hold that Cregan adjusted.

“Swing it forth, as best you can. Lead with your left foot.” The Lord of Winterfell steps deliberately around her figure, grey eyes narrowing with serious assessment while he watches. His arms are folded sturdily across his chest. With a deep breath, she shifts her legs to maneuver as he instructs, the sword falling through the air with a gentle swish. As a soft wind is produced from the movement, Lady Tyrell is left to stare at the wood. How strange it is, to copy an action she has observed countless times and longed for in equal measure. 

Violence is not what she desires, only the power to defend herself fairly. But if the former must be obtained to achieve the latter then she shall not lose sleep upon the matter. 

Cregan gives a slow nod at the action, the draw of his brow signaling his approval at her attempt. His eyes rake across her figure, unabashed as he studies her form for areas to critique. Underneath his heavy gaze, her chin lifts unconsciously and her chest flutters with pressing breath. It is with few large strides that he reaches her again, eyes following the curves of her body as she returns to the stance she had been in prior to swinging the wooden sword. 

Thus begins his returning correction of her positioning before each time she attempts to wield the sword appropriately. A rush of wind from the swiftness which with she cuts through the air and Cregan is behind her, a whispered asking after her allowance before every touch like a sacred mantra chanted heavy and reverent upon his lips. Each time she forgoes speaking and instead dips her chin in acceptance, not trusting the strength of the words that might escape her mouth. Certainly not when he presses his large hands to the sides of her hips, calloused fingers slotting into the satin of the skirts of her gown as he rotates her lower body to face straight ahead instead of shifting when she moves. 

“Nay, do not turn so.” His voice is a low rumble, and he indicates for her to swing again while his hand remain to her hips, the weight of it keeping her from turning as she swings the wood forth again. She can feel the way her body instinctively desires to shift with the movement, but as her hips slide forward Cregan tightens his hold and keeps her still. His chest is nearly pressed to her back, the curve of her brushing precariously against his lower body. There is an almost imperceptible phantom of his breath upon the top of her head as her hips stutter beneath his hands. If she were to turn, his low-lidded eyes and blown pupils might indicate a thought most improper settling within his mind. 

“Good, good, my lady.” With a press of his fingers further into the fabric at the words, so tight she might feel the imprint of his thumb into the small of her back, Cregan steps back to watch her once more. Little is to be done about the sweet ache beneath the heavy skirts of her dress, altogether not productive to the end of learning to better hold a sword. And in truth, Cregan does not need to pay such dutiful attention to the movement of her breasts, bound so tightly within her corset that they bounce slightly with each swing, rather than to her hands. 

As she grows more familiar with the weight of the wood and the motion of wielding it, the Lord of Winterfell guides her to step forward as she swings. To move her right foot and shift her weight to drift out of the way of any potential incoming attacks. It is not a motion easily done in such heavy clothing, but she shall make do as best she can given the trying circumstances. Indulgence does not suit her, but the heat pulsing insistently between her legs is disinclined to be ignored. It is wholly unfair, the press of his hands to her back as he readjusts her stance, the roughness of his fingers upon the skin of her wrists to guide the wooden sword through the space in front of her. The warmth from the golden sun shining upon the shadowed hall holds no candle to the warmth that blossoms beneath his every touch. He becomes a steady presence at her back.

When she turns her head to ask after the progress she has been making, her breath catches in a silent stumbling within her throat at how close he is. Her eyes drop to his lips, – parted and patient – to the freckles upon his face, and only then to his own eyes. Intently and steadily gazing upon her, with such Northern weight. Lady Tyrell might simply be crushed beneath it this time, as the pressure swells within her chest and plummets.

Cregan is left wholly grateful for the thickness of the skirts that separate her back from the prominent physical manifestation of his own budding need. It is with such sweetness that her lips open, the pink of her tongue plush between them, a rose in every sense. Her bright eyes wide, blinking gently up at him, and the surge of want that courses through his veins at the sight is enough to make him swallow back a quiet noise in his throat. In a desperate, grasping attempt at propriety, at civility, at honor, he draws back slightly before he hears footsteps echoing down the hall.

Lady Tyrell tightens her grip upon the hilt of the sword as an approaching presence shatters whatever heaviness has fallen between them, and she gives him a small nod before extending her arm and returning the sword to Cregan quickly. It is not as if she wishes to be caught training with a weapon, decidedly not a ladylike endeavor, nor alone with a lord, decidedly an even less ladylike endeavor. 

“I am grateful for your instruction, my lord.” It is a breath, a rush of words that are exhaled from her diaphragm, as she folds her hands tightly across her front. Squeezing her fingers far too forcefully, she gives him a small dip of her head.

“You are a fast learner. It is no trouble at all.” The only indication of struggle within his voice is that it has somehow deepened as he turns away from her, not eager to show the effects that touching her has upon his body. Quick to depart before she is caught doing something she knows quite well she should not be, she nods to express her gratitude and disappears down the hall in a swirl of soft hair and satin skirts. The scent of vanilla and honey left in her wake leaves Cregan closing his eyes and rubbing his temple.

A crowd gathers within the hall that evening, a hushed and tense murmur buzzing in the great room like a swarm of thousands of roused bees. The torches have been lit and flicker brightly, alongside the ornamental brazier that hangs gracefully from the ceiling, illuminating many a worried face as gossip spreads quick and speculative through the crowds of nobles assembled within the halls. Not as many as might be there for a royal event when lords and ladies throughout the Realm are called to journey to the massive throne room, but all those in the capital at present. So tense is the atmosphere these days, that when called to gather the nobles do so with haste and without question. Ladies turn to their husbands and place their hands worryingly upon their arms, a few of the younger handmaidens whisper behind raised hands to each other. Men exchange deep frowns, their rumbling whispers upon what might transpire low and concerned. The large window behind the throne extends a view to a cloudless night sky.

The twinkle of stars, the shimmer of a silver crescent moon. In front of this sits the object of Lady Tyrell’s great ire, shining coldly as it is backlit by the moonlight. If only she could, the lady would take it upon herself to find the dragon whose fire forged the damned monstrosity and use all one thousand swords to slay it. Never could a chair be worth the price that has been paid, not to her. Helaena had never longed for the power that came with it, and when it had been forced upon her it had driven her to madness and death. 

To prevent herself from glaring at the throne with repulsed distaste, the lady occupies herself by composing a discussion with the Lord Benjicot Blackwood. Although rather quiet, the young lord had peaked her attention upon their sole extended encounter within the council chamber. After sending her informational network to produce more knowledge of the lord, she finds him a rather suitable young man. His battle prowess has been echoed by many who witnessed him fight during the Dance, and yet he is known to behave with utmost decorum and respect when off of the field. In fact, he seems nearly shy when he lacks his armor, which Lady Tyrell finds perfectly acceptable.

Although Lord Blackwood seems rather flustered upon her beginning of the conversation, once she is able to bypass the initial awkwardness, they are able to converse rather pleasantly upon a selection of different topics while she studies him discreetly. The young lord is handsome enough, she decides objectively, and House Blackwood shall be in a position of favor with the young prince as they sided with his mother in the war. As he is already the Lord of Raventree Hall, any wife he takes shall immediately become the castle’s Lady. The Lady of a prominent house, in good standing with the new ruler, not lacking in funds nor men. Lady Tyrell does her best to not allow her eyes to glimmer as she questions politely about the lord’s intentions to marry and watches him stumble over his words, clearly lacking any plan. Her darling sister would adore him, this she knows for almost certain. And as the lord is only one year Cassia’s younger, the match would be perfectly ideal.

When the large oak doors swing open, the eyes of every nobleperson in the room turn to the incoming Northerners and voices drop to a hush. Lord Stark is accompanied by Lady Jeyne Arryn and Lord Corwyn Corbray, who follow behind him with neutral expressions as a pathway parts in the crowd to allow them to cross the room towards the staircase before the throne. It is with such ease that Cregan commands the attention and respect of a room, perhaps the loathing of one as well, despite not being of royal blood. As Lady Arryn pauses to speak to Lord Leowyn Corbray, it is Lady Tyrell’s eye that Cregan searches for among the throngs of nobles who have begun speaking amongst one another once again.

The Lord of Winterfell catches sight of her conversing with Lord Blackwood, the soft smile and flutter of her lashes signaling her public persona’s appearance for the convening that evening. As he makes his way to her, towards the head of the throne room, she turns as she grows increasingly aware of the wandering of eyes in her direction. Upon meeting his, the lady realizes that it is becoming habit to speak to Cregan plainly. To do so in front of others would be foolish, but she finds she need not attempt to as Cregan gives Lord Blackwood a rather heavy look and the young lord scrambles off to find the other members of the Northern council. She is left rather alone with Cregan at the head of the room, keenly conscious of how many nobles are boring holes into the pair of them. The torches cast a decadent yet wary light about the room, still fraught with tension.

