#(for having high hopes for the up coming chapters )

[gghostwriter]

Hi!! I saw your requests are open for fluff and I love your writing and have an idea currently plaguing my mind if you are interested (but no worries if not!) 🩵

There’s this girl on tiktok who does rejection therapy where she makes little requests to strangers with the expectation of being denied, but sometimes the outcome is super sweet. I think it would be cute for a kinda shy reader to be doing rejection therapy and ask Spencer (or any of the BAU) to like play rock paper scissors or hold their badge or something with the expectation of being rejected, only to be pleasantly surprised when she isn’t rejected

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader Trope: Fluff! Just fluff w.c: 1.33k A/N: Slowly defrosting my request box purely for fluff. I do feel a bit rusty in writing again, it's a muscle I've forgotten to exercise on the daily. I am no chess player so I honestly don't know how to write a game. Anon, I hope this still lives up to your imagination! Main masterlist

Intermezzo. // Spencer Reid

Hushed adult chatter and boisterous children’s laughter filled the greening park, once cold and barren from the winter past. The sun, as if still shy to take center stage, peeked behind a cloud of white curtains. Vibrant hues of picnic blankets scattered all over the green grass, books and wicker baskets keeping them from going with the windy breeze. 

Over the past few weeks, you’ve gotten comfortable in the new city you now call home. Bringing the tumbler of coffee against your moistened lips, the corners of your mouth lifted to form a soft smile, marveling from how far you’ve come. This city now contained your coffee shop down the block, your bookstore tucked between alleyways, and your park nestled in the middle of the bustling city. 

Your therapist was excited for this new chapter of your life, coaxing you to take baby steps away from your cocoon and enjoy what it had to offer. Filled with slight trepidation a few weeks ago, you sat on the exact same bench, back rod straight and hands wringing from the unknown when a group of men, ages of all varying degrees, had caught your eye. They were gathered under the shade from two great trees, seated and hunched over, playing various states of chess.

Fascinating.

They kept to themselves, something you could relate to. As Saturdays and Sundays passed on, you found yourself wondering why there seemed to be no women or any newcomers, to be exact, that join in the fray. Do people not feel the draw? Is it only you who found them intriguing?

Movement caught the corner of your eye.

A new face walking towards the gaggle of men—or to be exact, hobbling towards with crutches under his armpits, to an unoccupied chess table. His eyes scanning along the throng of players before briefly looking down and tapping his uninjured foot to an inconspicuous beat.

You observed him with fascination and anticipation, wanting to see if any of the usual faces would join in on his table, allowing him to be absorbed into the otherwise impenetrable group.

Five minutes.

Then ten, the seat in front of him remained empty. 

You briefly wondered if you could do it—you weren’t after all bad at chess, being a past player in high school. Not that you won more than three competitions, joining the team was purely an excuse for extra credits and to get out of physical education. 

Could you do it?

Could you walk up to a complete male stranger and ask for a game?

Could you take the rejection that may come with it?

Gnawing on your lip, you found yourself moving closer and closer, steps quiet and hesitant but each shuffle ringing in your ear. His eyes, feeling the change in the wind and your upcoming presence, met yours—both wide-eyed and unsure.

He seemed to be just like you, a doe-eyed deer stepping out of their hiding for predators lying in the wait. A gust of breath escaped your lips, a measly amount of strength returning to your tightly strung body.

“H-hi,” you whispered. 

He blinked before clearing his throat. “Hi, how can I—” his gaze tracking the path of your gaze, the opposite black pieces on the chess board. “Do you, do you want to play?”

You timidly smiled. “If you’d have me, yes.” 

“Yes,” a smile forming on his face, hands fighting to push the wayward curls behind his pinking ears. “Of course, please.” 

Gingerly seating on the marbled seat, you muttered a ‘thank you’ under your breath, one you were sure he didn’t hear.

No words were exchanged further as he moved his white pieces with grace. It was a complete contrast to yours, rusty and unsure even to that moment as to what you were actually doing seating in front of a chess genius. That was who he was, you realized, as he ate another of your pawn. Perhaps this was why no one dared to occupy the seat. He was no outsider or meek prey, he was the king (or prince) and the predators of all chess enthusiasts in the group.

You could feel the heat from the gazes of the spectators, other tables long abandoned to view and scrutinize the eventual downfall of the challenger. Whispers of strategies under their breaths and shakes of their head as they predict the next thirty-seventh move. 

Briefly you wondered if you should just call it quits, wanting to hide from the pressure. But isn’t this a prime opportunity to take further steps away from your comfort zone? Isn’t that was your therapist would have wanted? Perhaps, you were expecting rejection in the beginning and now that you were in the thick of it, you wished that it had come instead. The sweet ‘no’ from his handsome stranger’s lips rather than feeling your nerves fray from the trap laid in front of you—a pawn in perfect position to take his queen on c1. 

“Would you like to take a break?” he asked, expecting his voice to be filled with mockery and superiority, but rather was coated with the sweet, worrying tone you’d expect from a doting grandmother. 

Shaking your head no, moving your king away from endangerment—g8 to h7. 

Your opponent smiled before quickly taking his turn with a pawn. 

The game continued on in such manner, give and take, between two strangers turned opponents. You could feel the end coming as his moves further stalled, now requiring the handsome stranger to assess the remaining pieces on the board to his gain. In turn, you studied him. 

The ends of his hair brushing against the middle of his long neck. Its’ roots sticking to his forehead, shiny from perspiration. Sleeves of his button down haphazardly folded to expose his forearm and one subtle vein that disappears and appears as he moves. You doubted he was any older but the underlying confidence brimming underneath his humility made you think he’d been exposed to the underbelly of the world, long before you did. 

Seven moves later, he flashed you another smile—bigger and more joyous than you’ve seen. “Draw.”

The spectators stilled into silence. A rarity, one of the older gentlemen whispered under their breath before everyone brought into an applause. 

It happened in a flash causing breath to be caught in your throat. You’ve done it. The game was over. You’ve gone above and beyond from what your therapist had asked you to do—her “rejection therapy” leading you to an unknown you couldn’t wait to explain.

“Good game,” he breathed out.

You nodded, watching as his right hand reached out in between, casting a shadow on his knocked over king. “Oh—” lifting your hands in front of you to act as a barrier. “I’m not much of a—the number of pathogens passed during a handshake—”

“Is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss,” he continued on before chuckling to himself, hand still extended out regardless of the trivia being shared between you two. “Not that I’m saying we should but yeah, I’m not much of a ‘handshake-r’ myself.” 

Giggling, you slowly reached for his awaiting hand, giving him a way out before both palms met and fingers locked around it. 

It was warm, like the sun that was no longer hiding behind the curtain of clouds, like a tumbler of freshly brewed coffee made by your favorite barista. 

“I’m Spencer. Spencer Reid.”

Your cheeks heated. “Nice to meet you, Spencer Reid. I’m Y/N.”

Hands still firmly connected across the chess game long forgotten, both of you seemingly unwilling to let go of the physical connection.

He cleared his throat. “Would you like to play again sometime?”

“If you’d have me again, yes.” Briefly biting your lip before taking another brave step, creating another ‘rejection therapy’ moment. “Or we could have coffee or tea sometime?”

You waited with bated breath. 

The corners of his eyes crinkled and another breathtaking smile painted his face.

“I’d like that. I’d really like that.” 

Comments & reblogs are highly appreciated!

[trombonechurchill]

fuck it friday~

tagged by the lovely @leashybebes, thank you~ Since the current state of my own fluffebruary prompts are uh... in shambles, gonna post one more snippet of Watching the Credits. Finished chapter 2 draft last night and it's in edit mode so hopefully this bit actually.. makes it into the chapter heho

"So, I have a confession." Idly, Tommy wonders if this is where Evan politely no homo's him. "Go on?" Tommy says blandly, taking a sip from his pale ale. He deserves a medal for keeping his cool. Oscar selection committee eat your heart out. "I uh, kinda didn't know when we met. Who you were." Evan scrunches up the side of his face in sheepish smile. Tommy's heart pangs in his chest. This is it, this is where it all falls apart. "I'd guessed," Tommy says back. "Either that or you're a much better actor than I could have hoped to be." "Hey, you never know, I could be coming for your job next so watch out," Evan says, playfully pointing a finger in Tommy's face. Tommy quickly quashes the insane part of him that wants that finger in his mouth. Focus. Evan seems to be waiting for some kind of reaction. A non-insane reaction. "So is it… A problem? My job?" Tommy asks hesitantly. "Or are the horse wrangling lessons still on the table here?" To Tommy's surprise, Evan seems stumped by the question. "N-no, not at all, I just, I dunno. Would have maybe tried to play it a little cooler if I realized. Usually people don't get the full Buck experience till at least the third meeting." Tommy hums, processing that for a moment. He's been in show business since he was barely out of high school; he's had critics and reviewers alike pan and praise him, he's been on Conan for Christ's sake. He should not be this giddy about Evan calling him 'cool' and yet here he is, seconds away from kicking his heels and twirling his hair. Tommy's so gone it's not even funny. "So when you say the 'Full Buck'…"

no pressure tags for @setmeatopthepyre, @3min17sec, @queermccoy, @thatmexisaurusrex, @frogsinflannel, @dark-alice-lilith, @lcvebuckley and @quintessenceofdust88 if you guys have anything you wanna share 👀

[s4svnn]

Out of bounds . JJK

↳ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; his love subjected you to the true extent of deception, a merciless lie wrapped in the illusion of paradise, until the truth tore it apart - he was always out of bounds.

↳ Jungkook x reader

↳ 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: ongoing

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Chapter Thirty

The café was a whirlwind of movement, noise, and the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The morning rush had hit full force, and the line of customers stretched nearly to the door. The hum of conversation mixed with the steady whir of the espresso machine, the sharp clatter of cups against saucers, and the occasional hiss of steamed milk. It was the kind of organized chaos that made my stomach twist with nerves.

I stood behind the till, my fingers hovering just above the touchscreen as I mentally prepared myself. Despite working here for a few weeks now, the pressure of handling orders quickly—and correctly—still made my pulse race. The fear of making a mistake in front of a growing line of impatient customers was real, and as more people poured in, that familiar sense of dread curled in my stomach.

Before I could let it get to me, a pair of warm hands landed on my shoulders, kneading them gently.

"Come on, you got this, girl," Serena's voice came from behind me, light and teasing but undeniably supportive.

I let out a breath, rolling my shoulders as she gave them one last squeeze. "I really hope so. Otherwise, I might just throw this register at someone."

Leah, who was stocking pastries nearby, snorted. "Please do. If someone complains about the oat milk one more time, I’ll pay you to do it."

Cyrus grinned, adjusting his apron as he leaned against the counter. "I'll film it. We’ll go viral. ‘New café employee snaps—customers beware!’”

I chuckled, shaking my head. These three had been my saving grace since I started working here. What had started as awkward introductions and polite small talk had quickly turned into inside jokes, shared complaints about customers, and lunch breaks that felt more like therapy sessions. I was lucky to have them.

But right now, I had a job to do.

Taking a deep breath, I turned my attention to the first customer in line—a middle-aged man in a sharp navy suit, glancing impatiently at his watch.

"One flat white, extra shot, and a chocolate croissant to go," he said briskly, not even looking up from his phone.

I quickly tapped the order into the till. "That’ll be £5, please."

He barely acknowledged me as he tapped his card against the machine, the beep signaling a successful payment.

"Thank you! Your order will be ready shortly," I said with my best customer-service smile, though I doubted he even heard me.

The next customer—a woman in a bright yellow sundress—offered a much friendlier smile. "Hi! Can I get an iced caramel latte with oat milk and a blueberry muffin?"

I nodded, my fingers moving across the screen. "That’ll be £4.80."

She dug into her purse and pulled out a five-pound note, sliding it across the counter. "Keep the change!"

I smiled, grateful for her kindness. "Thanks! Your order will be ready in a few minutes."

As the line moved, my nerves gradually settled, and I found myself slipping into a rhythm. Order, payment, smile, repeat. By the time I glanced up at the clock, it was almost noon—finally time for our break.

Leah clapped her hands together. "Alright, team! One-hour break before we lose our sanity."

Cyrus groaned dramatically, tossing his apron onto the counter. "Too late. I lost mine halfway through that guy who ordered seven modifications to his drink."

Serena laughed, pulling her curls into a high ponytail. "You mean the one who wanted ‘just a hint of vanilla but not too much’? Yeah, he nearly broke me."

We flipped the "Closed for Lunch" sign, quickly shutting everything down before collapsing into our usual booth near the back of the café. I sighed, letting my body sink into the seat, savoring the rare quiet.

Leah stretched her arms over her head. "Alright, since we actually have time to talk like normal human beings—remind me what you guys are studying again?"

Cyrus leaned back in his chair. "Computer science, unfortunately. I swear, my brain is just numbers and error messages at this point."

Leah smirked. "Yeah, yeah. You say that now, but wait until you're making six figures and too busy coding in your fancy office to even remember us."

Cyrus placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "Excuse me. I would never forget you guys—especially if you all bring me free coffee in my fancy office."

Serena rolled her eyes. "Typical." She turned to me, resting her chin on her hand. "What about you, AJ? You never told us what you studied."

I hesitated for a moment before taking a sip of water. "Car design."

Cyrus nearly choked. "Damn, girl! So whatchu doin’ in a place like this?"

Leah immediately smacked his arm. "Cyrus! You cannot just say that."

I let out a small laugh, though my fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of my glass. "No, it's okay. It didn’t work out, so... here I am. Trying to take another shot at life, I guess."

Serena reached across the table, giving my hand a squeeze. "Good on you, girl. As you should."

Leah and Cyrus nodded in agreement before, in perfect unison, all three of them threw their hands in the air and shouted, "Period!"

I burst into laughter, shaking my head. "You guys are the absolute worst."

Cyrus grinned. "But you love us."

Before I could respond, the café door swung open with a soft chime, but it may as well have been a thunderclap with how suddenly the energy at the table shifted.

The air seemed to thicken as Adam stepped inside, his presence somehow eclipsing everything else. His dark eyes flickered toward me just for a second, barely even a glance—but it was enough to make my breath hitch. There was something about the way he looked at me, sharp and assessing, as if he was searching for something yet unwilling to let me find anything in return. It wasn’t just indifference it was deliberate, like he was making a point to keep his distance.

And then, just as quickly as his gaze had landed on me, it was gone. He strode past our table, heading toward the back with effortless confidence, his movements controlled, precise. Today, he was dressed in a fitted black t-shirt that clung to the sharp lines of his frame, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tattoos running along his forearm. Dark jeans, slightly worn at the knees, completed the look, along with a silver ring on his middle finger that caught the light as he ran a hand through his tousled dark hair.

I didn’t realize I was still staring until Serena nudged me with her elbow, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.

"You sure he doesn’t like you?" she teased, eyebrows waggling.

I scoffed, finally tearing my gaze away from the door Adam had disappeared through. "Trust me. I don’t think dislike even covers it."

Cyrus waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, don’t take it personally. Adam’s just weird like that. He barely talks to anyone unless he has to."

