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targaryen-dynasty · 11 months ago

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STRESS RELIEF.

Daemon Targaryen x female!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; implied canon typical incest/ targcest (no named relationship other than husband & wife but reader speaks high valyrian), oral (m receiving), balls sucking, balls worship, cock slapping, breeding kink, fem reader (no mentions of appearance)

WORDS: 2.9 K

NOTES: I KNOW I said you won't get anything from me for the next two weeks, but this is an old story I love and edited, and I'm always in the mood to suck his balls. Ty Lana @zaldritzosrose 🤍

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

The door to your chambers bursting open with a thud, the thick wood slamming against the old masonry of Maegor’s Holdfast, is what forcefully pulls you out of your slumber.

As your eyes shoot open, you need a few seconds to adjust to the dim light of your chambers, the flame of the fireplace long extinguished and indicating it’s been a while since you found sleep.

Every sense of tiredness that has lingered in your bones vanishes suddenly at the noisy intrusion, more so as you spot the armor-clad silhouette of your husband standing at the threshold of your marital quarters.

He appears to be even more bulky and bull-like with the natural broadness of his shoulders accentuated by the heavy armor and the golden cloak, and just that sight alone has an aching desire filling your veins.

It’s the closer look you take that makes you aware of his labored breathing, chest rising and falling with heaving breaths, almost seeming as though he’s in great stress.

Whenever Daemon barges into your chambers at this hour, still wearing his armor, you know he needs to be consoled and pampered.

“Husband?” Your soft voice finally pierces through the silence, still thick with sleep from being awoken so abruptly.

A few, determined strides is all it takes him to enter the room, closing the door behind him as loudly as he’s opened it before. Although you know something is plaquing his mind, and that he’s not usually as harsh towards you as this, you still flinch at the thud.

Sitting up straight with the bedcovers bunched in front of your breasts, you have a puzzled look on your face. One of the few things Daemon has established fairly early into your marriage was the strict prohibition of you wearing any kind of smallclothes or nightgowns to bed, as he wants you to lie just as bare next to him as he always does.

He always states that there are quite a few practical reasons for it, with easier and quicker access to your cunt being the main one of them. Albeit you know for certain that he just loves to feel your skin on his when he falls asleep, solely embraced by the warmth and softness of your body snuggled up against his.

Clashing of metal accompanies his heavy footsteps as he approaches you, stern gaze fixed on your small frame.

The closer he gets, the more you are able to make out his chiseled features with long strands of his silver-blonde hair framing them perfectly. Even in the almost non-existent light of your chambers you notice the dark blown eyes, the adored lilac almost fully eclipsed by pitch black.

“Va aōha ybon,” he rasps, voice deep and commanding, and leaving no space for any kind of objection. On your knees.

You comply swiftly, the bedcovers thrown aside to reveal your naked form. A somewhat feral growl ripples through your husband’s chest at the sight, the curves and dips of your body enhanced by the light the moon casts through the windows.

The stone floor feels cold and hard as you sink to your knees, causing you to shift your weight from one knee to the other and back, trying to mend the discomfort at least slightly.

It usually requires your help to strip him off his heavy armor, but much to your surprise, Daemon manages to shred himself out of the majority of it all by himself, driven by sheer lust and hunger for you.

Where his silver hair is usually well combed and neat, the loose tresses now cascade down his shoulders and back visibly tousled and dirty.

Your hands lie folded in your lap, thumbs brushing over each other in a way to keep yourself calm. You have been married to Daemon for two summers, but know his silence never means anything good. It is threatening, and more often than not getting you into trouble, because he always has something to say.

As he stands in front of you in his full glory, only clad in a pair of dark breeches and a loose tunic, you hesitantly reach to place a hand on his sturdy thigh while his hand cups your cheek in return. Finding yourself leaning into the touch, you’re quickly repulsed as you catch a whiff of what smells like sweat, dirt and… iron.

“What have you done today?“ you ask innocently, though you aren’t sure if you want to hear his reply – that means if you even get one.

While the pad of his thumb brushes over the curve of your lips, his other hand slowly unlaces the front of his breeches, easing the confines of his half-hard member, and causing a wave of arousal to seep out of your cunt, anticipation making it clench around nothing.

“Oh, we have restored law and order,“ he purrs, the cocky smirk on his lips indicating that he’s more than satisfied with the outcome of it all. “The Kingsguard cleaned the streets from the city‘s scum.“

Listening intently, you just nod in acknowledgement, not at all surprised by your husband‘s actions. “And does the king know you did that?“

“I do not care if the king knows or not,“ he spits, impatiently tugging the front of his breeches down just enough to free his cock and stones. “He is blind, guided by the incompetent leech that claims to be his hand.“

A musky scent hits your nose when you catch sight of his thick cock. His musky scent, mixed with the salty smell of sweat. It has you licking your lips like a greedy whore, and if anything, you love it. It’s a sharp reminder that you have married a hardworking and ambitious man, and not a boy.

Your hand instinctively curls around his member, your index finger and thumb barely touching. His girth has always been something that impresses you. He’s considerable, leaving you wondering at times how it even fits into your mouth and cunt.

You slowly tug him to full hardness, stroking him the way you know he likes, even though your pace is a bit slower than usual. You listen to him rant about his brother, and the insolence of his hand, Otto Hightower, merely humming whenever your husband expects you to.

Once his cock stands to full attention, throbbing in your hand, you release it and instead fondle his stones, heavy and hot in your hand. The fleshy pouch they sit in is a bit darker than the rest of his pale skin and visibly sagged, but doesn’t hang too low.

Your actions earn a disapproving tsk from Daemon, despite the visible twitching of his cock at the new stimulation, and he wastes no time in fisting a good bit of your hair to shove your face towards his crotch. The scent is more prominent the closer you get, but not at all repulsing. Instead, it arouses you even more.

You’re not sure if it’s Daemon‘s usual lack of patience or his abnormal obsession with the king and his entourage that makes him greedy and needy for your touch, but you decide to not give in to him so easily.

Gently squeezing and fondling the sack of his stones, your tongue licks a flat stripe from the base of his member up to the bulbous tip of it. A salty taste lingers on your tongue, the few beads of his arousal quickly gathered and swallowed by you. You hum appreciatively at the taste, seemingly pleased to witness the affect your touch and presence has on your husband‘s body.

A sharp tug on your hair catches your attention and makes you yelp, your wide eyes finding your husband‘s demanding ones. “Quit playing games,“ he growls. A warning. But he should know by now that you are not one of his hounds, and what works with them doesn’t necessarily intimidate you.

Your tongue swirls around the tip of his cock, kitten-licking it until his heavy pants are replaced by annoyed huffs and grunts. Daemon doesn’t like you teasing him – not when he craves relief.

You keep your eyes neatly trained on him, studying his changing expressions to know whenever you’re playing with fire, and when it is best to follow his commands. Switching the positions of your mouth and hand, warmth brushes your face before the familiar musk seeps into your head.

Closing your eyes as all your senses are clouded by him, you latch on Daemon’s sac of stones, nuzzling your nose into the dark, coarse hair to take one of them in your mouth. Low purrs ripple from your throat, sending vibrations through his body.

You haven’t noticed, but your thighs clench and unclench repeatedly with each suck of your mouth, trying to soothe the aching settling at the apex of your legs. However, it doesn’t grant you the friction you crave.

“My, my, now look at that,“ Daemon coos. “Sucking my stones like a common whore. So desperate to have your mouth filled by me, hm?“

The condescending tone of his voice sends shivers up your spine, and you keen at the degrading nature of his words, moaning around his slightly slacked flesh.

Daemon is unable to tear his dark blown eyes from your full mouth struggling to take both of his stones. You’re trying so hard, but your mouth isn’t slack enough, causing you to nearly choke yourself trying to please him.

Droplets of your saliva dribble from the corners of your mouth down your chin, gathering in your jugular notch, and really making you look like you belong to the Street of Silk; a common whore desperate for her mouth to be stuffed by something, and not caring if it was filled by his stones or cock.

While you are messily suckling the sack of his stones, you tease a few licks up his length, tracing the prominent vein on the underside of it with the tip of your tongue.

You relish in the way he twitches and squirms under your touch, the deep grunts only spurring you on even more. But you also are soaked for him, core clenching and aching, begging to be used.

Daemon has started to tug himself off at the sight of your lips around his flesh, big hand the perfect size for his considerable length, while his other tightly fists into your hair to keep you where he wants you.

You hollow your cheeks around him, sucking with the tip of your tongue dragging over the sensitive skin. The familiar taste of manhood lingers on your tongue, and your jaw goes slack, finally managing to engulf his whole sac with your mouth. But when you try to pull away for a breath, Daemon only snorts and pulls you right back to his stones.

He harshly tugs on your hair, tilting your head back so you are forced to look at him when he slaps his hard cock against your face. Your saliva adds a sheen to his flushed skin, making him glisten in the dim light, and catches your attention, your eyes trailing over the length of his cock – you want nothing more than to feel those veins on your tongue.

As his cock repeatedly makes contact with your swollen lips and cheeks, the indecency of it all sends heat straight through your body, for it’s the first time he has ever done something like that.

Daemon bows forward, looming over your frame but coming close enough for you to feel his breath fanning over your face. Goosebumps prickle on your skin, and his intense lilac eyes send desire straight to your jumbled mind.

“What a wanton harlot you are,” his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Whores of the Silk Street do such things.”

While his degrading words go straight to your head, making you eager for more, you still cower beneath his dominating presence. “Yn ao hae ziry,” you reply, cocking your head sideways in an innocent way. But you like it.

It seems that your feigned innocence doesn’t convince him, because you suddenly feel something warm and wet dripping down your cheeks; his saliva. He has spat on your cheek, spreading it over your heated skin with a satisfied smirk ghosting over his features. Daemon rarely enjoys having you talk back at him, to tease him, and right now clearly isn’t one of those moments.

At the realization of what he’s just done, you feel your voice tighten in your throat, your lips pressing into a thin line as embarrassment floods your veins.

“Gaoman, yn…,” he muses, bending back and tracing the tip of his length along the slit of your pouty lips. “...nyke hae ziry tolī skori gaomā daor ȳdragon rȳ mirre.” With these words leaving his lips, his cock hits your cheek once again, almost as if he’s making fun of you. I do, but I like it more when you do not speak at all.

The grip on your hair loosens only for him to cup your cheek, fingertips digging sharply into the flushed skin of your cheeks. His other hand repeatedly taps the tip of his cock against your swollen lips in a demanding manner, begging for entrance.

“Open your mouth, or else I am opening it for you.”

You wet your lips, just the mere thought of having him down your throat causes a sense of soreness to linger in the back of it, and Daemon seems to notice your apprehension.

“I see your mouth begging for my cock, you filthy slut. Don’t act like an insufficient brat for you have done this plenty of times before.” He is right, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever get used to his sheer size. Your thoughts, however, are cut short because Daemon isn’t Daemon, if he doesn’t take matters into his own hands.

The tip of his cock prods against your lips, and with the grip on your face tightening, you are all but forced to part them for him. There’s only little to no time to adjust to his size granted to you, because he sheaths himself inside of you in one, swift thrust.

A few seconds pass in which neither of you moves. Your nose is nuzzled against his pubic bone, the tip of it brushing the wispy trail of his hair, and you try to stifle the urge to gag and choke around him, your hands getting ahead with clutching his muscular thighs to keep yourself grounded.

Every muscle of his body twitches with pleasure as he grows accustomed to the warmth and tightness of you, his head tipping back to release a bawdy groan.

And then his hips start to buck into your mouth, allowing a wave of fresh air to fill your lungs when he almost completely pulls out; only the tip remaining embraced between your lips. A firm hand locks behind your head to stop you from pulling back.

Daemon’s hips thrust into your mouth with reckless abandon like he belonged into it, the bulbous tip hitting the back of your throat but never giving you anything you can’t handle. He knows you can take it, and that you like it.

The lewd noises of his soaked cock easing in and out of your warm mouth fill the room, spurring him on even more. At this point, you are soaking wet for him, droplets of your arousal leaking onto the stone floor beneath your legs.

Your cheeks hollow around him as you choke and sputter around his length, spit dribbling down your chin and bosom. His stones tighten with his cock throbbing on your tongue, ready to spend himself down your throat at any given moment, your previous teasing clearly coming in handy.

There are tears brimming in your eyes, unhelpful when all you want is to look up at him, watch how he scrunches his brow and puckers his lips as he gazes at you in rapture.

“That’s it,” Daemon groans, the pace of his hips faltering as he chases his release. “Take it all.” And that is when you felt it.

His hot seed spills down your throat, coating your tongue. You gag slightly when his hips start to stutter, cock twitching and pulsing with the force of his peak. Droplets of his seed spill from the corners of your mouth, mixing with your saliva and dribbling down your chin while you struggle to swallow the rest.

Nonsense spews out of his mouth as his groans grow more wanton, no doubt losing awareness of his volume. You are destined to be the main topic of the court's whispers in the morrow, just like your mother and father have been before you.

His fingers comb through your hair slowly, stroking your head as if he’s thanking you for a job well done, while he rides out his peak with languid thrusts of his hips.

When he finally stops to regain his composure, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath he takes, he allows you to pull back from him, a string of your saliva connecting your swollen lips with the bulbous head of his cock, only breaking as you lick your lips to gather the remnants of his spent.

“Ñuha sȳz riña,” he rasps, pulling you up on your feet to capture your lips in a heated kiss. The taste of him on your tongue spreads over his tongue and causes him to groan. My good girl.

Like a man possessed, he flips you around and easily throws you onto your marital bed. When you land on your stomach with him following closely behind, mounting you and straddling your arse, you squeal and chuckle, ecstatic that it’s finally your turn.

“Tonight is the night I shall put a child into you. I want to see your body swell with my seed.”

Daemon Taglist: @barbiedragon @hypocritic-trash-baby @schniiipsel @avalyaaa @baizzhu @yn-jackson

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magda-kb · 1 month ago

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Character Analysis Of Luis Serra:

I just think someone needs to do this here on Tumblr so here we go…

Born in the remote and devoutly Catholic village of Valdelobos, Spain, Luis grew up in a reclusive, pre-industrial community that shunned modernity. The death of his mother during childbirth left him in the care of his grandfather (Man in the picture above together with Luis), a hunter whose wisdom and love shaped Luis’s early years.

From a young age, Luis displayed an insatiable curiosity and intelligence that set him apart. While his peers clung to the village’s traditions, Luis dreamed of the world beyond its mountains, finding solace in fairy tales and stories, particularly the adventures of Don Quixote. His grandfather recognized his potential, lamenting the limits imposed by their isolated life.

Later on his grandfather was attacked by a wolf and succumbed to a mysterious illness. Rumors of madness swirled, and fear gripped the superstitious villagers. The village’s chieftain, influenced by paranoia, ordered the family cabin to be burned to prevent the spread of the supposed "infection." According to the texts found throughout the game, the boy stood outside the house the whole time watching the flames, the next day he had disappeared from the village and nobody knew where the boy was.

In the modern world, Luis thrived, earning recognition as a prodigy in biology and securing a position at Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. Despite his remarkable achievements, including work on groundbreaking research, his tenure at Umbrella left him disillusioned. For example, we know that he was an employee of Project Nemesis (note to Racoon City - Nemesis T-Type).The corporation’s ethical compromises clashed with Luis’s growing moral awareness, leading to his resignation. This decision underscored a recurring theme in Luis’s character: the struggle between ambition and conscience.

Luis’s return to Valdelobos in 2004 placed him at the center of a nightmare. The village had fallen under the control of Los Iluminados, a cult manipulating the villagers’ religiosity to propagate a parasitic organism known as Las Plagas. Saddler, the cult’s leader, enlisted Luis for his scientific expertise, tasking him with enhancing the parasites. Initially compliant, Luis became horrified upon realizing Saddler’s true intentions. His guilt over his role in the cult’s atrocities drove him to seek redemption.

This is where Luis’s complexity truly shines. Torn between his past mistakes and a desire to atone, he takes enormous risks to undermine Saddler. Partnering with Ada Wong, Luis orchestrates plans to escape with the cult’s critical research sample, the Amber.

Here, too, I would like to emphasize a particular passage from the Separate Ways DLC that was already a bit of a foreshadowing of what his fate would be: Namely, during the scene in which other village members fell victim to the cult, Luis spoke of the fact that the next dance would be his… It should also be noted here that the already deceased was lying in exactly the same posture as Luis will later do… So it really was his “last dance”, so to speak (You can see it a little in the photo below, but it is clearly visible in the game itself)

Luis’s interactions with Leon S. Kennedy in the main game reveal yet another layer of his character. Despite their initial mistrust, Luis proves his worth as an ally, displaying a blend of wit, vulnerability, and a desperate need to make amends. His decision to assist Leon and Ashley, even at great personal risk, underscores his transformation from a man driven by self-interest to one guided by selflessness.

Ultimately, Luis’s arc concludes tragically yet heroically. Fatally wounded by Jack Krauser, Luis uses his final moments to ensure Leon and Ashley have the tools to fight back against Saddler. His death is not just a sacrifice but a culmination of his redemptive journey—a final act of defiance against all the things he did in the past. There is also the fact that Luis has doubts. Mainly about the things he himself has done in the past - And it is precisely these doubts that seem to characterize his last moment.

Something I would like to add: Krauser threw his knife directly into Luis’s spine. I mean clearly he aimed to kill. When a victim is stabbed in the area of the spinal cord, the spinal cord can be severed, sheared, torn, or otherwise damaged. This will result in a loss of function below the point of injury. That’s why it’s so impressive and powerful that Luis was able to muster up the last of his strength and force his hand to shoot at Krauser-hitting directly at his knife that could have killed Leon. That would now also explain why Luis can’t properly use his lighter and needed Leon to do it for him. Because after the lighter drops we can not see him move his body again…

Luis Serra is a character defined by contradictions: a brilliant scientist haunted by his complicity in unethical experiments, a dreamer shaped by the harsh realities of his upbringing, and a man who ultimately chooses redemption over survival. Something I would also like to point out is to link the whole story to Don Quixote. Because just like the self-proclaimed knight, he also had this urge of idealism throughout his life - which also led Don Quixote to make mistakes in the end and ultimately to his death... But in the end he became a hero and more or less passed on the title of knight to Leon...

#luis serra #serennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy #serrenedy #re4 #re4 remake #leon s kennedy #luis serra navarro #resident evil 4 #headcanon #analysis #character analysis #luis sera navarro

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mariacallous · 1 month ago

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The giant fires that are scouring Los Angeles have officially become the most destructive in the city’s history, killing at least six people and destroying at least 5,000 buildings. But as the winds driving the inferno have slackened, experts are cautiously optimistic that the blazes can soon be beaten back.

With reinforcements from other states, California firefighters have shifted from defense to offense. Rather than just saving individual buildings, they are now trying to stop the overall advance of the flames.

“Tuesday and Wednesday our priority was saving lives and protecting as much property as possible,” says LA Fire Department spokesperson Margaret Stewart. “Now that we’re able to operate at our full capacity, we’re able to have a more powerful assault.”

In a two-pronged attack, aircraft have ramped up dousing the fires from the air while firefighters and bulldozers starve them of fuel on the ground. At times earlier in the week, planes had to be grounded because of the severity of the wind.

“I would say [the tide] is turning,” says Ken Pimlott, former director of the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection, or Cal Fire. “Today and tomorrow are really the key windows to get through, the red flag fire weather conditions. Then I think we’ll start to see much more progress.”

Massive fires began clawing through the Los Angeles metropolitan area on Tuesday thanks to a combination of long-standing drought and a bout of strong Santa Ana winds, seasonal air that blows from the high desert of Nevada and Utah into Southern California.

The Palisades Fire east of Malibu, which has burned almost 20,000 acres, was 0 percent contained on Thursday. Celebrities like Billy Crystal and Paris Hilton were among the many people who had lost their homes. The Eaton Fire in Pasadena, roughly 25 miles to the east, was also uncontained, but the fire department has been able to slow its growth. The Sunset Fire that started in the Hollywood Hills on Wednesday was quickly hemmed in, and two others are partially contained.

“The only fire that has that potential [to grow] is Palisades, and we have 1,100 people on that,” Stewart says.

The key factor has been the winds of up to 99 miles per hour. They’ve been raking down from the northeast to the southwest, fanning the flames and throwing burning embers half a mile in front of the main fire. Canyons running largely the same direction have funneled and intensified that movement of air, creating what Pimlott called a “blowtorch” that spread the Palisades Fire. The flames have been essentially unstoppable.

“These pressurized winds literally explode out of these canyons,” says Janet Upton, former deputy director of Cal Fire. “All you can do is work to get anything with a heartbeat out of the way.”

But the winds began easing up on Wednesday and Thursday. They were anticipated to reach 15 to 20 miles per hour Thursday afternoon, before ticking up to 30 to 40 miles per hour on Friday, according to the National Weather Service. Firefighters that were helpless against virtually unstoppable wind-driven blazes have been able to return to their normal tactics.

“With those winds being very calm this morning, I believe we can actually make some progress, turn a corner, and start to build some containment on these fires,” Brent Pascua, a Cal Fire battalion chief, told The Today Show on Thursday.

So far the disaster response has been marred by disinformation and controversy. After some fire hydrants ran dry, president-elect Donald Trump baselessly accused California governor Gavin Newsom of mismanaging the state’s water supplies to save an endangered fish.

City employees have now been able to reach three water tanks on hills near the Palisades Fire to turn up the pressure. That allows the tanks to be refilled more quickly so they can keep supplying the hydrants, Stewart says. Each tank can hold 1 million gallons. “We have full flowing hydrants,” she says.

More firefighters have begun to arrive from Utah, Oregon, Arizona, Washington, and New Mexico. Several dozen task forces are on their way, according to Stewart, each with five fire engines plus a command vehicle.

Aircraft began flying again on Wednesday. Twelve helicopters are filling humongous water buckets hanging from cables and sucking seawater up through snorkels. Six planes are also working the fires, including a pair of “super scoop” aircraft that have been skimming across the surface of the Pacific to pick up water. The helicopters and scoop planes dump water on spot fires, letting firefighters close in and extinguish them.

Meanwhile, other airplanes are dropping fire retardant out ahead of the inferno, coating potential fuel with a layer of nonflammable chemicals and slowing its advance. A C-130 cargo plane that Cal Fire acquired from the Coast Guard and retrofitted this summer can dump 4,000 gallons of retardant. That buys time for firefighters to dig and bulldoze firebreaks of bare soil.

With the ocean constraining the Palisades Fire to the south, responders will try to prevent it from breaking out to the east or west. “The real spread is going to be on the flank,” Pimlott says.

A red flag warning for increased fire risk will remain through Friday, with humidity at only 8–12 percent. California has been suffering an abnormally dry winter, with 40 percent of the state under drought conditions.

“Fuels remain critically dry,” James Magana of Cal Fire said at a Thursday morning briefing. “You can expect to see critical rates of spread, especially on those ridgetops or those drainages that are in alignment with the wind.”

On Saturday, the winds are expected to reverse direction. If firefighters aren’t ready, the heel of the fire could become the front and run off to the north.

Even once they’re able to contain the conflagration within a circle of firebreaks and natural barriers, that won’t be the end of the task. Firefighters will have to stamp out smaller fires within that footprint.

“That’s a critical stage, to mop up these hot spots or anything that could rekindle if the winds were to increase again,” Upton says.

Moving forward, the city will need to clean up debris, restore utilities, and analyze damage to the environment before allowing people to move back. With canyons depleted of the trees and vegetation that hold the soil, mudslides could become a threat once the rains return.

Los Angeles will face the prospect of rebuilding destroyed communities. That’s an opportunity to make them less vulnerable to the next fire, says Max Moritz, a wildfire specialist with the University of California Cooperative Extension.

Although houses are in many cases required to be built with fire-resistant materials, California law doesn’t say anything about how they should be laid out. Techniques like clustering homes rather than spreading them out among the trees can make them easier to defend from fire, and easier to evacuate, he says.

“That is part of the hope here, that we can do some of this better, smarter, and safer,” Moritz says.

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pastlivesandpurplepuppets · 2 months ago

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Dad was a bit of a hell-raiser as a young boy, inquisitive and resourceful. He told us stories about the crazy stuff he and his brother did. Once they went rabbit hunting. Dad didn’t have a shotgun, but he found a piece of pipe that was just big enough to drop a shotgun shell into. The lip of the shell held it at the pipe’s end. They went out hunting, and Dad hiked around with this piece of pipe on his shoulder with his brother behind him. A shell was loaded in the pipe. His brother carried a block of wood with a nail driven through it. The plan was that whenever they saw a rabbit, the brother would bang the block of wood against the shell, fire it, and shoot the rabbit. Fortunately, rabbits were scarce that day, and they never got a chance to actually fire it—probably would have killed them both.

The heat in their house came from open flames in those old ceramic grates. One winter day, his mother had company over, and the kids were told to make scarce. Dad and his brother went out onto the porch and looked for something to do. They found a piece of metal and pounded the end into a flange. Disconnecting the heating grate outside on the front porch, they hooked up the gas line into their device. Basically, they built themselves a flame thrower. Dad held it, and his brother lit the end. Flames shot all the way across the porch. Years later, Dad described the experience: “We weren’t sure how to shut it off, so I kept moving this thing around so the house wouldn’t catch fire. I couldn’t let it stay in one place for very long. My brother ran downstairs and turned off the gas main, because that was the only way we knew to stop the gas. Then my brother and I had to sneak around the house and relight all the pilot lights on the heaters. The company was still visiting with my mother, and it was winter. So once the heaters went out, you needed to get them lit again quickly.”