Yet within Cregan’s eyes, she sees only the silent shimmer of familiar questioning as he narrows them at her. His voice is as low as he can make it, barely a murmur that passes between their ears alone. “You look far too pleased with yourself, my lady.”

The comment quite nearly brings a smile to her lips, but she presses them together a moment longer to prevent it from fully blooming. Instead, she folds her hands together and blinks up at him with soft innocence. “Is it so unimaginable to think that I might simply enjoy a pleasant conversation, Lord Stark?”

“Of course, Lady Tyrell.” With courteous ease and the slow tempo of his tone, Cregan dips his head to indicate he means her no offense, as any gentleman might. The lady takes a deep breath, her eyes flicking over to Lord Blackwood for a moment before she lowers her voice and tilts her head up at Cregan with an almost entertainingly solemn expression upon her delicate features.

“It is only that he seems to be lacking for a wife. And he is such a promising young lord, whose character I have studied and deemed appropriate.” As casually as a comment upon the clearness of the night sky outside the arched windows of the throne room, yet it is far more information than she would normally provide someone regarding her motives. The ghost of a smile once again challenges to grace her lips, but she forces it away, in an attempt to remain neutrally expressive in front of a crowd of so many.

It is clear to her then, fighting at the edges of his mouth as well, that Cregan finds himself facing a similar issue to her own. His eyes shine with the cloaked amusement of knowing, yet his face remains as impassive and stern as ever. Save for the twitch of his brows, and the shift of his jaw as he considers her. Leaning forward so that he might whisper quietly into her ear, his eyes are cast to the ceiling as he speaks. “I might ask you leave Lord Blackwood out of your schemes, my lady, but I can think of far worse fates than to be betrothed to your lady sister.”

The unspoken remainder of the sentence is heavy upon his tongue – if she is near as beautiful as you are. Her eyes flick down to the floor as she attempts not to look pleased at his approval of her idea. A small tilt of her chin as she lets out a tiny, gentle sigh. “I would wish to gain her opinion of him first, but I am afraid I am running short on time.”

The Lady of Highgarden wishes to betroth both of her daughters as quickly as possible, and the lady knows her mother well enough to know that a match with Oldtown is highly coveted. In marrying Cassia to Lord Lyonel, her mother would possess greater influence within House Hightower and could control them far easier. Yet Lyonel is foul-tempered and quick to anger, and if that were not enough to give Lady Tyrell cause to oppose the match, the young lord is obsessed with his father’s young widow. She simply could not allow such a union to proceed, not when it would surely bring her sister such misery. Even if Raventree is further in distance from Highgarden and of a cooler climate, Cassia would be far better suited for a boy such as Lord Benjicot Blackwood.

“If it would please you, I could send Lord Blackwood to treat with House Tyrell on my behalf.” Cregan offers quietly, his eyes searching hers passively as he continues to speak in quiet whispers, to avoid the ears bending with poorly concealed interest in their direction. Her eyes soften, her brows drawing closer gently. 

“It would please me, Lord Stark.” The lady murmurs, her eyes holding Cregan’s steadily as he gives a deep hum to indicate his agreement upon the matter. Their gazes remain locked upon each other for a moment longer before the Lord of Winterfell must make his way to the top of the staircase that stands before the Iron Throne. As she turns her attention back to the nobles around her, she discovers with some surprise that Lady Arryn is staring at her quite astutely. The other woman is too far away to have heard their conversation, and yet as she approaches, the lady cannot help but wonder if she somehow knows its nature. Lady Arryn stands beside Lady Tyrell without speaking, instead turning her attention to Cregan, whose presence at the head of the hall has brought the whispers to a hush.

Beneath the imposing throne of swords, his ancestral weapon heavy upon his back, even Lady Tyrell is left to stare at him wordlessly. The picture of strength, reminding every noble in the crowd whom it was who forced King’s Landing into submission and rules it still. The ever-present sternness upon his face is far more serious as he addresses the lords and ladies, his deep voice echoing out into the massive hall. Addressing the nobles as a man of true power, despite the young prince Aegon still maintaining claim to the crown and title. It is trials that the lord announces, much to the shock that ripples through the crowd like a stone upon water. Hushed, worried mutters from those gathered as they immediately begin to surmise the fate of those arrested by the Northerners. Her own concerns are still heavy upon her mind; she has yet to hear of how the Hightowers responded to her mother’s warning. War might still find House Tyrell yet.

Lady Tyrell catches a glimpse of the twin princesses Baela and Rhaena, their faces betraying their own grave concern for their grandfather, Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake remains imprisoned, and the lady is unsure as to what his fate shall be. She holds no allegiance to the man, but it would seem that her mother is rather keen to make an ally of him yet. This matter she would have to consult her mother upon further. 

Noticing the direction in which her eyes are wandering, the Lady Arryn leans over as Cregan finishes his announcement. “The Lord of Winterfell shall be just in his trial proceedings.”

It is a slight surprise that the older woman addresses her directly, almost as much as Lady Arryn approaching her in the first place. Lady Tyrell blinks for a moment, before dipping her head elegantly, her eyes dropping to the stone floor. “I am sure he shall.”

A polite yet detached offering, given with a sweet smile and a demure posture. Lady Arryn hides nothing in her eyes as she scans the lady with an impassive expression, cool eyes raking across her figure. The direct way that the woman carries herself is of great interest to the Lady Tyrell, as it had been when she had seen Lady Arryn at the council meeting. Even so, she does her utmost to gaze gently back while waiting patiently for the other woman to finish her assessment.

“It is tradition for those of House Stark to carry out the sentences themselves.” Lady Arryn informs her with calm neutrality, expression sharp as she searches for a reaction to this information upon the younger woman’s face. 

Lady Tyrell pauses, yet ensures that a saccharine smile remains pleasantly painted onto her lips. Her eyes flicker to Cregan, descending the staircase with heavy steps, and to the greatsword he carries upon his back. Ice is an intimidating size, quite heavy to wield by most standards. She finds she can conjure up an image of him utilizing it with ease, the rippling of his muscular arms and chest as he wields it in battle. And yet the idea of him condemning someone and beheading them himself, rather than deferring to the Southern custom of bequeathing the duty to an executioner, creates a sense of unease in her chest. It is not that she disapproves, if she thinks upon the matter further she will surely find it a rather honorable and accountable action, it is just foreign to her. She remembers then with perfect clarity that despite the North existing as a part of the Realm, it is a place wholly unknown to her and vastly different than the Reach and the capital. 

She gives a small breath and nods softly, declining to comment additionally upon the matter as it requires more contemplating. Lady Arryn’s hawkish eyes have not looked away from her visage since Cregan finished speaking, but as Lady Tyrell notices Cregan’s own gaze fixed firmly upon her, it would seem that Lady Arryn does as well. The older woman gives a sigh, her eyes flicking between the two of them for a moment, before she lowers her voice. “It is a shame winter approaches so quickly. I imagine it difficult to adjust to the North in such a time.”

The other woman slips off into the crowd of nobles as they begin to trickle out into the halls, their faces creased with worry and, darker yet, a glimmer of excitement at something new finally happening in the castle they are all but trapped in. Lady Tyrell does not have the opportunity to answer, nor to wonder what Lady Arryn might mean.

[ms-demeanor]

Hi there! Firstly, wanna say a huge thank you: your blog has inspired me to become more educated about cybersecurity and nutrition, and it’s the reason my brother and I now use Firefox! I came across this article and… it seemed to raise a lot of valid points about Mozilla, but I have no idea if they are true or not since I’m not that knowledgeable about tech, and they go against everything I’ve ever heard about Firefox. Wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind giving it a quick read, if that’s not too much trouble, and explaining why it’s false/true? If you can, ofc, I realise that is a weird request, and I promise it&: not something I’d usually ask someone. I just thought I’d ask since you’re the only sort of ‘tech’ person I can think of whom I’d trust to know stuff about this. https://digdeeper.neocities.org/articles/mozilla

So this is a great example of someone reading a ToS uncharitably and extracting the most paranoid bullshit possible.

Aside from the absolute classic "oh noes they are storing info about what devices you use" (if you use firefox logged in mozilla will collect information about what device and OS you use to connect; they do this for a lot of reasons like figuring out what stuff the bulk of their users are using but also because *they can't display on your device without that data*) I want to zoom in on this as an example:

BTW, there is one really funny thing inside the account ToS (MozArchive) that I just have to mention: "We may suspend or terminate your access to the Services at any time for any reason, including [...] our provision of the Services to you is no longer commercially viable." The fuck? If you stop bringing them profit, you're gone. They really said that! To me, this is a roundabout admission that your data is being sold. And if it's not worth much (for whatever reason), then you get kicked out.