Leah leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Yeah, it’s part of his whole bad-boy persona. Gotta keep up the mystery, you know?"

Serena nodded, grinning. "Right? The whole I’m too cool to care act. Classic."

I exhaled, shaking my head. "Well, if it’s an act, he’s seriously committed to it."

Leah rolled her eyes. "Trust me, he’s like that with everyone. You’re not special."

I forced a small laugh, trying to play it off, but something about that didn’t sit right with me. The way he looked at me—it wasn’t just indifference. It wasn’t casual, either. It was something. And maybe it was just my overactive mind reading into things, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that his coldness toward me wasn’t the same as it was with everyone else.

I forced myself to shake off the lingering thoughts of Adam and turned my attention back to my friends. Serena was still smirking at me like she knew something I didn’t, and Cyrus was watching me with a raised brow, like he was waiting for me to admit something.

"What?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Cyrus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Nothing, nothing. Just wondering how long it’s gonna take before you admit you’re at least a little curious about him."

I let out a dry laugh, picking at the edge of my napkin. "I’m not curious. I just—" I hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Notice things."

Leah scoffed. "Oh, you notice things? Sounds a lot like curiosity to me."

Serena grinned, resting her chin in her hand. "Mmmhmm. And what exactly have you noticed, AJ?"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that he stares at me like I personally offended him in another life? Or that he won’t even acknowledge me unless he absolutely has to?"

Cyrus let out a low whistle. "Damn. Enemies to lovers arc in progress."

Leah burst into laughter while I groaned, dropping my head onto the table. "Please. No one is in the ‘lovers’ category here. Let’s not get carried away."

Serena hummed thoughtfully. "I mean, you have to admit, it is kinda weird how he looks at you."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

She tilted her head. "It’s not just avoidance. If he didn’t care at all, he’d just ignore you like he does with most people. But he looks at you, AJ. And not just a glance—like, really looks at you."

Cyrus nodded in agreement. "She’s right. You can feel it when he walks in. It’s like the air shifts. And you’re the only one he does that with."

I pursed my lips, replaying the moment in my head. The way his gaze had lingered for that extra second before he walked away. The sharpness in his stare, like he was sizing me up—or maybe warning me away.

But why?

I shook my head, trying to push the thought aside. "Look, I don’t know what his deal is, and honestly? I don’t care. He doesn’t like me, fine. I’ll just stay out of his way."

Leah arched a brow. "You sure about that?"

"Absolutely."

Serena smirked. "Alright, alright. We’ll drop it. For now."

I sighed in relief, leaning back in my chair. "Thank you."

But something told me they weren’t going to let this go anytime soon.

And if I was being completely honest with myself neither was I.

Leah leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table with a sly grin. “Anyways, now that we’ve established the undeniable tension between you and our dear Adam—”

I groaned loudly, throwing my head back. “Leah, please—”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Fine, fine! I’ll let you live... for now. But I do need to know something.” She tilted her head at me, eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Has a beautiful girl like yourself ever been in a relationship?”

Serena gasped dramatically, slapping the table. “Ooooh, yes, excellent question. Spill, AJ!”

Cyrus smirked, rubbing his hands together like he was ready for some juicy gossip. “Yeah, come on, don’t be shy. We need all the details.”

I sighed, feeling heat creep up my neck. “I hate you guys.”

Leah winked. “Love you too, babe. Now answer the question.”

I huffed, playing with the edge of my napkin as my mind circled back to my college years causing me to debate how much to say. “Alright, fine. I’ve been in one real relationship.”

Serena gasped, eyes wide. “One? That’s it?”

I gave her a look. “Yeah, and trust me, one was enough.”

Cyrus leaned in, eyes gleaming with interest. “What happened? Did he cheat? Were you secretly a spy and had to break up for his safety? Please tell me it was something dramatic.”

I laughed. “Nothing that exciting. It just… didn’t work out.”

Leah raised a brow. “That’s a very vague way of saying something happened.”

I sighed, tapping my fingers against the table.  "It was in college and we were together for a couple of months. I really believed we were going somewhere.” I paused, swallowing the slight lump in my throat. “But then, we fought a lot and things got hard, so we thought it was best if we just parted ways.”

Serena’s face softened. “Damn. That’s rough.”

I shrugged, trying to play it off. “It’s whatever. It was a long time ago.”

Cyrus frowned. “Still, that sucks. You gave him months of your life, and he just dipped? That’s messed up.”

I forced a small smile, but his words hit deeper than I expected. You gave him months of your life, and he just dipped? My fingers tightened around the edge of my napkin as something heavy settled in my chest and my mind wondered back to my time with Jungkook, completely forgetting about my college relationship.

We had never officially been together. There were no titles, no grand declarations of love. But the way he kissed me, the way his hands found me in the dark, the way he whispered my name like it was something precious—it all felt like more than just nothing. He acted like I was his. And for a long time, I let myself believe it.

The way he always found a way to pull me close, his breath warm against my skin as he murmured things I knew he never meant. The late nights where we blurred the lines between friendship and something else, something more, until it was impossible to tell where we began and ended. And then, just like that, he was gone.

I swallowed hard, pushing the thought away before it could drag me under.

Leah reached over, squeezing my hand gently. “Well, it’s his loss. You’re a catch, AJ.”

I smiled, squeezing her hand back. “Thanks, Leah.”

Serena smirked. “And now you’re single and thriving.”

Cyrus wiggled his brows. “And possibly on the verge of an enemies-to-lovers romance with a certain broody boss.”

I groaned, covering my face. “I knew you were gonna bring that back up!”

Leah laughed. “We never let things go, babe.”

Serena nodded. “Especially when they involve a hot, mysterious man with tattoos.”

I peeked at her through my fingers. “You think he’s hot?”

She scoffed. “AJ, please. He’s objectively attractive. Doesn’t mean he’s nice, though.”

Cyrus chuckled. “Yeah, he’s got that whole I hate everything aesthetic down. Respect.”

I shook my head, sighing. “You guys….”

Cyrus glanced down at his phone and immediately cursed under his breath. “Shit! I was supposed to sort out a few boxes in the back five minutes ago.” He pushed back his chair so fast that it screeched against the floor, nearly toppling over in his rush to stand.

I chuckled at his panic. “I’ll do it.”

His head snapped toward me, eyes widening. “Wait, really?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, no problem. Anything to get away from you guys and your weird obsession with my love life.”

Leah, Serena, and Cyrus all erupted into laughter.

“We still have half an hour of break left,” Leah teased, wagging her eyebrows. “So don’t think you’re off the hook.”

Serena grinned. “Yeah, we’ll be waiting right here, ready to interrogate you again.”

I rolled my eyes, smirking. “Right. Well, have fun with that. I’ll be back.”

I stepped into the storage room, immediately feeling the temperature drop slightly from the café’s warmth. The space smelled of coffee beans, cardboard, and a faint trace of cleaning supplies. Rows of metal shelves stretched across the room, stacked with inventory, and I spotted the boxes Cyrus had been talking about tucked away in the far corner.

I walked over and got to work, grabbing each box one by one and placing them on the shelves. It took longer than I expected—the weight of them had my arms burning after a few minutes but I kept going, determined to finish.

After about ten minutes, I reached the last box. It was heavier than the others, and the shelf it needed to go on was just out of reach. Still, I wasn’t about to back down. I stood on my tiptoes, stretching as much as I could, gripping the sides as I slowly pushed it backward. My muscles strained with the effort, but after a few seconds, I thought I had it secured.

I exhaled in relief, smiling to myself.

Until I heard a soft shift.

My stomach dropped.

Then before I could react, the box tilted forward. I squeezed my eyes shut bracing myself for the impact but it never came. Instead, I felt something solid in front of me, a warmth that wasn’t there before. When I slowly opened my eyes, my breath hitched.

Adam. He was right there, standing impossibly close, his tattooed hand gripping the box effortlessly while his other was braced against the shelf beside my head, effectively caging me in. His sharp jaw was tense, dark eyes locked onto mine, his entire frame towering over me like a storm about to break.

I swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how small the storage room felt.

"Uh…" My voice came out weaker than I wanted. "Thanks?"

Adam didn’t answer right away. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable—but something burned behind his gaze. Anger. Annoyance. Frustration.

Finally, his lips parted, and his voice came out low and sharp.

"Do you ever think before you do things?"

I blinked, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

His jaw clenched, and he yanked the box fully onto the shelf like it weighed nothing. The movement was forceful, controlled—but I could feel the irritation radiating off him.

"You could’ve gotten hurt," he snapped, his voice edged with barely contained anger.

I scowled, crossing my arms. "Well, I didn’t."

His jaw tightened further. For a second, I swore I saw something flicker across his face—something deeper, something raw. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by a cold, hard mask.

He finally stepped back, creating space between us, but the tension between our bodies still lingered in the air.

"Just be more careful," he muttered, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

I stared at him, frustration bubbling in my chest. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t even look at me. And then, just as he reached the door, he threw his response over his shoulder, voice low and cutting.

I stood there, heart hammering, breath uneven, the weight of his words pressing into my chest. But no matter how hard I tried to shake it off, I couldn’t ignore the way my skin still burned where he had been close.

Jungkook’s POV:

The boardroom was a pristine, almost clinical space—modern, minimalist, and impersonal, just like every other meeting room he had ever been forced to sit through. The long glass table reflected the glow of the overhead lighting, polished to perfection, not a single smudge in sight. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city skyline stretched endlessly, neon lights flickering in the distance, but Jungkook hardly noticed.

The room was filled with people—team principals, engineers, sponsors, and a handful of other drivers—all engaged in animated discussion about the upcoming season. Voices overlapped, some eager, some calculated, some skeptical. Pens scratched against notepads, the occasional sip of coffee punctuating the conversation.

Jungkook sat at the far end of the table, leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest. He was here in body, but his mind? Somewhere else entirely.

He should’ve been paying attention.

Everyone else was.

“The new FIA regulations mean we’re looking at adjustments to the rear wing, which should increase straight-line speed—”

“Yeah, but won’t that mess with high-speed corners?”

“The simulations show slight understeer, but braking zones will compensate.”

Jungkook barely heard them. Their words turned into white noise, a distant hum that barely grazed the surface of his awareness. He stared at the blank notepad in front of him, the pen in his hand motionless. His coffee sat untouched beside him, steam curling up into the cold air, dissipating just as quickly as his focus.

What the fuck am I even doing here?

The question pressed against the inside of his skull, but he ignored it. He was the reigning champion. The next season was already looming over them, and this meeting was crucial for strategy, for preparation, and for solidifying his dominance on the track.

And yet, none of it seemed to matter.

Not the data. Not the numbers. Not the talk of performance upgrades and tire compounds.

He had everything—success, fame, money, power—yet an unsettling emptiness coiled in his chest, growing heavier by the day.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face, willing himself to focus but was snapped out of his haze when an unfamiliar yet so painfully recognizable voice sent a jolt through his spine.

“Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Aylah—”

His breath caught. His entire body went rigid as his head snapped up.

His chair scraped against the floor, the sharp noise cutting through the room like a knife. His hand nearly knocked over his coffee as he sat up straight, eyes locked onto the woman standing at the front.

His pulse hammered against his ribs.

It can’t be—He didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

For a split second, hope surged through his chest so violently it almost hurt.

And then—reality hit.

She had different hair. Different eyes. Her stance wasn’t the same. The voice was similar but not identical.

It wasn’t her.

His throat tightened as humiliation crashed over him in waves.

The room had fallen silent.

Every single person was staring at him.

Confused expressions. Raised eyebrows. Someone muttered, “What the fuck was that?” under their breath.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, cursing himself internally as he forced his muscles to relax, leaning back in his chair like nothing had happened.

Fucking idiot.

His heart was still racing, but now it was out of frustration—at himself, at the stupid hope that had flickered alive just to be snuffed out immediately.

He wasn’t this weak. He wasn’t the type to dwell on shit like this.

She’s gone. Why the fuck would she be here?

He exhaled sharply, the weight in his chest unbearable. Without another word, he pushed his chair back and stood abruptly.

“I need a minute,” he muttered, not waiting for a response as he strode out of the boardroom.

The fluorescent lights of the bathroom were harsh against his skin, too bright, too exposing.

Jungkook braced his hands against the sink, shoulders tense as he stared at his reflection.The man looking back at him barely resembled the version of himself he used to be. Bloodshot eyes. Prominent eye bags. Shadows lingering in the hollows of his face, making him look older, more exhausted.

He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks—because he hadn’t. He ran a hand through his damp hair, his grip tightening slightly as frustration simmered beneath his skin.This wasn’t him.

He didn’t lose sleep over people. He didn’t get caught up in feelings. He didn’t miss people.

And yet—

Why does she still feel so close?

The thought alone sent another wave of irritation rolling through him. He exhaled harshly, turning on the tap and splashing cold water onto his face, blinking rapidly as the icy shock cut through him.

Get a grip.

As he made his way back to the boardroom, his hand hovering over the door handle, voices from inside caught his attention. Low murmurs. Whispering.

“Yeah, heard his designer quit.”

“No way.”

“Yep. Walked out. That’s why he’s been so off his game, he’s gonna lose without another car like that.”

Jungkook froze.

His fingers twitched against the door handle.

“Shit, his loss. That car was insane.”

Then—

“How much you wanna bet they fucked and then he tossed her aside?”

Rage ignited in his veins. His breath left him in a sharp exhale, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.

For a brief moment, he considered walking in there and breaking someone’s nose. But what would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything. No what they thought. And certainly not the fact that they weren’t technically wrong. He had tossed her aside.

So, instead, he turned on his heel and walked out of the building without another word. The moment he stepped outside, the crisp night air hit him, cooling the fire burning in his veins, but not enough to extinguish it. His shoulders were tense as he stalked toward his car, the rhythmic click of his boots against the pavement barely audible over the sound of distant traffic.

Then, with one swift motion, he yanked open the door to his Lamborghini Aventador SVJ, slid into the driver’s seat, and slammed it shut. The second the engine roared to life, a sharp thrill ran through him—the kind that came not from excitement, but from the promise of escape.

Jungkook gripped the steering wheel tight, his foot pressing down harder than he should as he peeled out of the parking lot and onto the open road. The world outside blurred into streaks of neon and headlights as he weaved through traffic, the powerful engine growling beneath him like a caged animal desperate to break free.

Faster. He needed to go faster.

Needed to outrun the anger, the frustration, the goddamn ache that had been clawing at his chest for weeks. The city lights flashed past in a feverish haze—skyscrapers illuminated like constellations, billboards flickering with advertisements he didn’t bother to register, the glow of red taillights streaking through the darkness like falling stars.

His thoughts raced just as wildly.

Aylah. The whispers in that fucking meeting room. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it. They don’t know shit.

They didn’t know how he had spent the last few weeks unable to sleep, haunted by the ghost of her voice, the phantom touch of her fingertips against his skin. Didn’t know how the race felt off without her there. Didn’t know how he still fucking saw her in the crowd sometimes—only for the illusion to shatter the second he blinked.