~ Mike Lipton (Lip's son)

#band of brothers #A Company of Heroes: Personal Memories about the Real Band of Brothers and the Legacy They Left Us #marcus brotherton #carwood lipton

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tonguetiedraven · 2 months ago

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Yukio requires a lot of critical reading from the get go

And if you're only starting that critical reading once Satan bums a ride in his eye, you're much too late.

He also requires a willingness to acknowledge that sometimes the character that annoys you has reasons even if you don't like them, and sometimes you're too biased about your favorite character and boy oh boy has Rin gotten caught up in this lack of critical engagement to. The story is more complex than victim and abuser and that simplification robs the story and Rin and Yukio of their richness and complexity.

This is going to be several parts and will be taking deep dives into some of the most important Yukio interactions that explain his story and character and beats that I think get often overlooked or misunderstood entirely. It will be entirely manga based because the animes take a fairly anti-yukio stance in several instances and seem to intentionally pick paths to mangle his character. The first anime mostly. But man did it do that to a lot of characters. None so badly as Yukio though.

It's fine to dislike the character, but darn it he deserves you at least disliking the real him.

Yukio Okumura is one of the most misunderstood and mischaracterized people in Kato's world (if not the most misunderstood, though sometimes I think Rin should get that slot because man people will just not read any of his flaws or short comings.) By both sides of the arguments, typically.

He is an immensely complex character who is messy, depressed, armed to the teeth, suicidal, brilliant, exhausted, livid, abused, abusive, eternally rocking a customer service smile, aware of the world in a way most of his peers simply aren't, and not always sympathetic. He is a teenager who has to act like an adult, the twin brother (but more often babysitter) of Rin, and the boy who doesn't fit in anywhere.

Probably the most frequently disliked character in the anime/manga as well, which is amazing with the cast of vile human-experimentation committers we've got, and when Ernst Egin is just walking around in the anime sullying Yuri's last name and being an awful character.

In my last essay on Blue Exorcist, I stated that most people's characters misconceptions started with the Kyoto arc, but for Yukio, we're going to have to go back a bit further. We have to go back to chapter two.

Chapter two is Rin, who has figured out he's Satan's son and has sworn to become the greatest of exorcists to defeat Satan and knows nothing about exorcisms or defeating Satan or even Satan at this point, who hasn't figured out that Mephisto is a demon or that Yukio is an exorcist, has been told to hide his flames and to either hide the tail, ears, and fangs, or make up some kind of story about them that doesn't involve Satan and his flames, is trying to sit through the orientation and is only kind of going along with it at all because Rin, our main pov character, has the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel and the impulse control of one as well at this point of the story. It makes him a great character to read from because he kind of skips over any lore drops that would be dull and lets us, the reader who is clueless about this world, find out things as they're important.

We were introduced to Yukio in the previous chapter and found out that he was Rin's younger and more successful twin. That he wants to be a doctor and was heading to True Cross.

This chapter, as Rin is sitting at the orientation, we find out that Yukio is smart.

Yukio is smart. He is the representative for the entire class, and we will find out that he managed to get that rank and position while maintaining a side job as an exorcist. He beat out every other student in this rich school while having a side job and awareness of a secret world that only a small percentage of people know about. He is a remarkable and driven student who is almost always thinking several steps ahead of Rin, the character we're mostly viewing this manga through.

That is the easiest thing to forget about Yukio. He is almost always aware of things Rin is not and almost always thinking of a bigger picture or a different picture than Rin is. That does not mean he is always correct, but he is almost always working off a dataset that Rin is not even aware of the existence of. He is playing 3d and sometimes (4D chest when Mephisto is involved) and Rin is still grappling with the regular 2D chess rules. He has always lived in the world of demons and by all likelihood known about who/what Rin and himself are since he was very little. We don't know the exact age he was told the story, but we know he has known it for a long time.

Another very important thing to take from this section, and the main reason I'm posting these particular panels is because it tells us how Rin sees his little brother at this point. His first thought when he see Yukio excelling is that his younger brother was always a crybaby who needs protection and couldn't stand up for himself or his dreams.

Rin is stuck in this false perception of his twin. Even though he can acknowledge that his twin is really smart, he struggles greatly with accepting that fact and even more with ever listening to his twin because for most of his life, Yukio was a cry baby that got bullied a lot and needed someone to stick up for him.

Yukio was those things, and we know from Yukio's own mouth much later in the manga that Yukio despised being that way and still fears that he is that way. That he is weak and pathetic and can't be strong.

Rin goes off from this orientation with the determination that his twin will graduate, become a doctor, and never have to find out about demons and the dark side of the world, and he runs into Mephisto who transforms into a dog in front of him, and God Bless Rin's heart, he just kind of assumes that's a thing some exorcists can do and does not clue into the fact that Mephisto is a demon and will not until Mephisto flat out tells him it.

Rin misses a lot of things. He is not that smart of a character. He is a great character, and he has a fantastic heart and a lot of wonderful character development, but picking up on details and critical thinking are not his strong suits, so we can't always trust his view point.

Rin can be wrong and often is.

Rin goes into cram school, meets the rest of his class who awkwardly stares at him as he takes a seat at the front of the class with dogphisto and they wait for the teacher who turns out to be none other than Yukio Okumura.

Yukio Okumura who does in fact know about the demonic world. In fact:

Yukio has been an exorcist since he was thirteen.

Rin makes a scene, because of course he did. His twin just flipped his entire world upside down and now not only did Rin's adoptive father know a whole lot of things that he never told Rin, Rin's twin did too.

It is important to remember that Mephisto has dictated how Rin's entire day has gone at this point. Yukio's story is heavily tied with Mephisto's manipulation, and that is often over looked by readers of this story, and I cannot stress enough that Mephisto is manipulative. He has pushed and controlled most of the characters in this story and he has done a lot of manipulation, both subtle and blatant, of Rin and Yukio. From the times they meet to the lessons they learn to the money they earn to the place they live, Mephisto's hand is in EVERYTHING.

He was the reason they had little to no time to talk before the school day started and absolutely the reason Rin didn't know Yukio was teaching this class until the entire class knew Yukio was their teacher. Yukio was given Shirou's class to teach by Mephisto, and he has already been given very specific orders on how to treat Rin and what specifically to do. Shirou has also given Yukio very specific instructions on what to do with Rin and how to take care of him.

Anyway, Rin makes a scene but the lesson forges forward with Mephisto and Yukio explaining things to the class, Rin, and us the reader. We learn about temptaints and that their classroom is a goblin nest and Rin holds his opinions and questions in for a few seconds but busts and once again makes a scene.

Yukio tells him plainly that he's seen demons since he could crawl which clues us the audience (and Rin) in on the fact that Yukio has always known about demons. We also learn that he has been training since he was SEVEN. Yukio has spent more of his life training and being an exorcist than he hasn't.

He tells Rin that the only one that didn't know about demons (and their parentage) is Rin. This is obviously shocking, and traumatizing, and a really blunt and honestly mean way to tell Rin this. There are reasons for that we'll get to in a minute.

(This has got to be the most awkward of classes for the other students. I'd be dying of second hand embarrassment xD)

Rin grabs Yukio, the vial is dropped, and goblins start popping out of the ceiling, walls, and just everywhere. The first-day students are immediately overwhelmed because half of them still can't even see the demons, and Yukio immediately springs into action. He takes out the hobgoblins that are the biggest danger and ushers the vulnerable and ill-prepared students outside the room so he can properly exorcise it, maturely takes blame for the entire thing (even though it is easily his and Rin's fault) but Rin won't go out because a BIG part of Rin's character is pushing for immediate conversations when he's frustrated or mad.

It's a positive and negative trait of his. He refuses to wait on conversations when he wants to have them, but he also refuses to have a conversation at all if he doesn't want to. He seldom takes the other person's pov into view on these until much later in the manga after a lot of development, and he's not great at hearing the other person he's conversing with. He makes a lot of assumptions and puts them on the other person until they clarify in some way, if they do. This means that we the readers can be left assuming incorrectly if we're not paying attention.

Mostly posting that moment because Rin getting chewed on is hilarious and cute but also to point out that Yukio is basically choosing the path to most irritate Rin here. He's refusing to engage the conversation and basically treating Rin as a nuisance who is in his way while he's trying to solve a problem.

As a side not, Rin is very much in the way here. Yukio could quickly clear this up without Rin being a talkative demonic chew toy.

This talk is a vital one to understand the twins and their dynamic until after the Kraken arc. It is, I would say, one of the three most important twin moments until the Kraken arc. It is also one a lot of people don't take time with because they're (understandably!) upset about what Yukio is saying and how he's saying it, and how heartless it feels at first glance.

This conversation is entirely about Rin. Rin asks how Yukio feels about him and doesn't ask how Yukio feels in general. (That's not how these twins operate.)

It is heavily implied that Yukio was told that if Rin were to be unsealed, Rin would no longer be Rin. That he would become someone, something far different and dangerous. He would be violent and wild and evil and he would have to be put down. It is heavily implied that Yukio was taught by Shirou to try and guard Rin and keep him sealed at whatever cost, and if he was unsealed for some reason, it would be on his shoulders to take Rin out if Shirou couldn't do it himself.

Yukio calls Rin a fool and asks why he wants to be an exorcist. Does he want revenge? Or does he want to atone? If he wants to atone, then he should turn himself in as the son of Satan or just die.

Rin hears all that and asks Yukio if Yukio thinks he's to blame for Shirou's death. Yukio asks if he'd be wrong if he did. We also get this wild lore drop that becomes a big deal much later on in the manga but we don't really fully grasp at this point

Yukio knows. Yukio knows that Shirou has been possessed by Satan before and has been fighting him for fifteen long years and has never stopped being targeted.

Also I have to point out that Yukio just never stops shooting and killing the hobgoblins in this entire scene and Rin is on fire and whacking a few with his bagged sword but not really doing anything about them at this point.

The talk culminates in this moment.

This is a shocking moment. It sounds very much like Yukio does blame Rin and possibly should blame Rin, and more than that, as Rin is drowning in guilt and grief he won't let himself confront over Shirou, Yukio aims his gun at Rin and calls him 'big brother.'

"You killed father Fujimoto!"

Yukio says that to Rin, and Rin gets mad that Yukio is pointing his gun at him (can't confront the grief and guilt yet and won't except in pieces at our most broken spots until much much later) and charges at Yukio shouting at him to shoot--

And Yukio--

Doesn't.

I am positive at this moment Yukio broke his script and was indeed supposed to shoot Rin. Whether or not he was meant to, he doesn't.

Rin destroys the hobgoblin behind Yukio that was gearing up to tear into his little brother, and turns to look back at Yukio.

"Don't insult me. I'd never fight my little brother." (I think there's a lot that could be said about Rin not fighting him but the demon being all gun ho for it but that's an entirely different discussion)

Rin declares that while looking like a demon. He has the sword drawn so the demonic features are entirely there. The fangs, the ears, the eyes, the flames, everything.

Yukio looks forward and down again (we learn Mephisto is still here, because of course he is. He's directing this scene.) Yukio asks how Shirou was at the end. (I hear: "Was he brave? Was he still our dad?" in that question. "Did he become something else? Did Satan win in the end?"

The answer is no. Satan destroyed his body, but Shirou won.)

This. This is such an important moment so oft glanced over. The amount of times both these boys long to be strong and hate themselves for being weak and see the strength in the other or completely miss it, the essays that could be written on that know no ends.

And Yukio?

He smiles, It's not much, and it's laced with a heavy kind of sadness, but it's there and it's relieved and accepting. He tells Rin a powerful truth, one Rin doesn't understand the weight of at all, and one we the readers also don't get at this point, but he tells Rin that he also became an Exorcist to be strong.

They both take a moment to notice that the schoolroom is just wrecked to hell. The hobgoblins did a number and Rin's flames finished that number.

Yukio is warning Rin. Rin never thinks things through. He is an impulsive puppy who gets himself in situations and keeps charging forward, trampling things in an attempt to solve them again. He speaks without ever thinking and he acts with his emotions, which are why his flames are so often out of control. Yukio is warning him about all of that and that the harsh words he spoke will follow Rin from everyone if he pursues this path.

"Think it through," he's saying, "be sure."

Rin says bring it on and grins and calls Yukio teach and it's a cute moment.

THEN WE GET TO THE MOST IMPORTANT SCENE THAT THE ANIME CUT OUT

And why they did it I don't know and it makes me want to scream because it has made so many people miss so much about Yukio and Mephisto and the manipulative bastard Mephisto is. (That is said fondly and exasperatedly. I'd punch the hell out of Mephisto if I knew him in real life and I thoroughly enjoy reading about the bastard.)

This was a test. Mephisto is putting both twins to the test. Yukio is to keep an eye on Rin and make sure he stays Rin. That he doesn't become a rampaging demon and doesn't turn into a second blue night. (We the readers don't actually know what Satan did that was so terrible outside of, you know, killing Shirou and trying to take Rin to Gehenna but we'll find out more and more and more as the manga goes. Yukio already knows and has since he was at least seven. He has slept in the same room as Rin and known his twin was temporarily sealed in Kurikara and that if the seal broke, Rin could become an utter monster.

No one knew what Rin would be when the seal was broken and he had his heart again. They knew at the very least that the Vatican would want him dead, and that if he wasn't a feral monster, they'd have to hide him.

(And I for one would not want that responsibility. I love Rin and think he's a great character but he cannot listen to orders and has no sense of danger and consequences and the thought of trying to keep those flames and his mouth contained would make me crumble under anxiety and dread.)

Anyway, Yukio and Mephisto have very clearly been in talks and we'll see a few chapters later during a certain reaper attack that Mephisto has given Yukio orders about protecting Rin and being ready to take Rin out if he's at risk.

Yukio remembers as he's talking to Mephisto, and we see the moment the little seven year old started his training, and he's so small it hurts.

Also woah on the lore drop. What do you mean, Shirou? WHAT DO YOU KNOW?????

Anywho, Yukio is told he could protect Rin, and of course the boy who has always been bullied and frightened by things that aren't just humans would jump at the chance to protect his fearless big brother.

And thus, Yukio's fate is sealed and Mephisto moves a piece forward on the board.

The chapter ends with Rin going to his new dorm room in the old and abandoned dorm, and Yukio is there too. Their now roommates.

Before this moment, Yukio had a room in the nice dorm with his fellow students. He was actually Ryuuji's roommate, or he was going to be. Before he became a full time teacher on top of a full time exorcist and the top student. Now he is all of that and a full time babysitter directly responsible for protecting Rin, which essentially means not letting Rin's secret get out.

Now most people who watch or read this chapter take the argument at face value and leave it with a deep rooted feeling that Yukio was cruel and unfair. I'd remind those readers that Yukio came home to Shirou very very dead and Rin very very demon, and that Mephisto separated them and told Yukio to take a teaching position his very newly dead dad was meant to have. That Yukio had moved out to his own space apart from Rin for the first time in his life the day of his father's death, and the day he was supposed to start forging his new identity not revolving around Rin, his identity and life became even more tied to Rin.

Yukio is a character who has never gotten a life to live that was his own and free and has always been seen by those around him (and himself) as weak. He despises that and fears himself to still be the small crying boy who was terrified of the dark and needed his brother to protect him. From the very get go Kato lets us know that Yukio is smart and he is the one with all the responsibilities, and he is in direct conversations with Mephisto. He is placed in a position of authority over Rin, but Rin is not told this and will never accept Yukio being in a position of authority over him. That on the first day of his high school life, he agrees to take on the role Shirou had in both teaching and guarding Rin.

He threatens his brother but does not shoot him. He calls him a demon and brother. He accuses him of killing their father and asks what their father was like at the end. He tells his brother that 'just die' will follow him wherever he goes but calls them the same at the same time. He tells Rin to get control of his flames and then treats him like the rest of the students.

He tells a lot of half truths, but shares a vital one in trusting Rin to know that Yukio too thought himself weak. (Still thinks himself weak.)

Yukio is not one thing. He is a multitude of complex things and at this point, the reader is only just starting their journey with him, and there are far more dramatic and horrifying things awaiting him.

But that's the next part. For now, I ask that you take a second look at chapters you think are familiar, and for the love of critical reading, ask yourself what the other characters who are not Rin know and are thinking. The story is so much richer when you look at them all.

To keep seeing my updates on this and my other aoex analysis/thoughts, check out my #raven ramble tag

#ao no exorcist #blue exorcist #yukio okumura #rin okumura #okumura twins #raven ramble #raven rant #yukio okumura analysis #okumura yukio #i really don't care if you dislike him #but for godssake can we please be accurate in our discourse

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artficlly · 2 months ago

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smog & spirits: a drink with deceit (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, heavy angst, wound description, threats, catcalling, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, drinking, smoking, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: hello guess who is back!! this is very angsty, promise there will be more bucky in the next chapter just gotta set up the drama! much love <33 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

Three days after Becca Barnes's visit, the bodies of thirty-six Penance Boys were found in the streets.

You hadn’t seen the bodies yourself, but the whispers that slithered through The Warrens painted a picture too horrific to ignore. The rumours spoke of a scene ripped straight from a penny dreadful. Maybe even worse than the stories that circulated, but in your heart, you knew the violence to be true. The bodies, each one marred by countless lashes, were barely recognisable. Their flesh was shredded, every inch of skin scarred beyond recognition. They were scattered across the Warrens like grotesque trophies. Some were dumped in the filthy, stagnant waters of the port, their bodies bloated and twisted. Others swung lifelessly from lamp-posts in the streets, their necks bent at unnatural angles. Several were displayed in the Smokestack District, mangled offerings laid out before the factories, and then there were the bodies hidden in the winding alleys, tucked into the shadows like forgotten, discarded trash, left to rot under the ever-thickening smog. It was all rather theatrical, a meticulously planned out act. One of the bodies, clutched tightly in a bloodstained fist, held a crumpled note. Smeared with copper, the words read: "Do you confess?"

You couldn’t help but remember Bucky’s words from that dreaded night.

Massacre.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you had stitched up thirty-six lashes, even though the flesh had been so ravaged, the wounds mashed together until they bled into one, an indistinguishable mess. The thought lingered in your mind, haunting you no matter how much you tried to push it away. Each memory of those nights felt like a needle driven deeper, not just into his skin but into yours as well. You had done what you thought was best, what you had to do to survive, but the consequences and marks were there for both of you to wear.

The letter you found on your doorstep that same day was no surprise. Becca’s warning had loomed over you, leaving little room for doubt. You hadn’t even bothered to open the envelope; instead, you had tossed it into the fireplace without a second thought, the flames licking at the paper until it was reduced to ash. It seemed Becca was fierce when protecting her brother, and you didn’t intend to test that determination. She had been clear—stay away from him, leave him alone. She had outright said it; the bitterness in her voice made the message unmistakable: I know a threat when I see one.

You spent the next three days simmering on her words, turning them over in your mind, weighing them against the memory of your hands working on Bucky’s back. Healing him—an act you never should’ve performed. Magic meant for destruction wasn’t meant to mend wounds, and you had known that. But you had done it anyway, given into his demands. He couldn’t have been entirely in his right mind… not with the wounds, the loss of blood. Is that why he had left? Did clarity finally strike him as he lay beside you in your rickety bed? Your magic wasn’t meant for healing. Those scars would remind him of what you had done, of what you were. It had been a mistake, yet it had also been a choice.

You were bitter in a sick and twisted way. You were furious. Part of you wanted to hold him accountable for his absence—no thank you, no goodbye, just an empty space where his presence had been. You had spent the better part of a week tending to him, feeling something unspoken between the two of you, a quiet understanding that hinted at more. But once the job was done, once he had healed, it was as if he had disappeared into the shadows of the Warrens, leaving you to deal with the mess of your emotions.

Maybe it had just left you to confront your own loneliness.

In those long, quiet moments in your home, you wondered if that was what he did best—leave. He had walked away without a word, without even a flicker of care. What about Bucky Barnes made you long for something you couldn’t quite name? Something that had you clinging to the fragments of him despite the warning signs you knew to be true?

You were fed up with yourself, with his pull on you, even after all that had happened. You were unsure if it was your heart or your cunt that was the culprit, but either way, your head knew one or both were the traitors keeping you eating from of his hand like the good little witch he had primed you to be. You had let him hurt you, and yet, part of you wanted to run toward him again, to go against Becca’s threats. The way he had looked at you and leaned into your touch—there was something there. Something more than just business. You could feel it. But the other part of you? The brighter part—the one that had always kept you alive in a city like Blackstone—wanted to just wash your hands of it all, to disappear.

And maybe that was the answer: You could leave.

The countryside called to you, with its quiet spaces and the promise of a life that didn’t involve constant vigilance and constant fear. Witches were always in high demand in such isolated places. You could have been a travelling act, banishing curses and hauntings, keeping your head down and movements quick. The law wouldn’t bother someone who was as transient as the wind. The Smog Boys wouldn’t have had the time or resources to track you. You could disappear. It was possible.

But it wasn’t just about Bucky. It was about your mother. Michael. The countless, nameless others. You had stayed because you had a game of your own to play, a plan for revenge that had been set in motion long before the Smog Boys ever darkened your doorstep. If anything, they had complicated the situation. That display in the Pony Club… that raw power within you…you were sure it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

—

Just beyond the Smokestack District, across the filthy, winding expanse of the Sootline River, lay the Grimrow District. Its streets resembled the Warrens: cramped rows of lower-class housing, grimy industrial factories, decrepit shops, and weathered churches that seemed to sag under the weight of sin and soot. Yet, for all their similarities, the two districts held a defining difference. While the Warrens belonged to the Smog Boys, Grimrow was claimed by the Iron Rats.

Like most rival factions in Blackstone, the Iron Rats and the Smog Boys maintained an uneasy truce—a brittle thread of peace stretched taut between their territories. The fragile truce held as long as each stayed within their respective borders. But to call it harmony would be a misstep. It was more of a begrudging tolerance, simmering hostility kept in check by necessity, not respect.

You would never typically risk crossing the Sootline. But tonight, your frustration had driven you to the brink of recklessness. The boundary, marked by the Sootline River’s churning filth and the crumbling bridge spanning its breadth, seemed less a warning and more an invitation to tempt fate. Maybe it was exhaustion from yourself, the relentless weight of the Warrens, and the invisible chains tethering you to its grime-soaked alleys.

You needed a drink. One poured by someone else’s hand in a place that didn’t reek of your desperation and solitude. The sight of your miserable flat had become unbearable, its four walls closing in tighter with each passing hour. And then there were the Smog Boys, whose ever-watchful eyes you had grown weary of evading. Maybe slipping away into Iron Rats territory would give you some reprieve. Maybe they’d let their guard down if they thought you had vanished entirely—an act of rebellion against the summons you had so pointedly ignored.

But the summons wasn’t something you could forget. Bucky’s call to a family meeting had been the last thing you’d expected, even if Becca had warned you in the days prior. It gnawed at you, questioning why he suddenly considered you significant enough to include. Family. What a strange, hollow word coming from him.

You didn’t trust it. The invitation felt like bait in a carefully laid trap. Why invite you into the fold now, after leaving without a word of thanks or farewell? Why disappear, only to pull you closer the very next day? It reeked of manipulation, and you couldn’t help but think it was somehow connected to the Penance Boys and the gruesome spectacle their deaths had created. The pit in your stomach told you it wasn’t a coincidence. You couldn’t deny your own hand in the sequence of events, no matter how indirect. If you hadn’t healed him, hadn’t used your forbidden magic to save him, would he have bled out on the floor of your home? Would his story have ended there, spilling his blood into the cracks of your rotting floorboards? And, in some twisted, alternate reality, would you now be living in a Bucky Barnes-free world?

The thought clawed at you, leaving a strange ache in its wake. As much as you despised the tangled mess of emotions that tethered you to him, the idea of his absence hollowed something out of you. That pit of dread opened wide, devouring any attempt to convince yourself that you’d be better off without him.

Bucky was a wound you couldn’t help but pick at—a scar you couldn’t stop tracing with trembling fingers.

The air of Grimrow reeked of industry—smoke, oil, and sweat mingling into a nauseating miasma. You passed groups of factory workers slumped on steps, nursing bottles of something too potent to be legal, and street vendors hawking stale bread or pilfered wares.

A bar came into view just as you sensed them: footsteps too close and laughter too loud, their presence evident in the silence they carried with them through the narrow streets. Three men trailed behind you, their voices brash and oily as they jeered.

“Oi, sweetheart! Where’ya off to in such a hurry?”

“Yeah, don’t be shy. Give us a smile, eh?”

You kept walking, your stride steady, your face unreadable. Reacting would only embolden them.

“She’s got an attitude, that one,” another mocked. “Maybe we should teach ‘er some manners.”

You turned a corner, hoping they’d lose interest, but their footsteps quickened. One of them closed the distance, and you felt his fingers graze your sleeve.

“You’ve got a death wish, ‘aven’t ya?” a new voice rang out, sharp and unwavering.

The three men halted as a woman stepped out of the shadows. She was tall and composed, her auburn hair curling at her shoulders, and her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, each word like a warning.

The man closest to you sneered. “What’s it to you, love?”

“You’re botherin’ my friend.” she said, stepping forward.

Her words made you pause, but you didn’t correct her.

“You’ve got no business ‘ere,” the man growled, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.

“And you do?,” she replied coolly. “Say, do’ya ‘ave friends in high places? ‘Cause I do. One word from me, and they’ll hunt you down. They ain’t the type you go lookin’ to make enemies with, that’s for sure, love.”