This person is highlighting the idea that they may cut you off from services if the provision of those services is no longer commercially viable. This author is saying "FIREFOX WILL BOOT YOU WHEN YOU STOP BEING A PROFITABLE LITTLE PAYPIG FOR THEM"

But. Okay. Let's go look at that section of the ToS:

These Terms will continue to apply until ended by either you or Mozilla. You can choose to end them at any time for any reason by deleting your Mozilla account, discontinuing your use of the Services, and if applicable, unsubscribing from our emails. We may suspend or terminate your access to the Services at any time for any reason, including, but not limited to, if we reasonably believe: (i) you have violated these Terms, (ii) you create risk or possible legal exposure for us; or (iii) our provision of the Services to you is no longer commercially viable. We will make reasonable efforts to notify you by the email address associated with your Mozilla account or the next time you attempt to access the Services. In all such cases, these Terms shall terminate, including, without limitation, your license to use the Services, except that the following sections shall continue to apply: Indemnification, Disclaimer; Limitation of Liability, Miscellaneous.

Bud. This says "we are not obligated to provide services to you and we may stop providing services that cost us more money to maintain than is viable." This isn't about selling your data, this is about backwards compatibility and sunsetting projects. They don't have to keep providing access to services they're no longer developing nor bend over backwards to make sure that you can keep running a version of the browser that uses the extensions they dropped support for ten years ago.

Ugh. I got to the section where they talk about cucking for manifest3 and jesus this asshole. Manifest 3 is a defacto set of web standards that are changing because google has so much market share as a browser that if they do something everybody else has to follow or they're going to break basic functionality; if they don't make these changes eventually a shitload of websites just will not work on firefox. WAY more than currently experience this problem. Nobody is happy about manifest 3 and the fact that mozilla put out a press release about coming manifest 3 changes (that was not positive!) doesn't mean they're happy about getting dragged along by the nose; this blogger would prefer something like them refusing to adopt those standards, but all that would happen is that they'd lose more users because less shit would work on firefox browsers since people write their sites for chrome first and anything else second if at all.

This writer also gripes a lot about things like "mozilla took away this functionality for the sake of security and SURE you can change that by going into the configurations but it should be an option right in the first panel of the settings what are they really trying to hide???" and they're not trying to hide anything bud they're trying to make a functional browser with intuitive menus for people who aren't power users.

Like they want to be able to do everything they want and they want to be able to see the option in front of them at all times. It's a weird combination of "I know how to configure everything about this browser" and "if a setting is ever hidden behind a readmore it's a dark pattern and is an attack on user privacy." Like they gripe a lot about privacy and then link to a bunch of pages on mozilla where they explain their privacy settings and link to tutorials on how to hide the data that they just explained they collect.

Yeah this is someone I would walk away from in order to avoid getting into a fistfight.

"FOSS licenses are nice but they don't ensure quality" nobody said they did.

"FOSS licensed softwares don't always accept user participation in development" nobody said they did

"I can't change the actual code of firefox to remove things that I don't like don't tell me to fork it it has to be all or nothing mozilla specifically has to do what I want or it's user hostile" I can see why it would be hostile to you as a user fuck you dude this is why forks *exist* (also the "spyware" discussed is basic browser tracking stuff, the realistic necessities of how email work that make it not private by default like the PROTOCOLS are not private you can't get around that, and a lot of the stuff is opt out but improves functionality for day to day users, AND a lot of the tracking is specifically for people with logged-in accounts which are not necessary to use firefox like if you hate pocket don't use it my friend! I also hate pocket it is quite simple to never use it thanks)

"There's no justification for making the source code unavailable" my dude. https://hg.mozilla.org/mozilla-central/

"If they really cared about an open internet they'd work toward killing capitalism." Friend. I think there's very little more that a web browser could do to undermine the capitalist nature of huge chunks of the web and maintain a broad userbase than what firefox is doing.

I'm reminded of the time that I saw someone losing their shit about a linux distro that included chrome as *a* browser - not the default browser, but *a* browser.

It is an unpleasant fact that a lot of firefox's funding comes from google. That's part of why google is still the default search engine in Firefox and I read some similar articles decrying mozilla's residence firmly in Google's pocket a few years ago. I don't think there's anyone at mozilla who is genuinely pleased that their cheques are signed by google, but there are a ton of people at mozilla who are happy they can keep the lights on because getting paid by google means that they can do as much as they possibly can to create a functional browser that has a significant interest in privacy by default and that can be made *VERY* private by a dedicated user.

Anyway a lot of the stuff on this post is things like "a certificate expired five years ago and broke extensions and that means that mozilla is incompetent and hates users" or "eleven years ago there was a slapfight in the bug reporting forums between a user and a mod and the fact that the user was kicked after repeatedly being told his fix wasn't going to get made is censorship."

The big beefs at the center of this post are:

Mozilla collects data on users

Mozilla limits functionality that should be up to the users

Mozilla takes money from google

and my refutations are:

it does, and it is less than any other mainstream browser and is much much more transparent about what data is collected and how to prevent that data from being collected

A lot of the functionality they're discussing is still there and the stuff that isn't is allowing unsigned extensions which, dude, put a fork in it. They're not going to budge on unsigned extensions but the bar you have to clear to get signed is really really low; like this guy is LITERALLY saying "allow the installation of malicious extensions."

Yep. They do. This point reminds me of a lot of the people on tumblr who hate ads but also hate it when people pay for tumblr. As it turns out making things costs money, and making things used by millions of people costs *A LOT* of money.

I mean FFS one of the things this writer complains about is that Mozilla has a YouTube page.

This isn't just letting perfect be the enemy of good, it's letting perfect be the enemy of *functionally existing as a large organization in the modern world.*

Anyway, I'm glad you enjoy my blog, thank you for letting me know!

[srbachchan]

DAY 6073

Jalsa, Mumbai Oct 3, 2024 Thu 12:58 pm

आज के इस पावन दिन की अनेक अनेक शुभ कामनाएँ , स्नेह आदर 🚩🚩

शुभ मंगल हो आपका दिन ❤️❤️🚩

Greetings on this divine day .. happy Navratri 🌹

an entire day in the device recognition so that the video comes up, in the Shlok sung by me on this auspicious occasion ..

in Bengal .. 'Mahalaya' .. and the emergence of Goddess Durga from the waters .. and the prayers early morning .. a routine followed by all Bengali homes ..

Divinity has such a deep connect .. the opening strains of the music transport one into the mode of religiosity .. thoughts begin to ramble up towards the grace of the Almighty , to his or her presence and what they mean to all of us .. and the interest in the desire to learn or find out why the imagery was structured so and the reason and stories behind .. fascinating all this ..

BUt for this is needed the time patience and the respect to ongoing work and its commitment .. one can sacrifice time but not the commit of schedule .. for it does not just affect one but several ..

In its severalty does the World exist today .. to some one to others another and on .. and the dispersion of this does become awkward to say the least .. belief ingrained in us from the tim of birth is the reason and main cause of its longevity ..

when in doubt - BELIEF .. !

" it was destined "...

"My karma is the responsible party " ..

" I wish and the Almighty disposes .."

"Leave it to him/her .. "

" they shall guide us to our good ... "

and on ..

and the data bank - the Largest Data Bank in the World - shall bring up and provide the eventual questions and answers ..

the BRAIN ..

they say the element of DATA never dies .. and in our modern living they refer to it often in its technological manifestation ..

yes but what does happen to it at the time of its perishing .. in the flames , in the depths of the Earth on burial .. in the depths of the waters of the Universe .. !!!

wonder and debate be pronounced

and the question from one such that visited our Saptaswar :

"does music have a gender " ??

Amitabh Bachchan

Birthday - EF Kris Ayer Friday, 4 October ... greetings from the Ef family .. happiness ❤️

[wild-typo-turtle]

Threads - Part 5

Explicit (slow burn, 18+ only) - Rings of Power - Gil-galad x OFC (Elf)

Includes S2E8 of Rings of Power - spoilers ahoy!

Gil-galad had only taken a handful of steps when his gaze passed over yet another collapsed building. From the looks of things, it had once been an open, airy shop that had faced directly into the plaza. The roof had caved in, creating dusty shadows, and even his keen eyes might have missed the slumped figure had he not heard the tiny whimper from the darkness.

Eregion has been destroyed; Sauron is gone. And yet, the sun still shines, as the ruined city holds the last thing that High King Gil-galad had ever expected to find.