Didn’t know how he couldn’t step into the design company without expecting to see her, leaning against the workbench, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she examined the car. Didn’t know how badly he wanted to hear her voice, even if it was just to tell him off for being an idiot.

The thought alone made something snap inside him. With a sharp inhale, Jungkook slammed his palm against the steering wheel, a growl of frustration ripping from his throat.

The sound echoed in the enclosed space of the car, but it did nothing to ease the tension clawing at his ribs. Nothing did. His foot eased off the gas slightly as he reached the outskirts of the city, where the skyline melted into rolling hills and empty roads. He didn’t know where he was going—just that he needed to get away.

And so, when he finally reached a familiar overlook—a secluded spot high above the city, where the lights below looked like scattered embers in the dark—he pulled over.The moment the car rumbled to a stop, he exhaled sharply and leaned back against the seat, tilting his head against the headrest.

Silence.

Only the sound of his own uneven breathing filled the car, mingling with the distant hum of the city below. After a long moment, he pushed open the door and stepped out.

The night air was cool against his overheated skin, the wind carrying the faint scent of rain. He leaned against the hood of the car, eyes locked on the horizon as he took slow, measured breaths, trying to calm the storm raging inside him.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck as frustration curled through his muscles.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his stomach twisting when he saw the notification.

Jade: Where are you?

His jaw tightened. Without hesitation, he locked the screen and shoved the phone back into his pocket. A bitter laugh escaped him.

Of course she knows.

She had been hanging off his arm for weeks, showing up at every afterparty, slipping into his bed like she belonged there. But no matter how much he tried to lose himself in her, no matter how much he let her touch him, whisper his name—

She wasn’t her.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he stared out at the city below.

“For fuck sake just give me a sign.”

A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the darkness for a fraction of a second. Jungkook flinched as the deafening sound echoed across the hills. Rain poured down in thick sheets, drenching him within seconds. His shirt clinging to his skin, droplets sliding down his face, his wet hair falling into his eyes.

He let out a breathless laugh, shoving his hair back as he stood in the middle of the storm. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he tilted his head back, eyes locked onto the raging sky above. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, barely above a whisper.

“So this is what love feels like.”

His fingers curled at his sides.

A bitter smile tugged at his lips as the rain pounded against his skin, cold and relentless. He let the weight of the words settle over him, let them sink into his bones, let them carve themselves into the spaces she had unknowingly left behind.

Then, with a hollow laugh, he whispered into the storm—

“What a fucking joke.”

[twoderanged]

Satoru gojo x special grade! Reader

A/n: It's my first time writing on here and well I hope anyone who reads it likes it! Aaannnddd it's an introduction chapter!! It will be a series ig

Indian Female reader!

Geto is alive in this au because I wanted to<3

The old man was furious, but ultimately he knew he couldn't stop you from going.

You were a special grade in india, which tbh was very boring since all 4 other special grade sorcerers you knew were all in japan so you decided to hand in your transfer papers to the principal, who was also your former teacher

So that's how you found yourself in front of the gates of Tokyo jujutsu high, a bag slung over your right shoulder and a cigarette in between your fingers, casually walking in as you owned tre place.

As you entered the principal's office, you saw two guys- gojo and geto sat on the couch, while yaga was sat at his desk. You knew them well back in your student days, but eventually grew apart with being busy with work.

As soon as he saw you, gojo's eyes lit up, immediately recognising you even after not seeing you for a few years, "y/nnnnnnnnnnn omggggg hiii!!!!!!!" He practically squealed.

You looked at him weird but gave him a smile and a wave as you gave yaga some documents finalising the transfer, then swiftly turning around and walking out, cigarette still in between your lips.

"damn... It still smells like smoke and vanilla... Mmmhhhmmmmm so sexy" gojo spoke to geto as they both walked out of yaga's office.

Geto looked at him weird and disgusted "chill man, your too down bad"

Gojo smiled, a blush appearing on his cheeks "I've always been, ever since I've known her"

"ugh... Weirdo" geto sighed

As they both walked into the training grounds to get back to training the first and second years respectively, they saw a small crowd in the middle of the field.

As they got closer they saw both the first and second years surrounding you, bombarding you with questions, as a roughed up nobara stood beside you

"ahhhhhh.... It was just out of instinct, i didn't notice her there!" you sheepishly said, patting nobara on the back

"woah what happened here...?" Geto asked

"ehh... Well I was ... Just standing here and um... Kugisaki came out of nowhere behind me so I kind of sent her flying across the field, but i swear it was my reflexes" you mumbled, as the tips of your ears turned red out of embarrassment.

"ha?" Geto said, baffled, as gojo beside him burst out laughing

"sooooooo yn you wanna go out this weekend?" Gojo said, slinging an arm around your shoulder.

"depends, is shoko coming?"

"huhhhh! I was just thinking it'd be just you and me yk, like a date?"

"a date?"

"yes"

"you fr?

"yes"

"like frfr"

"...yes..frfr"

"like actual--"

"omg, yes woman, stop doubting me! How could you doubt the strongest, and most handsome, Satoru gojo!?"

"well i decline" you said, talking a whiff of a cigarette.

"what....whatt?!!!!?!" He stopped in his tracks, having a hard time believing it.

"what? Having a hard time believing someone would say no to you?"

"ofcourse not sweetheart, But why, you wounded me "

"ehhh, too early don't ya think? Maybe later, when we're not so... Busy and bombarded with mission every living second"

"sigh...whatever you want sweets, whatever you want"

Mwah, idk how i did but pls like and repost babes 😽😽😽🎀🙏

[moosesarecute]

Chapter 9: The Shadow to my Flame

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

It was quiet. Almost too quiet.

The past Monday mornings, Ashe had woken up and immediately heard the new gruesome news from all over the court. She would hear how many people had been killed and how many villages the soldiers had gone through.

That Monday morning, she heard nothing. There were no important rumours going around. Only some whispers here and there about who kissed who.

It felt almost wrong.

Ashe’s back had healed a lot over the night. The cream Azriel left her worked wonders. She could now move and walk almost at a normal pace without pain.

“There you are,” Maria said as Ashe walked into the kitchen. “How are you doing?”

“I’m getting better. What’s my tasks for today?”

Ashe would usually be on breakfast duty, but Maria let her sleep in.

“Cleaning and then the Lady this evening. The High Lords are still here. The dinner will be very formal.”

That made Ashe understand that the breakfast meeting that was planned yesterday could not have gone to plan. So, the only reason why it was quiet that morning was that the High Lord was occupied with guests.

Ashe felt low on hope as she made her way throughout the day. She just wanted this nightmare of a slaughter to be finished.

It was almost four o’clock when she made her way to the Lady’s chamber.

She knocked twice and waited patiently for someone to either open the door or tell her to come in. It took an unusually long time for the door to open. When it did, Ashe immediately did a small bow before she looked up at…

The heir of the Day Court?

He looked at her and then smiled a small smile that didn’t even get close to meeting his eyes before he quickly left. What was he doing in the Lady’s chamber?

“Come in Ashe,” the Lady’s voice pulled Ashe from her thoughts.

She rushed into the door and closed the door behind her.

It was no secret that the High Lord had affairs with different females, but Ashe had no clue how the Lady dared to do the same. It made the respect Ashe had for the Lady to grow even more.

“You won’t tell anyone, right Ashe?” the Lady’s soft voice asked her. She was looking at Ashe the same way she always did. With gratitude, guilt and longing. Ashe always imagined it would be because the Lady wished for a different life.

“Of course I won’t, my lady,” Ashe answered with a small bow.

The Lady looked upset that day. She had a lot on her mind. Her eyes were distant as Ashe curled her hair and did her make-up. The usual pleasant and formal conversation the two of them usually had was non-existent. Ashe felt the need to know if the Lady was okay, but she knew better than to ask.

It was only five o’clock when Ashe finished. The Lady had wished for an easy style, both for her hair and her makeup.

Ashe was on her way out, when the Lady stopped her.

“Can I do your hair?” Ashe turned to face the Lady, but she didn’t know what to answer. It felt illegal. “Please?”

The Lady pulled out the chair and visibly wanted Ashe to sit down. Ashe was a servant, she wasn’t supposed to let the Lady do anything for her. But at the same time, she was supposed to do what the Lady asked for.

Ashe sat down in the chair and the Lady started brushing through her dark brown hair.

“You colour your hair, right? It’s red originally?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She only nodded at Ashe and moved over to the curling. She used such soft movements, Ashe almost got sleepy from them. She felt the need to lean onto the Lady and soften all the tension she carried. Ashe felt safe. It terrified her.

Ashe fought against the feelings of safety as the Lady kept working on her hair. She tried to keep her eyes open and controlled. Ashe was sure someone would walk through the door any moment now and have her fired or punished for not doing her job.

Ashe looked at the Lady and saw the soft smile she wore. Her eyes were the soft eyes Ashe was used to seeing on her when they were alone.

It was no secret that the Lady only stayed with the High Lord for the protection of their children. It was also no secret that the Lady was mourning the children she lost because of the High Lord’s evil punishments. Lucian had always been her favourite, Eris had told Ashe that. Lucian had a special place in the Lady’s heart. She hadn’t been able to save Jesminda and she had therefore lost Lucian.

Ashe was there to do the evening care for the Lady that night. Both had cried their eyes out and Ashe was asked to not leave the chambers before the Lady was asleep. Ashe stayed for hours. It was first the day after they learned that Lucian was alive in the Spring Court.

“You’re beautiful, Ashe,” the Lady told her.

Ashe looked at herself in the mirror and smiled a little at the soft curls that bounced at her shoulders. She was about to look back up at the Lady and thank her, when she noticed that the Lady was crying. Ashe rushed out of the chair.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” she said.

She had made the Lady cry. She was sure of it. Oh cauldron, she was getting fired. That’s why the Lady was so nice to her.

“Nothing to apologize for Ashe,” the Lady answered. She again wore a sad smile. “Can you help me get dressed?”

Ashe walked three meters behind the Lady as they made their way to the dining room. When they arrived, all the guests were already there. All the High Lords as well as their generals or other important people.

Ashe felt almost intimidated. At the ball, she had been one of many servants that handed out food and drinks. That evening, she was only one of five. And her job was to stand completely still behind the Lady and not move until the evening was over. She felt almost exposed.

That was until she saw the hazel eyes again. They looked as soft and kind as they had done the day before. Even though his face were neutral and almost cold, she saw the kindness in him.

His eyes met hers for only a second, but he gave away nothing.

Azriel stood together with his High Lord and the kind general. Even though the Night Court was supposed to be mean and intimating, Ashe couldn’t help but remember the kindness both the general and Azriel had shown her. They were all dressed in nice suits and Ashe couldn’t help herself than to look two, three or four extra times at Azriel’s muscles.

They were all standing, having small, pleasant conversations. They were waiting for the High Lord of Autumn to arrive. No one dared to sit before he arrived. Not even the other High Lords.

Ashe looked around and noticed Eris was looking at her. They usually didn’t sense each other when in public, so Ashe got a bad feeling from it. Had she messed up something?

Then the doors opened, and the High Lord of Autumn walked in, Ashe could immediately sense his bad mood. He looked angry, disappointed and annoyed. He was set on sitting down as quickly as possible.

That was until he spotted Ashe in the corner of his eyes.

He stopped abruptly, and turned towards her.

Ashe almost let out a whimper from his quick movements. She was convinced he was going to hit her.

However, he didn’t, and Ashe immediately go down into a deep curtesy.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, and Ashe felt the shivers go down her back. Tears were pressing on her eyes. She hated how terrifying he was.

“I’m here for the Lady, my lord,” she answered. She hated how her voice shook.

“Leave.”

Ashe was almost stupid enough to protest, but she then both saw and felt Eris’ eyes burn into her.

“Yes, my lord,” she said and gave him another deep curtesy before she left.

What was going to be a chill evening helping the Lady quickly became cleaning duty. When Ashe got to her room it was well past midnight, and she only wanted to sleep. She was about to lay down, face first, in her bed, when she felt something tickle her arm. Then her leg. And her neck.

Ashe was about to freak out when the shadows appeared before her. She then didn’t know if she should relax or freak out even more, so she just stayed still.

The shadows kept tickling her skin. They were soft but cold. They spent a lot of time searching around her entire body, spending longer time on the parts where she had more scars. Their movements felt nice. Ashe liked them, she realized. Even though that was hard to think, given she had watched them kill only days before.

They eventually stopped and formed a hand in front of her. They handed her a letter.

Hello, Wildflame

You did not joke when you said that the High Lord does not like you very much.

Beron has decided to stop the slaughter. The other courts have given him a trade offer he could not say no to.

We’re leaving for the Night Court tomorrow morning, however I need a document from the High Lord’s office. Could you help me sneak into it tonight? Both Cass and Rhys would bring too much attention.

It is dangerous, so if you do not wish to do it that’s okay, but I would appreciate your help.

Tell the shadows your answer. If yes, I’ll come to your room shortly.

Shadow

Ashe had to admit that she was a little worried. What did he want from the High Lord? And why couldn’t he do it himself? Was it that hard to get?

At the same time, she felt the need to help him. It he was going on something so dangerous that he needed help, she would join and…protect him?

She felt the need to protect him? Why?

Ashe shook her feelings out and spoke to the shadows.

“I’m in,” she said, and they surrounded her. It almost felt like a cold hug.

It didn’t take long for Azriel to arrive in her room. He was now dressed in fight leathers and this muscles were even more visible than before.

He was hot. Ashe could not explain him any other way.

“Ready?”

She nodded and he took her hand. He wore gloves that covered his scars. She looked down at her down arms and felt the need to hide her own. Even though the glove was between them, she felt the heat from his hand.

He sent his shadow out and a few seconds later, he opened the door, and they were on their way. Before every corner, they would stop and Azriel would send out his shadows. When they were not looking out for people, the shadows covered them to keep them at least a little more hidden.

Azriel always walked before Ashe, but he didn’t let go of her hand. She felt safe. That was until they were about to round another corner and heard footsteps.

Azriel immediately sprung into action and dragged Ashe through the first available door. A small cupboard. There were no room for space between them. Azriel pushed Ashe into the wall and covered her with his body and wings. His hand held hers tighter than before.

Ashe felt the shadows emerge both of them.

They stood as steady as they could. Each breath felt dangerous. However, Ashe felt hope that whoever it was, would leave. Who would walk into a cupboard in the middle of the night?

“I know you’re there,” a voice sounded. “I’ll find you.”

The voice and steps only got closer and closer, and Ashe felt herself grow terrified.

Shadows then moved into her hair and began stroking it carefully. It made her calm down, even if it was just a little.

That was until the door to the cupboard opened. The shadows left her hair and immediately started to make the wall of darkness between them and the fae on the other side of the door thicker.

Azriel’s hand tightened around hers. It was like he was telling her that it would be okay.

After the longest seconds of her life, the door closed and Azriel was the first to let out a sigh of relief.

He tried to let go of her hand, but Ashe didn’t let him. She was too shaken.