One of the men muttered something under his breath, probably the same question you had on your mind. Who were these friends in high places? Certainly wasn’t the Smog Boys. You had never heard or seen such a woman slinking around. She had a fierceness to rival Natasha, a sharp-tongue like Becca. The men hesitated, exchanged glances, then slunk away with grumbled curses, their bravado evaporating like steam.

She was with the Iron Rats, perhaps.

Or something worse.

The woman turned to you, the sharpness in her expression softening into something sly and amused. “You’re welcome.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

A tense pause washed over the two of you, the auburn assessing you with one swoop of her sharp eyes. You wondered if she was searching for a concealed weapon, assessing if you had the strength to take down a grown man with your hands alone. It was a fruitless pursuit, as the chaos inside of you was invisible.

But you had a sneaking suspicion the woman before you were also more than she let on, maybe something more like yourself, hiding in plain sight.

“You’re far from home.” She commented. There was a drawl to her words, a subtle accent foreign to Sootstone and Grimrow—one higher class, or perhaps from beyond the city walls in the countryside. “Dangerous for a woman of the Smog to be over the river.”

“And how would you know where I keep my home?” You test.

“You reek of it. The Warrens.” Her lips pulled into a honed smile. “I don’t blame ya, lookin’ for a change of scenery.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Let me buy you a drink.” You offer.

The woman grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

—

The bar was exactly as you’d expected—a dark, smoky hole-in-the-wall with warped wooden tables, a cracked mirror behind the bar, and the faint smell of spilt beer and sweat clinging to the air. It was neither welcoming nor hostile, merely indifferent to the chaos of the outside world. You stepped inside, the noise of murmured conversations and clinking glasses briefly pausing as heads turned to size you up. They saw the woman with you, her confident stride and sharp gaze, and immediately lost interest.

The two of you weaved between tables, stepping over uneven floorboards and discarded peanuts. Wanda—as the auburn-haired woman had introduced herself—walked as though she belonged there, her boots clicking against the wood in a steady rhythm. You tried to match her nonchalance but felt out of place, the weight of the room’s gaze lingering even after it had turned away.

You slid into a corner table, its surface scarred with knife marks and initials dug deep into the wood. Wanda eased into the chair opposite you, draping one arm over the backrest and stretching her legs out beneath the table, completely at ease. She watched the room with a faint, amused smile, as though everything she saw confirmed something she already knew.

The bartender approached, a burly man with greying stubble and a perpetual scowl. Without asking, he set down two glasses of amber liquid and muttered something about payment later. You nodded, and he disappeared as quickly as he’d come.

You eyed the drink warily before lifting it, catching a faint whiff of cheap whiskey. Wanda, meanwhile, raised hers without hesitation, swirling the liquid in her glass with an air of appreciation. “Grimrow’s charm ‘asn’t changed much,” she remarked, her tone light, almost teasing.

“You’ve been here before?” you asked, leaning back against your chair.

“Once or twice,” she admitted, taking a slow sip. “Though it was a little... less grim the last time.” She chuckled, her eyes flicking back to yours. “Still, it has its appeal. Don’t ya think?”

“Depends on what you call appealin’,” you said, glancing around at the dimly lit room. “I guess it’s got character if nothin’ else.”

“Character,” she echoed, raising her glass as though in a toast. “A generous way to put it.”

You couldn’t help but smirk, though your guard stayed firmly in place. Wanda’s ease felt calculated, her words chosen with care.

“So,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she studied you. “Do ya always bring strangers to such charmin’ establishments, or am I special?”

“Strangers?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t seem like much of a stranger, not with the way you act like you own the place.”

She laughed, a low, melodic sound that drew a few fleeting glances from nearby tables. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

You took a sip of your drink, the burn of the whiskey grounding you. “What’s worse than that?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Wanda said, her smile playful. “But enough about me. You’re the real mystery here. Someone like you, runnin’ around Grimrow? You’ve got to ‘ave a story.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, unsure if the comment was meant as a compliment or a probe. You got the sense the woman was lying, or atleast hiding something. “Maybe I’m just passin’ through,” you said evenly.

“Maybe,” she allowed, though the look in her eyes suggested she didn’t believe you. “Or maybe there’s more to it.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment before she shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly. “What about you, though?” you asked, deflecting. “What’s a woman like you doin’ in Grimrow?”

The question landed with a faint ripple of tension, but Wanda didn’t flinch. Instead, her smile widened, and she reclined back into her seat, looking at you as though she’d been waiting for you to ask. “A woman like me? Now, what does that mean?”

“You don’t exactly blend in,” you replied, motioning to the sharp lines of her coat, the expensive leather of her boots. “You’re not Iron Rat, and you’re definitely not factory folk. So, what are you?”

Wanda smirked, swirling her drink. “Observant, aren’t ya? Let’s just say I don’t stay in one place too long. Too many people eager to stick their noses where they don’t belong.”

“People like me?” you challenged, leaning forward slightly.

“Maybe,” she said, her tone light but her gaze sharp. “Though you’re not like the others I’ve met. Most witches these days—” She caught herself.

You forced your expression to remain neutral. “Most witches? That’s a strange thing to say.” You continued, feigning nonchalance. “And what about you? You don’t seem entirely ordinary yourself.”

Wanda chuckled, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You could say I have a... talent for recognisin’ my own kind.”

Your suspicion hardened into certainty, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of camaraderie. But something about her tone, her carefully chosen words, kept you wary.

“Let’s just say I’ve been around,” Wanda said, her voice smooth. “Blackstone is full of people. Some are content to lay low, keep their heads down. Others... well, others are harder to ignore.”

You narrowed your eyes at her words, your grip tightening around your glass. “And which category do I fall into, exactly?”

Wanda tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Oh, definitely the latter. You’re not exactly the lay-low type, are you? Not with the kind of power you carry.”

The statement caught you off guard, though you did your best not to show it. Power. She said it like it was obvious, like she could see it written across your skin. You leaned back slightly, studying her. “Is that your skill? Recognisin’ power in others?”

“Somewhat,” Wanda replied, her tone light as if this were a game. She swirled her glass idly, her eyes flicking to yours with a spark of something unreadable. “It’s all about readin’ the chaos, innit? The aura of a person, an object. Every thread leads back to somethin’.”

Your brow furrowed. “So you see power in the chaos? You read it like... energy?”

“Exactly,” she said, flashing a quick smile. “I imagine it’s much like spottin’ a spirit tethered to an anchor—recognisin’ the energy surroundin’ it.”

There it was—a slip. A thread tugged loose. Your breath caught for a split second, your instincts sharpening like a blade. “I never said I was a spirit-raiser,” you pointed out, your voice colder now, every word deliberate.

Her smile faltered, just a fraction, but it was enough to confirm what you already suspected. “I believe ya did,” she countered lightly, though there was a tightness in her tone, a tension she couldn’t quite hide. Her fingers tightened around her glass, the faintest tremor betraying her rising panic.

“No,” you said, leaning forward now, your gaze boring into hers. “I didn’t.”

Her laughter was forced, brittle. “It must’ve been ‘n assumption—”

“Who’re you?” you cut her off, your voice sharp and unyielding, like a blade striking metal. Already, you were shifting back in your seat, the air between you charged with suspicion.

Wanda sighed sharply through her nose, placing her glass on the table more forcefully than necessary. “I’ve already told you,” she said, her voice cool but her expression uneasy. “My name’s Wanda. I read auras. That’s all.”

“This meetin’, it isn’t a coincidence, is it?” Your words came quickly, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “How long ‘ave you been followin’ me?”

The question hit like a hammer, and for the first time, Wanda hesitated. Her gaze dropped to the amber liquid in her glass, the faint clink of ice filling the silence. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “I know more than ya think,” she admitted, swirling her drink in a futile attempt at distraction. “I know you’re... different. Special.”

The room seemed to narrow around you, her words settling over your chest like a weight. Your heart was pounding, though you weren’t sure if it was from anger or fear. “Special,” you repeated flatly, your voice thick with disbelief. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wanda didn’t answer immediately, her eyes still fixed on her glass. When she finally looked up, there was something raw in her gaze, something that made your stomach twist. “You’re not wrong. It isn’t just a coincidence that we ‘ave crossed paths,” she said, her tone almost gentle.

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, but Wanda reached out, her hand wrapping around your wrist. “Wait,” she said, her voice urgent. “Just listen to me.”

“Why should I?” you snapped, yanking your arm free.

“The Church of Light is your home.”

The name struck you like a thunderclap, the world tilting briefly, nauseatingly. You stared at her, uncomprehending, the name echoing in your mind. “The Church,” you said, your voice hollow. “You’re with them.”

“Father Leofric—he sees your potential. He won’t harm you. He wants to guide you.” Wanda urged, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Guide me,” you repeated, your voice cutting through the haze of the bar like a blade. Disbelief curled each syllable into a sneer. “Like they guided my mother? Like they tried to use her?”

Wanda’s face tightened, her carefully composed mask slipping. Rage flickered behind her eyes, barely restrained. “Your mother, the traitor. Are ya gonna follow in her footsteps? Run from ya destiny, Light-bringer?”

The name hit you like a blow to the chest. Your breath faltered, and you stumbled back a step, gripping the table's edge for balance. The entity's voice in the Pony Club whispered fresh in your memory, unshakable.

I know what you are.

Spirit-raiser… diviner… light-bringer.

It had felt abstract then, something distant and strange. But now, spoken aloud by Wanda in this grimy bar, it solidified into a terrifying reality.

“Don’t call me that,” you managed to hiss, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

Wanda stood now, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. Her composure cracked, and her anger bubbled over like a storm breaking.

“You don’t understand what you’re carryin’,” she snapped, her voice rising with an edge of desperation. “You don’t know how to control or use it! Do you know how ungrateful you are? Holdin’ onto such power? It’s wasted potential, wasted on you. Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

The mention of Bucky’s name stung, the scorn in Wanda’s voice twisting the knife already lodged in your gut. It wasn’t just how she said it, dripping with mockery—it was the storm it unleashed within you. Bucky Barnes was a thorn lodged deep in your side, one you couldn’t seem to dislodge, no matter how hard you tried. You opened your mouth to snap back, but a sudden hush stopped you short.

The bar had gone eerily silent. Every pair of eyes in the room was on you, the tension thick as smoke. Even the bartender had paused mid-motion, his expression slack-jawed. Wanda’s words hung heavy in the air, especially one name: Smog Boys.

Your heart dropped. Of course, this was Iron Rat territory. Of course, the wrong ears would be listening.

Fear clawed at your chest, and you didn’t wait for them to act. You shoved past Wanda, her protests drowned out by your pulse pounding and stormed out into the smog-filled streets.

Your thoughts spiralled as you made your way down the winding streets. This night was a mistake. This entire saga was a mistake.

You should have disappeared into the countryside when you had the chance. But you had stayed. And why? Because of Bucky Barnes? Because you had let yourself believe, for one stupid, vulnerable moment, that the man behind the brutality might see you as something more than a pawn?

Wanda’s mocking voice echoed in your ears. “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for clinging to the small moments of connection you thought you had shared with him. That flicker of warmth you thought you saw in his eyes? It had been a lie, or worse, a cruel trick to keep you in line.

Your thoughts raced, fear and anger warring within you. The Church of Light, your mother, the Smog Boys—your mother's burdens follow you more closely than you first realised. You were tired of running and being a pawn in everyone else’s game. It was a noose tightening around your neck. All this time, you’d thought you were free of it, that her choices wouldn’t define you. But now, it was clear.

They already had.

—

From the moment you’d left the bar, you knew they were following you. You felt it in the weight of their stares, in the scuff of boots behind you, in the way the streets seemed to close in tighter.

The Iron Rats weren’t subtle. They wanted you to know they were there.

You quickened your pace, ducking into side streets and weaving through narrow alleys, but the sound of their pursuit only grew louder. Panic clawed at your throat as you turned corner after corner, the labyrinth of Grimrow offering no sanctuary.

Ahead, the bridge over the Sootline loomed, its iron framework a skeletal silhouette against the hazy glow of gas lamps. Crossing it would bring you into Smog Boys territory, and though the idea of safety under Bucky’s rule left a bitter taste in your mouth, it was better than what awaited you here.

As you bolted across, the bridge groaned under your weight, its boards slick with soot and damp. The stench of the river below was overwhelming, a mix of rotting debris and chemicals that clung to the air. But you didn’t stop. When you reached the other side, you noticed the boundary. It wasn't marked by signs but by a change in the atmosphere—an unspoken rule. Here, the Iron Rats shouldn’t follow. Here, you were supposed to be safe.

But tonight, the rules didn’t seem to matter.

A shout rang out behind you, followed by the thunder of boots on the bridge. They were coming.

You didn’t have time to think, only to run, your breath ragged and your chest aching. The smog was thicker here, wrapping around you like a suffocatingly familiar embrace, but you pushed through, darting into an alley.

You didn’t see the fist until it collided with your jaw.

The impact sent you sprawling, your back slamming into the filthy cobblestones. Stars danced in your vision; before you could recover, they were on you.

Rough hands yanked you upright, shoving you against the alley wall. The cold stone bit into your back, but the pain was nothing compared to the fear twisting in your gut.

“What’d we‘ave ‘ere?” One of them sneered, “Little Smog Whore, all alone.”

“Thought crossin’ the bridge would save’ya?” another mocked, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. “Not tonight.”

The first punch landed in your stomach, forcing the air from your lungs into a choking gasp. You doubled over, but they didn’t give you a chance to recover. Another blow, this time to your ribs, sent you crumpled to the ground.

The cobblestones were cold and slick beneath you as you curled in on yourself, arms instinctively wrapping around your head. It didn’t matter. They kicked and stomped, their boots a relentless assault. Pain exploded in your side as something cracked—your ribs, maybe more.

You tried to scream, but the sound caught in your throat lost in the chaos of their laughter. One jeered, his voice distant and distorted, like you were underwater. You pressed your face to the filthy ground, the grit cutting into your skin as you tried to will yourself away from this moment. But the pain kept you rooted.

And through it all, your thoughts betrayed you.

Bucky Barnes. The Church of Light. Your mother.

Wanda’s words rang in your ears repeatedly: “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for staying, believing you could survive here, and thinking someone like Bucky might care. You should have fled the moment your mother passed. Staying in The Warrens had pushed fate to its limits and now you were suffering the consequences.

The laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by the sound of shouting—new voices, deep and commanding.

“Fuckin’ Smog Boys,” one of the Iron Rats hissed.

Boots scrambled on cobblestones as your attackers scattered, the echoes of their retreating footsteps fading into the smog. You didn’t move. Not when the Smog Boys’ shadows passed over you, chasing the clatter of shoes further down the alley, the Iron Rats racing at break-neck speeds back to the Sootline.

You forced yourself to sit up, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body. You dragged yourself upright with much effort, leaning heavily against the wall for support. The smog swallowed you as you stumbled away.

By the time you reached your home, the world was spinning, a disorienting blur of pain and exhaustion. Every step was a struggle, every breath shallow and sharp. Your ribs screamed with every movement, the fractured bones grinding against each other, each step sending a jagged edge of agony slicing through your chest. The dull throb in your face from the Iron Rat’s punch had blossomed into a searing ache, and the taste of blood lingered on your tongue.

Your trembling hands fumbled with the door latch, and for a moment, you thought you wouldn’t even manage that. When the door finally creaked open, you didn’t feel relief. Just the weight of the smog following you in, curling around your battered body like an unwanted embrace.

The room was dark and cold, the air thick with the musty scent of soot and old wood. You didn’t bother lighting a lamp. Your knees buckled before you made it to the bed. Instead, you collapsed onto the floor in front of the fireplace, your body folding in on itself like a broken marionette. The sharp jolt of the impact stole what little breath you had left, and you stayed there, gasping, too weak to even cry.

A thin blanket was within arm’s reach, and you dragged it over yourself, your fingers clumsy and stiff. It wasn’t warm—barely large enough to cover you—but it was enough to cocoon yourself in, enough to pretend for a fleeting moment that you were safe. The fireplace was nothing but a blackened shell, its faint embers flickering. You stared at them anyway, your vision blurred.

The smog clung to your clothes and skin, thick and choking, settling in your lungs with every laboured breath. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. There was something strangely comforting in its suffocating presence as if it was all left of you now—a swirling, toxic reminder that you belonged to this broken city, and it to you.

Pain radiated through your body in waves. You were too broken to think about the wounds that needed tending, too shattered to consider the risk of infection or what damage had been done to your ribs.

What a fool you’d been.

The tears finally came then, hot and bitter, spilling silently down your cheeks. You buried your face in the blanket, biting down on the fabric to stifle the sobs that threatened to shake your fragile body apart.

You wanted to move, feed the fire, and bring warmth and light back into the room. But you couldn’t.

Instead, you curled tighter into yourself, surrendering to the darkness. If you closed your eyes, you could almost pretend the smog wasn’t filling your lungs, almost pretend the world hadn’t left you broken and bleeding on the floor.

But no amount of pretending could quiet the truth. You were alone, and the city had won.

—

The morning light filtered through the grimy window, faint and cold. The air still smelled of smoke and smog, clinging to every surface of your home. You hadn't moved from your spot by the dying fire. Your body felt foreign—too heavy, too broken. The ache in your ribs was constant. You hadn't had the strength to tend to yourself, let alone address the mess of bruises and blood that painted your skin.

The floorboards creaked underfoot, and then the door to your tiny flat was pushed open with a sharp squeal. It didn’t take long for the familiar sound of shoes against the creaky set of stairs to echo up the hall.

“Spirit-raiser.” A voice sliced through the stillness, a low growl of irritation. Natasha. “You missed your summons; Barnes has got me playin’ messenger again. Better be a good reason.”

You remained silent, unable to summon the energy to respond. Of course, Bucky would send Natasha to do his dirty work, too proud to face you himself. The blanket was wrapped around you tightly, your face hidden from her view. You could feel her eyes on you, the judgment heavy in the air. Her boots scraped against the floor as she moved further into the room.

“Spirit-raiser.” Natasha's call was sharp, accusatory, “Your wards were down; what were you expectin’? Barnes to turn up and just forgive you for missin’ the meetin’?”

She gave a scornful snort. “That’s not how any of this works, I thought you’d know that by now, witch.”

The silence stretched long, the weight of her disdain unbearable. Finally, after a moment that felt like an eternity, you slowly turned your head. Just enough for her to see the state you were in—your bruised face and the bloodied split in your swollen bottom lip.

Natasha’s gaze flickered over your form, and the contempt was gone for a moment, replaced by something colder, harder. Her jaw tightened as she took in the sight. She didn’t rush to help you, but you could tell by how her eyebrow twitched that she was taken aback.

"Who did this?" she asked, her voice flat but cold.

You looked away, avoiding her gaze. "Why would you care?"

Her lips twisted into a thin line. She took a step closer, her posture rigid. "You know why."

The world felt heavy around you, each breath a struggle. You didn't want to acknowledge that she only cared because of who you were to Bucky, not due to any worry for your well-being. Bucky’s pet fucking witch, injured. How would they banish the skeletons from their closet without their witch, chains, leash and all?

"It doesn't matter," you muttered, a forced shrug, which was then followed by a wince. The words tasted bitter, but they were all you had left to cling to.

"Of course, it matters," Natasha pressed, her voice growing sharper. "Who did it? Who the fuck did this to you? If it’s those Penance Boys again I swear to the gods—"

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You didn’t want to. You couldn’t stand the thought of going back, of being dragged back into the suffocating web of the Smog Boys.

"I don't want anything to do with that family," you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. You clutched the blanket tighter as if that would shield you from her questions, from everything else.

Natasha's lips curled in a sneer, a harsh laugh escaping her throat. She knew exactly what family you were referring to—the Barnes. "It's a little too late for that now, isn't it?" Her eyes were cold, assessing. “You think you can just walk away from this?”

The words stung, cutting deeper than you thought they could.

"You know I didn’t have a choice." Your voice cracked, and you barely recognised it as your own.

Natasha’s expression softened for a brief moment, a flicker of understanding crossing her face before it hardened again. “I know,” she said flatly, her eyes narrowing as she studied you.

You wanted to scream. In a vulnerable, fucked up way, you wanted to tell her everything—the truth, the pain, the defeat, about Wanda and the Church, about your confliction and entanglement with the Barnes siblings—but all that came out was a shaky breath.

She stood over you for a moment longer. Then, without another word, Natasha turned on her heel and walked toward the door. She didn’t offer help, didn’t offer comfort. She didn’t need to.

She had said all that she wanted to say.

PART SIX

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evesetchings · 11 months ago

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So in @novalizinpeace’s poppy playtime au, specifically in the cartoon portion, the critters have these magic pendants that give them certain abilities. This isn’t limited to the gang, and all sorts of different pendants exist for different characters, but there’s a catch.

In this post, they talk about how if the magic in the pendant overwhelms a critter, it can transform them into a myth, a magical, monstrous being with incredible power, but can sometimes be incredibly dangerous to the people around them.

So I decided to take the 8 main critters and turn them into horrible little beasties for my amusement, and now I wish to show you guys the fruits of my labor.

tw for mild body horror and psychological horror under the cut

Dogday - Sol

This is the only ‘canon’ myth critter that exists in the au. Every time Dogday is pushed past his limit and gets too angry with something he transforms into sol, who is a mindless flaming warrior with no logic or regard for their surroundings. This leads to them being pretty dangerous to be around, but Sol isn’t evil, they just want to protect their user from any harm, and if left to their own devices, would probably self-isolate to protect themselves (and others) from harm.

2. Hoppy Hopscotch - Notus

The first of my original designs. Notus is the transformed version of Hoppy, and has the same weather manipulation powers, just to a much larger degree. Although she mostly uses it to make her storms larger. Notus’s mental state is much more stable than Sol (relatively), specifically in that she can remember her past life, but not specific people, so friends and even family are hardly whispers in her mind, if even that. She is quite competitive, viewing her storms as a contest to see how big she can make them, and will never back down from a challenge, doing everything in her power to win, but she is also a graceful loser, and hates cheaters. Her name comes from the Greek god of south winds, who is associated with wetness and the coming of rains.

3. Bubba bubbaphant - Ganesha

This guy’s name comes from the Hindu deity of new beginnings and the patron of the sciences and arts, who is also represented by a man with an elephant’s head and four arms. His mental state is similar to that of Notus, in that he can remember specific events from his past, but not people. He has become incredibly intelligent, being able to solve complex equations and understand lots of different subjects, but his already prevalent neuroticism has been turned up to eleven, with even the slightest infraction driving him to a rage, which can make him incredibly dangerous to deal with, but also rewarding, as his intellect allows him to answer many questions. He can also spin webs, because spider.

4. Bobby Bearhug - Callisto

Callisto is a little different from the other myths. She can remember her name, and her past, and the people around her, but only sometimes. You see, her pendant’s natural power is to absorb the excess emotion around her, and it still does that, but if she absorbs to much, then it leads to her transformation into a massive bear like monster with one goal, to make the excess stop by any means necessary. This has led to her voluntary exile in order to stop herself from hurting the people around her, which causes Bobby a great deal of pain, but it’s better than letting herself hurt the people she cares about the most. Her name comes from a nymph who was transformed into (what else) a bear by a furious Hera.

5. Pickypiggy - Limos

Unlike most of the others, Limos can hardly remember who she once was, much less the people in her life or what they mean to her. Instead she is driven by her one deepest instinct: to care and provide for the people around her. She works tirelessly to cook and prepare extravagant meals for anyone who might need it, leading to her neglecting her own health and her living environment. She also has to deal with a ravenous hunger that pains her every moment, and often leads her to devouring her dishes as soon as she finished, causing even further distress. Her name comes from the Greek goddess of starvation, which i don’t think is a very good comparison, but I can’t think of anything better, so eh.

6. KickinChicken - The Roc

Kickin’s transformed state is probably the least actively dangerous to be around. He’s a large, powerful bird capable of flying incredibly fast, as well as being incredibly loud and aggressive, but never actively harmful. His mental state is kind of the opposite of Notus and Ganesha, in that he can remember specific people and places, but not his past nor his name, and goes out of his way to try and help others. The key word being ‘try’, as his loud and aggressive demeanor often end up causing more damage than assistance. His name comes from an Arabian creature that is described as a bird of prey large enough to carry an elephant, which I thought was a good choice, and I couldn’t find any mythological chickens that really fit him.

7. Craftycorn - Apophis

Her name comes from an Egyptian monster that is said to be the embodiment of chaos and disorder, although Crafty is significantly less malevolent than her mythological counterpart. The main effect of her presence is the chaotic shifting of her environment, colors swapping and shapes changing into maelstrom of chaos around her, with the effect getting stronger the closer you get towards her, and any critter who does so has the very real risk of being torn apart. Apophis herself isn’t doing much better, with her entire body constantly melting into multicolored goop that has a consistency similar to that of candle wax. Not much is known about her mental state, as no one is brave enough to get close to her for risk of being killed, but there has to be something left of her as her maelstrom very much has the capacity to expand over the entire world and destroy it, the only reason it hasn’t is because Crafty appears to be holding it back through sheer force of willpower.

8. Catnap - Ouranos

Ouranos is probably the one who’s the most ‘in there’, besides Callisto in her non murder mode. He can remember his past life quite clearly and the people in them. In fact the only difference between him and normal Catnap is that Ouranos is slightly more apathetic towards outside events. He’s floated off into space and now observes to world from the heavens, watching as everything drifts by, because he can’t exactly leave. He can, however, see his friends suffering, and wishes he had the capability to help them in any way he could.

Once again thanks to @novalizinpeace for the au and all concepts belong to her.