Themes: #Idiots in love, #love at first sight, #soulmates, #smut with feelings, #fix-it, #everybody lives

Content Warnings: Explicit content eventually (slow burn), canon-typical violence

Tag List: @morganas-pendragons, @stellar-solar-flare

Dreamcasting: Keri Russell as Linnea

Part 1 (includes A/N and credits)

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Arranging her household had been quite the affair.

Linnea had barely awoken before someone was knocking at her door, and it had proved to be multiple someones. She had hastily dressed as three veiled servants had bustled through her sitting room, laying out food and drink, and had left a woman in their wake who carried a portable writing desk and looked at her with a keen, sharp eye.

“The High King has appointed me to oversee your household, if it pleases you, my lady. I am Adabes.”

Linnea nodded, trusting that Gil-galad would have chosen someone suitable. She took a deep breath, offering Adabes a smile, and motioned to the chairs in front of the fireplace. “Please. Be welcome. Would you like anything? I seem to have…plenty.”

If anything, that was an understatement. The servants had left multiple platters of bread, cheeses, and fruit, as well as a large ewer of hot tea. It was enough to easily feed a dozen people.

“Thank you, no. I assume you will normally take your breakfast with the High King, but, as it is your first morning here…”

Adabes trailed off, raising a brow at her in question. 

A question…or, perhaps, an opportunity. A choice was before Linnea: she could attempt to gloss over all of the things she didn’t know yet, or she could be honest and let Adabes see that there was still so much that she was uncertain about. Adabes could be a valuable ally in the court if she chose to be - if she felt that Linnea had earned her trust and her loyalty. 

“You did right,” Linnea said. “Thank you. I admit, the King and I have not yet spoken about our daily schedules. But I would like to join him, yes.”

Adabes nodded. “It is the King’s habit to rise at dawn and to spend an hour in contemplation before breakfasting in his rooms,” she said. “I shall advise his servants. Is there any particular food or drink I should ensure is provided for you?” 

She was about to say no, that she would be fine with whatever Gil-galad was already eating, when she recognized another opportunity in front of her. Her mother had been fond of saying start as you mean to go on, and if she didn’t express any preferences, that might be taken as a pattern. She did not intend to be a passive queen, considered to have no opinions at all. 

“I enjoy a strong tea in the morning,” she said. “And fresh bread. Our weaving shop in Eregion was across from a bakery, and we would often buy the first loaf of the day from their ovens.”

Adabes inclined her head. She was well-schooled; Linnea suspected that she wouldn’t have displayed any sort of reaction, even if the request had been unreasonable. But there was nothing to indicate that in her voice. “I will see to it,” she promised. “As for the matter of personal attendants - will you require assistance in the morning? Bathing, dressing, and such?”

Linnea had seen the bathing room last night when she had prepared herself for bed. Not only did it have its own hearth for heating water, but the water itself cascaded down one wall, a natural rock formation that the palace must have been built around. It fell into a shallow pool built into the floor where it could be easily scooped out, a luxurious convenience. 

The idea that she might need help with taking a bath…      

Mornings in the shop had been quiet and purposeful; her father liked to go to the bakery while she and her mother dressed themselves for the day and made tea. By the time he returned, they were all ready for a quick breakfast of hot rolls before settling themselves at the looms. On occasion, they would pay a musician to come and play or sing while they worked; otherwise, conversation had been minimal. Customers would come in to browse the finished fabrics; clothiers would come to barter, but the days had passed peacefully. 

Clothiers. She had no idea how her wardrobe might shape up. Perhaps she would need help; Gil-galad likely had a body servant helping him, with how elaborately he dressed. And the Valar knew she’d never paid much attention to her hair, save for ensuring it did not tangle in the threads of the loom. Someone to deal with that would be welcome.

“Yes,” she said, finally answering Adabes. “I believe I would like an attendant.”

Adabes made a note on the paper in front of her. “I will see to it,” she said again. “Now, the High King has informed me that you wish to visit the city? You are in need of clothes and such?”

“Yes.” Linnea nodded emphatically. “I - I have some things from Eregion, but I do not believe they are…suitable.”

If she’d been hoping for a reaction from Adabes - a hint as to whether she was offending propriety already in the simple blue dress she’d donned earlier, her hair loosely braided back - she was disappointed. Nor did she see the confusion that Gil-galad had displayed at the idea that she would wish to go herself rather than have them come to her; Adabes simply nodded yet once more.  

“Your guards await your pleasure,” she said. “Your escort from Eregion has been chosen to continue in your service, excepting Commander Arondir. Is there aught else I might arrange for you now? I understand that - “ she cleared her throat delicately - “that you are still…settling in.”

Oh, that was a true statement if she’d ever heard one. And she needed to talk to Gil-galad more, to find out what he expected of her as well. The previous evening, they had lingered at the Tree, but conversation had not been foremost on the agenda. Her lips tingled, remembering what had been, but she stopped herself from pressing her fingers to her mouth. Adabes was still there, after all.

“Not now,” she murmured. “Thank you. I am sure that in the coming days, I will be able to decide more. Are there ladies of the court, should I consider introductions? Are there gatherings I should attend?” 

Adabes actually smiled that time, and it made Linnea sit up and pay attention.

“My lady,” Adabes said quietly, “Lindon has never had a queen to organize such things. The ladies of the court, those who are not part of it themselves, have been left to their own devices. Your presence is very welcome.”

There was no intrigue in her voice; there was no hint of deception in her eyes. Could Linnea take her words at face value? It was hard to contemplate - stepping back out of her own shoes, she would not fault anyone for finding the entire situation strange, for being less than welcoming to this new Sindar Elf that had waltzed into their city, into their palace, running around with their High King’s ring on her finger. 

But Gil-galad was well-loved. He had ruled for over a thousand years. Perhaps it was not so strange to think that his people would wish him well, would be glad that he had found happiness, however unconventionally it might have come to him. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I appreciate knowing that. And I thank you for your service. I am sure I will come to rely on you. In fact…”

She paused, struck by an idea - another way to show, and earn, that trust.

“...do you have any clothiers you would recommend?” 

Adabes smiled again.

By the time Linnea had been ready to leave, there had been a list. And the list told her that she would indeed come to rely on Adabes in the years to come. 

It had been divided by district, with the names of the shops and the owners all neatly lettered. It had noted which goods she was likely to find pleasing at each establishment, what prices she should expect, and if the shopkeepers were prone to haggling. It was a masterwork of organization; she could not have wished for a more helpful guide.

And payment had also been provided, in the form of a gold cuff bracelet that fitted around her wrist. It was slender, easily hidden beneath her sleeve, but Gil-galad’s seal was picked out on it in diamonds, making it clear that the bearer was royal.

Present this to any merchant in the city, Adabes had said. They will settle accounts with the palace.

There was so much to take in, Linnea was hesitant to buy anything that first day; she wanted to simply look at everything, and then begin making her choices. And all the while, she kept her eye out for a jeweler - that would need to be a return trip, as she had refrained from bringing any of her fabrics with her for trade. But there were several promising options, and she made note of their locations as they walked. Her guards made no complaint; Landir and Hellathas simply trailed her obediently, positioning themselves outside of each shop she chose to stop by.

Her first visit had been a wine shop. She hadn’t quite believed that the bracelet would work, and had desired to test it. Eregion had used a similar system, but Lord Celebrimbor’s servants had been known to most of the city’s merchants, and so no tokens had been required. But Lindon was much larger, and busier, and so she had shown her bracelet when her cup had been brought to her, brimming with a light, floral white. 

And not only had the bracelet elicited a deep bow - and there had certainly been no request for any other payment - but she had, in fact, had to decline the gift of an entire cask of the wine. Settle accounts, indeed. But the test had proved successful, and so emboldened, she had begun working her way through Adabes’ list. 

The sun was setting as she exited yet another clothier. Although she hadn’t wanted to buy much that day, she was still conscious of needing to make some sort of a start. But if there was one thing she knew, it was fabric, and she had found nothing thus far that she had been able to say yes to. 

She was about to call an end to the day and bid them return to the palace, when a small doorway caught her eye across the square.

The shop was in good repair, although modest. The sign outside proclaimed it was another tailor, and through the windows facing the plaza, she could see bolts of fabric in muted colors - greys, soft lavenders, heathered blues, deep greens. Colors she had not found many of in Lindon, and colors that appealed to her own style.

One more stop could not hurt.

She walked quickly across the plaza, opening the door and peering into the dim interior of the shop. “Hello?”