Azriel tucked his wings tight against his back as he turned towards her. It was almost completely dark, but Ashe could still see his face and eyes. Azriel reached up his hand and brushed some hair away from her face.

Ashe got the overwhelming need to kiss him. It wasn’t even something she wanted, she needed it.

It seemed like Azriel felt the same way, because it was he that leaned down to her, pressing her lightly against the wall, as he kissed her so softy. His lips were warm and soft, and Ashe felt herself melt into him. He did the same to her.

His hand was on her cheek now, and some of his shadows were playing with her hair.

Cauldron it felt nice. Nice to feel him so close. To share such a soft kiss. Nothing was rushed. It was completely new to Ashe. She had never kissed anyone willingly before, and even though she barely knew him, it felt so right that it was Azriel she was kissing.

He let out the quietest sigh as he pulled away.

“Your hair looked really nice today,” he said.

“You look amazing in a suit,” she answered.

He gave her a small nervous smile before he let his hand fall from her cheek.

“This is too dangerous. I’ll try again later tonight,” he explained.

Ashe felt relived, even though she really wanted to spend more time with him. She hoped they could meet in a less serious way, but she somehow doubted it.

He held her hand all the way back to her room. However, now his thumb was softly moving back and forth over the back of her hand. It was such a small thing, but Ashe still got weak in the knees.

He stopped and let her open the door to her room. She walked in and looked at him. He didn’t want to join her? Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do?

 He walked towards her but stopped right at the entrance of her door. He leaned down and kissed her once more.

“Good night, Wildflame.”

He then walked away.

Ashe felt her heart dance a dance of happiness and she couldn’t help but to join in on its dance.

Taglist: @tele86 @demon-master-zero @kbear8863 @atluky @mis-lil-red

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 1

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 1: Children and the Innocent

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

Children and the innocent–they were always the first casualty of war. 

The tendrils of war crept into every corner of life, a rot that left nothing unscathed. It was never content to simply take; it marked, marred, and tainted all it touched. Even the righteous bore its stain, their hands sullied no matter how fiercely they had once clung to ideals of compassion or justice. War eroded those virtues, grinding them into something unrecognizable. 

For the innocent, there was no refuge. Innocence was always the first sacrifice, offered up willingly or otherwise upon the altar of war. 

Daenera Velaryon had made her offering–her innocence, or what little remained of it, laid bare upon the altar of necessity. It was not stolen from her; no blade had come in the night to strip her clean of it. She had given it willingly, if reluctantly, surrendering it in the desperate hope that mercy might bloom where there had only been cold inevitability.

The weight of that choice sat heavily upon her now. Its sting was sharp and unrelenting, like the bite of a thorn embedded deep beneath her skin. Every breath she drew seemed to tug at it, the pain subtle yet constant, a cruel reminder of the price she had paid. Mercy had been what she sought, but she wondered now if she had traded too much for too little.

Children and the innocent. 

The thought circled her mind like a crow circling the ravages of a battlefield. She sat motionless, a heavy book balanced on her lap, its pages as neglected as the daylight slipping past her unnoticed. A golden coin danced between her fingers, its edges worn smooth. It glinted faintly in the soft light of her chamber, its metallic sheen mocking her in its simplicity. The eye etched on one side seemed to watch her with cold indifference, its stare unwavering, piercing. She turned the coin over, her thumb brushing against the spiral carved on the opposite face, its design both intricate and maddening in its endless loops. 

Her gaze rested on the page before her, though her eyes did not see the drawings painted upon the parchment. Dread coiled in her stomach, a searing, molten guilt that pooled low and heavy within her. The hours dragged on with a torturous slowness, the sun climbing high in the sky before beginning its descent. She had been absent all day, her mind consumed by the creeping inevitability of what was to come. She had done the deed. Now all that remained was the waiting. 

Waiting. How she loathed it.

The slip of a blade was quick, precise, and brutal–a crude finality that left no room for hesitation or doubt. It was an intimate act, one that forced the wielder of the blade to face their victim in the raw, unyielding truth of the moment. Blood spilled and life fled in a heartbeat, swift and irreversible. 

There was clarity in its violence, a grim certainty that the deed was done.

But poison… Poison was an act of patience, a virtue Daenera found herself woefully short of in this moment. Unlike the blade, poison was a quiet, lingering death. It crept through the veins unseen, stealing life slowly, leaving nothing but stillness in its wake. 

It was, in its way, a silent mercy, blessedly free of the screams and struggle that came with steel. Yet for the one who wielded it, the waiting was its own kind of torment. 

Soon, she thought. Soon, there would be no need for waiting. 

The guilt would remain, of course–it always did. But she would carry it, as she carried everything else. What choice did she have?

Daenera flipped the coin over in her hand, her thumb absently tracing its curve. She neither heard nor acknowledged the sharp voice cutting through the room, its commands ringing out like the squawking of an angry gull. It wasn’t until the sound of snapping fingers broke through the haze that her focus shifted, and the shill voice rose to an indignant pitch. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Mertha demanded, standing above her with the poise of a long-suffering septa whose voice had gone unheard for far too long. Her dull gray eyes, the color of murky dishwater, bore down on her with a scowl so deeply etched it might have been carved into stone. 

“No,” Daenera replied flatly, her tone devoid of apology. Her eyes drifted past Mertha, landing on the two servants precariously balanced atop stepladders. They struggled to hang a heavy tapestry, its intricate weave depicting a serene forest scene, with woodland creatures peeking from behind the shadows. It was a beautiful piece, though she could muster no great care for it. 

“Must I shout to make you hear my words, or have you simply no care to listen?” Mertha’s sharp voice rang out again, her frustration etched into every syllable. She planted her hands firmly on her hips, her flushed cheeks and tightly drawn mouth making her look like an overripe plum on the verge of bursting. 

“I do not care,” Daenera replied, her voice calm, almost bored, as she flipped the coin in her hand once more. It spun briefly in the air before landing neatly against her palm. 

“Well, you should care!” Mertha snapped, her tone rising with righteous indignation. She stepped closer, her shadow falling across Daenera. “Here I am, toiling away in service to you, after spending the entire day organizing your wedding gifts–seeing them put away properly or displayed where they belong–and all you’ve done is lounge here like some lazy child!”

Mertha’s voice came fast and sharp, her voice lashing like a whip, and her cheeks burned brighter with each accusation. She gestured towards the servants still working to hang the heavy tapestry on the far wall, their faces red with effort. “Do you think this is all for our amusement? For my amusement?” Her head shook in indignation. “Do you think all of this is for me? That I enjoy running around like a servant while you–” she gestured pointedly at Daenera’s languid sprawl–“sit here and do nothing? It is your household, it is your duty! It is your responsibility as a wife to serve as a pillar of strength for your husband and for those under his roof. A wife does not shirk her duties or waste her hours idling away like a spoiled child!” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she fixed Daenera with a glare meant to cut deep. “A house falls into chaos without a steady hand at its helm.”

Daenera finally lifted her gaze, fixing Mertha with a glower that could have chilled the summer sea. She let the silence stretch for a moment, then answered tersely, “It seems you’ve missed your calling, Lady Mertha. You sound more like a septa than a lady-in-waiting.”

The coin spun between her fingers, its repetitive motion a fragile tether to hold her irritation at bay. Tension thrummed beneath her skin, stretched so taut as a bowstring, fraying at the edges and threatening to snap under the slightest strain. She tilted her head slightly, her dark hair catching the light as she continued pointedly. “I didn’t ask you to do any of it. In fact, I can’t recall asking for your assistance at all. What I do recall is you waving me away at every turn, assuring me you have everything well in hand.”

Her gaze shifted past Mertha to the two servants precariously perched on the stepladders, their faces red with strain as they struggled to hoist the heavy tapestry into place. One of them wobbled slightly, the ladder creaking under the weight, and for a moment, it seemed as though the entire endeavor might collapse.”

“If you’re so certain that chaos will consume this household without my steady hand,” Daenera added, her voice smooth and deliberate, “then I suggest you turn your attention to the task at hand. That tapestry looks dangerously close to coming down.”

Mertha’s face flushed deeper, her lips pressing into a tight line. She spun on her heel with a flurry of skirts, her sharp voice rising as she barked at the struggling servants. “Hold it up! Do not dare to drop it, or I will see you both scrubbing the kitchen floors for a fortnight!”

The servants strained as they hoisted the tapestry higher, their faces flushed with excretion. Sweat glistened on their brows as they fumbled to secure the heavy fabric to its designated place on the wall. With a final heave, they managed–barely–to fasten it in place, the rings clinging against their hooks. They released a collective sigh, their breaths coming in labored puffs, relief plain on their reddened faces. 

Daenera’s gaze lingered on the tapestry, its intricate design drawing her deeper into its woven depths. Dappled greens and browns seemed almost alive in the shifting afternoon light, the shadows among the trees darkening as though seeking to hide something from view–a dozen pairs of eyes seemed to peer back at her from amongst the waved wood, unblinking and unnerving. The sensation was subtle at first, a faint itch at the edge of her awareness, but it grew steadily–a creeping sense of being watched. It prickled against her skin, cold and insistent, as if the fabric itself harbored some malicious intent. 

“Is that the tapestry the Lord Confessor gifted us?” She asked, her voice unassuming. 

Mertha turned, her expression softening as she admired the tapestry. There was a note of pride in her voice, even satisfaction, as she replied, “It is. A fine piece, wouldn’t you say?”

The servants began their descent from the stepladders, the room quieting as the laborious task came to an end. Daenera’s gaze remained fixed on the tapestry, her teeth clenched as the tightness in her chest coiled tighter, an unyielding knot of discomfort. The sensation that had begun as a faint unease now swelled into something far more oppressive–an icy prickle spreading across her skin, like needles pressed against her flesh. It was a feeling she knew too well, the same creeping chill that always accompanied Lord Larys and his piercing gray eyes.

Her breath hitched slightly, her fingers instinctively tightening around the coin in her hand as her thoughts darkened. Even when he was absent, the man seemed to find a way to linger, his presence clinging like an unseen shadow. She could almost feel his gaze now, sharp and calculating, stripping away her defenses to lay bare whatever secrets he thought he might find.

The tapestry felt no different. Those painted eyes among the trees bore down on her, heavy and oppressive, an extension of Larys himself. She could not abide it–not here, not in her own chambers, where she sought refuge from the suffocating webs of court intrigue. This was her space, her sanctuary, and she would not suffer his influence hanging on her walls, a constant reminder of his unnerving watchfulness.

Daenera already endured enough intrusions. Mertha’s ever-watchful presence hovered over her like a stormcloud, the woman’s sharp eyes scrutinizing her every movement, keeping her under guard as though she were a wayward child in need of constant correction. Beyond her chamber doors, the guards stood vigil, a reminder that her life was no longer her own, that even her privacy was a privilege rather than a right.

And then there was Aemond.

His presence loomed larger than any other, even when he wasn’t in the room. The mere thought of him pressed against her, heavy and inescapable, like a shadow that moved when she did, always just a step behind. She couldn’t decide which unsettled her more—the weight of his gaze, sharp and intense, or the flutter in her chest that his nearness always seemed to evoke, unbidden and unwelcome. That feeling—that traitorous, treacherous flutter—was what she dreaded most. It made her feel as though she were caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay.

She didn’t need another intrusion, not here in the one place where she could try to pretend she was still her own. The tapestry, with its eyes and the suffocating aura of its giver, was a trespass she could not abide. It was a reminder of everything she was already forced to endure, and she would not allow it to take root in her chambers.

“Take it down.”

The room stilled. Mertha’s head snapped towards her, disbelief flickering in her features. “Take it… down” She repeated, as though she hadn’t heard correctly 

“Yes. Take it down.”

The servants froze mid-motion, their expressions caught between confusion and exhaustion. Their eyes darted between Daenera and Mertha, clearly unsure whether to proceed or await for further instruction. The tension in the room thickened as Mertha’s carefully constructed composure began to crack. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line as she seemed to struggle with maintaining her air of control.

“Princess,” Mertha began, her tone tight with barely restrained exasperation, “this was a gift from the Lord Confessor, one of great value and–”

“I know who it came from,” Daenera interrupted, her voice sharper now, slicing through Mertha’s objections like a blade. Her gaze shifted to meet the older woman’s cold and unwavering. “And I said take it down. I do not want it up. I much preferred the tapestry depicting the gardens of Highgarden.”

Mertha bristled, her cheeks flushing, “But the Lord Confessor will surely be offended to hear what you’ve done with his gift–”

“I said take it down,” Daenera repeated, her tone pointed, each word deliberate. “I didn’t say throw it out.” She leaned back slightly in her chair, the coin in her hand flipping once more between her fingers. “Send it to storage–or better yet, to my husband’s chambers. I do not care which, but it will not hang here.”

The older woman opened her mouth to protest again, but Daenera cut her off before she could speak. “Will you please see to it that it is done, Lady Mertha. After all, my husband entrusted me with full authority over the decorations of our chambers, and I doubt he will be pleased to hear that my instructions were ignored.”

Mertha’s mouth snapped shut, and after a tense moment, she turned on her heel, her skirts swishing as she barked at the servants. “You heard her! Take it down. Carefully, now. Do not damage it.”

The servant’s hesitated only briefly before moving to obey, their steps quick but cautious as they began removing the tapestry. It was a small victory–one that rang hollow beneath the weight in her chest. 

“Hold it up!” Mertha chided as she continued to instruct the servants, her voice sharp as it cut through the air, correcting their every movement. “Do not let it drop!” She barked. “And mind the fabric–if you tear it, the cost will come from your wages!” The servants obeyed with visible tension, their hands trembling slightly as they worked to dislodge the tapestry. 

It was only as the tapestry was finally freed from its hinges, slowly descending into the waiting hands of the servants, that Mertha’s attention swung sharply back to Daenera. Her exasperation spilled forth in a clipped huff, her eyes narrowing as she took in her posture.

“Must you sit like that?” Mertha snapped, her tone brimming with disapproval. “For the gods’ sake, compose yourself! It’s unbecoming!”

In silent rebellion, Daenera slouched even further into the cushioned chair. One leg dangled lazily over the armrest, the other draped carelessly off the seat. Her back curved into an exaggerated slump, the book resting against her lower abdomen, propped up by her bent knee. The skirts of her gown cascaded modestly over her legs, ensuring she remained decent, though her posture was anything but. 

“It’s comfortable,” Daenera said with a shrug, her tone casual, as if the older woman weren’t glaring daggers at her. 

Mertha’s jaw tightened, her lips thinning into a line so severe it looked as though it might disappear altogether. “Comfortable?” she repeated, incredulity dripping from the word. Her sharp gaze darted toward the servants still struggling with the tapestry before snapping back to Daenera, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper, as though the insult would lose its sting if overheard. “You look like a tavern wench sprawled out like that!”

The words hung in the air for a moment, sharp as a slap, before her voice rose again, full of righteous indignation. “What if someone were to walk in? Have you no pride, no sense of decorum?”

Daenera’s fingers continued to toy with the coin in her hand, her movements unhurried and steady, in stark contrast to Mertha’s rising fury. She let out a soft breath through her nose, not quite a sigh, but weighted with the quiet annoyance that stirred beneath her calm exterior. Her gaze flicked up to meet Mertha’s, cool and steady.