#I love torturing children :)#poppy playtime #Dogday #hoppy hopscotch #bubba bubbaphant #bobby bearhug #pickypiggy #kickinchicken #craftycorn #catnap #body horror #art #angst #smiling critters arg #smiling critters #smilingcritterslostmedia

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claymoresword · 1 year ago

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I Choose Her | Chp: 19

Hermione Granger x Slytherin Fem!Reader

Summary: You are the daughter of two known death eaters from one of the oldest and richest families in the wizarding world. Are you truly prepared to give up everything you know for Hermione Granger?

Pairing: Hermione x Reader

Wordcount: 3.2k

Warnings: heavy themes, character death, mention of violence, death, grief, (somehow) a sprinkle of fluff

Note: hello! finally we're here, this is looking like the second last chapter, which is bitter sweet but I suppose it has to end at some point :( also I know this one is shorter than usual, and since it is very plot driven it may not be as fun to read but I hope the fluff makes up for it! the next chapter will definitely be longer and hopefully less depressing overall lol. anyway, that's it, as always endless thanks for your patience. hope you enjoy!

Taglist: @gvrsto @aweidlich @xxsekhmet @arielj @poppyflower-22 @scarleigh1989 @smut-religiously777 @cocoyeehaw @blackbirdv98 @arcturusseer @iamcapitalgbicorn8287 @lonewalker17 @karasonromanoff @httphayn @bigbadsofty07 @cherryflavoredcoke @dumpsapphic @idontwannabehereatm @js-a-writer @baylegend6 @puta1 @t-wylia @raven-ss @unexpected-character

You can feel heat prickling your skin, the quidditch pitch is a fiery blaze and you could only afford to stare in helpless despair.

The quaffle hoops once stood large and tall, you've flown by them countless times during quidditch practice, and multiple house matches. One of the best memories you've made at Hogwarts– reduced to ash.

Now the wooden stands are nothing but kindling for the fire that devoured them, they come crashing down in pieces of hot red ember.

Smoke is all you can smell in the air, thick hot ash and fear.

You can't move, still– you observed as the flames licked another banner, Gryffindor or Slytherin, they were no match for it's fiery wrath.

More students sprint past, careless and panicked, nudging you in the process. Now you are forcefully pushed further into the doorway.

It works as a shock to your system, a part of you astrayed amidst the chaos, but you had to keep running, in search of Hermione.

You propell down the main hall, soon approaching the gallery.

“Y/n!” Blessedly, you finally hear your love call out to you, but it was a shout of warning.

Somehow, you manage to narrowly dodge the curse coming your way. “Avada Kedavra!” You cast in return, without thought, almost second nature.

The Death Eater is thrown backwards, slamming through a broken wall and into a pile of bricks.

Your plan to advance forward is interrupted as you feel a presence fall into you, arms wrapped tightly around your neck.

The scent of your girlfriend's perfume is now smothered by the smell of sweat and dirt, but it provides you comfort all the same.

“I thought you were– I thought I lost you.” Hermione mutters, scattered, and all you want to do is hold her, kiss her, and take her as far away from the castle as you possibly could.

But as much as you would like it to be, fleeing is not an option.

Instead you cup her face in your hands, committing each feature of hers to memory, every dip and freckle.

“I'm sorry.” You say.

“It all happened too fast, I don't know how we got separated.” You finish, still trying to make sense of mayhem. You've both come face to face with death half a dozen times tonight, maybe more.

None of it makes sense.

“Guys, come on!” Harry's voice forces Hermione to break your gaze, she then tugs on your arm, guiding you with her.

Soon you find yourselves in a steady jog down the hallway, you turn a corner only to be met with a sight that stops the four of you in your tracks.

Greyback was bent over the body of a girl, his jaw clamped firmly on her neck, draining all life from his victim.

“No!” Hermione shouts. Frantically, she throws a curse, causing the werewolf to crash through the wall behind him. Now the beast has been vanquished, but it is too late.

Atop rubble and ash, Lavender Brown laid stiff and colorless, entirely unlike herself.

Her eyes are open, yet they held no trace of her. The girl's mortal soul, taken by death– ever merciless and violent, tonight, he spares very few.

Harry is first to snap out of the terror induced trance that you found yourselves in, consequently followed by Hermione.

Soon you move as well, but as you glance at Ron, you can't bring yourself to take another step.

Despite yourself, you find your hand reaching out to grab his shoulder. “Come on, mate.” You coax, but the man doesn't react to your touch, or your voice.

He continues to stare at Lavender– and the sheer absence of her.

“She's gone– she isn't suffering anymore.” You offer, hoping Ron would find some solace in your words, however minute.

He does.

Nodding, the ginger haired boy tears his eyes away from his deceased lover. The four of you continue your journey through the courtyard and down the winding stairs towards the boathouse.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

Hermione's ironclad grip on your forearm doesn't falter as you follow Harry's lead, quietly approaching the boathouse. The four of you immediately crouch out of sight as you caught movement inside.

Voldermort's voice, faint and unsettling, it makes your blood run cold.

He continues to deliver his thoughts with a tone closer to a whisper, the four of you are forced to strain your necks to listen.

Soon you make out a second voice, and you share a quick look amongst yourselves. Trying your hardest to make sense of what was being said between the Dark Lord, and Professor Snape.

“Tonight, when the boy comes, it will not fail you, I'm sure of it.”

“It answers to you, and you only.”

Unsettling silence fills the air once more, and you feel inclined to shift closer to Hermione.

“Does it?” Voldermort finally inquires, and it is followed by a lack of response, for a beat, you wonder if Snape was still present.

“My Lord?” The Professor eventually says.

“The wand, does it truly answer to me?”

“You're a clever man Severus, surely you must know.”

“Where does it's true loyalty lie?”

“With you, of course. My Lord.” The Professor replies with just a gleam of hesitation, and for a reason unknown to you, it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand.

“The Elder wand cannot serve me properly because I am not it's true master. The wand belongs to the wizard who killed it's last owner.” Voldermort continues.

“You killed Dumbledore, Severus.”

“While you live, the elder wand cannot truly be mine.”

“You've been a good and faithful servant, Severus, but only I can live forever.”

Then, Hermione turns to you, and you give her a similar look of horror in response.

“My Lord-” Severus’ response is strained.

None of you are given a chance to react before a loud thud is heard, you see the Professor's silhouette hitting the glass before you.

“Nagini, kill.”

The panel vibrates violently, but miraculously, it doesn't shatter.

The sound of Snape's body hitting the glass repeatedly with every deathly blow, makes the four of you jump.

Then a cold gust of wind surrounded the boathouse, and soon, it was quiet again. Only the sound of water, and the noise of a boat hitting the wooden dock everytime it swayed. Snape's shallow breathing, unsteady and helpless.

Harry is first to move, he enters the boathouse, and the rest of you can only trail after him silently.

“Professor–” You stutter as you catch sight of the man laying on the ground.

Snape was a formidable man, one you used to fear, even respected.

He has never looked so small.

Harry crouches beside him, he places his hand on the man's neck as Snape lets out a sob. The sight was so foreign that you had to look away.

“Take them– take them.” The man pleads, incoherent at first, but quickly Harry understands his request.

“Give me something, a flask, anything.” The chosen one orders, extending his arm toward Hermione.

Your girlfriend does as she is bid, fishing out the object from her bag before passing her best friend an empty vial.

You watched with bated breaths as Harry held it up to Snape's cheek, collecting the Professor's tears. Once he was done, he cuped the vial firmly in his grasp.

“Take them to the pensieve.” Snape orders with all that's left of his strength.

He was slipping away, you could see it, the way his head was nodding to the side as he slowly fell limp against the glass, his gaze far away and vacant.

The man whispers something intelligible to Harry, perhaps intended for his ears only. In half a heartbeat, Snape was dead.

–

Harry reaches over to gently shut the Professor's eyes.

You step closer, with the intention to lay Snape on the floor properly, so he may be put to rest with some dignity, but before you can suggest it, a blinding pain courses through your arm.

It makes you groan aloud.

Hermione reaches out for you, but then a voice penetrates the air, sudden and invasive.

The Dark Lord is merciless in his attempt, he has lost every ounce of patience– you could feel it in your arm.

Hermione clasps her hands over her ears as Voldermort delivers his second message.

“You have fought valiantly, but in vain. I do not wish this.. every drop of magical blood spilled is a terrible waste. I therefore command my forces to retreat, in their absence, dispose of your dead with dignity.”

“Harry Potter, I now speak directly to you. On this night, you have allowed your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. There is no greater dishonor. Join me in the forbidden forest and confront your fate.”

“If you do not do this, I shall kill every last man, woman and child, who tries to conceal you from me.”

═══════════════════════════════════════════

As the four of you walked through the empty courtyard, you can't help but notice just how quiet it was, something that would usually be considered a comfort, is now incredibly unnerving.

“Where is everybody?” Hermione asks, but her question is soon enough answered once you push the doors open to the Great Hall.

The space is unrecognizable.

A scene from a nightmare.

There is not a candle in sight, everyone operating on the bit of light provided by the moon. You spot Mr Filch, sequestered in a corner, miserably sweeping piles of rubble out of the way.

Your stomach turns as you make your way through, an endless line of bodies laid upon makeshift cots.

You can't help but look upon all their faces, one by one. All these bodies– they were once sons, daughters, somebody's friend or lover.

The air is snatched out of your lungs as you spot a familiar face.

Nymphadora Tonks lay unmoving beside her husband, their hands outstretched as if to touch each other– even in death.

“No..” You mutter in disbelief and Hermione follows your gaze, she let's out a sharp gasp.

It could have easily been you laying on that cot.

It could have been Hermione.

The thought alone made you nauseous, you could physically feel your stomach turn. You decide you had to get away before you wretched.

Before you could however, a desperate wail snatches your attention. You look up to find Ron in the distance, he sobs uncontrollably as he knelt over his brother's dead body.

You watched as Ginny held him, now they are both sobbing helplessly.

Molly could do all but console them. What agony it must be, to watch your children die before their time.

There is so much pain, too much– you had to get away.

You turn to leave the Great Hall, or what is left of it, with no destination in mind. You simply needed to escape.

Away from grief, away from death, if there was ever a chance of evading it tonight.

“Y/n!” Amidst suffocating torment, no voice has ever sounded as sweet. Hermione swiftly catches up to you, her hand slips into your own.

Your palm now felt calloused and rough. It is caked with dirt and dried blood, but Hermione holds it firmly in her own still.

“Don't leave without telling me like that, we can't separate again.” Hermione scolds, and you offer an apologetic look.

“I just need to get some air.” You explain, but Hermione doesn't question it, in desperate need of an escape herself.

“Come,” She merely coaxes, tugging on your arm.

You soon realize she aims to guide you somewhere secluded, but it seemed impossible. Everywhere you looked, it was death and destruction. Your home; a battlefield.. a gravesite.

After wandering for some time, you finally find a place to sit, the flight of stairs leading up to the Headmaster's Tower remains vacant and mostly intact. Although pieces of stone would break off from the sides ever so often, when compared to the rest of the castle, it was hardly worth acknowledging.

Hermione takes a seat on the step, gesturing for you to do the same next to her. Your girlfriend runs her fingers through your disheveled hair, tenderly moving it out of your face.

Neither of you speak just yet, even after all that's happened tonight, she manages to smile at you, honest and bright. It nearly breaks you.

The thought of living even a day without her was excruciating, you can't lose her tonight, under any circumstances.

“We'll be okay, we've made it this far.” Hermione utters out loud, as if she had just read your mind.

“It'll all be over soon.” Your girlfriend says, but you catch the faint tremor in her voice. She was fighting back tears.

Yet, you could only wrap your arm around her as she rests her head on your shoulder.

After a prolonged silence, you decide to redirect the topic of conversation, however macabre it may seem, you somehow saw it as the perfect opportunity.

Afterall, you could both use a little bit of joy right now.

“There's something I've wanted to ask you– it is going to sound mad, but I need to say it. before it's too late.” You stammer, a sudden sense of nervousness setting in, you take in a deep breath to calm yourself.

“What is it?” Hermione inquires, by the way her brows furrowed you could tell she was concerned as you spoke vaguely.

You quickly realize that it was too late to back out, you needed to take the leap, and hope that Hermione will catch you.

Amidst a sigh you stand up so you could move a step down.

“This is definitely not how I planned to do it, but–” You mutter, looking around before it occurred to you to utilise the ring you already had on your finger.

You take it off as you got down on one knee, albeit somewhat ungracefully. Hermione's eyes widen at the sight, but she doesn't say anything as of yet, watching you intently.

You extend your hand in front of you, and your girlfriend's gaze shifts to the Slytherin crest ring pinched between your index finger and your thumb.

“Hermione Jean Granger, if we make it out alive tonight– would you do me the incredible honor of being my wife?” You finally manage to utter the words you have longed to say.

Hermione's eyes were no longer wide in shock, but her expression is now unreadable. You couldn't tell if she was about to burst into tears or laugh in your face.

In the end, she does neither, but she still struggles to find the words.

“Y/n, I–” She stutters before averting her gaze.

“Are you sure?” Hermione finally asks, meeting your expectant stare, and you can't help but let out a chuckle.

“I have wanted you since the first moment. I knew I loved you from the first time you smiled at me. and I knew I wanted to marry you the first time you ran your fingers through my hair. and then our first kiss– I truly thought if we couldn't be together, I'd die.” You spoke from the heart without missing a beat, not caring about just how dramatic you might have sounded.

“I used to think that I'd be just fine on my own. I didn't believe that I could ever care for someone the way I do for you.” Your voice breaks ever so slightly, you swallow before continuing.

“Hermione when I'm not with you– it feels like I can't breathe.” You barely manage to say, your throat tightens, as a tear escapes your eye.

“my love–” Hermione coos, her own eyes now welling up with tears. She approaches to grab your forearm, although not harshly, she guides you back on your feet.

Your faces are mere inches away from each other before she would crash her lips against yours, a kiss that is restless and unchecked yet somehow equally tamed and loaded with love.

“Of course, I will marry you.” She declares once your lips part, she wipes the tear away with the pad of her thumb, and your heart sings.

You are unable to contain the large grin on your face, one Hermione had no issues reciprocating.

“Really?” You ask, mainly in relief rather than actual disbelief.

Hermione pauses as if thinking of an adequate response

“Well, I do think we should at least wait a year or two, at least until after we finish school.” Hermione admits, and you scoff, even in the midst of a war her priorities remain unchanged.

“but–” Hermione says, grabbing your face so she could force you to meet her gaze once more.

“It is a yes, without a doubt. I can't imagine spending my life with anyone else.” Your girlfriend states earnestly, and your smile returns.

You eagerly grab her hand so you may slip the ring onto her finger.

Hermione stares at the piece of jewelry, silently inspecting the intricate carving of a snake, before finally kissing you again.

The feeling of Hermione's lips against your own allowed you to forget the impending threat of death. With her you believe that you could survive anything. This war will be over soon, and you will marry her. Whatever it takes.

Hermione breaks the kiss only when you are both gasping for air, she embraces you tightly, as if trying to savor the feeling as much and for as long as she could.

Harry emerges from seemingly out of nowhere, you open your eyes as you hear footsteps. Hermione releases you so she may turn to her friend.

Harry's stare was distant, troubled. In truth, he looked sick. You dread to find out exactly what he's witnessed within Snape's memories, neither you nor Hermione mustered the will to ask.

Unexpectedly, Harry is first to break the silence.

“Where's Ron?” He mutters, finally looking between Hermione and yourself.

“He's with his family still.” Your girlfriend explains. Then the chosen one nods, and he starts to fade once more, disappearing into his own head.

“Harry what is it?” Hermione asks, when Harry looks up at her again, his eyes are glossed over with tears.

“There's a reason I can hear them, the Horcruxes.” He remarks. “I've known for awhile, and I think you have too.”

The newfound resolve in his voice makes your entire body stiffen, soon Hermione is crying again.

Harry possessed a bravery you once envied– but no longer.

He plans to confront the Dark Lord and the thought of it made you ill, he shouldn't have to go through it alone. It seems your girlfriend shared the same sentiment as she spoke her next words amidst soft sobs.

“I'll go with you–” She suggests, but her best friend is quick to turn her down.

“No, kill the snake.” Harry says, glancing between the two of you.

“Kill the snake and then it's just him.” He asserts. Hermione practically throws herself into his arms.

You watched as she cleaved to him hopelessly, Harry doing the same in return.

Soon, The Chosen One shifts his gaze towards something behind you, and you swiftly turn around to see Ron standing a few paces away.

The expression on his face suggests he had been standing there for some time.

His eyes were tired, glazed over with what resembled apathy– or perhaps the harrowing inevitably of acceptance. You could not say for certain.

One thing you did know; in order to defeat Voldermort, Harry Potter has to die.

#hermione granger imagine #hermione x reader #slytherin au #hermione granger #hermione granger x reader #harry potter #hermione granger smut

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cryptidcr3ature · 1 year ago

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Assigning rdr characters zodiacs since they didn’t give us birthdays to do it ourselves

Dutch- I know he’s a Leo, but I feel July Leo. Dramatic ass man.

Hosea- Libra. Theater kid, con man, self confident. I know what’s up.

Arthur- Taurus. He’s suchhhh a Taurus. Hard worker, stubborn, and typically a follower but will stand up for himself. I feel it. May Taurus

Abigail- ARIES WOMAN!!! I love Aries, my best friend is an Aries and they take no shit, especially from romantic partners. Driven, but so caring.

Micah-Sagittarius. I know I said Virgo in my initial post but that’s just my personal beef against Virgo men. He’s nearly as dramatic as Dutch but no where near as suave. He adds to Dutch’s flame till it’s out of control.

John-Cancer. “What choice did I have?” Never taking blame and takes a smack in the face to correct behavior. June cancer energy (I’m a cancer too so I’m calling myself out)

Sean-Scorpio, 100%. Sex driven, emotionally charged, quick to act out, cried after trying to kill Dutch and Hosea. Typical Scorpio energy.

Lenny-Capricorn. Lenny leads with his head over his heart. However, when he follows his heart, dear god get away.

Javier-Virgo. Virgos are always 5 steps ahead of you. I’ve also been burned by more Virgos than any other sign. Still if you got something you need done, a Virgo has a plan.

Bill- Sagittarius. The toxic masculinity and the bluntness of bill williamson makes me lean towards Sagittarius. I feel like maybe he’s a November Sagittarius though.

Trelawney- GEMINIIII!!! I personally love Gemini but everything is a performance with them. Different to the Leo main character syndrome, Gemini try to preform who they think you want them to be.

Charles-Scorpio. This one took a while and a lot of flip flopping but then I realized that Charles is an October Scorpio. Compared to the more open November Scorpio, Charles has a more introverted, bottled up personality. He’s emotionally reserved but once you get to know him, you can tell exactly how he’s feeling and what he’s up to.

Kieran- Pisces. Sweet boy, water sign energy. Slightly pathetic. Definitely March Pisces.

Sadie- Pisces. February Pisces woman. She will stab you for someone she loves, and won’t hesitate to do it again.

Mary-Beth- Cancer. July in particular and demonstrates the more hopeless romantic and creative nature of Cancers. Also I know she’s got that intuition.

Tilly- Aquarius. She’s reserved but will kill you without warning. Don’t cross an Aquarius.

Karen-Capricorn. Capricorn burnout is so real and Karen is a prime example of what happens when you don’t keep your Capricorn on the straight and narrow.

Molly-Leo. Her last scene, that’s all.

I’ve been working on this for 40 minutes now and the melatonin is kicking in. Enjoy.

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feeling-pushy · 8 months ago

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Journey to the Kingdom

Thank you to my anonymous commissioner for giving me yet another amazing commission with Mika! Love writing for her and this premise was a really fun one! I hope I'll get to write for again in the future!

~2k, fpreg, in the woods, alone in the woods, nsfw

The ancient forest enveloped Mika’s small caravan as it creaked along the narrow path. Sunlight pierced through the dense canopy, casting dappled shadows on the moss-covered ground. Mika, with her shoulder-length black hair tied back, looked out from her coach seat, her light grey eyes scanning the surroundings. Her hands instinctively rested on the gentle swell of her belly, a soft smile playing on her lips as she felt a flutter of movement from within.

The journey had been long and arduous, but the promise of gold and the honor of delivering the future heir of a distant kingdom had driven her to accept the task. Normally, she would have refused such a request, especially being in the late stages of her own pregnancy. However, the prospect of securing a prosperous future for her child outweighed the risks.

The rhythmic clatter of wheels over uneven ground punctuated the quiet, each bump sending a twinge through Mika's body. Her once slender frame had softened during pregnancy, a transformation she accepted with grace, knowing it signified the miracle of life growing within her. With a soft sigh, she shifted in her seat, attempting to find a more comfortable position to ease the discomfort tugging at her lower back and hips.

Traveling alone was not ideal, but it allowed her the peace and solitude she needed to prepare for the task ahead. The forest around her was alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves.

"You're going to meet a little prince or princess soon." Mika murmured softly, her voice a soothing counterpoint to the rhythmic sway of the caravan. She placed a gentle hand over her belly, feeling the movements within. "We're almost there. Just one more days travel."

The caravan jolted over a particularly rough patch of road, pulling Mika from her reverie. She winced slightly, placing a hand on her lower back to ease the discomfort. Her hands rested lightly on the reins, guiding the sturdy mare along the winding path.

As Mika adjusted her position on the cushioned seat once again, her thoughts turned to the practicalities of the journey. She had packed all the necessary supplies, her medical instruments carefully wrapped and stored. She carried herbs and potions, remedies for pain and complications, as well as her own provisions. The caravan was modest but sufficient, providing shelter and a place to rest during the long nights.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over the forest. Mika knew she would need to find a suitable place to camp for the night. Aside from that, her back could use the rest, as the jostling of the cart had agitated it, causing her discomfort all day. She guided the caravan off the main path, following a narrow trail that led to a small clearing.

As she set about making camp, she felt a tight cramp ripple through her abdomen, squeezing her hips. She paused, leaning against the side of the caravan, breathing deeply to ease the discomfort. It had been a long day, and the constant jostling of the caravan had taken its toll. She waved the pain away, convincing herself it was just the strain of the journey as she got back to setting up the camp.

As darkness fell, Mika sat by the small fire she had kindled, the fire crackling and popping as she settled down on a blanket spread on the ground. The warmth of the flames and the quiet of the forest provided a brief respite from the day's challenges. Setting up camp had taken longer than normal, her having to stop now and again to ease a flare-up of pain in her back and hips, still sore from the journey.

But now everything was set up and she was settled. Mika closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment of peace as she let the warmth of the fire wash over her.

Just as she began to relax, a more powerful cramp seized her, doubling her over in pain. She clutched her belly, gasping for breath. This was different, much stronger than the earlier cramps. Panic flickered in her eyes.

"No... Not now." she whispered to herself, she placed a now trembling hand upon her abdomen, struggling to stay calm. Another wave of pain followed quickly, causing her to wince, eyes closing tightly as she focused on her breathing, just as she had counseled countless women before in their labors. There was no denying it now, she was in labor, alone in the middle of the forest, far from any help.

Her mind raced, assessing her situation. She knew she had to act quickly. The supplies she carried for others' deliveries would now have to be used for her own. Fighting through the pain of the contractions that now came in waves, she crawled to the caravan, rummaging for the necessary items. She found clean linens, a sharp knife, and herbs to ease the pain.

Mika set up a makeshift birthing area near the fire, laying out the linens and preparing for the task ahead. Despite the fear and uncertainty, her training as a midwife kicked in, guiding her actions with a steady hand.

As the next contraction hit, she gripped the edge of a nearby log, sweat beading on her forehead. The forest seemed to close in around her, the shadows lengthening as night fell.

As the contraction subsided, Mika eased herself down on her back, propping herself up on her elbows. The firelight flickered across her face, “You know, this isn’t the best timing, little one.” she murmured, her voice a mixture of pain and tenderness. “But I’m still excited to meet you. We’re going to get through this, together.”

Time passes, and the forest around Mika was now completely dark, save for the fire as it casted it’s long, flickering light. The contractions were relentless now, coming in waves as they squeezed and then released, and Mika could feel the pressure building inside her. It was a deep, almost unbearable force, pressing down with a sense of urgency that she couldn't ignore.

She planted her feet firmly on the ground, lifting her hips to rock and sway them, trying to relieve the mounting pressure. The movements provided some small comfort, a way to keep her focus amidst the waves of pain. She breathed deeply, in and out, her hands gripping the edges of the blanket beneath her.

“Come on, little one.’ she panted, her voice a bit strained, ‘We’re almost there. Just a little more.”

And then, in the midst of the turmoil, she felt it—a profound shift deep within her. With a small almost popping sensation, a gush of warm, clear fluid came from between her legs, soaking the blanket beneath her. Her water had broken, the sensation both a relief and a new source of anxiety, knowing that she might need to push soon.

Turns out, she didn’t have to wait long. As alongside the next building contraction Mika felt a deep, instinctual urge to push. The pressure was immense, and she knew she couldn't remain lying on her back any longer.

With great effort, she adjusted her position, shifting her weight and the blanket beneath her. She moved to sit up against a nearby fallen tree, the rough bark providing a solid support. The cool earth beneath her and the sturdy trunk at her back brought a measure of comfort amidst the intensity of labor.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she braced herself, planting her feet firmly in the ground. The firelight flickered across her face, highlighting the determination in her eyes. “I’m ready now.’ she murmured to her baby, her voice a mixture of pain-tinged resolve, ‘Let’s do this.”