There was no sound, and she stepped fully inside, leaving the guards on the other side of the door. The shop was well-appointed inside; there was a full shelf of fabrics against one wall, bolts of all types and colors. More of the softer colors she’d seen through the windows, but also pale blue satins, white velvets, gold silks - the fabrics of Lindon that she’d already grown accustomed to. She wondered why it hadn’t been on Adabes’ list; part of the reason she’d thought to end the day was because she’d worked her way through all the shops in that particular district.

“My lady?”

Linnea turned, startled.

A young, thin Elf woman had come from the back of the shop, and was eyeing her nervously, twisting her fingers together. Her hair was long and brown, also thin, and her eyes were large and green in her pale, narrow face. She was dressed modestly, in a simple gown of dull green that nevertheless complimented her eyes, and as her fingers moved Linnea saw the gleam of a plain gold wedding band.

“Forgive me,” the woman said, the words coming out in a rush. “I was - my child, he is - forgive me, my lady, how can I serve you?”

Linnea held up a hand. “Be at ease,” she said gently. “I saw your fabrics through the window. I merely stopped to browse.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Are you - would you - can I bring you something in particular? Are you looking for dresses, or a cloak, or…”

Linnea laughed, softly, and offered the Elf a wry smile. “Everything, I fear. I am recently come from Eregion and I - ”

She had meant to say, I did not bring much with me, or perhaps I will need new gowns that are more suitable for Lindon. But she was stunned into silence by the woman’s reaction. 

The seamstress slumped to the floor, her skirts pooling around her, and buried her face in her hands. Soft sobs came from her, and her shoulders shook. 

Linnea froze.

Carefully, she approached the weeping woman, and knelt down beside her on the floor. She didn’t even seem to know that Linnea was there, caught up in her own pain; she continued to cry, and the whimpers were increasing in volume and becoming more ragged. As if a dam had been held together by a single stone that had now become dislodged, and all of the built-up pressure was finally being released.

Linnea gently laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I am so sorry,” she murmured. “I am not sure what I said to cause you such hurt, but I deeply apologize. Would you like me to go?”

The woman moaned softly, and finally dropped her hands. She was still gasping out sobs, but Linnea’s words - or the touch - seemed to have brought her back to herself, at least somewhat. She blinked, clearing the water from her eyes, and managed to shake her head.

“Forgive me, my lady,” she hiccuped. “It is - it is nothing of importance. Please, just allow me a moment and I will be able to show you whatever you wish.”

Linnea raised a brow. “I hope you do not take me for such a fool as to believe that,” she said - still gently, so as to remove any bite from her words, but a firm reminder that she was not, in fact, a fool. “Nor such a heartless beast as to be able to ignore someone who is clearly as much in pain as you are. I am in no hurry. Take the time you need to recover yourself.” 

Slowly, the woman nodded, almost as if against her will. She looked down again - and her large eyes widened even further, and the color drained from her face.

Linnea followed her gaze, and cursed inwardly. Her hand was still on the woman’s shoulder, and her sleeve had ridden up to reveal the bracelet around her wrist. And even in the dim twilight of the shop, the diamonds of the royal seal sparkled. 

And besides that, there was the ring, sitting proudly on her index finger. That shining star, of the same design as the seal, the pearl at its heart. The King's star. The shape itself left no doubt as to the one who had given the ring to her.

“My lady.”

It was sheer horror that tore from the woman’s throat, and she scrambled up with such force that Linnea’s hand practically flew off her shoulder. The moment she regained her feet, she bent into a deep curtsey, staring at the floor, visibly shaking.

“Your Grace,” she whispered. “I - please, I beg your forgiveness. I am not worthy of royal patronage, there are many other tailors that would be pleased to serve you. I can suggest - “

“Stop.”

Linnea stood, and took a deep breath. The woman obviously knew who she was; whether it was the bracelet, the ring, or something else, she was no longer an anonymous customer. And just as before, with Adabes, this was an opportunity for her to show the kind of queen she meant to be.

Start as you mean to go on.

“Stop,” she repeated, more gently that time. “I will not give you my forgiveness, for none is required. And I shall be the judge of who is worthy of my patronage - and I tell you, I have seen many clothiers today, and your shop has been the first with fabrics I feel I can wear. And whatever else I may be, I am a weaver, and my name is Linnea.”

The seamstress slowly looked up. 

Even more slowly, she straightened from her curtsey. 

“I am Eressie,” she whispered. “My lady. Your Grace.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Eressie. Now - will you tell me what caused your upset? For I would hate to repeat such a thing unknowingly.”

“I…”

Her eyes flicked over Linnea’s face. Linnea drew herself up, trying to look stern without being frightening - the last thing she wanted to do was to frighten Eressie again. She must have succeeded, at least somewhat, for the woman’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

“It was…when you said Eregion,” she muttered. “My husband fought there. And he - he did not come home, my lady.”

The pieces fell into place, and Linnea’s heart went out to the poor woman. To have lost her husband was sorrow enough - but she had mentioned a child. 

And ice crawled through her veins at the thought of the same happening to her. Ereinion was King, he was a warrior - who knew when he might have to go forth again? There would always be a risk that she would find herself in Eressie’s shoes, grieving for her husband while attempting to console their children at the same time for the loss of their father. Trying to comfort herself with knowing that it wasn’t forever, that they would all meet again in Valinor, but also knowing that the years and the centuries would stretch an eternity until that day.

She shook off the cold, and inclined her head, closing her eyes briefly in respect for Eressie’s grief. “I am so sorry,” she said softly. “He awaits you in Valinor, but I know that must be little solace now. Especially with a young one.”

“The High King said the days of war were over,” Eressie whispered. “We thought - we thought it was safe to have a child, that the army would not fight again for many years.”

There was nothing Linnea could say that would ease the woman’s pain. Nothing would have eased hers, if she had been the one mourning. And with the loss so recent, perhaps Eressie did not want relief; perhaps she wanted to feel her grief. 

Linnea herself had barely had time for grieving - there had been so much, and grief had, at times, been buried beneath the joy of newfound love. Her heart could not weep - at least, not for sorrow - when Gil-galad was holding her hands in his, when he was looking into her eyes and giving her that soft smile. But on the road, alone in her tent, there had been more than one night where she had crammed her hand into her mouth and cried into her pillow to keep anyone else from overhearing. Perhaps there was a dam in her, too, more solid than Eressie’s but one that would, eventually, break.

But she would have her betrothed to comfort her, when that time came. She would have Ereinion’s strong arms around her, his shoulder to rest her head against.

“I lost my parents,” she murmured. “In the siege. A piece of the city wall crushed our shop. I grieve with you, Eressie. And you have my sorrow for your loss.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

It was the barest whisper, and she sensed that Eressie’s regained composure was as fragile as the thinnest glass. She considered asking about the fabrics again, perhaps offering a distraction, but dismissed the thought in the next moment. No - the sun was setting, and just as with the sunrise, a new dawn would bring a fresh start.

“I will return tomorrow morning,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “I should like to see fabrics for dresses, and any finished gowns in grey, green, or blue. Perhaps lavender, if it is not too bright. After that, we should proceed to nightclothes, undergarments, cloaks, and such - and all should be suitable for court. I trust you are aware of the fashions?”

“I - yes, my lady, I - “

“Good. At first light, then.” 

Without waiting for an answer, Linnea turned and headed towards the door. She had done what she could; the rest would wait until tomorrow. Nothing could replace Eressie’s husband, but creating the entire wardrobe of a queen would at least consume time and thought. It was something.

Her hand was on the door latch when she heard the tiny breath of a reply.

“At first light. Your Grace.”

Come to me when you return, melethel. If you wish it.

Gil-galad had folded the note and tucked it beneath the vase on the table by Linnea’s hearth. He hadn’t picked the contents himself, of course - the High King did not go strolling through fields gathering wildflowers - but he had given careful instructions, and those who had collected them had followed his commands exactly.

Roses. Lilies of the valley, fragile and beautiful. Sweet peas, delicately fragrant. Cornflowers, providing spots of strong blue color in the rest of the predominantly pink and white bouquet. It was small, unassuming; he already knew, even after a handful of moments, that Linnea was not one for ostentatious displays. But he wanted to do something, to show her that he had thought of her that day. 

He had told his guards he was retiring early, and he hadn’t missed the smiles they had tried their best to hide as he closed his door. 

And so, he waited.

It was peaceful as the sun set; it was a chance to catch up on the various things he had to read, letters he needed to answer, along with enjoying a glass of wine. He had never minded solitude, especially as the days of his reign mounted - those moments had only grown more precious. But as he read, as he wrote, one ear was listening for any noise from the stairs down to Linnea’s rooms.

The queen’s rooms.

In his heart, she already was. However long it took before their wedding and her coronation, she already wore the crown. 