“If someone walks in,” she said, her tone light but edged with quiet defiance, “they’ll see me reading. How scandalous.”

Her lips twitched, not quite forming a smile but hinting at one, as though she found the older woman’s outrage faintly amusing. Daenera’s deliberate nonchalance only seemed to stoke Mertha’s frustration further, but Daenera didn’t care. Let her scold. Let her fume. It made no difference. She wasn’t about to let propriety—or Mertha–dictate her every move.

“And what is it you’re–what are you reading?” Mertha’s voice faltered before landing firmly in a tone of horrified disgust, her gaze locking onto the open pages sprawled across Daenera’s lap. Her face twisted as though she’d bitten into something sour, her eyes widening at the explicit illustration before her–two men entwined with a woman, limbs tangled in unabashed passion.

“Would you put that away?” she snapped, her voice rising in indignation. “That isn’t proper–”

Daenera didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she lazily turned the page, revealing an equally provocative scene. This time, a man and woman lay intertwined on their sides, the woman’s lips wrapped around his cock while his face was buried between her thighs. The stark intimacy of the image sent a creeping heat crawling up Daenera’s throat and into her cheeks, but her expression remained neutral, betraying nothing but cool detachment. “‘Proper’ is a word forged by men who seek to enslave us with it.”

“Proper and propriety are virtues we should all seek to aspire to!” Mertha retorted, her voice rising with indignant fervor. Her posture stiffened, her hands clasped tightly in her skirts as though the very act of standing straighter might lend her argument more weight.

“The king would be loathed to hear I’m not enjoying his gift,” Daenera hummed, her voice calm but laced with a hint of mischief. Her silver-blue eyes flicked back up to meet Mertha’s, holding her gaze as she added, “Perhaps you should borrow it, Lady Mertha. You might find some inspiration to warm up your marriage.”

The flush in Mertha’s cheeks deepened from shock to fury, her jaw tightening as though she were physically restraining herself from reacting. For a moment, it seemed she might snatch the book straight from Daenera’s lap, smack it shut, and then strike her over the head with it for good measure. Her hands twitched at her sides, trembling with the effort of restraint, but Daenera only tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady and unapologetic.

Mertha spluttered, her outrage too great for coherent words, before finally spinning away with a sharp huff, muttering something about propriety and ungrateful girls under her breath. Daenera watched her retreat, her fingers toying with the edge of the page as the corner of her mouth twitched upward, just barely. 

At that moment, Edelin returned, a small bowl of glistening pomegranate seeds balanced carefully in her hands. Daenera had sent her away earlier, asking for something to occupy her time–something to distract from the oppressive weight of waiting. The girl moved swiftly, her steps light but faltering, her demeanor betraying her unease. 

Her pale complexion seemed even paler in the muted light, her brow knit in a worried crease. The corners of her mouth tugged downward, as though she was trying and failing to conceal the sadness lurking just beneath her expression. She flitted across the floor like a bird unsure of its perch, her gaze flickering briefly from Mertha to Daenera. 

Daenera’s stomach tightened. The weight she had carried all day seemed to shift, sinking heavily into the pit of her stomach, cold and unyielding. It was no longer the dread of waiting that gnawed at her–it was the creeping certainty of knowing. The pomegranate seeds, bright and unassuming, were no longer an indulgence or distraction. They were simply there, meaningless in the shadow of what had happened. 

Without a word, Daenera carefully closed the book resting in her lap, her fingers deliberate and steady despite the turmoil roiling within her. The soft thud of the cover closing felt louder than it should yet it was lost in the scuffle of the servants–it only seemed to reverberate within her own ears. She placed it aside with care, as though the motion itself might starve off what was coming. 

Straightening slowly, she adjusted her posture in the chair, her languid defiance giving way to something far more measured. The act felt like donning armor, each movement calculated to mask the dread rising in her chest. Her eyes flickered toward Eelin, but she did not speak, waiting instead for the girl to confirm what Daenera already knew in her bones.

The girl made an uneasy step behind Mertha, her hands clutching the bowl of pomegranate seeds tightly as though the small offering could ground her. Her gaze flicked towards Daenera again, uncertain and fretful. She lingered there, seemingly torn between the need to speak and the fear of what her words might bring.

Mertha, noticing the girl’s restless movements, turned sharply to face her. Her muddled gray eyes, narrowed in irritation, roamed over Edelin’s pale face. The snide edge in her expression faltered when her brows lifted slightly, catching the unease etched into the girl’s features.

“What is it?” Mertha demanded harshly, her tone clipped and impatient. 

“It’s the boy,” Edelin replied, her words soft yet heavy. “Patrick… He’s gone.”

Daenera’s stomach clenched, the confirmation slicing through her as sharply as she had anticipated. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, feeling her heart twist painfully around the weight of the truth. 

Daenera swallowed hard, the knot at the back of her throat feeling like a jagged rock, scraping painfully as it forced its way down. It settled heavily in the pit of her stomach, an unbearable weight she had braced herself to carry. The confirmation struck with all the force she had expected, yet instead of breaking her, she felt herself settle into its cold certainty. It was a burden she had anticipated, one she had already steeled herself to bear–because she had no other choice.

There was a strange, chilling ease in the finality of it. Her heart felt encased in ice, a numbing coldness that horrified her even as she clung to it. It was a shield, a bitter solace that allowed her to stand firm against the storm inside her. She had known this moment would come. She had orchestrated it, after all. It had been her hand, her choice.

And in that certainty, she found the resolve she needed. The weight, as crushing as it was, grounded her, providing a grim foundation to steel herself against the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Regret, guilt, anger–they simmered beneath the surface, but the coldness of her heart kept them at bay, at least for now.

Mertha turned back to the servants as they carefully descended the stepladders, the tapestry still a cumbersome weight in their hands. Her focus narrowed in their movements like a hawk watching for the slightest misstep. “Don’t you dare drop it!” She snapped shrilly when one of the servants stumbled, before redirecting part of her attention back to the startled Edelin. “Gone? Gone where? How could he have escaped?”

Edelin hesitated, her lips trembling as she tried to keep her voice steady. “He’s dead,” she clarified, the quiet finality of her words lingering in the air like a noose. 

Mertha’s head whipped around, her eyes wide with shock. “Dead?” She repeated, her tone almost incredulous. 

“I saw them remove him from the dungeons,” Edelin continued, her voice barely above a whisper,” and take him to the Sept.”

“How–” Mertha began, her voice faltering as her eyes darted erratically, seemingly searching for clarity amid the swirling storm of her thoughts. Then the realization dawned on her, her eyes snapping back to Daenera, wide with incredulousness before narrowing into scorn. Her lips curled into a sneer as she took a step forward, her posture stiff with indignation. 

“You,” She hissed, the single word brimming with accusation.

Daenera rose from her chair, her movements measured and composed. She stood tall, her expression carefully neutral, offering no acknowledgement of Mertha’s venomous tone. 

Mertha’s hand twitched at her side, as though she fought the urge to lash out, but her gaze flickered briefly towards the servants still lingering nearby. The hesitation seemed to temper her fury, redirecting it into something colder, sharper. She straightened, her tone hardening into ice as she barked out her command. 

“Leave us!” She snapped, her voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument–and there was none to be found. 

The servants carefully lowered the tapestry to the ground, the heavy metal bar clanking softly against the stone floor as it settled with a dull thud. They straightened quickly, gathering their tools with hurried movements. Though their faces remained carefully neutral, a flicker of curiosity danced in their eyes, betraying their instincts to linger and observe. Yet they knew better than to dawdle, and without so much as a glance at Daenera or Mertha, they shuffled out of the room, the door closing firmly behind them.

“Edelin, would you please fetch—” Daenera began, but her words were abruptly cut off as a sharp slap cracked across her face, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a whip.

Her head snapped to the side, her cheek instantly aflame, a searing heat radiating across her skin. Her ear rang with the force of the blow, and her balance faltered as she stumbled backward. She barely had time to draw breath, to register the shock, before another slap followed in quick succession, landing on the same cheek with brutal precision.

The second strike sent a sharp sting through her nose, making it itch and her eyes water involuntarily. Tears blurred her vision as the back of her legs caught on the edge of the chair, forcing her to collapse into it with a harsh thud. The book she had so carefully set aside fell to the floor, its pages splaying out in a chaotic fan, forgotten in the storm of violence.

The silence that followed was deafening. Her cheek throbbed, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as she clutched the arms of the chair, trying to steady herself. The sting of the slaps lingered, not just in her skin but deep within her chest, humiliation and fury twisting together in a knot that burned hotter than the pain.

“Lady Mertha!” Edelin cried out, stepping forward and seizing Mertha’s wrist just as her hand arched through the air, poised to deliver a third slap. “You mustn’t!” Her voice trembled with urgency, her expression wrought with horror. 

Mertha wrenched her hand free with a sharp, violent tug, her fury unabated. She whirled on Daenera, her lips curled into a sneer so deep it seemed to etch itself into her bone. “You did this!” she spat, her voice trembling with rage. “You wretched, evil child! You murdered that poor boy!”

Her bony finger jabbed the air, pointed directly at Daenera like a blade aiming for her heart. “Do you take me for a fool? I know you poisoned him! I don’t know how you managed it, or where you got the poison, but I know you’re behind it.”

Daenera stared up at her, her chest tightening as a storm of emotions churned within her. Her throat ached as she swallowed back the bitter anger clawing its way to the surface, fighting to keep it contained. The burning in her eyes betrayed the fury and grief roiling beneath her carefully neutral expression. She bit her tongue until she felt her teeth dig into the tender flesh, the pain grounding her as Mertha’s accusations rained down like blows.

Mertha let out a disdainful huff, her head shaking with unbridled indignation, her face flushed deep red with the force of her anger. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she hissed, her voice rising. “How it will reflect on me–on everyone around you? I’ve been kind to you, more than you deserved! I allowed you to see him, to be near him. I gave you freedoms, and this is how you repay me?”

Her head shook more fervently now, her movements fueled by a righteous fury. “You vile, ungrateful creature! A witch! That’s what you are–a demon in the guise of a princess, cursing all who come near you with your poison and lies. The gods themselves will judge you for this! They will see you burn for what you’ve done. You mark my words, Princess.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as though the room itself strained under the weight of her fury. Each accusation reverberated like the echo of a whip’s crack, cutting through the tense silence that surrounded them.

Daenera remained still, her fingers curling tightly around the arms of her chair as she fought to keep her composure. The sharp point of her incisor dug into her tongue, piercing the tender flesh, and she tasted the metallic bitterness of blood as it seeped forth. The sting anchored her, keeping her rooted in place while the storm of Mertha’s wrath raged around her.

She did not rise, nor did she speak. She let the older woman’s words lash against her, each one landing like the crack of leather across her back. Daenera’s face remained a carefully neutral mask, though her chest tightened with the effort of holding her silence. The fire within her burned hot, but she refused to let it show.

The gods would indeed judge her. Of that, she was certain. 

“That is enough!” Edelin cried, stepping forward, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and determination. “If you do not get a hold of yourself, I will fetch the prince–I will tell him that you’ve laid hands on the princess!”

Mertha’s scornful gaze snapped toward the girl, her gray eyes narrowing dangerously. “You will do no such thing!” 

“I will!” Edelin shot back, though her voice quivered, betraying her nerves. “You struck her, and I have to–I will–”

“No,” Daenera interjected, her voice cutting through the exchange like a blade. It was cold and controlled, each syllable sharp with finality. There was no tremor, no outward sign of the ache burning in her throat, her chest. The weight of the moment pressed against her, but she bore it without faltering.

She rose slowly from her seat, her movements deliberate and measured. Her cheek still burned with the sting of the slap, the pain radiating across her skin like a brand, but she stood tall, her composure that of steel. Her gaze settled on Mertha, cool and steady.

“I will afford you this, Lady Mertha,” Daenera said, her tone ice-cold but edged with quiet authority. “This once.”

She let the sting linger, let the pain root itself deeply within her. She accepted it–welcomed it–as a small measure of penance for what she had done. It was not forgiveness, nor absolution, but retribution, a reminder of the blood on her hands.

“Let it be the last time,” she continued, her voice firm, her gaze unwavering, “that you raise your hand to me.”

Mertha’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding audibly as her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Her knuckles whitened, trembling with the force of her suppressed rage. Daenera, however, turned her attention away from the seething woman, dismissing her entirely as she shifted her focus to Edelin.

“You won’t tell him about this,” Daenera said, her voice firm and unwavering. The words carried more than just authority–they held a quiet plea, veiled behind her composed exterior. She didn’t want Aemond to know. She couldn’t bear the thought of giving him the satisfaction of stepping in, of needing him, of revealing the extent of her own powerlessness.

Perhaps it was pride, the stubborn refusal to show weakness before him. Or perhaps it was uncertainty, the thought that he’d abide by it. No, not uncertainty. Deep down, she knew exactly what he would do if he found out, and it was that knowledge–the certainty of knowing to the bone what he’d do–that chilled her more than any other possibility. 

“But, Princess–” Edelin began, her voice small, the words laced with hesitant defiance.

“No,” Daenera interrupted, the sharp edge of her tone cutting through the girl’s protests. Any further objections died in Edelin’s throat, her defiance faltering under her gaze. The girl looked uncertain, her hands wringing together as she lowered her eyes.

Daenera’s lips curved into a faint, sad smile, the expression an attempt at reassurance, though it felt forced, unnatural. The weight of the moment pressed too heavily upon her, and the smile faded as quickly as it had come, leaving her face somber. “Would you bring me my shawl, Lady Edelin?” 

Before Edelin could move, Mertha stepped forward sharply, her hand latching onto Daenera’s arm with an iron grip. Her pointed fingers dug into her flesh with bruising force, the pain deliberate and punishing. “And where do you think you’re going?” Mertha demanded, her voice low and menacing. “Do you think I’d let you leave after this?”

“I wish to see him,” Daenera said simply, her voice steady and resolute, though her chest felt tight with the weight of her words.

Mertha froze for a moment, her gray, muddled eyes locking onto Daenera’s face. Fury burned within them, sharp and unrelenting, her cheeks still flushed red from her earlier outburst. Her lips trembled, stretched thin over her teeth as if she were holding back the force of her rage. But she couldn’t contain it; her mouth twisted into a scornful sneer, her contempt palpable.

“You wish to see the boy?” Mertha’s tone was mocking, dripping with venom. Her grip on Daenera’s arm tightened further, her bony fingers digging cruelly into her flesh. “Hmm? You wish to witness what you’ve done? Let us go then,” she sneered, her words a sharp lash. “Let us stand before the boy, and we’ll see if you're strong enough to face him!”

Mertha yanked her toward the doors, her bony fingers biting into her flesh with a bruising grip. She dragged her forward with the force of someone hauling a reluctant child, though Daenera offered no resistance. She moved willingly, her steps steady, intent on facing the weight of what she had done. Yet Mertha acted as if her compliance was a mockery, as though her lack of struggle only deepened her rage.