Another contraction surged through her, and Mika bore down, pushing with all her strength. The sensation was overwhelming, but felt heavenly at the same time as it gave her purpose. She gritted her teeth, her body straining with the effort, every muscle focused on bringing her child into the world.

Time seems to pass nebulously as Mika fell into the rhythm of childbirth, only aware of her body and the progress she made with each heaving push. The pressure intensified, and she could feel the baby’s head descending. She let a primal sound escape her lips, echoing through the forest.

Sweat streamed down her face, mingling with tears, as she soon starts to feel a bulging between her legs, growing a little bigger every time she bears down. This drove her to push harder, knowing it was the final barrier between her and the moment she had been waiting for.

She gripped her thighs, anchoring herself against the overwhelming pressure and weight. With a deep breath, she pushed with all her might, her muscles straining. Then she started to feel a little stretch, as her folds started to part. By the time the contraction breaks and she stops to catch her breath, it's starting to burn.

She reached down instinctively, her fingers brushing against the soft, wet hair of her child. The sensation filled her eyes with tears of pain and joy, “You're coming, my love.’ she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, ‘Just a little more.”

Feeling her child’s head filled her with energy as she heaved anew, gritting her teeth as the baby's head emerged a little further, the burning sensation increasing. She could feel her muscles straining, her body stretching to accommodate the new life that was so close to entering the world.

Giving another big push, she felt the baby's head reach full crown, the pressure immense but exhilarating. Mika’s fingers brushed against the baby’s head again, feeling the soft hair. Mika panted, her voice filled with both exhaustion and triumph. “A-Almost here. You’re almost here.”

The next contraction gripped her, and Mika pushed slowly but firmly, feeling the baby's head inching forward. She could feel the baby’s head emerging, and her breaths came in short gasps as she paused. Mika then pushed again, guiding the baby's head out as she birthed the head fully. The baby’s head now rested against her thigh, the shoulders still within her. She could feel the slight movements, her child so close to joining the world.

Mika took a moment to breathe, her belly pulsing in time with her breaths. Mika then leaned forward and carefully supported the baby’s head with one hand, as she bore down once more, the pressure building as she focused on delivering the shoulders.

She pushed with all her might, feeling the baby's shoulders rotate and emerge one by one. The sensation was intense, but Mika stayed focused as with one final, fierce push, the rest of the baby’s body tumbled out, slippery and warm.

Mika’s heart swelled with overwhelming joy and relief as she scooped her newborn into her arms. The baby's first cries filled the clearing and echoed through the night. Tears streamed down Mika's face as she cradled the tiny, wriggling form against her chest.

“H-Hi Baby. Oh wow.’ she croaked, her voice choked with emotion, ‘You’re finally here. Welcome home.” The pain and struggle faded into the background as Mika held her baby close, the firelight bathing them in it’s warm glow.

Mika's journey had been long and arduous, but as she approached the castle, a sense of accomplishment washed over her. The towering stone walls of the kingdom’s stronghold loomed ahead, the castle gates opening in anticipation of her arrival. She cradled her newborn close to her chest, the baby swaddled snugly in a soft blanket, their tiny face peeking out as they slept peacefully.

As she made her way through the grand archway, she was greeted by a steward who bowed deeply. “Lady Mika.’ he said, his voice a respectful murmur, ‘The king and queen are awaiting you in the royal chambers. This way, please.”

As she was led to the chambers to meet the expectant mother, Her baby stirred slightly, and she adjusted the blanket, whispering soothing words. She had been through an incredible journey, both physically and emotionally, but now she was ready for the next chapter in her life and to assist in bringing another life into the world.

#preg kink #pregnant #fpreg #birth kink #birth story #birth #giving birth #labor kink #in labor #labor and delivery #fic commissions #writing commissions #commissions

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archangeldyke-all · 1 year ago

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mermaid reader and pirate/sailor sevika

sevika would be such a good pirate! she's ruthless and driven and really fucking smart, could you imagine her in one of those billowing white shirts??? i just nutted.

anyways, let's be cliche. it's so fun.

men and minors dni

you're out swimming when you come upon a shipwreck. judging by the wreckage still in flames, it had happened pretty recently. you swim closer, eager to see what kind of treasures were on board. as you approach the debris, you hear a groan. you freeze, your eyes scanning the water for a sailor as you sink into the water, just your eyes above the waves.

it's been a while since you had a sailor, and human is always a nice treat when you've been feasting on fish for a while. you bite your lip as you start slowly swimming around the various floating barrels and shrapnel.

there's a few dead men bobbing on the surface of the sea face down. you scrunch your nose in disgust as you navigate the bodies, swimming toward the moaning that's echoing over the waves. humans only taste good when they're still warm.

as the last remaining yards of the main mast sink below the surface, a loud, animalistic scream sounds out from behind you. you whip around. your eyes catch on a moving figure. as you swim closer, you're eyes adjust, and you realize that it's a human hugging onto a bobbing barrel. you grin, your sharp fangs descending from your gums as you duck beneath the surface and swim under the barrel.

two feet below the floating human, you can only see their flailing legs. you smile. human legs are so strange looking. you reach out to run one of your long, sharp nails down their pant leg, laughing when they start to panic, flailing around in the water. "what the fuck was that?!" you hear their garbled shout out above the water. you giggle, then wrap your hand around their ankle. a loud shriek rings out and they nearly kick your face with their free leg. you dodge them and swim away, slowly rising to the surface behind where they're scrambling to straddle the barrel and get their body out of the water. you chuckle.

the sailor whips around to face you, and you both simultaneously gasp.

it's a woman, you think in shock. her breasts are heaving, and the thin white shirt she's wearing is doing nothing to conceal her chest now that it's soaked. her silver eyes are wild, her black hair is plastered to her face, her brown skin is dotted with drops of water. a pretty woman.

"fuck." she whispers. you giggle again, swimming closer to her as she scrabbles at the barrel in fear. "fuck fuck fuck." she curses. you stop ten feet away from her.

"i've never seen a human woman before." you say. she freezes.

"y-you can talk?" she asks. you giggle. humans always ask that.

"what are you doing out here?" you ask. the woman blinks at you.

"are... are you gonna kill me?" she asks. you shrug and smirk.

"dunno." you say honestly. "never killed a woman before."

it's silent for a moment. then, "aren't you supposed to sing?" she asks. you burst into laughter.

"only if i was trying to lure you. but... you don't really have anywhere else to go, do you?" the woman studies you and you study her. "you're very pretty." you say. the human laughs. what a lovely sound. "what are you doing out here?" you ask her again.

"i... i was captain of this ship." she says. you blink.

"women can sail?" you ask. she scowls at you.

"'course we can." she grunts. "they just don't want us to."

you consider this, looking the woman up and down. she's shivering now, the shock and adrenaline wearing off. "doesn't look like it went very well." you say, gesturing to the floating bits of ship surrounding you. she growls.

"that's not my fuckin' fault! my navigator got scurvy!" she spits. you swim closer to her and she shuts up, gulping. you frown.

"are you scared of me?" you ask. she huffs a laugh.

"obviously." she says. you frown.

"why?"

"fuckin' look at you!" she says, gesturing her free hand at you. you look down at your body. "gills and fangs and shit! i thought mermaids were a fuckin' myth!"

you pout, sucking your fangs back up into your gums. "there. better?" you ask. the woman shrugs.

"depends."

"on?"

"are you gonna kill me?" she asks. you grin.

"dunno." you say again. she groans. "what's your name?" you ask.

"sevika." she says.

"how'd you get into sailing?"

"dad was a fisherman." she grunts.

"which flag do you sail under?" you ask. you've had horrible experiences with sailors who wave the flag with the red X on the white sheet, a few of their ships tried to hunt you for weeks. ships that fly the red X on the blue sheet carry tasty sailors, always fattened up and full of liquor. the woman before you chuckles.

"none of 'em." she says. you raise an eyebrow at her. "i... technically was not the owner of that vessel." she says, gesturing to the bottom of the sea where her ship has sunk. you grin.

"you're a pirate!?" you gasp. she shrugs.

"i guess."

"a woman pirate!?" you ask again. she chuckles at your excitement.

"yeah." she says. you swim in an excited little circle before reaching your hand out to sevika. she flinches away from it and you pout.

"come on. i'm not gonna kill you." you say, shaking your hand at her. she eyes you warily.

"right. i'm sure you say that to all the boys before you sink those freaky teeth into their throats." she says. you grin and giggle.

"well yeah, but you're not a boy." you say. she hesitates, still, and you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "fine. i'll just leave you here to starve to death. or maybe the dehydration will get you first. you'll start drinking the saltwater to quench your thirst and that'll be it. or maybe the sun will just cook you to a crisp when it rises." you say, slowly swimming away from the pirate. panic starts creeping over her face as you speak, and when you dip beneath the water, you hear her scream.

"wait! come back!" she shouts. you giggle and pop up six inches away from her. she jumps in surprise, her grip on the barrel slipping, and she starts flailing as she begins to sink. you quickly hook one of your arms under hers, pulling her back up to the surface and holding her as she gasps and sputters for air. "thank you." she says, as she clings to you. you smile.

the woman falls asleep in your arms as you swim her to a small deserted island nearby. on the shore, with half your body still in the water, you gently tend to her wounds, cleaning them out with saltwater before dressing them with strips of her shirt. she shifts and mumbles in her sleep, but doesn't wake. you admire her for an hour or two, pressing your ear to her chest to listen to her lungs, poking at her legs and studying her toes. when the sun begins to rise, you spend an hour catching and killing fish for her, dumping the headless bodies into a pile beside her sleeping body. it occurs to you that humans drink freshwater, so you begin to swim around the perimeter of the island, looking for a river or stream where you can collect some water for your new human friend.

when you return to sevika with a sack you'd made out of leaves filled with fresh water over your shoulder, she's starting to wake up. you claw up onto the beach to lay beside her, watching her twitching eyelids blink awake.

"you're real." she grunts. you smile. "thought i imagined you." she says, sitting up. there's sand in her hair, and you reach up to brush it out.

"your hair's so soft." you say as you twirl a lock of it between your fingers. sevika looks around her, taking in the island and the supplies you'd piled by her legs. she looks back down at you.

"you brought me here?" she asks. you nod. she blinks. "and the fish?"

"figured you needed to eat." you say. you nod to the freshwater. "got you water too." you say. "the kind you can drink, i mean."

sevika laughs, slightly hysterical as she takes in the scene. you frown.

"this is like... fifty pounds of fish." she says. you blink at her.

"yeah?"

"that's way too much fish." she says. you pout.

"i thought you'd be nice. you're a woman pirate for fucks sake, you're supposed to be cool! but all you've done since we met is call me scary lookin' and insult my fish!" you say as you start to shove yourself back down the shore and into the water. "i saved your life! and i didn't eat any of the fish i got for you. i mean, except for the heads. and i brought you to land and everything! you're fuckin' heavy, you know, and i swam you all the way here! and i haven't insulted your freaky ass legs once!"

you feel better back in the water. you duck your head under and swim ten feet away from the shore, twirling in a figure eight as you refresh your dehydrated body. when you breach the water, sevika's waist deep and scrambling, her hands reaching out as she searches for you in the waves.

she spots you and her shoulders slump in relief. you back away as she starts trudging towards you.

"would you quit swimmin' away, asshole? i'm trying to get to you!" she shouts. you roll your eyes at her but stop swimming, allowing her to doggypaddle over to you.

"you should be careful. the tide'll sweep you out and then you'll be lost at sea aga--mmph!"

sevika cuts you off with a kiss.

you've never kissed anyone before. some of the girls in your pack like to play with their food before they eat-- pressing kisses to enchanted sailors before tearing their throats out-- so you've seen it before. you just never got the hype.

at least not until now. because now, sevika, the pretty woman pirate, is pressing her chapped lips against yours, her warm human hands gently cupping your jaw as she hums against your mouth. now, you feel a whirlpool in your stomach. now, you feel an altogether different kind of hunger for human flesh in your chest. you wanna taste her, so you dart your tongue out to brush against her lips. she moans against you, one of her hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you against her chest. you shudder in her arms. she's strong.

sevika pulls away with a gasp after a while, and you hold onto her shoulders to keep steady as a dizzy feeling swirls in your head.

"i'm sorry." she says. "you're right. you've been nothing but nice to me and i've been a bitch. it's just a lot. i nearly died and then got rescued by a mermaid who chose to save my life and make me breakfast instead of singing me to my final sleep." she says. your eyes are locked on her lips, your tongue licking your own as you watch them move as she speaks. "you're beautiful." she says. "like... devastatingly beautiful. i can see why so many sailors would be allured by you." she says. you smile, your eyes flicking up to hers.

"we don't really eat that many humans, you know. before you guys had boats, our diet was mainly fish." you say. sevika grins.

"so... do you wanna eat some fish with me now?" she asks, gesturing to the tiny mountain of headless fish waiting on the beach. you bite your lip.

"promise you won't kill me and sell my body to scientists or something?" you ask. sevika laughs and kisses you again.

"yeah. 's long as you keep letting me kiss you." she whispers.

those terms seem pretty agreeable to you.

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika #this was soooooooo fun to write omg.#also in case ur wondering: u end up helping sevika hijack a new ship and build a new crew #sevika builds a giant tub on deck for u #and her crew and ur pack team up and start luring asshole sailors to their deaths #for u to eat and for sevika to rob #and u guys live happily ever after obvs.#dont ask me how the mechanics of mermaid sex works #i have no idea

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kolyasangel · 2 months ago

Text

A FLAME WITHIN ME

synopsis: nikolai can't seem to understand why he can't be apart from you when you stir familiar feelings, as well as not-so-familiar ones in him.

content: ch. 6 of icarus falls - main navi / wc: 9.4k

Consciousness is truly nature's greatest nightmare.

Nothing will ever compare to the sheer horror of being aware of yourself being your own prison.

The coldness of the counter beneath his hands is uncomfortable, the surface biting into his palms. His eyes are tightly closed in frustration while drops of water drip down his face, clinging to damp bangs that stick tackily to his skin.

Nikolai thought he'd changed years ago, that he had shed his former weak self. He hadn't changed at all this whole time. He remained stagnant—a lost and helpless boy driven by one wish, who dared to defy divine beings and went above and beyond extremes all to chase after his dream. Yet, when he looks in the mirror, he doesn't recognize the reflection that stares back. He couldn't stand the sight that was warped by self-loathing, an urge to heave swirling in the pit of his gut every time he caught a glimpse of himself.

He doesn't know who he is anymore. But this is what he wanted, didn't he? To lose himself entirely and irrevocably.

Freedom was the one word that constantly clung to Nikolai's mind like a stubborn shadow. His goal wasn't just a goal, it was his whole existence—the very thing that shaped his foundations as a person, the very thing that defined his essence.

It’s been a week since that night, yet the memories haunt him like restless spirits.

You always find a way to creep into his mind late at night when the world fell silent and the darkness deepened, your presence a ghostly echo in the stillness of his room. There were times when he would stir in bed, wondering if you were in his room, only to pull the covers back and sit up to realize he was alone.

Alone.

Confinement was a torture of its own kind. He couldn't remain cooped up within four walls, suffocating in the stifling air of his own despair. He felt as if the walls were closing in on him, and he feared he might lose his grip on sanity completely if he didn't step outside at least once in a while, even just once to breathe. However, he isn't sure if it helps anymore because he knows who is going to be there outside most of the time, waiting to accompany him.

His cherished daily routine of watching the sunset alone was interrupted, now shared with you, each smear of orange and pink that paints the sky every day now intertwined with the remembrance of you.

And he hates it. He hates the confusion, hates the memories, hates what he's become.

He hates everything.

But he doesn't.

But he does.

He feels like this is almost another punishment for him as if the anguish of having taken the life of his first friend hadn't been enough. This—whatever is happening between you both—is a mockery of his resolve, a cruel trial designed to see if he would truly be able to withstand the pull of desire once more.

The burning sensation in the back of his throat is unbearable as his fingers slip into the depths of his pockets to grasp the deadly item—an object that whispered insidious promises of relief to him when incredible, mind-eating guilt almost pushed him to the edge multiple times. The cold metal grazing against his fingertips is enough to make shivers run down his spine—though it is nothing compared to the thought of you lying in a pool of your own blood.

Would he be content if you were gone? Would he finally have his freedom?

The solution seemed deceptively simple enough, and the answer should be even more so. A near escape wrapped in the finality of a single bullet was all it would take to dissipate his problems, to dissolve the solidifying agony you're putting him through.

Things would go back to the way they were.

But there was one issue.

He doesn't think he'll be able to withstand the heat again. Because then again, there is something about you that simultaneously puts his soul at a strange sense of peace. It infuriates him how your very existence seems to flicker like a soothing flame amidst his tempestuous thoughts, as if you were disguising as light and purposefully luring him into the very fire he feared.

Not to mention, he'd become so unbelievably weak that it made him nauseous to even think about ever in any way hurting you, or anyone for that matter.

He has the blood of hundreds, including innocents, on his hands from his actions. No matter how many times he washed them, he still felt unclean, unable to remove the permanent sense of visceral remorse left on his tainted body and soul, a residue of his blood-stained past from his objections against morality. Those same transgressions against the very morals he sought to oppose were undoubtedly ineffective, still inhabiting and plaguing his mind to this day. He would do anything to escape feeling it—this unbearable guilt that had no place in his mind, yet infiltrating every corner of his mind, claiming far too much space for comfort. Every fiber of his being screamed for release, a clamor of need that churned within him—a lion thrashing against the confines of its cage, desperate for liberation.

But he isn't quite sure why he wanted to change in the first place or why he had pursued the actions that had led him to this state. To prove his free will, of course. Then why does he still feel trapped when he should be free? Ironically, each attempt to assert his proof of free will seemed to tighten the chains around him.

How could he feel this way? Why was he allowing himself to be entangled by these emotions when it brought nothing but delirium?

He wasn't confident that the tolerance was conscience. There was no way it could've been when he was unknowingly digging deeper into his own grave.

Freedom hangs above him, daunting and overwhelming. Each step toward that ethereal light is fraught with risk, that he already knows. Yet, he longed to touch that radiant horizon, to wrap his fingers around its glow. It shimmers just beyond his grasp, but he already feels the burning heat. Perhaps it's the indelible scars of shame that marred his skin and lined his wings, a reminder of the flames of past endeavors that had never truly been extinguished after all this time.

He can't help but be worried this time, hovering in uncertainty when the menacing specter of downfall threatens too large. It feels natural to be after last time, an unsettling reality he still cannot shake off—having soared so close before, only to get sent plummeting down from such dizzying heights so incredibly far up. Somehow, against all odds, he'd managed to pick himself back up after his initial fall, but the ghost of fear still haunts him. What if he fell again—this time, perhaps, into a sea of despair from which there was no return?

Was the light an utter illusion? It seemed frustratingly unattainable.

How come you don't see it like he does?

If he didn't know any better, he'd assume you were also searching for freedom, judging by the way you seemed to agree with his views in some regard. He would've thought there was an understanding between you both, that you both wanted the same thing. But you believe in fate, you believe in purpose, you believe in all these things that he can't begin to grasp the concept of. You are so incredibly brainwashed that it's laughable, bearing more differences than alike to him. Still, a small part of him couldn't help but anticipate the opposite for some reason.

"I find that whenever you have a purpose, life is more bearable."

Purpose. What is his purpose? No, he doesn't need a purpose. The thought of it made him recoil in disgust. That would go against and undermine everything he stands and fights for—a stark contradiction to the threads of independence he had tightly woven together around his existence.

There is no meaning to life, after all.

There is no meaning to this life he has no choice but to live. He deems your need for purpose in existence as nonsensical and would go as far as to say you're delusional for believing in it. He wants to laugh at your utter foolishness and your naivety—so caught up in your own silly beliefs, so thoroughly yet unknowingly trapped in the cage of your own mind. Yet, amid that laughter lay an envious ache for insensibility, a craving for the simplicity of it all. And, amidst this envy, he felt a pang of anger.

How dare you find solace when he felt so frantic to find his?

You must laugh at him in secret when he's not around you—laugh at him for how socially inept he is, at how ridiculous you think he sounds whenever he speaks to you. You must think he's weird and feel pity for him. You make fun of him, don't you? The thought of it fuels him with rage and makes him clench his fists in infuriation.

No, he's the one who's laughing at you! You're the one who's trapped after all. You're the fool!

He wants to laugh, but his throat feels tight, stifling any noise from coming out. He can't even smile at the thought that should be humorous.

Because he knows his suspicions aren't true—your kindness was transparently evident, too potent and telling to hold any ill intent. He can try to convince himself against it all he wants, but pure is the first thing that comes to his mind.

His cheeks feel warm despite the icy water he splashes on his face and his eyes close as a deep sigh escapes his lips.

Why did the mere thought of you make him feel feverish?

You must be lying when you compliment his biggest insecurities—you have to be. It feels impossible that you could mean what you say. But he isn't sure why you would lie to him, nor could he understand why it would matter in the first place.

A fresh wave of frustration washes over him, emotions layering upon emotions. Hatred for himself mixed with these feelings for you, creating a toxic blend that was poisoning his mind. How could he be so weak as to feel like this? Why did the tenderness you elicited make him feel oddly comforted yet utterly enraged?

He feels so much. You make him feel so much. Too much—so intense and so overwhelming to that of a fire that burns too vividly, far beyond what he can contain.

It's your fault. It's all your fault.

These feelings of resentment never leave him, instead, they entwine with these strange new emotions toward you, altogether only seeming to grow more and more and wrap around his heart like wild, invasive vines.

But were you truly the only one to blame?

He himself should be resilient and unshakeable—a bastion of strength that refused to be swayed by the trivialities of emotional entanglements, not permitting such frivolous things to distract him from his goal. Yet, here he was, flinching and breaking beneath the weight of feelings he despised regardless. His refusals to surrender to distractions had become vain, for they never lasted, always returning to bite him in the end. Rage blinded and held him in a fiery grip, and old fear devoured him over and over again.

What was his life before you?

Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't seem to remember at all. All he knows is that, with you, he felt a little lighter, which frustrated him to no end. It's a momentary lightness, an escape from the heaviness he carried, the need for closeness clashing with the want to break free from all attachments.

No, wait. He's felt this way before. And it didn't end well for him.

Sinking to the floor, he grasps his hair tighter while his eyes feel heavy with unshed tears, feeling that stifling blend of desire and dread.

Freedom isn't real. Free will isn't real. None of it is real.— is what a voice whispered in the back of his mind whenever despair settled in, twisting his thoughts until they spiraled into chaos.

What even is freedom? Will he ever experience it?

His head pounded from overthinking, each thought hammering all at once against his skull, amplifying his fear of failure.

Loud.

It was all so loud.

— ✦

The sound of loud knocking makes your head jerk up as you're walking up the stairs. You had just made your weekly trip to the dim laundry room downstairs and were returning with a small basket full of fresh laundry in your arms, but your heart rate picks up slightly at the disturbance that echoes in the hall. The noise is sharp and insistent, though it doesn't sound like it's coming from your door.

Your feet quicken, hurried and anxious, and by the time you reach the second floor, you spot your landlord poised outside Nikolai's door.

"Is something wrong?" you ask as you approach your door slowly, concerned to know what's happening while keeping your eyes on him.

He turns to look at you when he hears your voice. "Fool hasn't paid rent yet," he replies with a peeved expression, his voice low and grim before knocking on the door again.

Oh, right—today is the first of the month. You had already taken care of your own rent and paid it beforehand right before it was due at the end of last month, but it seems Nikolai wasn't as punctual.

Nikolai's occupation is still a mystery to you. You remember prodding him about it before, but he remained tight-lipped, making his reluctance to answer your question apparent. The thought of bothering him about it didn't seem too hopeful either and felt sort of daunting in a way, so you didn't after the initial refusal, knowing that it'll most likely provoke an uncomfortable silence more than anything.

"Maybe he forgot?" you suggest, hoping to lend a bit of optimism to the situation.

Your landlord only scoffs, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. "He does this almost every month. I'm this close to evicting him," he responds, his hand gesturing in a cutting motion as if to emphasize his point.

You frown, both empathy and confusion washing over you.

"I'm sure he'll pay it soon enough, he's nice.." you offer tentatively, trying to subtly defend him even though you're hit with the weight of your landlord's skepticism almost immediately.

"Nice?" He laughs again, this time tinged with a hint of scorn at your words. "This guy is anything but nice. He's a fuckin' cocky jackass is what he is, plain and simple," he retorts, his eyes glinting with contempt while he speaks about him.

A heat rises in your chest at his upsetting words, an unexpected surge of protectiveness for Nikolai swelling within you. Is he talking about the same person? You aren't sure. And you aren't sure what sparked an intense reaction, but it twisted uncomfortably in your stomach. You felt the need to say something knowing that Nikolai was likely inside, able to hear everything that was being said about him, every demeaning word being tossed around at the expense of his character.

The idea of someone having such a harsh view of Nikolai seems unheard of, especially when he ever does is keep to himself and mind his own business. Sure, you can understand the frustration that comes from tenants who don't pay their rent on time, but beyond that, Nikolai seems far from deserving of such vitriol. Now that you recall, Nikolai didn't have such high regard for him either. You remember all too well the way he grabbed your wrist and made you lead the stairs, the flash of hurt and frustration that crossed his face when you asked him what his deal was between him and his landlord, who, setting aside money matters, only seemed to belittle him at any given opportunity just because he could.