The sunlight had faded and the stars had come out, shining dimly, before he heard her door open and close. Her steps walking across the room - yes, she was almost at the hearth…

A soft clink. The crinkle of paper unfolding. 

He could not hear her reaction, but he pictured it in his mind, flattering himself by assuming that his note would make her smile. The paper in her elegant hands; perhaps she would read it again and smile more, the bow of her lips drawing wider.

Another crinkle. Was she refolding it? Then more steps.

Steps coming closer.

Steps beginning to ascend the stairs.

Gil-galad rose from the desk, trying to calm the fluttering in his stomach as he walked from his study into the main room. And he had just reached the hearth, when she appeared in the arched opening that led down to the staircase.

Just as he’d pictured, she was smiling. 

He let his eyes drink her in. He hadn’t seen her since the previous evening when they’d parted after returning from the Tree, and it felt like it had been far too long. She was still dressed simply - but she could have been wearing sackcloth and still been stunning. 

His ring sparkled on her finger. 

She didn’t speak immediately, but she crossed to him at the hearth, keeping their eyes locked together. He waited there, watching her and marveling at her quiet grace, until she was close enough to touch. 

Slowly, he reached for her. And she came to him, his arms going around her waist and her hands resting on his shoulders. Her chestnut hair was bound in a long braid, and he felt the softness of it brush his hands where they spread against her back.  

Linnea’s face tipped up, and he saw what she wanted in her crystal-blue eyes, and it was something he was very, very willing to give her.

He kissed her softly at first, a few brushes of his lips against hers. Then more, longer - he was learning what she liked, what made her shiver in his arms. Not that she was neglecting him, oh no; she was learning too, responding to him and giving just as much as he was. And even more than the touch of her hands, the taste of her mouth was the feeling that she wanted him; she was pressing her body against his tightly, urgency threading into her kiss. 

It had been the same the previous night, at the Tree. The same fire had licked at his very bones, stoked by kiss after kiss, tempting him to make his offer again. 

Say it, melethel. You have but to ask it of me. You will be mine by sunrise, and I will be yours.   

But he had swallowed the words. He had already told her it was up to her; she had heard him when he had said that if she asked, they would have married right then and there. It was her choice, and she had agreed that they could take time to get to know one another. He would not pressure her to change her mind.  

Their wedding - and the wedding night - would come soon enough. 

He felt Linnea sinking back down onto her feet, and he loosened his arms as their lips separated. She was smiling as he opened his eyes, and he lifted his hand, gently trailing his fingertips down her cheek and over the side of her neck.

She shuddered, and a tiny oh escaped her.

For a moment, concern flared in him that she hadn't liked the touch - but in the next, he processed the soft sound, and he realized that it was quite the opposite.

So he did it again. Slower, that time, letting his fingers deliberately linger on her skin, even as he held her gaze. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment and then reopened, and they were dark and hazy - the look of desire that he'd already come to know.

She wanted him.

For all his offers of now, his heart sped up thinking about it. Of course, he knew what their wedding night would entail, but it was far different thinking about it with Linnea. She deserved everything he could give her, every bit of pleasure; yes, they would learn over the years together, but he wanted even their first time to be perfect.

How best to ensure that, given his non-existent practical experience, was a thought for later. 

He let his hand grow still, filing away in his mind that she enjoyed being touched this way, and leaned down to press his forehead against hers. Their duties would mean that these moments would become precious, too - and he found he very much did not mind the thought of her joining his previously solitary time.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she whispered. “They were lovely to return home to.”

Home.

He finally lifted his head and opened his eyes, releasing her. “I am glad you liked them,” he murmured. “Did you enjoy your day of visiting the city? Were you able to find what you need?”

A shadow crossed her face. Her eyes lowered to the floor, and instantly he was on alert. Lindon was safe, nothing could have befallen her there, but -

“I found a dressmaker,” she said softly. “A widow. With a child. She lost her husband to the siege.”

He let out a sigh, partly of relief, and partly of sorrow. Gently, he took Linnea’s hands back in his, running his thumbs over the backs. “There is always a cost,” he murmured. “It was no light decision. But that does not change the price.”

“Price,” she repeated. “And what if it is you that has to pay it?”

That was the darkness on her face, then. Now he understood the urgency in her kiss. Desire, yes - but also fear, fear that she would lose him to a battle someday, to an enemy’s sword or lance or arrows.  

“Melethel,” he said quietly. As he did so, he tightened his hold on her hands, pulling them slightly to make sure she would look at him. “We cannot know what the future holds. Our enemy is at large; we prepare for war, and eventually, it will come. As King, I must lead. And it may be that one day that cost will be mine to bear. But for today, and for all the days to come, I will not surrender our joy for shadows that may never fall on us.”       

Ereinion. Come.

That image flashed in his head again, of Linnea relaxing in front of the fire, growing heavy with their child. Another joy that awaited them.    

“Nor will I,” she whispered. “Sevil i veleth nîn. Whatever may come.”

“And you have mine.” He raised her hands, pressing them against his heart. “I cannot promise you that we will never be parted. But that you have my love, now and always - that I can, freely and gladly.”

She leaned against him, sliding her arms around him and holding him tight, and he did the same, resting his cheek against the top of her head. For several long moments, he just held her, offering the comfort of his touch and his body - and cherishing it, treasuring the feel of her against him.  

“Come,” he murmured finally, his lips brushing her hair. “Let us speak of more pleasant matters. I understand you will join me for breakfast each morning?”

His intent had, indeed, been just as he had said: there was joy, and what might not ever be did not belong here, now. And it appeared to work; Linnea took a deep breath, offering him a small smile as his arms loosened. “Yes. Unless, of course, you object.”

He laughed, crossing to the sideboard where a flagon of wine awaited, as well as two empty goblets. “Object? To my queen’s company?” he teased gently, as he poured for them both. “My lady, I would spend every moment of the next five centuries with you, and count myself the most fortunate being in all of Arda.” He turned, picking up the glasses, and handed her one. “I will delight in your face being the first one I behold when the sun rises.”

Her cheeks turned pink, and he realized what he’d said. And how it could be interpreted.

She raised the glass to her lips and sipped, with a knowing smile. And when she lowered it, her answer was a soft, loving purr with no shadow on it at all.

“Then I shall see you every morning, my lord.”

He had to take a breath at that, at the sheer jolt of desire that that image conjured up. This was not the ring; this was his own mind, picturing her coming slowly awake in his bed, her chestnut curls tousled from sleep. Her skin glowing against the sheets - her bare skin. Her smile, lazy and satisfied in the aftermath of pleasure, her body tangled with his. 

Soon. 

Continue to Part 6

[rapunzelbro]

The amount of times I have refreshed the angel dust x reader tag----Anywayyyy, I dunno if you do hurt/comfort (if not that's okay please ignore this lol) but here is a idea for a oneshot! GN!reader x angel dust where they're in a secret relationship because he's trying to protect you at all cost from his boss (reader can know about his situation or not its up to you!) but Valentino somehow found out about it and is pissed about it. You can use creative freedom to fill in the angst parts and whatever happens next, but please make it have a happy ending ^^

Imagine being in a Secret Relationship with Angel

Omg yeah I can! I wish there were more too so haha I shall provide I suppose. This is uh. Super angst. But I promise it’ll be a happy ending lmao I promise. Thank you for requesting. Just a reminder yall my requests are still open! Just give as much details and I’ll make it happen. Anywho enjoy!

Masterlist Character Taglist

Being in a relationship with Angel Dust wasn’t often easy, Well at first that is.

When you first met Angel he always had his guard up, on some sort of drug at all times, and pushed serious conversations aside with Sexual remarks to drop the conversation entirely

So when you were able to actually break his walls months later, it was honestly a shock to you. Because damn was he stubborn. Honestly you didn’t think it would be possible

He started telling you small things about himself after the first month of letting his walls down, introducing you to Fat nuggets, and watching movies with you.

After the third month, he tells you his real name is Anthony. You said it suits him and you swear you see him blush

The fourth month is when you ask him out. He is super hesitant on accepting, but you don’t push him for an answer, he later comes in your room

“Y/N.. I.. I want to say yes, but I’m so terrified ya know? I just can’t I don’t know what would happen”

“Why would you be terrified?”

He tells you everything. Everything about the man who tears him apart, the man who hurts him on the daily.

He is trying to hard to explain how terrified he is of you getting hurt, and all you can do is gently take his hands as you look at him

“Angel, nothing will happen, no one needs to know but us. If you’re scared still, I get that, I’ve been there before. But I’m not scared of that prick, and he won’t find out okay?”