The older woman’s sneer twisted her face with disdain, her lips curling as her anger fed upon itself. With each step, her venomous words spilled forth, sharp and unrelenting, cutting through the air like shards of broken glass.

“It seems you have not yet learned the weight of death” she muttered, her voice a mix of fury and derision. “Let this  serve as a lesson. Watch as the Silent Sisters cleanse him and remove his innards. Perhaps then you will grasp the weight of your actions and carry it with you for the rest of your days, as heavy as the grave you’ve filled.”

Daenera needed no lesson in the weight of what she’d done. It pressed against her chest ever since the moment she had made her choice. It was lodged like a stone deep in her stomach, heavy and immovable. She bore it silently, carried it as she carried all else. 

She offered no opposition to Mertha. She didn’t flinch at the sharpness of the older woman’s words or the bruising grip of her bony fingers. Her nails bit into her arm with deliberate force, yet she made no effort to pull away. Instead, she stood as though carved from the same gray stone as the cliffs beneath the castle, enduring as the waves lashed against it. Each scornful word was another blow of saltwater against rock, each accusation a cresting wave that broke and retreated, leaving nothing but the cold, stinging spray in its wake. Her silence wasn’t defiance but acceptance–just as the rock accepted the punishing crash of the waves. 

As they neared the threshold, the sound of hurried footsteps announced Edelin’s return. She emerged from the archway to the bedchamber, the shawl Daenera had requested draped neatly over her forearm. Her features betrayed her unease, her lips pressed tightly together as her gaze darted between Daenera and Mertha. The tension in the air seemed to thicken as Mertha abruptly released her arm, ehr fingers prying away with a reluctant jerk. 

Edelin hesitated, her steps faltering for a heartbeat, before she stepped closer to Daenera, gently draping the soft fabric around her shoulders, her hands lingering just long enough to smooth it into place. “There…” She hummed, straightening before she pulled her own shawl tightly across her shoulders. 

Mertha snatched her own shawl with quick, impatient tugs. She wrapped it around her shoulders with an air of brusque efficiency, her scowl deepening as her sharp eyes caught Edelin’s. The corners of her mouth curled downward further, as if such tenderness was an affront. 

The silence stretched, taut and heavy, as Mertha stepped forward, breaking the moment with the scrape of her heels against stone. She didn’t bother to wait for acknowledgement, she simply went ahead, her hands pressing against the heavy oak doors, shoving them open. The hinges creaked lightly as it swung open, revealing the hall beyond and the guard–Finan–standing right outside.

A gust of chilled air rushed through the open doors, carrying with it the faint tang of damp stone and the earthy scent of rain yet to fall. Mertha stepped through the threshold first, her movements brisk and purposeful, the hem of her shawl flaring briefly. She cast a sharp glance back over her shoulder, a deep scowl on her face. 

“Come,” she barked, her voice clipped, “We’ve not got all day.”

Daenera drew a slow breath, the chilled air sharp in her lungs, and she clutched the shawl a little tighter as she stepped forward without hesitation, following Mertha into the hall. 

As soon as she crossed the threshold, Mertha closed the distance between them and unceremoniously locked her arm with Daenera’s, keeping her at her side. It was not a gesture of guidance or friendliness but of control, as though she feared she might slip away, might flee before facing the consequences of her actions. 

Mertha’s eyes flicked sideways, her gaze sharp as a blade. “Do you think your silence absolves you? It does not. The truth will out, Princess, and when it does, you will stand bare before it. You will not escape this. I won’t allow you to.”

They moved in measured steps through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the sounds of their footsteps lost among the usual shuffle through the corridors. The air inside the old walls was stagnant, laced with the faint scent of stone and old fires. As they descended the sweeping steps of the Great Hall of the Holdfast, the flickering torchlight gave way to the pale light filtering between the columns of the inner courtyard. 

The inner courtyard lay still under the waning sun. They passed beneath the high stone columns were her men and Lord Caswell had hung, their bodies once swaying lifelessly from the second-story bannisters, a grim testament to the price of her disobedience. Though the bodies were gone, the memory lingered, etched into her mind as clearly as the etchings of the stone columns. 

Beyond the inner courtyard, through the heavy doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the afternoon air greeted them with a sharp chill, stinging against her skin like tiny needles. The sun hung low in the sky, inching toward the horizon as if eager to end the day. Thick clouds gathered in its wake, heavy and dark, slowly knitting themselves into a gray shroud that would soon cover the sky all around, swallowing any last remnants of light. The air was dense with the scent of imminent rain, more prominent that it had been within the stone confines of the Holdfast. 

A shiver traced down Daenera’s spine, and she flexed her fingers against the cold, though she wasn’t certain if the chill was born from the weather or something deeper–seeping into her from the stone she seemed to carry within the pit of her stomach. 

The Red Keep thrummed with the muted bustle of its endless activity. Servants scurried about, stripping the remnants of the wedding festivities from the throne room. Tables and chairs were hauled away, their legs scraping against the gravel and cobblestones, while garlands of flowers were unceremoniously bundled into carts. The festive energy that had briefly gripped the castle was gone, replaced by the hum of routine–a machine grinding ever onward, indifferent to tragedy or triumph. 

Daenera walked on, her steps steady but unhurried, as though the very act of moving forward was a quiet defiance. The shadow of Mertha loomed beside her, unrelenting, her hand still clutching her arm as though she might vanish into the air like mist. 

Daenera’s eyes drifted upward for a fleeting moment, drawn to the sky where a flock of birds wheeled and darted through the air, their chirping a faint melody against the growing quiet of the late afternoon. Their movements were effortless, their wings slicing through the encroaching gray clouds as if the gathering storm was of no concern to them. For a heartbeat, her gaze lingered, her thoughts following their ascent into the heavens.

If only she could join them–shed the weight of the world and take to the skies, far from this place and all it held. Her longing was sharp and sudden, like the ache of an old wound. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and she tore her eyes away, forcing them back to the path ahead. The ground beneath her feet was solid and unyielding, and no amount of wishing could change that. For now, she could only move forward, step by step, tethered to the earth and the choices that bound her.

The air inside the Royal Sept was thick and oppressive, laden with the mingling scents of incense and melting wax. The cloying heaviness seemed to seep into every crevice, saturating the grand chamber with its pungency. It clawed at the back of Daenera’s throat, the acrid tang almost unbearable as it coiled in her lungs. Her stomach churned in protest, the uneasy weight of nausea rising with every breath she took. Her mouth grew parched, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as though the very air sought to steal what little moisture remained.

She swallowed hard, forcing down the discomfort as her eyes flickered across the room. Despite the cool touch of the marble floor beneath their feet, a damp heat lingered in the air, radiating from the thousands of candles that adorned the altars to the gods. Their flames flickered and danced, casting shifting shadows along the high walls and the length of the aisle, their light pooling in golden swathes across the polished stone. The grandeur of the Sept felt suffocating, its sanctity warped by the oppressive solemnity.

Each step she took sent echoes bouncing through the vast chamber, their sound amplified in the stillness, as though the Sept itself was listening. The grandeur of the space, with its towering columns and vaulted ceilings, felt oppressive rather than reverent. The gods’ presence here was not one of comfort but of quiet judgment.

Ahead of her, Mertha walked with purpose, her heels clicking against the floor in sharp opposition to Daenera’s softer tread. She held her arm firmly, steering her down the central aise towards the small stairway tucked into the shadows of a column. A Septa stood there, her plain robes illuminated by the soft glow of the candles she lit along the stone steps. She moved with practiced precision, her hands steady as they guided the flames into life. 

Mertha’s voice shattered the quiet, sharp and commanding as it rang out across the space. “We’re here to see the boy.”

The Septa straightened at the sound, her candle still in her hand. Her expression shifted, the faint serenity of her task giving way to wary frown. “You will have to wait,” she said, her voice calm but laced with a subtle edge. “The Silent Sisters have not yet finished their work–”

“The Princess wishes to oversee the preparations herself.”

The Septa’s gaze flickered to Daenera, lingering for a moment, searching her face for some sign of emotion–grief, anger, or perhaps something else. Daenera met the look with a quiet stillness, her expression unreadable, as she gave a small nod of agreement. The Septa’s eyes returned to Mertha as she continued, her voice unwavering.

“The boy was her ward,” Mertha said, her words clipped and precise, each syllable spoken as if it carried the force of law. “She will bear witness, as is her right.”

A flicker of something–perhaps disapproval, perhaps resignation–crossed the Septa’s face, but she bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Very well,” she said softly, turning toward the steps. “Follow me, then.”

Daenera’s gaze lingered on the steps, descending into the unseen depths of the Sept. A chill traced along her spine, though whether it came from the air of the knowledge of what waited her below, she could not tell. As Mertha guided her forward, the echoes of their footsteps seemed lounder, echoing against the cold stone. 

They descended into the depths of the Sept, where the air grew colder, heavier, and damp with the weight of stone and time. The hallway stretched before them, a narrow corridor cloaked in shadow, illuminated only by the flickering torches mounted along the walls. Their flames sputtered faintly, casting wavering light that did little to dispel the oppressive darkness. The stone underfoot was worn smooth, its chill seeping up through Daenera’s thin soles with each step.

Occasionally, a thin blade of light pierced the gloom, spilling from the open doorways of nearby chambers. These brief glimpses of illumination revealed the small, narrow windows set high in the outer walls, their glass clouded with grime. The light that filtered through them was pale and distant, more an echo of the world above than a connection to it. 

The hall was eerily silent, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the rhythmic echo of their footsteps against the worn stone. Each sound seemed to swell in the stillness, as if the very walls were listening. 

The Septa finally came to a halt before a heavy wooden door, its surface darkened with age and use. She turned to face them briefly, her expression unreadable in the dim light. Her voice, when it came, was soft and subdued, as though the very air down here demanded quiet reverence. “Wait here.”

Without waiting for a response, she pushed the door open, the creak of its hinges breaking the fragile silence like a whispered warning. A faint glow spilled from the room beyond as she slipped inside, the door closing behind her with a muted thud. 

Left in the hallway, Daenera stood still, her gaze lingering on the door as the silence closed in around her once more. The flickering torchlight cast long, shifting shadows along the walls, shapes that seemed to stretch and writhe like specters. The faint, distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the depths reached her ears, the rhythm steady and unchanging, as though marking the passage of something far older and colder than time itself.

The Septa returned shortly after disappearing into the chamber, the door creaking open just enough for a sliver of light to spill into the dim corridor. She paused on the threshold, her shadow stretching long against the floor as she met Daenera’s gaze. Her expression was solemn, her voice low but clear, imbued with the weight of reitual. 

“Take this and cover your face,” she said, holding out a folded piece of fabric. “It is ill-luck to gaze upon the face of death. The wise turn their eyes from the dead, lest the Stranger see them and think they too are his to take”

Daenera’s eyes drifted down to the offering in the Septa’s hand. The fabric was unassuming, thin as a whisper, yet the solemnity of the words imbued it with a heaviness. The Stranger knew her face, she thought bitterly. He had known it for as long as she could remember. He had followed her since she was a child. But she kept these thoughts to herself, her expression calm as she reached out to take the fabric. 

It was lighter than she expected, soft and delicate, a simple square with two strings tied at opposing corners. She unfolded it slowly, the faint scent of incense clinging to the cloth, and held it up before her face. The thin material obscured little, but its presence felt suffocating nonetheless. She tied it in place, the strings pulling tight behind her head. The mask rested just above the bridge of her nose, draping lightly over the lower half of her face.

Beside her, both Mertha and Edelin followed suit, each securing their own masks with somber efficiency. Mertha’s movements were brisk, as though impatient with the necessity, while Edelin’s hands trembled slightly, her fingers fumbling with the strings.

Once all three of them had covered themselves, the Septa stepped aside, her silent approval marked by the soft creak of the door as she pushed it fully open. The room beyond stretched out before them, the air heavy with stillness. The Septa inclined her head, her gesture both an invitation and an urging. 

Daenera’s heart felt like a weight within her chest, pressing heavily against her ribs, each beat reverberating through her like the toll of a distant bell. Her feet felt laden, rooted to the cold stone floor beneath her, and for a moment, she remained there, her body unwilling to move, before she forced herself forward, crossing the threshold. She could feel the weight of the space pressing in on her, as though it were alive, as though it knew what was to come.

The air within the room was colder, sharper, and seemed to carry with it an almost tangible edge. The faint metallic tang of death mingled with the thick, sweet-smoky scent of incense, a cloying presence that clung to the back of her throat and filled her lungs with every breath. It was nauseating. 

The shadows here seemed deeper, more oppressive, the flickering light of the candles barely holding them at bay. They clung to the corners like something alive, shifting and flickering as though reluctant to release their hold. The only true light came from the hundreds of candles scattered throughout the chamber, their soft, wavering glow casting halos against the oppressive darkness. Shelves lining the walls behind the imposing columns were filled with rows of these tiny flames, their uneven heights lending an almost chaotic beauty to the otherwise somber space. Tall candlesticks stood scattered around the room, their steady light doing little to dispel the solemn heaviness of the room. 

Daenera moved slowly, her steps measured as she walked around the table at the center of the room and came to a stop, positioning herself with her back to the hundreds of candles that lined the shelves. She drew in a breath and turned to face the heart of the room, her gaze settling upon the large stone table that loomed at its center. Upon it rested the small, still body of a boy, shrouded in an unbearable quiet that seemed to echo louder than any sound. 

She scarcely registered Mertha and Edelin as they stood beside her. Her attention remained on the boy, her eyes tracing the stillness of his form as though the world beyond the table had ceased to exist.

Her breath caught as a wave of nausea threatened to rise. She forced it down, swallowing hard against the bile clawing at the back of her threat. Her fingers curled tightly at her sides, the slight tremble in her hands the only betrayal of the storm roiling within her.

The Silent Sisters, robed in gray and shrouded by veils, glanced briefly in their direction. Their movements, like their presence, were silent, their expressions obscured by layers of cloth. Without a word, they returned to their task, their hands steady and precise as they prepared the boy’s body. One wrung a sponge into a basin of water, the droplets falling into soft, rhythmic plinks that seemed deafening in the stillness. The sponge was then dragged gently across Patrick’s pale skin, washing away the filth of the dungeons that had clung to him in life. 

Their care was meticulous, their movements measured, guided by silent prayer. One sister raised his small arm, her touch careful as she washed his side. Another dapped at his face, the strokes of the sponge revealing clean, unmarred skin beneath. 

Daenera’s chest tightened as she watched them, her eyes lingering on the boy’s face. His face seemed almost serene in the flickering candlelight. The streaks of tears that had marred his cheeks the last time she had seen him were gone now, wiped away by the Sisters’ careful touch. The sight made her throat tighten, and she forced herself to breathe evenly, though the ache in her chest felt insurmountable.

For a fleeting moment, she felt a strange sort of gratitude for the Silent Sisters, for the tenderness they shoved in their ritual. Their hands moved with reverence, their silence a balm to the oppressive grief that surrounded her. 