You didn't know any better at the time, but you still feel regret for evoking a reaction like that from him—for asking about something you knew nothing about. It was the most emotion you've ever seen come out of Nikolai, and you weren't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

You had to wonder why Nikolai didn't file a report or take any action against him either. It was like he'd accepted being treated this way.

The thought of it makes you deeply upset.

And he questions Nikolai's kindness? Maybe he would be if people were kinder to him.

"Don't talk about him like that, please," you interject, your voice rising just above a whisper.

He snorts, still doubtful of your previous statement. "I'm surprised he even talks to you," he tells you, raising an eyebrow.

"Why?" you ask, genuinely confused.

"I've never seen him talk to anyone else ever since he's moved here."

Your eyes widen. You know that Nikolai isn't exactly the best at socializing or just talking—it's painfully clear from your interactions with him on a regular basis. Despite this, it never bothered you at all and actually drew you closer, so to hear it articulated so bluntly leaves you momentarily speechless, grappling with a swirl of emotions you didn't know how to process. It leaves an awkward silence to settle in for a bit, with neither of you saying anything else.

After several moments with no response from the closed door, you hear your landlord click his tongue in irritation before he storms down the stairs, the thud of his footsteps resonating heavily against the walls.

Your body turns with the intent to return to your apartment, you try to, but your eyes can't leave Nikolai's door for some reason.

Just then, the silence is broken. You watch carefully when you hear the sound of a creaking door, and there he is—mismatched, guarded eyes peering cautiously through the narrow crack.

A soft smile spreads across your face. "Nikolai.."

He only responds with a nod, his lips pressed tightly together in a half-hearted smile that barely touches his eyes. His gaze drifts momentarily, landing on the laundry basket you're holding in your arms before they slowly move up to your eyes which are already fixated on him.

What the hell are you looking at?

You're probably silently judging him, thinking about how stupid and disheveled he looks right now, but his thoughts dim down, softening when his eyes trail further down and notice something different about you. Your lips are adorned with a delicate pink tint today, a soft sheen that catches the light with every subtle movement, complementing the sweetness in your eyes—an alluring combination that he thinks is too dangerous and hard for anyone to resist, even for him.

"Nikolai?" you say his name gently again, sensing his mind and attention wandering away elsewhere.

He blinks to snap out of it, abruptly reorienting himself as if shaking free from a web of distracting thoughts. "Yeah?"

"Did you get any sleep last night?" you ask him kindly, studying the obvious tiredness in his eyes and demeanor.

There it is—the question that has slipped from your lips every morning since last week. It annoyed him greatly, yet he never said anything to express his detest for it.

He sweeps his fingers across his messy braid, brushing back the rebellious strands from his forehead. "Yeah.." his reply came quietly, accompanied by a lazy stretch while he raised an arm to rub the back of his neck "What about you?" he asked before opening the door a little wider.

"I did, and I'm glad because otherwise I would've slept right through work," you giggle trying to lighten the mood before you change the topic, your voice lowering into a whisper. "But you didn't pay rent yet? You'll get in tr—"

He immediately moves to shut the door in your face before you can finish, which startles you and makes you take a step back. Your smile falls and you cradle the basket in your arms tighter.

But, just as suddenly, you hear the faint creak of the door opening again, this time with notable heedfulness.

"Listen, you don't need to worry about me, okay? I can take care of myself," he tells you. "He'll get his money soon enough." Irritation threads through his voice as he sneers, eyebrows knitted in frustration, mixed with an unexpected sense of embarrassment presumably due to the fact that you heard everything about his financial troubles and now knew about his inability to pay his rent on time.

"How haven't you gotten evicted yet though?" you ask him with surprise at his ability to dodge your landlord's scrutiny.

"Magic," he replies flatly, stressed by a dramatic roll of his eyes, which makes you laugh.

"You can do magic?" you ask with a sweet smile, taking his seemingly playful response seriously, eager to see how he'll respond to you. "Can you show me?"

The look on his face morphed into one of confusion at your response, like he didn't expect it. Well, by now, he isn't entirely sure what he expects from you anymore anyway.

"No. Go to work," he says and dismisses you with a wave of his hand as if to swat away your curiosity, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly like he's suppressing a small smile before he finally shuts the door, leaving you standing alone to face the wooden barrier between you again.

— ✦

You can't focus at all.

Rich red hues dominate your vision as you deal with the task of arranging the flowers in front of you, absentmindedly doing so more than anything, you have to admit. The delicate petals are soft beneath your fingertips, exuding a fragrant sweetness that mingles in the air—a blend of floral notes that lulls you into a sense of calm.

But calmness never lasts.

Suddenly, you wince from feeling something sharp poke your hand, a sudden sharp sting jolting you from your preoccupied state. You instinctively pull away and drop the flowers somewhere aside in disarray, instead inspecting for what could've hurt you, your eyes landing on one of the roses that bore a thorn someone must've missed removing.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" calls your coworker who was helping you replenish the flowers, an older lady with a warm smile and a gentle demeanor. She moves closer, her concern evident as she observes your discomfort.

"Yeah, it's just a cut. I'll be fine," you reassure with a small forced smile, appreciative of her nurturing nature, though you can feel the sting pulsing slightly.

You turn to head to the employee's room in the back, hoping to find a band-aid. The door creaks open as you push it open, stepping inside and flicking the light switch on before your eyes start scanning the shelves, cluttered with miscellaneous supplies. Reaching up for the first-aid kit and bringing it down to a table, you rummage through it, feeling various items against your fingers until you find a box of band-aids, opening it and pulling one out. The sight of crimson that starts trickling down your finger indicates that this isn't just a cut. Still, you're sure a thorn didn't get stuck beneath your skin, so you figure a bandaid will suffice for now—a temporary solution until you can apply ointment and allow time for healing.

How could you be so careless? You've always been so careful about handling flowers, but you guess your mind isn't in the right place today.

With shaky fingers, you peel the band-aid's adhesive from its glossy wrapper and gently wrap it around your pointer finger, wincing in the process from the slight sting that accompanies the pressure. Confliction washes over you when the thought of leaving early pops into your head alongside the persistent throb in your hand. The idea is undeniably appealing, but you're hesitant, thinking it would be disrespectful to leave early and abandon your coworker to finish the evening alone. So, despite circumstances, it only seems right to push through your discomfort and wait it out until the end of your shift.

Returning to the front, you glance over at the clock and notice its hands inching closer to the closing hour anyway. The shop feels quiet, the gentle hum of the day fading into the evening, though it feels like the day has slipped away quicker than usual, like a blur. You untie your apron, the fabric rustling softly as you take it off when you realize that no more customers are likely to come in, especially with close to only twenty minutes left before closing. Resolute, you decide to count and close the cash drawer, keen to finish the task up beforehand before heading home.

You look out the window and notice the sky start to darken a bit as the sun sinks lower, always serving as a reminder you'll get to go home soon and possibly see Nikolai. Your lips curl into a smile thinking about it—the typical routine that had formed between you and him. In the morning, you'd see him already on the balcony, his figure outlined against the soft glow of dawn, and the two of you would exchange the familiar words of 'good morning' to each other before your day began. By evening, you'd come back after work to see Nikolai perched in the same spot watching the sunset, and you would join him and chat with him, watching as the colors shifted in the sky, sometimes until they melded into deep indigo.

Granted, you did most of the talking, whether it was chattering about your day or sharing mundane random details of your life with him, and at times childhood stories and whatnot while he listened to you. His face always expressed a solemn look, with the exception of a few smiles and laughs here and there caused by you.

You never bothered to ask what he was thinking about. You think that would be a bad idea. Not everything is your business—that you know, but you couldn't help but want to know if he's doing alright. But he always seems reluctant to tell you anything. And that's okay too, you thought. He's not obligated to talk about life if he doesn't want to, though a part of you still wants to pry into those thoughts behind his melancholic eyes.

Nikolai wants to be free from his emotions—you know that now. With how he articulated himself, you found it difficult to not agree with him to some extent when you, yourself did wish that your emotions didn't have so much control over you. But now you find yourself asking what that really means, and what could've pushed him so far to want to rid all of them.

That night, when he opened up to you like he'd never done it before, left you both shocked and touched. Something must've been in the air, something shared, yet something that remained unspoken. You still didn't know what was responsible for making his irises glisten the way they did, but you were thankful for it nonetheless. The way he looked at you, a gaze filled with sincerity that mirrored your own and made you feel like you were floating on the fluffiest of clouds.

Even though he didn't share much of himself with you, you came to terms with it and had even grown comfortable since you could tell he listened to your rambling intently, and putting everything else aside, were just grateful that someone was even there to listen. That's how your days and nights have been for the past week. And ever since you and Nikolai went to the park last week, you've been wanting to ask to spend time like that with him again, but something stopped you every time. You can't fathom why you're so hesitant to ask him when you haven't been so nervous to approach him before.

It felt like all you could think about was Nikolai or relating to him in some way. The images of him laughing and his face reddening had been etched inside your eyelids, uneraseable, that whenever you closed your eyes, it was all you could see. There was no denying how his gaze would soften, how his voice would lose its callousness when caught up in conversations with you.

You didn't realize you were zoning out until your coworker gently interrupted your little reverie, taking the flowers you'd left on the counter, causing you to look up at her in surprise.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of them," she offers, clearly encouraging you to take an early leave so you can tend to your finger. "Go ahead, I'll close up."

"Are you sure? I can wait.." you ask, feeling unsure and guilty about your careless mistake.

"It's alright, go ahead and leave if you want. I'm almost done anyway," she smiles brightly at you, easing your concerns and assuring you that it's okay with her.

So kind. It wasn't often that someone showed you such thoughtfulness, a small gesture that soothed your frazzled nerves.

You exchange a kind smile and reach for your bag before walking away from the counter to the shop's entrance. "Have a good night," you say, glancing over your shoulder just as your hand reaches the door handle.

"You too, honey. I hope your finger feels better soon," she chuckles, her laughter ringing in the air like the door's bell chimes.

On the spur of the moment, as you're leaving the shop, an idea comes to your mind. You thought you would get something for Nikolai to surprise him and maybe brighten his day a little, even if the sun was about to set. The thought makes your heart pound with anticipation, already thinking about the smile that might light up his face when he receives your little gift.

— ✦

A sting of pain courses through your hand as you close your car door.

You notice that Nikolai isn't on the balcony watching the sunset today, and something in you compels you to check on him. Hasty movements make up your walk to the apartment complex, ascending the stairs to reach your door. As you reach the second level, you take a moment to admire the breathtaking hues painting the sky, wishing that someone was here with you to watch the fiery oranges and mild pinks melting into one another. But soon, your eyes avert, and your attention shifts to Nikolai's door.

You take a few steps closer. A hand reaches out to knock but then retracts in nervousness.

What if he's busy? What if you're bothering him? Your anxiety whips these thoughts into your head, nearly immobilizing you. Nonetheless, your hand reaches once again along with a deep breath, and this time, it knocks lightly against the wood.

Silence.

You purse your lips and pull your hand away before looking down at your feet. "Nikolai?" you call out to make yourself known, to let him know that it's you if he's inside.

A few seconds and heartbeats pass before the door creaks open with a slow deliberation, revealing Nikolai. Your face immediately floods with heat as you take in his appearance. He's wearing glasses. You've never seen him wear glasses before, but wow, did he look good in them. It has you wondering if he only reserved this kind of look for indoors, especially when you also notice his pearly hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail instead of the usual braid he wore.

"Hey," he greets you, his voice low. He doesn't say anything else but looks at the steaming cup in your hand, then back to you, his expression curious.

"This is for you!" you exclaim while handing him the cup of tea, your excitement bubbling.

For a fleeting second, you swear you catch a glimmer in his eyes before they turn back to their original state just as quickly.

"Why did you get this for me?" he asks, reaching his hand out. You feel your heart skip a beat when his fingers brush against yours as he grabs the cup, able to feel a heat that isn't coming from the cup of tea. He's warm.

Nikolai feels a strange texture brush against his and that's when he notices your finger is wrapped with a band-aid. His eyebrows knit together at the foreign sight.

"Because I wanted to! It's your favorite, right? Honey lemon tea with ginger?"

Your voice rings with sincerity, a melody that echoes in his mind as the lovely scent of honey-laced lemon permeates the air between you.

"It's your favorite, right?"

Why do you remember that? Why do you take the time and go out of your way to do this for him?

He can try to brush aside the words you just said to him all he wants, but the truth of the matter resonates in the hollow chambers of his heart, reverberating with every pulse of his heartbeat at the fact that you remembered such a small, insignificant detail about him.

"Y-Yeah, it is.." he replies, his voice slightly strained as he tries to tamp down his nervousness with a gentle cough, though he's sure he's failing miserably. "You didn't have to do that."

"Well I already did, so no need to say that," you reply playfully, noting the calmness that settles over his expression. "What are you doing?" you ask with brimming curiousness.

He wants to ignore it. He wants to ignore the way you're standing outside of his door, looking up at him with your doe-like eyes that are so incredibly hard to ignore, drawing him in despite his hesitance when they're practically begging him to ask you to come inside. He wishes he could so badly ignore the warm feeling in his stomach. But he just can't.

"Uh- I was just.." he trails off. Instead, he looks down for a moment before moving aside, creating space for you to enter. "Do you wanna come in?"

He's inviting you inside? You thought that'd never happen.

"Sure!" you happily accept his invitation and step inside his apartment. It doesn't look much different than yours, as the layout of each apartment is identical to one another. You glance around and your eyes first land on the table in his living room, where you notice that there's a whole array of thread and a miscellany of sewing supplies.

The place is clean and orderly, but the air feels thick as if silence itself is holding its breath.

"Did you eat dinner yet?" you ask, your voice sweetly breaking the quiet ambiance as you step further inside. You set your belongings down next to his door before turning to face him.

He nods, his eyes softening as he meets yours. "Yeah, I did," he responds in a voice so faint, you couldn't tell if it was genuine or not.

You pout. "Aw, I could've made you another egg if you hadn't."

"Never again." He laughs when he sees your expression.

With a quiet click, Nikolai closes the door behind you before walking toward the table. He sets his tea down and sits down in the chair where you think he was seated previously, assumably to resume his work. Naturally, you follow suit and pull up a chair next to him.

Nikolai doesn't seem to mind you closely watching him and his hands as he deftly attaches buttons to a soft, cotton shirt. Although if he does, you're not sure you would be able to tell due to how difficult it is not to be captivated by each precise stitch he does and how effortless he makes it look as if he were born for this craft. The cuffs of the sleeves have soft pencil sketches on them that were most likely going to be filled in later with colorful thread, but you couldn’t tell what the abstract drawings were of due to the lines being so faint.

"You like to sew?" you ask, a smile playing on your lips at the idea of someone as intimidating as him having such an innocent hobby.

"Yeah.." he replies, casually tearing off some excess thread with his teeth.

Your heart.

It feels almost wrong to be staring at him like this, but you can't resist doing so, especially when he's so immersed in his task as he is now, the focused look on his face paired with the slight furrow of his brow drawing you in deeper. It feels almost indulgent to be able to look at him. His soft tufts of hair sticking out remind you of dandelion fuzz swaying in a summer breeze. His long eyelashes meticulously framing his eyes looked like they were picked individually and carefully placed on his lids one by one like perfectly arranged petals, noticeable even behind the thin frames of his glasses and enhancing his delicate features.

"Nikolai," you speak his name, each syllable falling from your lips almost unconsciously, the intent behind your words slipping your mind.

He glances at you, curiosity in his gaze. "Hm?"

You're not even doing anything right now, but you feel so incredibly distracted. There are so many words sitting atop your tongue, an amalgamation of things you want to say, yet they don't dare to come out. You shake your head and cast your eyes downward to your hands in your lap, silently conveying to him it was nothing of importance. "When did you learn how to sew?" you ask him instead, tilting your head back up before scooting a little bit closer to him, so subtle that you think he either doesn't notice it or he simply doesn't mind.

"I don't know exactly," he shares with you, a faint smile warming his features like the gentle glow of sunset. "My mom taught me when I was younger."

You smile at his sweet answer. "I've always wanted to learn hand embroidery," you muse to him as you lean your elbow on the table to rest your chin in your hand, eyes sparkling with interest.

He looks at you surprised, taking a moment to pause his actions, needle still clasped between his fingers in one hand, grasping the fabric in the other. "Embroidery?" he repeats, intrigue in his tone discernible as he registers your words.

"Yeah! It looks so cool but seems so hard.." you say, attention riveted toward him. "But maybe I could try it one day."

"Well, you're in luck because I might know how to do a bit of that," he replies with a teasing edge, a sly smile creeping onto his lips.

"Really?" Your excitement ignites anew as your eyes widen. "Do you think you could teach me sometime?" you ask him impulsively, not expecting anything from it.

His laugh echoes in the room, clearly amused as he nods while he's grabbing another button to sew on.

Your admiration brims over as you observe him, unable to contain your amazement. "I didn't know you could do so many things!" you chirped in awe of his talents. "You're so talented."

Nikolai's eyes light up at your sudden compliment, his cheeks taking on a faint pink hue despite his futile attempt to hide it, clearly stunned by the unfiltered praise and astonished by the fact that you're genuinely interested in his hobbies. It feels like ever since he was little, he'd always get picked on for doing things he enjoyed. But now, you're showing him a different kind of attention that he isn't used to.

"Oh.. N-No, I'm not," he stammers with a nervous laugh. He takes a break to sip his tea, not knowing how to respond to your praise without showing too much excitement or sounding like a dork. The tea tastes different today—the sour flavor of the drink overpowers the sweet and leaves a slightly sharper-than-usual bitter taste in his mouth. "You're flattering me too much," he mumbles before setting the cup down.

You smile at how comfortable he looks right now. You think it suits him, so much so that you would do anything to see him like this more often. It feels like you’re being allowed to see a side of him that no one else sees, one that he doesn’t allow anyone else to see. "I'm serious! You said you can do magic tricks too, right?"

He laughs at your enthusiasm. "Who told you that?"

"I don't know, who did?" you respond, your eyebrows raising in response to his playfulness. "Can you juggle?"

"I think you'd be surprised," he smirks, confidence seemingly budding when he hears your interest. "I can do a lot more than that."

"Oh? You have to show me one day," you express earnestly, placing your hand on his arm and squeezing it gently, able to feel his firm muscles that cause your heart to jump a little.

He feels the rough texture of the bandage against his skin again, stirring him from a thoughtful silence. "What happened to your finger?" he asks.

"I accidentally cut it at work.." you explain to him in a murmur, your voice twined with a hint of embarrassment from your confession.

He turns to face you almost immediately when he hears that, almost instinctive. "You hurt yourself?" a tinge of concern laces his voice, and you hardly notice how he inches a bit closer.

Before you can open your mouth to respond, you're caught off guard, slightly startled by a subtle wince and how Nikolai's expression shifts at the sight of his own bleeding finger.

"Shit," Nikolai curses under his breath and clicks his tongue, carefully setting the needle aside using his other hand.

"Now you're the one who hurt yourself," you utter softly, reaching out to gently grab hold of his wrist without a second thought, making Nikolai look at you with widened eyes as if he'd just seen a ghost. For a second, you both are locked in a gaze when your thumb lightly brushes across his wrist. His hand trembles beneath yours before he quickly pulls away, retreating from your touch.

In a rush of motion, he removes the glasses perched on his nose, folding them swiftly before placing them carefully on the table. He leaves his seat after, his movements hurried, but still somehow agile while he strides toward a cabinet in his kitchen. You watch intently as he reaches for something, retrieving a band-aid, the small packaging crinkling quietly in his grasp. He returns to the table and deliberately applies the band-aid to his finger, forming a fist before relaxing his hand again to ease the tension.

"We're matching," you say, giggling at your own comment. Leaning in forward from your chair to get closer to him, you playfully hold your bandaged finger next to his to compare them. "Look, it's even the same finger."

Nikolai's heart is racing. You're so impossibly close to him—he can catch the scent of your shampoo, your perfume, you.

His other hand was right there, hovering nearby indecisively in hesitant temptation. If he possessed the bravery, he could easily place it on the back of your head right now, the impulse that flutters through his mind stirring want and fear in equal measure. However, he tries to deter from that thought and glances back at your hand, still beside his. In comparison, your hand is significantly smaller and more delicate, fingers slim and dainty, looking so soft that he feels almost embarrassed about the texture of his own skin.

So fragile. So cute.

"And to answer your question, it was an accident. I didn't notice that one of the roses I was handling had a thorn, and you can probably guess what came after that," you sigh, a faint frown pulling at your lips as you look down at your bandaged finger, recalling the moment. "It does hurt a little still, but it should go away soon," your voice trails off. "I guess this is what I get for not paying enough attention, though.. I felt so out of it today."

Nikolai doesn't know what compels him to make the next move—but it's a little too late to ponder on that thought now or do anything about it, his hand already on yours. His fingers gently wrap around yours in a tender grip, his thumb providing your bandaged finger extra attention while he lightly rubs it, a complex mix of excitement and fear coursing through his veins as he does so. How he allowed himself to get this close to you is something he isn't sure he wanted to know the answer to, the thrum in his chest drowning out any semblance of restraint or rational reasoning.

Pull away—that should be the obvious move, a natural response, he thinks. But he feels paralyzed, unable to possess control when the shiver of thrill is all he can feel.

You think you could die happy right now.

It feels like you've been waiting your whole life for something like this, and now that you're experiencing it, you can hardly believe it—like a long-suppressed hunger finally being satiated.

You've never been more grateful for a chair in your life, the chair that holds you in place when Nikolai's touch is enough to make your knees buckle. The way your heart is thumping feels almost surreal as if it might burst out of your chest at any moment amidst the dizzying sensation of his skin against yours. You can't bring yourself to look up at him—a timidity numbing you, along with the uncertainty of what he might be looking back at. His grip is strong yet gentle, applying light pressure with each soft stroke of his thumb against your finger that sends electric-like jolts of exhilaration to surge through you, making you want to reach for him, to pull him closer. Your fingers seem to move on their own, inching forward with a haste fueled by ripening desire. You can't help but want to touch him more—and that you do when your finger instinctively curls around his thumb while listening to the soft hitch in his breath, a sound that accelerates your heart rate even more.

You hadn't realized that you'd closed your eyes at some point to savor this heat being shared between the both of you and it's only when you open them again to meet his gaze that the reality of the moment becomes apparent and far too overwhelming—the distance that once separated you has all but evaporated. Your breaths are uneven, trembling on the cusp of anticipation as your lips quiver.

You see it in his eyes—a yearning so delicately veiled that it was hardly noticeable if you weren't looking close enough.

But with all good things, they come to an end. It's a reminder that moments like these are precarious, charged, and so fragile.

"Nikolai?" You tilt your head, confusion clouding your thoughts as you notice how he freezes like he's suddenly caught in a moment of clarity.

Your velvety voice pulls his attention and pulls him back into reality, causing him to realize the situation you both are in. "I'm sorry— I shouldn't have done that." He backs away and withdraws his hand in an instant as if burnt, the sudden absence of contact creating a chill where warmth once lingered.

Don't.

A pout forms on your lips from the release, your hand hopeless for touch as you try to reach for his hand again. "Don't be.. I- I liked it," your voice quavering, betraying your intent to avoid revealing your hidden desperation. But when he pulls his away, it feels like your heart plunges deep into your stomach. You always notice the subtle shifts in his behavior whenever you two have moments when you get close to or look at each other for a second too long as if he doesn't want the moment to prolong, fears it, lest it invite something bad to happen.

Don't leave.

"Nikolai.." you murmur and gently tug on the sleeve of his shirt, causing him to look at you again. The distress on his face is clear as day like he's teetering on the edge of something. You aren't sure what it is, but it startles you. Something bothers him, something doesn't allow him to enjoy these moments, and you fear that if you lose your hold on him now, he will disappear into nothing and only leave you with fading memories.

Don't leave me alone.

His eyes avert quickly. He gets up from his seat and starts cleaning up the table, putting everything away as if restoring order could dispel whatever tension lies between you.

"Nikolai, wait—"

"I'm going to bed soon," he curtly replies before you can finish, warning laced in his voice.

The air turns cold. Yet, you're still determined.

"If you're hurting, I want to make you feel better," you plead, heart aching to reach him someway, somehow, even though he's right beside you. But a dry knot instantly forms in your throat, a tight, anguished grip that makes each breath feel laborious when cold, mean eyes make a return—those same ones you encountered with your first meeting, ones that you haven’t seen since and had hoped were gone forever.

"You make me feel worse."

What?

You aren't sure if you heard him correctly, but with every ragged breath, it becomes clear to you that those words indeed came out of his mouth.

Each second that passed felt like an hour, agonizing and unforgiving.

You can't suppress the small gasp that escapes your lungs, struggling to stabilize your breath when his harsh words wound so deeply, pricking right where you didn't want them to—the tranquility of the moment quickly replaced by a painful reality. You feel unnaturally small and powerless with how you sink into the chair, the weight of his accusation settling over you like a suffocating blanket. It was like the air had been sucked from the room, and you wanted nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow you whole right now in its depths, sparing you from this unbearable heaviness.

The man in front of you feels like a stranger once again.

You knew that Nikolai wasn't exactly the warmest person or anything, but this felt direfully different, like nothing you would ever expect from him—his forwardness felt almost malicious. In an instant, his demeanor shifted, reverting into one as cold as ice. It feels like his warmth diminished in the snap of a finger, any softness replaced with sharp edges as if a mask slipped away to reveal a darker, deeper bitterness that's been hidden from you for who knows how long. The resentment in his voice sounded long-repressed and thick like he’d been waiting to say those words to you for a while.

Does he really think of you that way?