He finally makes eye contact with you and he begins to calm down, hugging you as you two just sit in silence before he quietly responds

“Then, I accept”

It’s months after that when he introduced you to his Best friend Cherri. You two are super hesitant about telling her, but you eventually decide to.

She’s super super happy for you two but don’t think she won’t get super protective

Will pull you aside at the club when Angel isn’t there

“If you hurt Angel you and I are going to have a problem okay? You break his heart I break you”

Yeah she scared the fuck out of you for that. Angel never did find out about your conversation.

It’s been almost a year of hiding your relationship when it suddenly begins to turn sour

The calls from Valentino, get more frequent, more violent on the phone.

Angel comes back to the hotel limping, bruised and bloody

You practically sprint and grab him, carrying him to his room take care of him the best you can, talk to him when he is ready, or be a shoulder to cry on.

Angel doesn’t know why Valentino is being more violent, he didn’t do anything wrong, he kept your relationship so quiet that it was basically impossible for him to know about you two

Except Valentino did find out. He heard Angel talking in his dressing room to you, he investigated throughly after Angel said I love you, to you.

Valentino got Vox to look at the cameras around Hell, he saw you two together. You don’t hold hands at all, not in public, if it wasn’t for that phone call, he wouldn’t of thought anything of it

“That little whore is going to fucking pay”

You and Angel are at Val’s bar after Angel reassured you he wouldn’t be there. You two are talking when Angel stands up to grab you more shots

That’s when Valentino appears, gun pressed up to the back of your head

“I Wouldn’t move an inch if you want to live perra tonta~”

You’re absolutely frozen as can be. You don’t move a bit as he leans closer to you

“I have all eyes on you, I know you’re with Angel Dust, you’re fucking with my property. Now here’s how things are going to go down tonight if you want your precious Angel Cakes to live. You’re going to break up with him, and stay the FUCK away from him. Do I make myself clear?”

You are silent visibly shaking as he presses the gun harder as he becomes impatient with you

“Do I make myself clear!”

He sounds absolutely pissed as you quickly nod your head frantically

“Perfect, now fucking leave”

You don’t have time to explain to Angel Dust but you leave before he makes it back with your shots, Valentino is no where to be found.

“Y/n? Where did you go” “Amore mio?”

You didn’t reply to his texts, you didn’t know what to do, you were trapping yourself in your room.

You were in a panicked state as the tears just didn’t seem to stop, nothing made sense, you two were so so careful? How did you fuck up?

Angel knocked at your door. No answer. He knocked again before he eventually used the spare key you gave him, which you forgot about

Angel instantly rushed over to you when he saw you crying, which caused you to flinch

He instantly froze in his tracks when he saw you flinch, concern building

“Y/N what happened.. why are you crying”

You are struggling through sobs as you explain what happened, Angel is so fucking pissed he can hardly contain it but has to for you, he just listens as he sits next to you

“Amore mio, i shouldn’t of I left you alone I’m so sorry. I don’t know how that asshole found out but I’m not fucking this relationship up because of him”

“But he will kill me”

“Sweetie, there’s a thing called acting you know, all we have to do is play the part, pretty easy for me, as you’ve seen.”

He takes your hands with a slight smirk

“I’m not letting him fuck this up okay? Who cares what he thinks? Val is literally blind as shit, I’m surprised he even knew it was you. Probably had to have someone point you out to him”

Yeah that made you laugh, which Angel was thankful for.

For then on, you two had your ‘breakup’. You were never seen in public together, or not without disguises. You had most dates alone at the hotel together

You weren’t letting the one good thing to happen end because of a stupid fucking moth

And he wasn’t going to either.

Angel Dust tag list: @vendetta-ari @brithedemonspawn @satansmanager @storydays @saturnhas82moons @zamadness @fizziepopangel @saitisfied @the--rebel--fae @mcueveryday @rainbowbunny15 @molarloo

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: A very lecherous gift for you authors and readers.

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You have been tricked into believing one of your bonded’s needed your help, and they do, but it turns out it was much more. Way much more.

𝕬𝖉𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖘: Hura, Darsas & Blasius are bonded to the reader only for this despicable story. This is not canon.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams(It is almost exhausting to wright for 4 characters. How did you do your lovely Raven bois?), @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

𝐒𝐞𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐎𝐂’𝐬: Hura by @/gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan & Darsas by @/sleepyfan-blog.

TW // Smut, Foursome, Breeding, Boobies, Marking, Overstimulation, Tentacles.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

Oh, how you should have known better than to trust one of your fellow friends that had called for you. Telling you that one of your lovers, mates, spouses, bonded has not been feeling well. Especially Hura, an Astartes of great strength and mystery to him as well as an Apothecary: A Astartes skilled in medicine.

So, the Astartes medic should have been alright, right? Though, by being a loving spouse. You choose to be ignorant of how your friend said those warning words to you. All full of snarkiness and hidden amusement, and yet… You continued on to see how your lover was doing, checking up on him. Fearing no one would help him despite being a well known Astartes.

Oh, how you should have known from the start.

“Hura!” You cry, arching your back into the bed as the Apothecary has his hand positioned lightly on the back of your head, pushing you down and keeping you pinned into his mattress. His huffing, hot breaths painting across that back of your neck as you can feel how his cock twitched inside of you, spilling his warm seed deep into your womb. His lips then nibbling; biting at the back of your neck.

“So sweet, little mouse.” Hura purrs down at you, gently into your ear. Sending a shiver down your spine. His form thrusting a few times when you do, gaining that little bit of extra friction while he groans. Pumping more of his seed into you. “Coming to my aid.”

“Perhaps, I shall call for you more often?” The Death Guard Apothecary thinks to himself. His breath tickling your neck as he started up again, slowly thrusting in and out of your marked walls. Your body completely melting underneath him as you bite into the sheets, muffly moaning into them. Not really expecting him to go at it again after a round or two, maybe more? “You seem so willing, so pretty…”

Hura doesn’t seem that he is quite done with you. Not at all actually… He can finally breed you with almost reckless abandon while you were just trying to help him with his situation after all. Walking into him at the wrong time. A time where most would prioritize this certain situation and should take a leave for it.

Admitly, you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into at first, but with a couple well played coos, praises and soft words towards you. You eventually inch closer to him, and he had you right where he wanted you. Nude and willing to provide relief for him.

The Apothecary can feel you withering underneath him, moaning and crying out for him, biting into the sheets below you. Pleasured tears running from your eyes as you didn’t expect such intense of an intercourse from a gentle Apothecary like Hura himself. It was not many times he would be so sexually driven to the point where he was rough and deep like he were to… like he was trying to breed you. Yet here he was, going at you once more, again and again. Driving your mind numb with your only thoughts about being him and only him.

Oh, such a sweet thing you are. You should know their breeding times. He has taught you all this before. Some have these… primal, sexual desires; the need to breed while others were more… normal as they can be. Telling you how overwhelming it can be for a baseline human like you. How most do not stop until they are satisfied with how well they stuff you with their mark, their kin and Hura the Apothecary was no exception to these delicious whims.

Soon as you entered through the doors of his quarters he doesn’t hesitate to lure you over. Cooing and talking to you softly, getting you ever closer to him before he snags you. Bringing you into a very intoxicating kiss. A kiss that has you buckling your knees and falling right into his hands. If you were to refuse the kiss, (which you didn’t.) He would have let you go, let himself suffer the primal drive of an aching cock. Though, he could always ask the other bonds to see if they can provide him the relief he craves for…

He groans again, pressing himself up against you more, squishing you lightly into his sheets. His own armored chest pressing gently up against your back, completely covering you in him: his scent, his mark, his body. Enjoying how well you taste on his rotting tongue as he continually nibbles and kitten licks all over your skin, pleasing his senses well.

“You are like the nectar out of the Garden of Decay.” He rumbles, his chest vibrating through his armor. His tongue giving you a lick at the back of your neck before returning to his mouth, savoring your taste with a hum. His nose coming in to nuzzle into the side of your neck, inhaling your scent. Comforting him that you wouldn’t leave him any time soon. That you would be stuck with him until he is finished with you.

“Rightfully sweet and savory.” He mumbles, purring into your skin. Shifting a bit against your back so you cannot wiggle without him allowing you to do so. One of his hands grasping at your hips while the other holds him from absolutely squishing you beneath his armor and weight. “I wonder if you taste just as good from the inside just as you do out?”

He knows the answer to that one, but he can’t help question it over and over again, like he almost forgets your taste, and by Nurgle he will swear that he won’t. It’s why he has to come back for more. To feel you move and rut into his face while his tongue explores the depths of your baseline anatomy. Drinking up anything your body can give him.