But even as she watched their work, her gaze inevitably returned to him, tracing the delicate planes of his face. He looked younger than she remembered, the grime and filth now wiped away to reveal pale, lifeless skin. His face was unnervingly serene, his long lashes brushing against his cheeks as though caught in a gentle slumber. In this stillness, he seemed untouched by the violence of the world, as if he had simply drifted off into quiet, untroubled sleep. 

And he had, she reminded herself. He had merely fallen asleep, his small heart slowing until it ceased entirely. It had been easy–peaceful, even. No pain, no struggle, just a quiet slipping away. It was a death most wished for. 

The thought was meant to comfort her, but it hung hollow in her chest, an echo of something that should have brought solace but didn’t. 

Few deaths were ever clean, a soft surrender without anguish or strife. Such serene ends were a rare grace that seemed reserved for a fortunate few. For most, death came harshly–heralded by blood, torment, or the slow decay of time and illness. 

There was a certain violence to death. 

It so often came with stab wounds, shattered bones, torn flesh–a brutal punctuation to life’s end. How many had laid upon this cold stone table, their bodies broken and ravaged by life's cruelty? How many wounds had the Silent Sisters stitched together with steady hands, how many rivers of blood had they washed away with water and reverence? Even death by illness or poison bore its scars. Burst blood vessels beneath sallow skin, lungs drowning in pink froth, bellies distended with blood, organs decayed and blackened–weach left its mark, a final betrayal of the body. 

And some deaths, Daenera thought grimly, left no body at all to prepare. 

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed thickly, the motion doing little to ease the knot lodged at the back of it. Her heart felt as though it were sinking, dragged down into the roiling pit of her stomach by its immeasurable weight. A chill crept along her fingers, numbing them, and the cold seemed to seep deeper into her bones with each passing moment. For one terrible heartbeat, the still figure upon the table was no longer little Patrick Piper. 

The boy she saw now was older by a few years, his hair dark and curling like her own. His features–soft yet achingly familiar–echoed hers in every line and angle. The vision struck her like a blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her body shifted, her mind recoiling from the image even as it lingered, burned into her sight. She blinked hard, once, and he was gone. 

It was Patrick again, his pale blond hair hanging matted from his head, his small frame unnaturally still beneath the flickering candlelight. Daenera’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her trembling fingers curling into fists at her sides as she tried to banish the ghost. Yet the moment lingered, the echo of another boy haunting the quiet room. 

The Stranger follows you, she recalled, the words whispered in the back of her mind like an echo from a dream. He will claim those dear to you–some offered by your own hand, others taken by fate’s cruel turn. 

The room seemed to darken at the thought, the shadows in the corners deepening until they felt alive, shifting and writhing like silent wraiths. It was as though the dim light of the candles could no longer reach them, the darkness swallowing them whole. The scene reminded Daenera of another time, of the eerie shadows that had danced and twisted within the witch’s wagon, their shapes unnatural and unyielding. A chill traced down her spine, sharp as the edge of a blade, and the memory of those words settled deep in her chest, pressing against her ribs like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Her hands folded tightly before her, her fingers brushing against the cold skin of her palms. The chill that clung to her seemed to intensify, and she pressed her nails against her skin, dragging them in slow, deliberate motions. The faint sting offered a small distraction, a fleeting escape from the storm of unease roiling within her.

Still, the cold seeped into her, relentless and unyielding. It crawled through the soles of her feet, stealing warmth as it climbed, creeping upward with an unnatural insistence. Even with the flames of the candles flickering behind her, their faint heat licking at her back, she felt frozen, as though the cold came not from the room but from within her very soul. She clenched her hands tighter, grounding herself against the sensation, though the creeping chill showed no signs of retreating.

The Silent Sisters moved with quiet precision, their actions measured and deliberate as they set aside the sponges. One Sister lifted the basin of murky water and carried it away, returning moments later with another filled with fresh, clear water. The faint ripples in the basin’s surface caught the light of the flickering candles, adding an almost ethereal quality to the otherwise somber scene.

They worked as silently as those upon their table, their reverence palpable, an unspoken language that seemed to fill the room. There was a strange comfort in their ritual, a solemn order that pushed back against the turmoil churning within Daenera’s mind. 

Her attention flicked to the blade as one of the Sisters reached for it. It caught the light, glinting faintly in the dim room like a sliver of starlight. She heard Mertha’s breath hitch–or was it Edelin’s?–as the blade met Patrick’s skin. Pressing lightly but firmly, the sister dragged it with precision along the boy’s breastbone, the incision extending down in a single, fluid motion toward his navel. The cut was deliberate, practiced–an act devoid of hesitation, as clean and sharp as the blade itself. 

Though Daenera remained still, she felt the sharp intake of breath from either side of her. Both Mertha and Edelin gasped softly again, their reactions betraying the shock they felt, even though they should have known what the preparation of the body entailed. 

“Mother of mercy, give–” Mertha murmured from Daenera’s side, her voice breaking the quiet, though it was barely louder than a whisper. Her words faltered, and she swallowed thickly, the sound audible in the stillness. “Give me the strength…” she finished, her tone laced with a trembling resolve.

The Silent Sisters worked with calm precision, their blades slicing cleanly through the pale flesh of the boy. Another incision joined the first, stretching from one collarbone to the other, forming a line that mirrored the curve of his shoulders. A third cut followed, arcing across the hips from one side to the other. As they began to peel back the skin, their hands steady and sure, the room seemed to shrink.

A strangled sound broke the silence–a choked gasp from Mertha. Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling the noise as her body curled inward, trembling as though she were fighting to keep the contents of her stomach down. Her pale knuckles clutched her shawl tightly, her frame swaying under the weight of her revulsion.

As the Sisters peeled back the other side, the sight was too much for Mertha. She stumbled forward, her steps uneven as she brushed past Daenera, her shoulder colliding against hers with enough force to jolt her. She turned her head, catching the look of pale fury on Mertha’s face. Her expression, as colorless as Patrick’s still form, was filled with a mixture of horror and scorn, her reddened eyes brimming with tears.

“You–stay here,” Mertha commanded hoarsely, her voice shaking but firm as she pointed a trembling finger at Daenera. Her tone carried the sharp edge of desperation, as though the act of leaving the room required her to impose some semblance of control. Without waiting for a response, she turned abruptly, her footsteps uneven and hurried as she fled the room.

The sound of her gagging echoed faintly down the corridor, growing softer with each passing second until it disappeared entirely. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, settling over the chamber. Daenera’s gaze returned to the Silent Sisters, their quiet diligence undisturbed, their focus unwavering.

Daenera stood rooted to the spot, blessedly numb as the Silent Sisters worked with steady hands, their blade cutting carefully through the thin membrane protecting the boy’s organs. All she truly felt was the cold that seemed to seep into her very bones, the weight pressing heavily against her chest, and the sharp sting of her own nails as they bit into the flesh of her wrist, leaving crescent-shaped marks behind.

The quiet was broken by the wet, grotesque sound of movement–a squelch as one of the Sisters carefully lifted the organs free, placing them into shallow bowls prepared for the task. The noise was visceral, intimate, and it clawed at the silence with brutal honesty. It seemed too much for Edelin, who stood trembling at her side. Without a word, Edelin turned sharply and fled, her hurried footsteps echoing briefly before the heavy door muffled her retreat.

 Daenera didn’t flinch, didn’t follow. She remained where she was, unmoving, the only sound now the steady rhythm of the Sisters’ labors.

Her gaze drifted to the lifeless form on the table, the body laid bare in its quiet surrender. She wondered, not for the first time, what her own death might look like. Would it be as calm, as methodical as his? No festering wounds, no rotting organs, no spilled blood–just stillness. A stillness that seemed almost merciful. But deep down, she knew better. She imagined a far crueler end for herself.

It would not be a clean death, she thought. There would be no soft acceptance, no sacred rites performed by the Silent Sisters. Her death would be a violent thing, raw and ruthless. The tightening bite of a noose, the cold kiss of a blade, or the searing agony of fire and blood–that was what awaited her. The thought did not scare her, not exactly. Instead, it lingered in her mind like a shadow.

The air in the room seemed heavier now, the scent of blood mingling with the faint bitterness of herbs. Her hand loosened from her wrist, leaving pale indentations behind. She breathed in slowly, the chill settling deeper into her frame. The Sisters worked on, their movements precise, almost reverent. Daenera envied them, their detachment, their purpose. They didn’t look to the past or the future–only to the body before them. Perhaps that was their gift, their burden: to see death and yet feel nothing. To make sense of it in a way no one else could.

Daenera remained, unmoving, and let the silence press down on her, its weight strangely comforting.

Watching his body being prepared by the Silent Sisters was a weight Daenera could neither name nor shake. It lodged itself deeper within her, tightening like an unseen noose around her throat, twisting between her ribs, and settling heavily into the pit of her stomach. Every careful motion of the Sisters seemed to etch the finality of his death into her, their silent reverence only making the ache sharper–and not only his death, but all of them. Yet, beneath the grief and unease, there was a flicker of relief–fragile and awful. 

She was relieved that his end had come gently, rather than at the end of a rope, his life snuffed out in cruelty. No witnesses, no drawn-out suffering, no agonizing moments filled with fear and the bitter ache of longing for home. His death had come smooth, quick–a mercy in a world that so often denied such kindness. For that she was grateful, even as her stomach churned with guilt and her heart twisted with shame. 

She was relieved, too, that his body would not be turned into a spectacle–a grim ornament left to rot in the unforgiving sun, hanging from the bannisters of the inner courtyard of the Holdfast as a warning to others. Nor would his head be severed, mounted upon a spike, and displayed upon the infamous Traitor’s Walk, his identity stripped away, reduced to a traitor.

But that was not his fate. His body was treated with care, not contempt. There would be no mockery, no public display of his remains, no desecration of what was once him. The Silent Sisters ensured that he would be laid to rest in quiet dignity. It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. 

Daenera’s eyes remained fixed on his form, pale and still, as the Sisters continued their work, removing the organs. She swallowed hard, trying to loosen the knot that had formed in her throat, but it lingered, unyielding. She hoped he had thought of home when he had slipped into the stillness. 

The Silent Sisters worked with the quiet efficiency of those who had done this countless times before. They removed his organs one by one, their hands steady and unfeeling. The liver, the belly, the lungs, the heart–all were carefully lifted from his body and placed into plain, unadorned jars lined up on the table. Once emptied, the cavity was scrubbed meticulously with salt and a blend of spices and herbs, the sharp tang of the mixture mingling with the metallic scent of blood. 

Fragrant bundles of herbs were tucked within him, tightly bound and pressed into every space until his form was filled completely. The herbs–lavender, thyme, perhaps a sprig of mint–seemed incongruous against the natural order of decay. Only when this task was complete did they begin to close him, stitching the incisions with beeswax-coated thread that gleamed faintly in the flickering light. The process was methodical, each pull of the threat smooth and deliberate, sealing the marks of death with quiet dignity. 

Daenera watched in silence, her thoughts dark and intrusive. In the end, she mused bitterly, we’re all just stuffed like ducks. How absurd it was. The thought struck her with a grim humor she did not voice, one that almost made her want to laugh, or perhaps cry. It was a crude, awful truth.

The room smelled of salt and herbs now, an almost soothing scent that did little to ease the ache in her chest. She felt as though a part of herself had been carved away, chipped off like stone from a weathered statue, and tucked within him along with the fragrant bundles of herbs. Her innocence–or what little had remained of it–lay buried there now, entombed with him

When the stitching was finished, the Silent Sisters began the final step of their work. They brought forth strips of cloth, thick and white, steeped in a mixture of salt and herbs to starve off the decay. Carefully, they stilted and shifted his little body, wrapping him up. Each tug of the cloth seemed to echo in the still room, a soft rasp against skin. Inch by inch, they worked, winding the fabric tightly around him until only his face remained uncovered.

“Wait,” Daenera’s voice cut through the heavy silence, startling even herself with how loud it seemed, though it was barely more than a whisper. The word hung in the air, pulled from her lips as though drawn out by some unseen force. She repeated it, softer this time. “Wait…”

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, the rough clack of her shoes against the stone floor echoing in the quiet chamber. Every step sent a jolt through her stiff, aching body, the hours of standing vigil catching up to her all at once. She hadn’t noticed the ache in her joints until now, until her feet carried her forward, each step drawing her closer to him. 

The silent Sisters paused, their veiled faces turning briefly in her direction before one of them silently stepped aside, allowing her to approach the head of the table. Daenera hesitated, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs as she looked down at the boy. He lay so still, his features softened by death’s quiet embrace, as if he were only sleeping. 

Her eyes lingered on the small strands of dark blond hair that peeked out from beneath the burial cloth already tied neatly around his head. The sight struck her like a blade to the chest. He looked so impossibly young, his face still round with the softness of childhood. It was a cruel truth that someone so small had ended up here. And yet, this table had seen countless others before him–smaller bodies, younger faces, children who should have been spared this grim fate. 

She reached out without thinking, her trembling fingers brushing against the edge of the cloth, but she stopped herself, unsure of what she meant to do. Her fingers hovered for a moment before they fell to the rough, cold surface of the table. Her eyes remained on him, her gaze taking in his face. Slowly, almost hesitantly, her hand moved towards him again, brushing against the small strands of dark blond hair that had slipped free from beneath the cloth. The strands were soft beneath her tough, tickling against her skin.

Her movements were deliberate, reverent, as she leaned down and pressed her lips gently to this forehead, the icy touch of his skin sending a shiver through her. Her eyes closed, and for a moment, the world fell silent around her. Forgive me. The words resounded in her mind, silent but searing, a plea that seemed to sink into the stillness of the room. 

When she straightened, the air felt sharper, colder. Her breath caught in her lungs, laced with the bitter tang of herbs and the lingering, metallic scent of death. It burned, a cold fire that settled deep within her chest. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to move, to step back. 

The Silent Sister stepped forward to reclaim her place at the table. Daenera stood in silence, watching as the woman resumed her task. She wrapped the cloth around the boy's face, layer by layer, until he was fully concealed, sealed away from the world he would never return to. 

Daenera’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The finality of it struck her like a blow, the weight of what she could not change settling heavily in her chest. She did not look away, even as the last piece of him disappeared beneath the shroud. It was all she could give him now–her presence, her witness, her silent, aching farewell.

With one last fleeting glance at his shrouded form, Daenera turned away. There was nothing more to see, nothing more to feel but the hollow ache that had settled deep within her. The chamber behind her seemed to breathe with its own stillness, but she left it behind, stepping into the shadowed hall beyond.

The corridor was cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering torches mounted on the walls. Their light wavered against the stone, casting shifting shadows that danced like restless spirits. There were no slivers of daylight spilling in through open doorways this time, no respite from the gloom. The hall was a corridor of darkness, oppressive and unyielding, as though the very air refused to let her forget the room she had just left.

Outside the chamber, Finan stood waiting, his posture as still and steady as the walls around them. Their eyes met briefly, a silent exchange passing between them–acknowledgement, sympathy, questions. He said nothing as she moved past him, his footsteps quick to follow her own as she made her way back through the winding corridors. 