The thought was too tormenting for you to think about. You didn’t think he was capable of such sheer ruthlessness—you don't want to believe it.

Your chest tightens, and you're unable to speak or look at him anymore when a shameful yet painful sting prospers in your eyes. You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears, fear gripping you tighter than any physical embrace ever could at the thought of him holding you in such low regard until you're left with nothing but the sickening feeling of worthlessness. It feels like everything good, every joy gets torn away from you, leaving you only with this mortifying realization you've become disturbingly conditioned with, one that overwhelms you with nausea.

Your presence is not wanted.

Never before have you ever felt like more of a burden in your life.

But...

Nothing could hurt more.

I thought...

You don't say anything else, you don't find the words to respond with, because you can't.

What do you even respond to that with?

I thought we were friends.

Your lips part slightly, but nothing spills from your tongue, and your hand drops back down to your side, heavy and defeated, fingers trembling as they brush against the fabric of your jeans. Some strands of your hair fall over the side of your face, thankfully blocking your peripheral vision of the man you're not sure you knew as well as you thought you did. It feels shameful beyond belief—for someone to witness you like this. You don't want him to look at you, as much as you don't want to look at him.

How do you keep finding yourself here? Why is everything your fault?

Silence stretches between you, taut and unyielding, filled with everything you can't even begin to articulate—hurt, humiliation, confusion, a debilitating sense of loneliness that creeps in too quickly for comfort.

Oh, who are you kidding? How irrational to think that, for once, things might turn out differently. The fragile hope you'd built up always collapses inward. You should've expected no different from this. You don't know how many more times it'll take for you to finally realize.

Everyone eventually leaves anyway.

You're never good enough for anyone to stay, and you never will be.

Maybe you were wrong about Nikolai all along. Maybe you should've listened when you were warned not to speak to him the first time. Maybe you were naive to believe that he would even want to be your friend in the first place.

Maybe you should stop trusting everyone so blindly like the idiot you are.

It takes everything, with every ounce of strength fading away, to steady and gather yourself to rise from the chair and make your way toward the door. The distraught thoughts in your mind are too deafening, drowning out any background noise.

Nikolai thinks fear is an understatement.

He wishes he hadn't taken a fleeting glance when he watched you go, so he didn't have to see how you were purposefully hanging your head down to avoid his gaze, so he didn't have to see the hurt in your eyes that weirdly pierces him as well, more than he would ever admit. One look at your face was all he needed to realize he made a huge mistake. The words that had slipped from his lips unbidden were all but partially true, muttered under his breath without warning in a moment of raw frustration—a defensive reaction and a desperate attempt to rebel against these strange, blooming feelings in his chest, to reach light.

Everything falls silent for a moment.

Weak. He's so weak.

As soon as you leave his apartment, he hurriedly closes and locks the door so he won't catch a second glance at you—shutting out the sight of you that makes his heart flutter and hurt all at once. He already feels a familiar heat crawling up his spine with every breath he takes, sweat forming at the nape of his neck, the burn spreading through his skin as if his body was on fire. He wants to crawl out of the flesh that would soon, surely be melted under this unbearable hotness. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, but nothing escapes him. His hands grip his hair and his eyes squeeze shut in frustration, the quivering of his lip becoming hard to ignore as he bites down hard on it, desperately trying to stifle a sob that was clawing its way up his throat to escape.

He can't begin to comprehend how you managed to pry your way into his life and touch his soul in ways he couldn't understand in such a short duration of time. It deeply terrifies him. Yet, it's not you that he fears. He's scared of how vulnerable and weak he's become, no, how he's always been. He's scared of how vulnerability naturally blossoms around you and the way he crumbles so easily from his own defenselessness. He's scared that your affection will ruin him, and worst of all, he's scared that, deep down, it doesn't bother him if it ends up doing so.

He's scared to fall again.

The scars from his past fall still ache, a painful reminder of everything he's been through. But everything about you is radiant—he can't help but find himself inching closer and closer to the mesmerizing flame that is your presence. He's tasted fire and hesitantly finds himself craving it more and more with each passing minute, no matter how badly the searing heat burns his tongue or until he gets burnt alive.

He's in real trouble.

#fari's catalog 𝜗𝜚 #nikolai gogol x reader #nikolai gogol x you #bsd nikolai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bsd x y/n #bsd x you #bsd x female reader #nikolai imagines #bsd imagines

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reds-skull · 3 months ago

Text

Bringer of Demise - Chapter 4

[PREV PART] [AO3]

This chapter went places I didn't plan for, so it has a surprising amount of comfort. Anyway, it's called "Molten Core".

Price informs them he called Commander Karim on the way here, asking her to send a team to aid them when Soap and Gaz’s situation became known. Soap was secretly grateful, if not for himself, for Gaz, that they won’t take the helo the rest of the way.

He doesn’t want to imagine how scared that would’ve made Kyle.

The rescue team looked for the pilot as they helped the taskforce, Soap despondently looking away when they find the front half of the helo. Charred black and mangled beyond recognition, there wouldn’t have been anything left resembling a human after going through that.

Add that to the tally of people he has failed to save.

Soap hates to admit it, but the morphine makes healing so much smoother. What once was a constant, sharp pain has been dulled down to a distant beating. Ghost let him lean against him when he became loopy, telling him that’s a side effect.

A few trucks eventually arrive, several ULF fighters wearing plain clothes jumping out. It seems like Commander Karim has sent a medic team along, but as Gaz isn’t physically injured, and Soap won’t benefit from anything more than a few hours of rest, they give Kyle a shock blanket, and sit them in one of the trucks.

Ghost keeps a hand around him as they’re driven to the camp, Soap nearly cracking a tooth with how hard he clenches his jaw. The roads here are not very considerate of his open wounds, that’s for fucking certain.

He doesn’t think the shaking is only from the pain, though. Soap continues to glance at Gaz, his eyes fogged over.

What happened was eerily similar to Kyle’s Reaping. Similar enough that Soap has almost no doubt it was planned, that whoever planted the bomb wanted to take him out the same way he died.

“Whoever”... if it’s not Makarov, it’s one of his fucking allies, they don’t need proof to know that by now. Only a few people knew the 141 was supposed to leave today, especially when it came in at such a late notice.

Soap’s flames glow brighter. Novikov knew.

When he gets his hands on that fuckin’ Doctor…

Another bump jostles him, making his back hit the side of the truck. Soap barely contains a yelp as pain flashes up his spine. Ghost pulls him closer, glaring at the road like it can feel remorse. It makes Soap smile.

If it weren’t for Ghost calling that meeting… this truck would’ve been far emptier.

The ULF base they arrive to is unlike any other base Soap has been in. Nestled between a mountain and a forest, the place itself looks benign; a few shacks that have seen better days and one or two actual structures, surrounded by a wooden fence.

As their truck drives closer, large metal doors embedded in the mountain’s side open, revealing the true base.

Concrete walls stood in stark contrast to natural excavated stone, dimly lit by floodlights and ancient-looking lightbulbs, Soap could see from the makeshift road how the large cavern has been sectioned into different parts, with tunnels shooting off the main area everywhere he looks. He can’t tell soldier from civilian here - most don’t wear uniforms or identifying marks, besides a green cloth wrapped around wrists or heads.

The truck stops near what he assumes is medical, and he takes a moment to thank every Reaper the drive is fucking over. Ghost helps Soap jump out, supporting him as much as he can as they make their way to one of the beds. Not like he’ll be sleeping tonight much, by the time his skin reforms they’ll probably need to be in debrief.

Still, one of the nurses pulls the curtain around the cot, the thin fabric barely blocking any light, not to mention the lack of roof. Doesn’t do much to block the sound of the bustling base, either. He appreciates the thought, though.

He lets go of Ghost to carefully drag himself to a prone position, grunting until he manages to settle. Soap closes his eyes, allowing the pounding in his head, the synchronized beating of his open wounds, to take over his senses.

It makes it so when something cool touches his shoulder, he jumps in surprise, eyes flicking to see Ghost crouched over him.

“LT? What are ye-?” he lets out an involuntary sigh as fingers kneed at his muscles, every part of him feeling both untethered and knotted beyond belief, “fuck…”

“That good, Johnny?” Ghost skirts around his injuries, peeling away the cloth that melted into his skin, “helps?”

Helps? Simon is seriously asking if this gentle touch, so careful and soft, seeping away the cloying heat burns always carry, is helping?

He asks if it helps when wherever his fingers brush, muscles and fascia and skin rush back to heal, begging to be held, cells working overtime just for the chance of prolonging the contact? Burning through what energy he has remaining, healing scars that would take hours in seconds, as if those callused hands have reached inside him, found the wires that lead to his molten core, and for once instead of turning up the heat, mercifully decided to let the pressure building and building out, finally letting him breathe?

He asks if this helps? Soap wants to cry.

He buries in face in the scratchy pillow, hoping to muffle some of the frankly embarrassing noises he’s letting out, disguise the stutter of his breath.

“Aye… I… thank ye.”

“I’ve got you, Johnny.” Simon murmurs, hands not leaving him for a second, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Soap lets go, and the humming of the base, the blinding lights, the ache of his broken body, it all falls away, replaced by pale fingers, turning the valves, depressurizing.

He falls asleep, impossibly, and when nightmares hound him, he can trust in dark brown eyes to be there when he startles awake, trust that they’ll let him drift back. Let him back into a peaceful, dark void.

Soap is only mildly annoyed Ghost let him oversleep. He’s too grateful for the extra hours of healing to be truly mad, either way.

When he gets up, the skin on his back is mostly formed, still scarred to high hell but that’s to be expected. The chair besides the cot is empty, Ghost probably leaving for debrief a while ago.

With the few words he remembers in Arabic, he manages to ask a nurse for a spare shirt and get directions to the meeting rooms. Walking pulls awkwardly on his skin, the stiffness one he’s familiar with, yet forgotten in the past few months.

Been a while since he was sent on bomb disposal, after all.

The ULF fighters aren’t as frantic as they were earlier, and the base seems emptier. He makes his way through, marveling at the sheer amount of revenants he can spot. Just like Las Almas, Urzikstan has an abnormal amount of them, as war zones often do. To think this country has been surviving through almost 30 years of conflict…

This area seems more well-built, and he has to open three doors before he can find his team. Five heads turn to stare at him, the 141 as well as Commander Karim and Alex caught in the middle of debriefing.

“Ah- sorry fer being late, nobody woke me up-” Soap starts, the screeching of dragging chairs cutting him off. He barely manages to brace himself before he gets a careful hug from Gaz, Ghost scanning him for signs of discomfort from the corner of his eye.

Soap returns the favor, tightening his arms around Kyle, “good morning to ye too, Garrick.” he says fondly.

“Bastard” Gaz laughs wetly, pulling back, “how’s your back? Should you even be out of bed yet?”

Ghost meets his eyes. “Had some help with healin’ this time around.” Soap says.

He feels Price pick at his mind, and smiles. “Well, you came just at the right time, Sergeant. Take a sit.”

“Yes sir.” Soap lets Gaz lead him to an empty chair, Ghost sitting down on his left. An ungloved hand takes his, fingers squeezing his comfortingly. He tries to not let the squirming fuzziness in his heart show on his face, as Price begins talking.

“Our target is what used to be a Russian prison, which was captured by Urzik rebellion forces and converted to a makeshift holding facility.” Price points to the map spread on the table.

Commander Karim joins in, “currently, this facility is under Al-Mudahiyn’s control.”

“Al-Mudahiyn?” Soap asks.

“The Sacrificers. Made up of ex-ULF fighters.” Karim and Alex share a look, “we don’t make a habit of attacking them directly, as we both share similar goals in the end, but their methods have forced our hands in the past.”

Alex sighs, “Al-Mudahiyn would rather let whole villages die if it means killing more Russians. They’re powerful, don’t get me wrong, and it definitely helps that the Russians are fuckin’ afraid of stepping into their territories, but…”

“I will not allow my people to be trampled for a chance at revenge.” Karim almost snarls. “Our intel has reason to suspect this facility has been used to transport the revenants kidnapped by Graves. As I’ve said before, we will need to go on a recon mission to understand exactly who and how many soldiers are currently there.”

“Recon will be done today, and if nothing’s out of the ordinary, we will infiltrate tomorrow night.” Price continues.

“Wait,” Gaz pipes up, “if Graves left the revenants in that facility… doesn’t that mean he worked with Al-Mudahiyn?”

“Yes.” Alex answers, “this is why we also suspect they’re working with Shepherd.”

Steamin’ Jesus. What a mess.

“Those fucking dogs can’t help but dirty their hands.” Karim mutters under her breath, a few curses in Arabic he doesn’t recognize lacing into her words.

“What’s the plan, Commander?” Ghost asks, sharp stare burning into the maps.

Soap looks at them as well. The route to the facility is marked by a black line, a winding way going both under and on ground, avoiding enemy encampments marked by red and green. This is going to be hard right from the get-go, he can already tell.

He wonders if his wounds are healed enough by now to not reopen in combat… if he was still with his old team, they would’ve probably sent him already, so he supposes it’s fine-

“You’re going to a medic to get checked after this, Sergeant. If you don’t get cleared, you’re staying here.” Price shoots his thoughts down. Soap frowns with indignation, Price wouldn’t bench him for the whole mission just because his injuries might reopen, right? Besides, he can heal them on field, no need to-

“Soap.” Price sighs outwardly, “stay here for the recon mission, at the very least. The team isn’t in the headspace to see you harm yourself again, and you aren’t, either. Focus on resting for tomorrow, got it?”

Soap looks down, at his and Ghost’s tangled hands, looks to his right at Gaz, whose eyes flit to his back every few minutes. Focuses for just a second on how much his body aches.

His knee-jerk reaction to all those details is to try harder. Heal faster, get back to the field as soon as possible, fix this, because it is his fault, if he only detected that fucking bomb, disarmed it before it could go off-

But… he could give what Price ordered him to do a try.

“Alright, Captain. Not gonna bench me for tomorrow as well, right?”

Price sounds exasperated in his mind, “I’m not sending you to the field broken.”

Farah begins talking about today’s mission, and Soap diverts his attention, leaving Price’s thoughts unanswered.

He hopes to all Reapers the medic clears him for the infiltration. After the explosion, Soap doesn’t think he can let his team out of sight.

Fate isn’t just after Soap and Ghost, anymore. None of them are safe.

The medic did not clear him for duty. In fact, by the look in his eyes Soap would reckon the medic would’ve preferred to ground him for another month. To his surprise, the medic instead sent him to another part of the clinic, explaining to him in a mix of English and Arabic that there’s something that could help him there.

Well, if it gets him back to the field tomorrow, he’d try it.

He was instructed to wait, standing in a line of people trailing far behind a door. Soap passed the time by having a staring contest with the peeling off-white paint slapped on the wall in front of him, and do his best to not think about last night.

So far, the wall is winning, and he managed to shove down any rising memory pretty well, beside the way Gaz’s eyes looked, wide open and horror-struck.

He’s glad Kyle got Price and Ghost, that they’re such a close-knit team. If Gaz was under his last CO…

Soap sighs, temping down the fire bursting from his fingertips. It has gotten large enough that it started garnering attention, and he rather not scare the wounded here.

After what felt like hours (it was probably just 30 minutes, but God were they boring), Soap enters the room to find a cot and a chair, in which a boy no older than 16 sat. He assumed the kid was the patient before him at first, but the boy motioned for him to lay down.

He understands more from the tone than the words themselves that the boy is asking him something, “sorry, my Arabic is a wee bit rusty. You know English?”

The boy blinks, “uh, a little. Do you feel pain somewhere?”

Curious, Soap sits on the cot, “got exploded yesterday, my back’s a bit of a mess.” the boy only gets more confused, so he adds, “Ah can heal from those, just- I was told you can help?”

A light flickers on in the boy’s dark eyes, and he instructs Soap to take off his shirt and lie down.

After getting situated on his stomach, the boy places his hands on his scarred skin. Soap is surprised the sight didn’t make him flinch.

He’s even more surprised when he feels his muscles twitch, skin tingling as it follows the boy’s hands.

“Yer… you’re a revenant?”

The boy nods, his focus on his powers, orchestrating his cells to go into overdrive and heal. Must have been Reaped by Flesh, there are a few in the SAS. Most of the time, they can only heal themselves…

“How old are you?” he finds himself asking out loud.

“Fifteen.”

Far too fucking young to be in this position. Too young to already be used to seeing injuries like his, to be desensitized to the cruelty of this world, to be acquainted with death.

He wonders where are his parents, his family, and he doesn’t dare to ask because he fears the answer is one he already knows.

“What’s your name?” Soap asks instead.

The boy’s gaze dart to his before returning to his task, “Amir. You?”

“John, but most people call me Soap.”

That makes Amir’s brows furrow, before he gives him a half smile, “like… cleaning soap?”

“Yep. Cool name, no?” he boasts sarcastically.

Amir laughs, “yeah. Very cool.” he answers, matching his sarcasm.

They fall silent, Amir passing fingers over his spine, the sensation making Soap grunt. “Move your shoulders” the boy tells him, and he gives the joint a careful rotation.

Amir seems pleased, “any more pain?”

“... No.” Soap lifts himself up, moving his torso and marveling at how the muscles barely hurt. There’s definitely some tension left in his skin and flesh, but it doesn’t feel like it will rip open at any sudden movement. “Thank ye.”

Amir smiles, “you are welcome.” he switches to Arabic, calling the next person over, and Soap takes it as his sign to leave.

To combat his new problem with boredom, Soap decided to explore the base. By now, he’s managed to find their mess mostly because of the wonderful smell wafting from it, their armory, and showers.

Eventually he reached a quieter part of the base, deeper into the mountain. Reading the signs beside each door, he gathers this is the barracks. Soap attempts to read another nameplate when he hears someone walking towards him.

“I believe you are supposed to be on bed rest, Sergeant.” Commander Karim calls out.

Soap huffs. Price told the fucking Commander to keep an eye on him. He’d be annoyed at the lack of trust if he didn’t know he would’ve done the same in his place. “I was sent to Amir, he fixed me up.”

Karim nods, “you should consider yourself lucky, then. Amir is usually quite busy.”

Soap feels the same pity he felt before rise again, “ye don’t have teh answer if it’s confidential or anythin’, but… how did he get here? How did he…”

How did he die so young?

The Commander stares at him for a moment, before turning around, “after me, Sergeant.”

Karim leads Soap outside, through a smaller tunnel opposite of the entrance. The sun blinds him after so long underground, and he takes a deep breath of fresh mountain air.

When his eyes adjust, a city comes into view, tucked around a river. Even from here, he can see remnants of airstrikes dotting the fields in its outskirts.

“This was my city.” Karim points to a neighborhood, farthest from the river, “my house was there.”

Commander Karim doesn’t look at him when she says, “the Russians attacked when I was seven. A missile hit the building me and my mother were in, and we died.”

She allows the statement to hang in the air, allow the horror to seep into Soap. “... Ye were Reaped at seven…”

“I’m not an anomaly in that, Sergeant. Many of the revenants in the ULF died before reaching maturity. Many of them, the last living member of their family. Amir is no different, I am no different.”

No words feel like enough, regardless he says, “Ah’m sorry, for whatever it’s worth.”

Karim sighs, “it’s not worth much, these days, but I appreciate it.” she makes eye contact with him again, “I am sorry for what happened to you and Sergeant Garrick last night. I was told your injuries were severe.”

She ignores the surprise on his face, “Captain Price informed me of your Reapers’ warning, that there is a traitor amidst your people. I want to assure you, the ULF is on your side. Betrayal isn’t foreign to either of us, but it has a way to gnaw at trust. It is important, I believe, to be able to trust your allies.”

Soap is reminded of Graves, a tingling in the back of his neck, and nightmares of a useless body, helpless and numb. Remembers that Karim and Alex were kidnapped by the revenant they thought was one of their own.

“I trust ye, Commander, and Ah’m sure the same goes for the rest of the team.” Soap assures, fully believing in his words.

Somehow, he feels that the Commander could tell. She gives him a small smile, and looks back at her hometown. Skin refracting sunlight, she seems at ease, in a way Soap hasn’t seen in Las Almas. Her care for her country, her people, is different than he experienced himself. He wonders what it feels to give yourself so wholly for such thing.

Soap supposes he knows a similar, except his home is with a small taskforce, made of men he would give his life for with no hesitation.

Commander Karim gave him some work to do, utilizing his knowledge of explosives to tinker with their existing supply and optimize it for field use. He’s elbows-deep in a pile of C4 when a voice begins echoing in his mind.

“Farah informed me of your shape, kid. Debrief in ten, don’t be late.”

Soap practically jumps out of his chair, running out of the armory and almost colliding with the poor soldiers in the hall.

A mix of excitement and nerves fills his lungs. Time to get back to the field.

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aesteries · 3 months ago

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⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ─ ❝sweetling❞ ─ aemond targaryen and original female character. ❝alicent hightower's youngest daughter, haera targaryen, has returned to king's landing after eight long years in old town and aemond finds himself inexplicably drawn to the girl kissed by the moon and with the eyes that seem to only look at him.❞

how could i not love eyes that see me in all my forms as beautiful?

〔incest, innocence and fantasies, fluff and romance, smut, virginity, events of blood and cheese, family rivalry, disabled main character, hints of book!aemond, modified show!timeline and events.〕 warnings: aegon is disgusting, proceed with caution. this chapter is mostly "the green council", only with a few new scenes outside of the show.

words: 6.3k series' masterlist.

CHAPTER 3.

The next day, Aemond rose with the sun, eyelids heavy from a strangely restless night. The memories of his little sister lingered in every corner of his mind, her face dancing like the burning flames of dragonfire. Her bright eyes, the soft brushing of her lips, the music that was her voice, the scent of her hair, her skin. His heart was pounding against his chest, resembling the thundering drums of Old Valyria, bouncing off the walls of the castle halls. As he lay in his bed with his arm draping over his eyes, he found an internal battle: it was either the comfort of his warm bed or the new day. But a new day promised her, even if it was only for a fleeting moment.

He wondered if she would be in the great hall alongside their sister, breaking fast and chatting over steaming bowls of rich porridge, or perhaps in the sept, kneeling in devotion beside their mother, small hands clasped in prayer. The thought of her enticed him, to find her, to hold her once again, so he swung his long legs over the edge of the bed, walking across the room with a sense of purpose to prepare for the new day. The events of the previous night lingered in his mind—the whisper of a gentle breeze holding onto him ruthlessly to remind him of her touch, and the sweet melodies that had filled his ears—sighs of pleasure from his beloved.

The events of the previous night lingered in his mind, the whisper of a gentle breeze, holding onto him ruthlessly to remind him of her touch, and the sweet melodies that had filled his ears, sighs of pleasure from his beloved. Lost in thought and fantasies, he strolled down the corridor to the closest doors, Helaena’s chambers, expecting to find the usual warmth and chatter. Instead, he found an unsettling scene. Alicent sat beside Helaena on the couch, her face etched with worry and her voice barely a whisper. The soft, hushed tone carried a sense of urgency.

Something was amiss.

What had happened between the family during the dinner had driven Rhaenyra out of King’s Landing with her litter. While he felt relieved that Haera was free from the threat of Lucerys’ harassment, his mother’s body language betrayed deeper anxiety. Her curled posture, her fingers pressed against her mouth, her teeth pulling at her cuticles, sent a shiver down his spine as she repeatedly asked those around her about Aegon’s whereabouts.

The truth hit him like a cold wind: King Viserys had passed away in the dead of night. Now, the Hightowers conspired to crown Aegon before Rhaenyra, said rightful heir, could discover the king's demise. They were racing against time, every second a reminder that loyalty to his half-sister was a mere whisper away from sealing their fate. One raven to Dragonstone, and she'd summon her dragon to unleash inferno upon them or personally oversee their beheadings.

Now, Aegon’s disappearance added to the unease; had he been taken? Had they lost the war before it even began? A darker part of him wished that the man had merely met his maker in the alleys of King’s Landing, surrounded by cheap perfume and empty bottles of Dornish wine, but he knew that The Stranger would not be quite as merciful to them. For now, finding his love had turned into a distant concern that had been overshadowed by the looming threat to her life. Every passing moment brought them closer to the edge of disaster, and their only hope lay in executing their plan before his half-sister caught wind of their scheme.

Ser Criston had been the one with the mission to track down the soon-to-be-crowned Aegon, a pursuit that Aemond forced his way into as he was well aware of the firstborn’s escapades. Aegon's reputation preceded him—consumed by his vices, often sneaking past the guards to indulge in the city's underworld, where he'd drink himself into unconsciousness with a whore’s mouth around his cock, surrounded by the common folk who didn't know his true identity or did not care enough. They had a fair idea of the taverns and lowly establishments he frequented, places where the royal heir could momentarily escape the weight of being alive.

The streets were buzzing with commoners, oblivious idiots who had no idea what was happening within the walls of the castle as the fallen King’s absence was setting the stage for a game of blood against blood. Aemond, with his hair concealed beneath a battered hood, blended into the crowd as he slipped from brothel to brothel in search of his brother. His efforts, however, were for nothing, as it was soon revealed by Otto that the heir had been taken to the safety of the sept, where they found him unconscious, dried vomit staining his shirt.

As the reality of his situation dawned on him, he attempted to flee in panic, stumbling down the stairs in a desperate attempt to escape his brother's clutches. The chase was relentless, with his brother hot on his heels, taking his ankle and yanking him back down to the ground the moment he stumbled.

But Aegon dared to giggle as if it was all a joke to him, “Is our father truly dead?”

“Yes,” Aemond growled, his grip on his brother’s ankle tightening, “and they’re going to make you king.”