His body shivers as he climaxes again, nuzzling into you more. His hand on your hip keeping you in place as he can feel you shiver and whine; whimpering into the sheets. His cock twitching and stilling all the way inside of you, keeping you full of him.

Tucking his head into your neck. He snuggles on top of you all while keeping track of how much you can take from him. If you need any water or snacks for him to provide you with… your more fragile body. Listening to your stuttering breaths and slobbering moans you voice through his sheets as he purrs lightly at you, comforting you.

“You are doing so well for me, little mouse.” He praises, raising up a little from your body to look down at you properly on his bed. Keenly observing how your body was pinned tightly beneath him and how you were shaking slightly. His Apothecary side coming out just a bit. “Do you need any water, any food? Would you like to continue?”

“N-no, just want you.” It takes you a moment to respond considering his cock was still inside of you practically cockwarming you, and he had just railed you like… three times or more? “Always want you.”

“Oh, such sweet words my little mouse.” He can’t help but purr down at you. Placing his gauntlets on your ass and giving it a little squeeze. “Don’t let Blasius hear you say that.”

“Don’t let Blasius hear what?” Another, masculine voice comes out of nowhere. A figure of armor walking into the room and closing the door behind them. Restricting access to those who were not permitted in Huras quarters.

“Ah, Darsas…” The Apothecary coos at him, not at all bothered by his sudden appearance. In fact, it pleases him more to know that his other bond was doing okay. “How are you?”

“I knew I felt something… primal going on here.” Darsas comments, either ignoring Huras question or too enraptured with that was going on in this room. His form kneeling down on the side of the bed; next to you. His gauntlet coming up to gently pat you on the head.

“Should have told me you were in your season, Hura. I would have also provided you.” Darsas states to him, looking up to the Apothecary while still patting your head. “I know how you are during your time of… need.”

“I would have summoned you, but it seems little mouse had wanted to aid me…” Hura responds, gently squeezing your ass again. Thrusting a little bit inside of you. Hearing you whine out and push up against Darsas gauntlet on your head.

“Is that so?” The Psyker hums, looking down at you. Inching a bit closer so he can caress your head, going from your scalp to your jawline; gently hooking your chin with his armored finger, making you look up at him. His dark brown, almost black eyes taking in your hazy, blissed out ones from beneath his helmet.

A tiny crack sounds out from Darsas while his helmet spits where his mouth would be. Not splitting up into different sections of a mouth, simply just like taking off a piece of his helmet. Showing his mouth littered with needle sharp teeth, and a long tongue escaping his mouth, rolling like a snake before slowly drags it up your cheek, tasting you. His saliva staining your skin with his smell.

“Such a sweet little mouse, isn’t she?” Hura asks Dursas, gently massaging your ass as he thrusts slowly inside of you. Groaning a bit as he can feel you tighten around him.

“Hmmm, very sweet.” Darsas agrees with a hum, moving his tongue along your face. Going from your cheek, jawline, chin then your lips. Prodding at them, asking you to open up. Purring at you when you do. His tongue evading your mouth, taking it over. Swirling around your own, trapping it. His saliva mixing with yours, and it is a bit more thicker and hotter.

You try and recuperate with them, but it hard when you have a medic in his cycle behind you that has railed you multiple times already, and you can’t remember how many times. Then, you have the Psyker in front of you, making your mouth his. Tasting you for all your worth, making sure not to leave anything untouched.

“Darsas…” You manage to moan out, muffled by his tongue. Your shaky hands coming up to grasp tightly at his helmet. Unsure if you wanted to push them both away because of their intensity or not… They were being so soft with you, going slow and letting you recover before starting up again. It was almost like they had found an infinite cycle to fuck you at a rewarding pace.

“Yes, little flower?” He purrs, pulling his tongue out of your mouth and licking the excess saliva from your lips, making sure you stay clean. Knowing how Hura can be…

“I— hah! Fuck…” You curse and shiver, grasping onto his helmet more harshly, tucking him into the top of your chest. Another wave of bliss over coming over you while your body shivers and melts into him. A thick warm feeling going through your nerves and womb as Hura coos down at you. Leaning over again to nip at your shoulders.

“Pretty little mouse.” The Apothecary praises in your ear, giving you a couple more thrusts, making you rock into Darsas as the Psyker rumbles lightly at you. His gauntlets gently coming up to rest on the sides of your torso, liking the feeling of your naked breasts being pressed up against his helmet. “So helpful, so tasteful, all ours…”

Darsas purrs into your chest. Once again agreeing with Hura, shaking his head a little bit. His tongue coming back out to slot right between your breasts, lapping at you slowly and curling around the curves of your chest. His gauntlets squeezing your sides lightly as he can feel your breath stutter at his sudden actions to feast on you.

The Apothecary breeding you chuckles, leaning back up to trace the spine of your back. Pressing his armored fingers gently into your back, up and down. Watching how you keen into his touch, very sensitive to both of them. He wonders how much longer you can take before you need to take a very needed, and rewarding break; in other means, grateful aftercare.

Hura attention snaps up to Darsas as the Psyker suddenly whines. His Apothecary senses going wild that something may have happened when he released that Blasius had somehow came into his room. The more… animalistic Death guard pulling Darsas back gently from their little mouses’ chest, rumbling deeply down at him, giving the Psyker a gentle nuzzle to the side of his helmet.

How did Hura not notice the other Death Guard, his other bond come in? He was sure he would have noticed him, but he supposes not. The cycles does tend to make some oblivious to their surroundings, but very aware of the bonds.

Either way, he is strangely happy that he had all his bonds around him. A content purr coming out of him as he watches the two other Death Guards nuzzle on one another. Though, he not one to leave out his little mouse. His gauntlet coming down to grasp at her waist and pull her back into him.

She gives him a little whine at the sudden movement. Her hands coming to grasp back at him. Nuzzling into his vambrace when he wraps his arms around her front, keeping her up against him as he was still inside of her walls, cockwarming her. His nose nuzzling the top of her head before kissing her neck.

“Look what you have done, little mouse.” Hura coos into her ear, making her shiver on his cock. His gauntlets slowly tracing her front up and down. “Made us all eager.”

“Can you go one more round, little mouse? Hmmm?” He asks, still aware that you were just a human. He didn’t want t break you, and that would leave a heavy mark on him if he did. He was an Apothecary, not so much of a killer… unless he had to be.

You not sure if you could go another around. Sure, you loved the sex, but it can go on for too long and put a strain on your body. Plus, you know better to but upfront with all your Death Guard’s. Especially, with Hura. No one ever plays with the medic unless he wants to himself.

“I-I’m not sure.” You stammer tiredly, but still buzzing with almost numb pleasure while you glance at Blasius and Drasas. Both of them getting into a bit of a power struggle with their tentacles. Trying to see who would fold first, and with Blasius having more tentacles than Drasas… it is an unfortunate advantage for Blasius as he uses them to wrap around Drasas own and under the poor Psyker armor. A surprised sound coming out of Drasas then a heavy gasp when Blasius uses everything in his advantage to dominate. One of other tentacles coming out to go under Darsas helmet and drag along where his hair would be. Knowing just what makes any of his bonds, partners tick.

If he wants to breed, he’ll make it happen with all the best advances. Using everything out of a book or a… specialist is such matters. Though, the whole room is a bit lucky Blasius is not in such a mood, not they wouldn’t finding it rather exciting…

“That’s alright, little mouse.” Hura hums into her ear, nuzzling just right below her earlobe. Glad that she wasn’t going to try and push herself, even with him in such a… “horny” state. Learning such a word from a peculiar Emperor child. “We always have tomorrow.”

“T-tomorrow?” You hesitate to even recite that word back to him. Your mind trying to comprehend doing such heavy acts again tomorrow. Your walls tightening around him at the thought…

Hura laughs lightly at you then rumbles when he feels you tighten around him. His body shifting a bit to hit your g-spot in return in a teasing manner. “Yes, tomorrow. You are not leaving my quarters untill I dismiss you.”

You can’t help but groan at his words, leaning back into him more. Sometimes, you hate Apothecaries like any other normal person and Astartes alike… So bossy… “You’re going to have to give me a doctor’s notice…”

The Apothecary laughs at you again, nuzzling into your neck before he slowly lifts you off his hard cock that was going to be that way for a few weeks… His hands adjusting you carefully up against his armor and heading for his bathroom. “Of course, little mouse. Let’s leave these too to… explore for themselves.”

You nod at that, grateful that Hura is always so caring. Your body snuggling up into his arms as you catch a brief glance of the Blasius and Darsas. Their armor shifting as Blasius hisses at the Psyker to stay still. He is just trying to tease the hell out of his second most sensitive lover. :(