Aegon struggled, pulling his leg back to kick his younger brother in the face and spit at him, but he was too slow for the trained swordsman, and he was once again within his grasp. “I have no wish to rule!” He wailed, a pathetic sound for a pathetic man, “I will have a ship and sail away; you can declare me dead and take the throne!”

Aemond's eye locked onto him, his gaze piercing as he absorbed the frantic words. "You'll have her!" the man spat, his wild-eyed stare conveying a desperate hope that Aemond would finally give in to the temptation. He was referring, of course, to Haera, his cherished sweetling. "You will be king, and she will be queen!" The words dripped with sweet deceit, but Aemond's resolve remained firm.

War was looming on the horizon, like the dark clouds that gathered before a storm. He was not an idiot; he had a plan that would shield Haera if she were to ascend to the throne by his side. The path ahead was dangerous, and he knew that he needed to tread carefully. He would allow Aegon, the firstborn, to take the crown as expected from tradition and law. This would open the way for Rhaenyra’s attempts to retrieve her claim with fierce battle. The realm would break in two, a conflict to be told through the ages, and one that would prove deadly. Aemond would not take the throne in such chaos.

Instead, Aegon would take the fall, shoving him onto the treacherous throne and labelling him as a usurper to Rhaenyra’s supporters, then he would work from within, become Aegon’s trusted confidant, and poison his reign with manipulation. Once they had gotten rid of their half-sister, and the realm bent the knee to Aegon’s claim, he would ascend the throne to reign in peace with his beloved sister by his side to provide him heirs. The game of thrones was a delicate dance, and Aemond was prepared to bide his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Once Aegon was safely watched over by their mother and a few trusted knights, Aemond granted himself the luxury of visiting her. He spent several minutes navigating the Keep's corridors, searching for her. Finally, a handmaid informed him that she had been spending time with Helaena in the children's quarters since he had departed on his mission. He found her cradling little Maelor in her arms, the boy giggling and playing with the loose strands of her hair.

Aemond fought the overwhelming urge to kiss her cheek, touch her, or do anything that would reignite the strong emotions he had felt the previous night. However, he was aware that Helaena and her maids were nearby, concentrating on their embroidery and tending to the twins. They would likely notice if they gave in to their desires, so he had to maintain a certain mask in front of them, not quite ready to claim her to the world.

Haera greeted him with a smile that tugged on his heartstrings, his own lips imitating hers as he kneeled on the ground in front of her to reach out for the small boy’s hand, tiny fingers pinching his skin. "Brother," she said, "you missed breakfast.” The subtle disappointment in her voice was palpable, and Aemond felt a pang of guilt for abandoning his family duties that morning, but it was necessary. He gazed at her with a love that threatened to spill, his eye locked on the way the young boy nestled against her as if she had birthed him herself, the scene stirring deep emotions within him. She would enjoy mothering their future children, and his heart would swell up with pride.

"I had something very important to do, my sweetling," he said, his voice laced with slight urgency. When he met her inquiring eyes, he noticed the flicker of understanding.

"Did it have to do with Father's passing?" she asked, her tone tinged with concern that she struggled to control. He was taken aback by her perceptiveness, but it was a relief that she grasped the gravity of their situation and had not been kept in the dark by their mother, who would do the most to keep her daughters pure and comfortable.

He looked up at her, his expression turning solemn. "I had to fetch our brother to prepare him for his coronation," he revealed, determined to be transparent about their circumstances. She deserved to know the truth, and he needed her to understand that he would stop at nothing to ensure her safety.

Haera's words hung in the air, filling him with fear. "Princess Rhaenys has remained locked in her chambers, and we're unsure if Rhaenyra has received word." He sensed a hidden urgency behind her statement, particularly the mention of the older woman staying behind while her family flew to Dragonstone.

"What did you discuss with her?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Her response sent another shiver down his spine. "She wanted me to pledge my loyalty to Lucerys, promising I would ascend the salt throne alongside him if I opposed Aegon's claim to the throne.”

Aemond's throat went dry, not from fear, but from growing anger that simmered inside him. He nodded slowly, his eyes locked onto hers, drinking in every word, ”What did you say to her?" he asked, his voice low and even.

Haera's voice was firm, a tone that commanded attention, sounding more resolute than ever before. "I told her I needed a moment to assess the situation," she explained, her words dripping with conviction. "I figured we could use her own promises against her, turn the tables in our favour.”

Aemond's pride swelled as he listened to Haera's words. She was thinking several steps ahead, anticipating their opponent's moves and capitalizing on them. The forced link between Haera and Lucerys, their nephew and her betrothed, could be a strong tool in their arsenal. Perhaps, if she pretended to surrender, their half-sister would be lulled into a false sense of security. Aemond's anger gave way to admiration as he gazed at Haera, recognising the cunning strategist she was becoming.

He detested the thought of putting her in harm’s way, but it seemed that she wanted to participate in her family’s future, and sometimes, the greater good required sacrifices. Haera seemed more than willing to leap, as if to prove herself worthy of her name. If she could not ride into battle on the back of a dragon, she could find another way to fight. Her voice trembled with conviction as she spoke, "Rhaenyra won't give up the throne without a fight, brother.”

Aemond's expression turned skeptical, his lips pursed into a tight line of disapproval. "Aegon will be crowned before Rhaenyra even discovers our plan, and we'll have the backing of many houses that once pledged their allegiance to her," he countered, his tone tinged with a hint of confidence.

As he gazed at Haera, his hand instinctively reached out, gently cradling the top of her head. His fingers traced the contours of her hair, slowly guiding her closer until their foreheads touched in a tender, reassuring gesture. The warmth of his breath whispered against her skin as he spoke, "For now, Haera, don't trouble yourself with worries; leave the burden to me."

The one-eyed prince smiled as Aegon’s words resounded in his head.

“You will have her.”

Haera had settled over the plush velvet seat as the grand carriage was pulled, her gaze falling over Helaena, who sat beside her, delicate fingers grasping a handkerchief she had embroidered herself. The soft hum of her sister floated through the air as a gentle lullaby that seemed to belong to another world. The younger princess attempted to look out of a small hole in the curtains, but her eyes struggled to keep pace with the movement outside as they made their way to the Dragonpit. Haera’s hand reached out for the future queen, softly calling out her name. “Hel?” The touch was an attempt to bring her sister from her trance, to bring her back to the moment.

“Dragon of red… skies of thunder… into the water… we go under.”

“Are you afraid, Helaena, of becoming queen? The intense, almost desperate question hung in the air as Helaena's glazed eyes locked onto Haera's, her dark amethyst irises clouded with a hint of panic. Her grip on Haera's hand tightened, her fingers closing like a vice. "It brings death, Haera," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the creaking of the carriage wheels.

Haera forced a bright smile onto her face, trying to free her hand from her sister's crushing grasp with subtlety, but Helaena's grip only intensified, her nails digging into Haera's skin to form crescents. Just as Haera was about to respond, the carriage jolted to an abrupt stop, and the roar of the crowd burst through the doors like the tidal wave that crashed against the beaches of Dragonstone as the doors swung open, the deafening screams of the common-born filling the small space. Helaena doubled over, her hands clamped over her ears, desperate to block out the scandal.

Despite the short notice, the struggles, and the time it had taken to find Prince Aegon, the ceremony was extravagant, the place packed to the brim with eager spectators who wanted to catch just a glimpse of their new King, as well as the returning princess who was making her official debut in front of the crowd. The guards escorted the royal family to the steps, standing shoulder to shoulder and facing the sea of faces. Haera took her rightful place beside Aemond, who gifted her a gentle, adoring smile as he drank in her beauty. Her green gown, adorned with intricate embroidery, complemented her perfectly, and the matching veil cascading down her back like a river of silk added an air of regality to her slender frame. She looked every inch a queen—Aemond's queen, radiant and confident.

Aegon strode confidently through the guards, who stood at attention, their swords raised to form a majestic arch over him as they pledged their loyalty to their new ruler. They noticed the mix of emotions on Aegon’s face quite clearly—brokenness, torment, and fear. Meanwhile, the Dowager Queen’s anxiety was clear as well, as she now picked at her nonexistent cuticles while she stood at the base of the stairs, her eyes fixed intently on the young man as he walked. The Grand Maester, resplendent in his ornate robes, boomed out the announcement, his voice echoing off the stone walls as he declared the coronation ceremony officially underway, the buzzing crowd holding its breath in anticipation.

The coronation had unfolded like any other, with prayers and long mentions of history as Aegon made promises of maintaining the peace, praying for his people, and protecting the realm. That was until the earth beneath them began to rumble, stone giving way to an explosion within the crowd. The dust settled quickly under the imposing figure of Meleys, the red dragon belonging to Princess Rhaenys, who was supposed to be under lock and key in the Red Keep. Haera's eyes widened in terror as she instinctively reached for her sister Helaena's arm, pulling her back and away from the threat, but Helaena remained frozen in place, her gaze fixed on the beast—a picture of fascination.

Aemond’s heart was a wild stallion, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword, his mind racing with ways to escape the threat of the beast. He knew that they would fall if she was to command her dragon to burn them, and all would have been for nothing. As his gaze locked onto Princess Rhaenys, who stood tall and proud, as if daring them to threaten her, Aemond held his breath. Then, in a startling turn of events, the dragon spread its wings and took to the skies, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake as it soared out of the pit, the crowd's screams and shouts echoing through the air.

Rhaenyra would soon learn of their actions, and she was sure to respond with fire.

Haera's hands still trembled even hours after the ceremony, as if dragonfire lingered on her skin. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the castle, she gently untangled the intricate hairstyle that had been crafted for the occasion. The atmosphere within the castle walls was heavy with mourning, making a celebratory feast feel like an insult. Besides, Haera's half-sister might storm into the keep at any moment, demanding what was promised to her while the realm struggled to come to terms with the unexpected change of heir.

Haera waited anxiously for Aemond to visit her in her chambers, as he had promised. She longed for the comforting warmth of his embrace, the gentle touch of his hands, and the tender caress of his lips on hers. The memory of his affection was all that kept her going after facing the terror of Meleys, to grant her peace of mind. As the darkness engulfed the castle's hallways, Haera expected Aemond to slip in quietly, as was his custom. But instead, the door burst open with a force that made her heart skip a beat.

The young princess turned towards the door, blurry vision struggling to adjust to the sudden movement as the figure made its way inside. She expected to see Aemond’s dark, imposing form but instead found a stranger. A shorter man, with shorter hair and no eyepatch to give away his identity. It was not until the smell of wine swirled around her that she realized it was Aegon, the newly-crowned king, who stood in her chambers, the sudden arrival shattering the calm of her routine.

He stumbled into the room, a sloppy "Sister!" escaping his lips as he struggled to enunciate through the haze of good wine. The word hung in the air, an awkward greeting that left her wondering what had brought him to her chambers. "I have... been asking for you," he slurred, his eyes squinting as if trying to focus on her face.

Her hands froze, her hairbush slippery as she set it down on the table where she had been seated. Her eyes narrowed while a puzzled expression took over her features, attempting to make sense of this strange visit. The doors were shut behind him, leaving them alone without a chaperone. No guards, no attendants—just the two of them. She had grown used to Aemond’s company, but she had not had the opportunity of such company with her oldest brother, and the uncertainty churned in her stomach.

It was no secret that Aegon had never been the type to seek her out, and there had been instances where his words had stung, implying that her impairment made her less worthy. However, Aemond's stern glares had kept those comments in check, and Haera had learned to navigate their complicated relationship by ignoring most of what he said.

Despite her reservations, Haera's innate kindness took over, and a gentle smile spread across her face. "You have found me, brother," she replied, her words an open invitation to unburden himself if that was what he had come for.

Aegon swayed unsteadily, his words slurring as he spoke, “I promised Aemond...” He let out a loud hiccup, wobbling forward to lean against the armchair of the furniture in her chambers. “I would dissolve your betrothal to that insufferable little brat.” As he stumbled, the soft velvet of the couch cushions creaked in protest. “Consider it done, dear sister... you're welcome.”

Her pulse quickened, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins as she grasped the true extent of her brother's power over her future. The unwanted bond to her nephew was now severed, freeing her from a life of unhappiness. “Thank you, brother...”

But Aegon cut her off, his deep voice booming through the room. “No need to thank me, sister. It's what a good brother and king should do for his family.” His gaze roamed over her frame, lingering on her features as if he were seeing her for the first time. A strange, unsettling sensation knotted in her stomach, unlike anything she'd experienced before. Yet Aegon seemed oblivious to her discomfort, his eyes never wavering as she curled in on herself.

He struggled to stand up straight, his drunk eyes raking over her body and pausing where it made her skin prickle with unease. “You're a good sister, are you not?” The question hung in the air like a challenge, his gaze stripping her bare. “Tell me, Haera, what is it about you that has got Aemond’s balls in such a tight grip?”

But he did not let her reply; instead, his next words would set the fire in her veins into ice: “Undress, sister.”

Haera's vision snapped into sharp focus, like a magnifying glass zooming in on her flushed face, as she gazed up at her older brother with eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Had she heard him correctly? The annoyance in his eyes seemed to deepen, his iris darkening as if about to unleash fury. With a rough shove, he sent her tumbling from her seat, her body sliding across the cold, hard floor like a rag doll, the sound of her fall echoing through the silent air. “Are you going to make your king repeat his words? Undress now.”

“It’s a pleasant surprise, truly; I had assumed he would be sticking his cock in the madam’s dried cunt until she took her last breath.” He launched into a long speech, his hand waving as he spoke, taking his place on the seat he had just pushed her out of. As he caught her gaze, he noticed the flicker of fear in her eyes, a fleeting glimmer of panic reminiscent of a cornered stag he had been forced to hunt once, its desperate struggle to break free from the hunter's traps. “He frequently seeks out that woman’s company when he needs something to stick his dick into... only her, though; do not worry about any bastards with that whore’s ancient age.”

“The matter of men... it is not of my business.” Her voice remained gentle, a quiet, submissive sound that conveyed a deep sadness. Aegon’s words about Aemond rang in her head, a mocking voice that would certainly follow her for the rest of the evening. She was trying to hide behind a mask of bravery, but the pooling tears in her eyes betrayed her. He cleared his throat, his shoulders squaring as if he had suddenly sobered up, head nodding with a decision.

“Let me be the first to fuck you, so you can see how his interest in you just burns away; all he wants is to be your first bleed and nothing more.” He let out a low, ominous chuckle, his dark laughter sending a shiver down her spine. His voice was a warning, like the growl of a dragon preparing to light up fire. His hands dropped to the worn leather belt that cinched his pants tight around his narrow hips. “Won’t even have to pay for your cunt, sister; you can give it to me willingly.”

Haera had never faced danger so intimately—her brushes with death had always been due to her illness, not at the hands of her own brother. And certainly not in this situation. Screaming was an option, but the guards outside her door answered solely to the king, not to her, and would undoubtedly ignore her pleas under her brother's command. As for fighting back, the effort would exhaust her, leaving her helpless against his depravity anyway. She had to set distance between them as fast as she could, tire him out, bore him, and disgust him.

She kicked the chair she'd fallen from and where he had forced himself, the wooden furniture tipping backwards to drop him on the floor across from her, momentarily staggering him. Seizing the opportunity, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted to the far side of the room, launching herself against an old bookshelf tucked away in the corner. The impact sent dusty tomes tumbling around her, barely missing her body. Aegon's laughter erupted, a sickening sound that made her stomach churn. The realization hit her like a blow: to him, this was a twisted game, amusement. He raised his hands in mock surrender, turned on his heel, and sneered, "You're no fun, Haera, but remember my words... always.”

As he distanced from her, his figure blurred, becoming a swirl of dark colors that vanished through the opening doors of her chamber. Haera's heart raced, threatening to burst from her chest. The young princess collapsed to her knees, her palms pressed against the cold floor, and she wept uncontrollably from the danger of her brother’s words. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to calm her racing heart, fearing it might give out under the strain. Was she truly nothing more than her maidenhead?

In her desperation, Haera hadn't noticed the subtle movement of the bookshelf, triggered by her frantic push. The safety mechanism, concealed within the shelf, had been deactivated, quietly unlocking an entrance to a hidden tunnel within the ancient walls of the Red Keep.

And so it had begun.

Ravens as black as midnight had started to swoop in, carrying messages from lords all over Westeros that would shape the future of the Seven Kingdoms. Some messages pledged loyalty to Aegon immediately, while others were delicately going around the succession that had been set by the late King Viserys during his reign. Aegon was stiff in the uncomfortable chair of the King, his council looking at him with expectation. Aemond had slipped in, pretending to support the newly-crowned man as a reason for his presence. Aegon's smirk, as he caught sight of his one-eyed brother, hinted at an amusement, one that only he was aware of—the fright he had instilled in their youngest sister.

“We must forge alliances.” Aemond’s voice was firm and resolute. “Have them bend the knee to the rightful King before they are swayed.”

Alicent posed a question that hung in the air like a challenge. "What do you propose to do, exactly? We have but a handful of letters, hardly enough to guarantee peace in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Otto responded, his voice laced with authority, "We must reach out to the most influential houses, and the vassal houses will follow suit.”

The council members then began to analyze the Lords of the High Houses, identifying those who could be easily persuaded and those who would fiercely resist them. After deliberation, they had compiled a list of the obstacles they needed to overcome and began strategizing approaches to win over the influential lords who, unwittingly, held the fate of peace in their hands.

As the discussion progressed, a sense of loss settled over the group. "The North is surely lost to us," one member lamented, shaking his head in defeat. "The young wolf will never betray his alliances.”

Aemond's determination was unwavering. "Then we'll find another," he declared. "I'll mount Vhagar and fly to the Stormlands. The mere threat of a dragon will bring Lord Baratheon to his knees, and his army will follow suit.”

Otto's eyes narrowed as he contemplated Borros Baratheon's unwavering loyalty to Rhaenyra from his shared blood to Rhaenys. "Borros is as unyielding as stone," he cautioned, moving the pawn on the map to Storm's End. His gaze darted briefly to Aemond before moving away. "Unless... he's tempted by a strategic betrothal.”

Aemond's reaction was instantaneous; his body imitated granite, heart racing beneath his chest. The mere suggestion of engagement to another woman, not the one he longed for, sent a surge of anxiety through him. He pushed the thought aside though, thoroughly convinced that Vhagar's presence would be enough to intimidate Borros Baratheon into submission.

So, the members of the council began to dispatch their letters to the allies, reaffirming Aegon’s claim. Meanwhile, Aemond had been ordered to prepare his dragon for an immediate departure, but he would not leave before sharing words with the young woman who had claimed his heart. The heavy leather of his booths fell silent when he pushed open the doors to her chambers without announcing himself, and what he saw struck him like a blow. Haera, still in the heavy layers of her coronation dress, seemingly exhausted from the coronation festivities, lay fast asleep on her bed, a pillow covering her face and her white sheet tangled around her feet.

Aemond's voice barely above a whisper, he called out to her, "Haera, my love." As he drew closer, his hand extended, reaching for her in the dimly lit room.

Haera’s eyes snapped open, a flash of panic replacing the serenity of her sleep. "Aemond?" she whispered, her lower lip trembling. Aemond's instincts told him something was amiss, and the puffiness of her eyes only reinforced his concerns. Without hesitation, she sprang from the bed, flinging her arms around Aemond's neck, burying her face in his hair.

He whispered urgently, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist, "What's wrong, sister? You look sick." His warm breath danced across her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

Haera hesitated, weighing her options. She could share with Aemond about the encounter with Aegon, but she feared it would only spark more unnecessary tension. Right now, there were more pressing concerns to focus on. So, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with Aemond's intoxicating scent.

"I just need some rest," she said finally, her voice laced with exhaustion. "Will you stay with me tonight?”

The question hung in the air, and Aemond's imagination ran wild. He pictured himself wrapped in her embrace, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest against his. But he pushed aside the tempting thought, his arms relaxing their grip as he stepped back to gaze into her eyes. A fleeting disappointment clouded her lavender iris. He shook his head, a soft apology crossing his face. "I have something to attend to tonight, sweet girl. I came to bid you goodnight.”

His hand stroked her cheek with a loving caress that sent Haera's heart racing. She felt an overwhelming desire for so much, craving his presence beside her more than anything in the world. She lifted herself up, her lips brushing against his in a teasing whisper, her hands grasping his shoulders for balance. "Please, Aemond?"

He could feel his muscles tensing as he fought to restrain himself, his desire for release fighting against his duty to protect her. But he knew that ensuring her safety was more important, and that gave him the strength to overcome the primal urges that threatened to consume both of them. As he stood firm, she drew closer, her lips inches from his, and he allowed himself a small gesture—a brief, tender kiss that kindled a fire within him.

He pulled back just before the dragon within could take over, his healthy eye raking over her figure like a predator surveying its prey as his breathing calmed. “You are not wearing your nightgown.” The sternness in his tone was a thin veil for the curiosity burning beneath.

Haera lowered herself on the bed, her slender legs curling up as she looked at the blur of her sleeping clothes on the other side. She pouted, her full lips jutting out, “I was too tired to undress by myself, and my maids have been dismissed.” The dim light of the room cast shadows on her face, accentuating the exhaustion on her features.

Aemond's lips curled into a warm, endearing smile, his sharp corners softening ever so slightly as his finger wrapped around a strand of her hair. “You will freeze. Here, I will help you.” His words dripped with a sincerity that sent shivers down her spine.

He barely had to stretch his lean body to reach the nightgown on the couch behind him, his other hand extending to help his younger sister step onto the floor, their bodies almost touching once again. Haera's fingers trembled as she grabbed a handful of her dress into a tight fist, unsure of how he would help her exactly. Would he lift her dress from her body and see her naked? The uncertainty fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird. Surely it was not proper, yet... she wondered if it would persuade him to stay with her.

It would not hurt to try. The thought in her mind was like a promise.

As he was distracted for a second while he reached for the nightgown, he missed the moment Haera had begun to lift the dress from her body, dragging the shift with her hands until it was over her head and discarded to the side, liberating herself.

When he turned back to her with the garment in hand, he was welcomed by a sight that stole his breath. Her lovely, untouched skin glowed like moonlight, only for him to see—the true daughter of the moon. Her womanly curves, what she hid underneath her gowns, are what no other man should ever witness. His eye dragged over the curve of her neck, to the line of her shoulders, and her clavicles before he dared to wander below, his gaze burning with an intensity that left her skin with a pleasant tingle.

Gods, she would be the end of him.

His mouth dried at the sight of her breasts, to their fullness accentuated by a gentle slope and the delicate pink. Her stomach was decorated by a constellation of tiny beauty marks, barely visible. The line of her hips flowed seamlessly into her thighs, the skin smooth, like the statues of the goddesses. Aemond's gaze was drawn to the intimate place between her legs, his breath catching in his throat with a pathetic whimper. The sight of the soft, light curls over her mound, underneath glistening with anticipation, sent a surge of desire through him. The delicate, slick folds below, weakened his knees and stirred hunger within him.

“Haera…” His voice was a hoarse whisper, a barely audible groan as he struggled to get the words out of him with what he was feeling at the sight of her. Her beauty was as dangerous as a siren’s song, a melody that threatened to pull him under. He had to force himself to look away; even though the sight of her was a privilege, he needed to create distance between them so he could complete his duties.

"Am I not to your liking, brother?" Her voice was now broken and vulnerable. "Is it true that you prefer the company of common whores to mine?”

Aemond felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. His gaze snapped back to her, avoiding the tempting curves of her body. "Who dares to say such a thing?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. Who would dare to tell her that?

She stood frozen, shame and regret washing over her as she crossed her arms over her chest, hiding her face from him. He struggled to swallow the lump in his throat, forcing himself out of the spell to carefully help her into the nightgown with a gentle touch, unlike the turmoil brewing inside. Her cheeks were flushed red, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He gently placed his finger beneath her chin, urging her to lift her gaze and meet his.

"The things I have done, the people I have been with... they're all in the past, forgotten the moment you came back to my life," he whispered, his own eye threatening tears as he was consumed by his feelings. Aemond drew her into a comforting embrace, her face nestling into the warmth of his chest as his hands cradled the small of her back to keep her close. Haera's embarrassment slowly faded away, replaced by a sense of security as his gentle touch soothed her nerves. "You are a masterpiece... but I won't have you like this, my sweetling," he murmured, his words dripping with adoration. “I will find a way to make you mine.”

Her reply was a whisper, yet her voice was the most hauntingly beautiful lullaby he had ever heard. "You are mine just as I am yours.” He hummed in sweet acknowledgement, his heart helplessly lost to the pure, unconditional love she offered him.

ᡣ𐭩 ─ author's note ;

this is the worst chapter i have ever written in my life, it was eating me up so bad and FOR WHAT? for nothing. oh my god. i have to admit it was my fault because i totally forgot a very important plot-line when i was writing all of the chapters; viserys and lucerys' deaths. i just very innocently went from the dinner to post-b&c like AN IDIOT and did not have the chapter prepared.

i apologize 100% and promise to do better lol.

also, i changed my grammar checker like halfway through editing so my apologies if you see something wild that i missed when scanning over. i had been using grammarly for a very long time but at this point, the app is all glitch. it tries to correct me over anything and doesn't let me write how i want to.

the next two posts in the series will be bonus chapters for storm's end and b&c, under the style of the introduction so what i'm planning is not as dark.

╰⪼ thank you for reading!

#ᡣ𐭩 #⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ─ ❝sweetling❞#aemond targaryen #prince aemond targaryen #original character #hotd #house of the dragon #asoiaf

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