The journey felt strange, as if she were retracting her steps out of a place that wasn’t quite this word but something far colder, death. The space between heaven and hell, she thought–a space where the living were trespassers, unwelcome and out of place. Each step felt like a struggle to pull herself back from that void, back into the world of the living. 

The narrow stairway spiraled upward, its cold stone steps slick beneath her feet. Her fingers briefly brushed the wall for balance, its chill grounding her as she climbed. As she stepped into the Sept, the sound of rain filled the air. It lashed against the stained glass windows, the patter echoing in the vast, hollow space. The rain’s lamentation felt almost alive, as though the heavens themselves had been moved. The droplets raced down the panes in chaotic rivers and rivulets. 

Was it mourning with her, she wondered, or raging against her? 

Daenera’s steps faltered, her breath catching as her eyes found him–just as they always did. 

Aemond stood at the altar at the heart of the Sept, a solitary figure amidst the flickering glow of firelight. His tall, narrow frame was outlined sharply against the golden light, his pale silver hair shimmering like spun moonlight, catching hints of gold in the dance of flames. There was a stillness about him, a pensiveness in the way he stood, his lone figure commanding the vast, hollow space. His head was slightly bowed as he stared into the fire, one hand hovering above the flames, fingers splayed as though testing their heat. 

For a moment, his presence started her, the sight of him sending her heart leaping into her throat. But that initial shock gave away almost immediately to a surge of emotion that churned hot and fierce in her chest. It felt as though his presence seeped into her, inescapable as it always was, stirring emotions too tangled to name. 

Without realizing, her steps quickened, the sharp tap of her shoes against the stone floor echoing loudly in the empty Sept as she closed the distance between them. Her scowl deepened as her gaze darted around the chamber, searching for others–for any Septa, any Septon, anyone to explain why he was here, alone. But there was no one. The vast Sept was deserted save for the two of them.

Behind her, Finan had followed at a distance, his footsteps halting just far enough away to grant them a semblance of privacy.

When she reached his side, she stopped abruptly, the momentum of her steps halting so sharply that her breath caught. The scornful flare she wore remained, and she tore her gaze from him to fix it on the flames instead. The heat of the candles brushed against her cheeks, though it did nothing to thaw the ice in her chest.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and fraught, as though the Sept itself held its breath, awaiting what would follow. Aemond remained still, his expression unreadable, his hand still poised above the fire. Daenera’s heart pounded in her ears, each beat urging her to speak, to confront him, yet she hesitated. 

“Come to confess your sins?” Her voice cut through the stillness, sharp and biting, the edge in her tone unmistakable. The words fell from her lips like an accusation, yet there was something strained behind them, something forced–as if they carried the weight of emotions she couldn’t quite control. “Or have you come to beg the gods for forgiveness?”

Aemond didn’t respond immediately. Instead, a low, resonant hum escaped him, a sound that rumbled from deep within his chest and seemed to settle in the air between them. His hand remained poised over the flames, hovering just close enough to feel their heat. 

“I do not seek forgiveness,” Aemond murmured, his voice low and steady as his hand hovered above the flames, the heat distorting the air around his fingers, yet he did not flinch. “Nor do I believe the gods care to hear my sins.”

Daenera’s jaw tightened, her anger flaring hot and sharp, twisting between her ribs like a dagger. The burn of it licked at her insides, relentless and consuming. Her hands remained curled into tight fists at her sides, nails digging mercilessly into the soft flesh of her palms. She wondered absently how many red crescents would mark her skin by the time she lay in her bed that night, reminders etched into her, soon to fade. 

She felt his gaze then, a palpable weight that slid over her face like the edge of a blade. There was a deliberate intensity in the way his eye lingered, a sharp curiosity, as if he were searching for something–as though he sought to carve beneath her skin and read through the rivulets of blood inside her. She resisted the urge to look at him, her focus remaining fixed on the flames. They danced and flickered before her, offering no comfort, only a reflection of the fire roiling within her.

The sensation of his attention was maddening, a prickling heat that brushed over her skin, sending shivers racing down her spine. It was as though his presence itself sought to unnerve her, to burrow beneath her composure and drag something raw to the surface. She willed herself to stay still, to give him nothing.

“If I sought forgiveness,” he said softly, his voice like the smooth pull of silk over steel, “it would not be theirs to give.”

Her teeth clenched at his arrogance–to think that she’d ever forgive him. The air between them thickened, laden with unspoken truths and words that could cut as deeply as steel.

“If you sought forgiveness,” Daenera snapped, her voice taut as a bowstring, “you’d be on your knees begging for it, and you’d still find yourself wanting.”

The air in the chamber was thick, weighted with the warmth of the fire and the unspoken tension that hung between them. Daenera kept her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly before her as if the act alone could keep her emotions at bay.

Aemond stood at a measured distance, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth–she could feel it, the faint amusement radiating off of him. “You’ve had me on my knees,” he hummed, his voice smooth, laced with a dark humor that seemed to echo in the stillness.

The words struck her like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a cascade of memories she fought to suppress. The image rose unbidden in her mind: him kneeling before her, his pride stripped away under the weight of her will. She remembered the desperation in his gaze, the way his breath had hitched as he peered up at her, his lips parted, his touch searing against her skin. The memory was a ghost, a phantom that burned against her even now, and she hated that it still had power over her.

Heat bloomed unbidden in her cheeks, a flush she couldn’t quite hide, though she turned her head slightly to keep her face out of his line of sight. Her nails bit into her palms, a futile attempt to anchor herself.

“You weren’t there in search of forgiveness,” Daenera replied, her voice taut, strained, as though she could steady it by sheer force of will. She fought to keep her tone even, suppressing the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to surface. “You didn’t beg for it.”

Her words were a shield, a deflection meant to push away the thing she refused to name, the thing that clawed at the edges of her composure. Yet, even as she spoke, she felt the weight of his presence, his words, his gaze, pressing against her resolve. The air between them felt charged, crackling with unspoken truths and emotions too tangled to unravel.

Aemond’s hum lingered in the space between them, a sound that seemed to mock her efforts to maintain control. “You wouldn’t have granted it, even if I had. It isn’t in your nature.”

“And it's not in yours to seek it.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at him, refused to meet his eye and see whatever storm brewed there. Instead, she focused on the fire, letting its heat bite at her skin, grounding her in the moment even as the past threatened to overwhelm her.

“What of your sins?” he hummed, the question curling through the air like smoke. He took a step closer, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor, and when he spoke again, his tone shifted. It wasn’t quite an accusation, more a statement of fact, stripped of doubt.

“You killed him.”

The words hung between them, as undeniable as the heat from the fire. Aemond’s voice carried a peculiar intimacy, a quiet knowing that made her skin prickle. There was no malice in his tone–no anger or condemnation–but rather an unsettling understanding. The way he said it, as though peeling back a layer of her soul, left no room for denial.

Daenera didn’t answer; she didn’t need to. 

“The Council knows–”

“The Council suspects,” She interjected swiftly, her voice cutting through his as sharp as a blade. She turned her head slightly, the heart of the flames curling around her face. “They suspect, but they’ll find no evidence of wrongdoing.” Her words were precise, delivered with a calm clarity that betrayed none of the storm brewing within her. “The Silent Sisters will report nothing out of the ordinary when they saw to his body–no lungs filled with foam, no blackened organs, nothing to suggest poisoning.” 

She finally turned her eyes to him, her gaze as piercing as his own, her brow arched slightly. “They could raise the matter, but it would only expose their own… failings. How could I have obtained the means of poisoning? I have not been allowed near the gardens, nor have I been alone long enough to procure it.” A scoff left her. “The kitchens take it upon themselves to spare me the trouble of seeds in my apples. So tell me, how was I able to do it?” 

She paused, inhaling deeply, her focus drifting back to the flames though she no longer seemed to see them. “At best, the Council will look cruel for letting him die of illness in the dungeons. At worst, they’ll look incompetent for failing to stop me.”

The Council, Daenera knew, would much rather let the boy’s death be seen as the result of illness born from their negligence than risk the appearance of their inability to control her. To admit they had failed to prevent such an act under their own roof would expose their own weaknesses far more than it would condemn her. They might suspect the truth–might even know it in the depths of their hearts–but to accuse her outright of murder while she remained under their watchful eyes was a step they would not dare take. The risk to their authority, their reputation, was far too great.

Aemond remained silent, his expression unreadable save for the faint flicker of amusement in his eye. His hum broke the quiet, low and appreciative, a sound that sent a shiver of skittering down her spine. “And what shall you do now, with your newfound freedom?” 

“Freedom…” Daenera echoed, the word bitter on her tongue. She let the word hang in the air, tasting its lie, for she knew the truth: the cage that held her remained. The noose around her neck might have shifted, but it still remained around her neck. She stared into the flames before her, their restless dance reflecting the indignation burning in her chest. 

“That’s why you killed him, is it not?” Aemond pressed, his voice soft, almost gentle–but laced with something darker. His words curled around her like smoke, taunting, suffocating, making her choke on them. 

He always had a way of wielding words like weapons–he wielded them as deftly as he did a blade. There was a cruel precision to it now, the way he probed at the raw edges of her conscience. His tone, so maddingly composed, peeled back the layers of her actions with deliberate care, stripping away her skin to expose the truth beneath–be it guilt festering there, or the weeping of necessity. 

“What I did was mercy,” Daenera forced out, her voice steady but brittle, like ice stretched too thin over deep waters. Her gaze remained fixed on the flames before her, though she hardly saw them as their tongues lapped at the air. Yet, even as she stared into the nothing of the flames, she felt his attention sharpen, a tangible thing pressing against her, daring her to reveal the truth, to justify herself against the unbearable weight of his words. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the subtle shift in him. His head tilted ever so slightly, the faintest quirk of his brow betraying his intrigue. It was a gesture she knew all too well, a familiar, almost maddening tic that always surfaced when something piqued his interest. It reminded her of a predator catching the scent of its prey–patient, calculating, and entirely unyielding.

She turned her face slightly to meet his gaze. There was something behind his expression now, a shadow that flickered in the depths of his lone eye. It was unreadable, twisting like smoke, elusive yet undeniable. His gaze unnerved her, the way it sought to strip her bare, searching for weaknesses, for the most vulnerable parts of her. 

But she refused to give him the satisfaction of cowering before him. 

“Mercy,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with quiet amusement. His lips curved upward ever so slightly, the corners sharp enough to cut her with. 

“Yes, mercy,” Daenera bit out, her tone laced with scorn. She held his gaze unflinchingly, though her throat tightened against the tide of guilt and shame that threatened to rise. It pressed against her ribs, a weight she couldn’t remove. Still, she clung to the notion that what she had done was rooted in kindness, in something nobel. 

Her eyes hardened as she stared him down, her voice growing colder, more deliberate. “I didn’t want him to rot in the dungeons for gods know how long–days, weeks, months.” She shook her head, the movement stiff, her breath catching as she forced the words out. “He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be trapped among rapers and murders as though he were one of them–as though he had done anything wrong.”

Her chest heaved, and she swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat. Her voice thickened with the weight of her choice. “He’d be alone. Alone and afraid, listening to every echo of footsteps in the darkness, every jingle of keys. Fearing–always fearing–that they’d come for him next. That they’d drag him from his cell to meet the same fate as his friends.”

If she hadn’t balled her hands into firsts so tight that her bones ached, she was sure they’d tremble. “Or worse,” she added bitterly, the corners of her lips arching downward. “To be tortured before they executed him–to suffer in ways no boy should ever suffer.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, his piercing eye narrowing as the weight of Daenera’s words settled heavily upon him. The muscles in his jaw flexed, the tension rippling beneath his skin as his teeth ground together in barely contained frustration.

Daenera met his gaze without hesitation, her expression unyielding, her chin tilted ever so slightly upward, a subtle act of defiance that spoke louder than words. “He was already dead. The noose was around his neck…he just hadn’t fallen yet.”

The ease with which the justification had slipped from her lips sent a bitter pang through her chest. The tone of her words, sharp and pragmatic, echoed hollowly in the Sept. The gods might judge her for it–she knew that well enough–but surely, she thought, surely they would see the mercy in what she had done. Then again, the gods were not merciful, that was why they were gods after all.

The guilt rose unbidden, clawing at the back of her throat like bile. It was a silent, insidious thing, creeping into her mind as she fought to shove it back down.

Aemond hummed, the sound low and deliberate, a vibration that seemed to crawl beneath her skin and prick at her resolve. It was maddening, how effortlessly he plucked at her threads, how effortlessly it was for him to unravel her. She didn’t need to look at him to know his eye was fixed on her, searching her face with a cold, unrelenting precision. She could feel it, like the edge of a blade grazing over her skin–not slicing, not yet, but testing her, caressing her. 

“Mercy may be part of it,” he said, his voice smooth and silken, soft but carrying a weight that pressed against her chest. It held the intimacy of a dagger’s whisper before slipping between the ribs. “But you also did it to free yourself.”

The words struck her harder than she expected, as though they had been spoken from a place deeper than observation. Before she could summon a response, he took a single step toward her, the movement measured–testing. That single step seemed to change the air around them, and Daenera felt the shift like the tightening of a noose. His presence grew heavier, more tangible, wrapping around her like a shadow creeping closer in the dim light. 

The faint scent of sandalwood, warm and earthy, mingled with something sweeter, something she couldn’t name at that moment. It seeped into her lungs, a brief reprieve from the cloying smell of burning candles and incense that hung heavily in the great chamber of the Sept. But even that familiar scent felt intrusive, like he was taking up more space than he should, both in the air and in her mind. 

Daenera willed herself not to move, not to flinch, not to show the unease pooling in her stomach. She stood rooted, though her instincts screamed at her to retreat, to put space between herself and the monster closing in on her. 

And yet she stood firm, her heart pounding against her ribs, meeting his gaze. 

“You could have waited,” he continued, his voice soft, unhurried, as he flayed her with his words. It was a masterful dissection, peeling away the armor of her composure to expose the bloody truth as he saw it, raw and vulnerable beneath the surface. “You could have bided your time and found a way to see him free of the dungeons.”

His fingers twitched ever so slightly at his sides. There was a restlessness to him, a restrained impulse, as if he wanted to reach for her. His hand might have skimmed the curve of her cheek, brushing aside the dark strands of her hair, before cupping her face in cruel intimacy–only to drive the dagger of his words deeper into her soul. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered, caught briefly by the subtle movement before returning to his, a fraction too late to mask her awareness. She knew he had noticed–he always did.

Her eyes narrowed sharply, a warning as clear as if she had spoken aloud. His hand stayed where it was, restrained, though the tension in him was palpable. Instead, he pressed forward with his words, relentless as ever.  

“You could have found another way,” he said confidently–unforgivingly. “You could have negotiated his release, as you’ve done before. You’ve proven yourself capable of that.”

He tilted his head slightly, his lone eye fixed on her with penetrating intensity. “But you didn’t,” he continued, his voice so mercilessly soft as he twisted the blade of his words. “You wished for the burden of his life to be lifted from your shoulders. Without him caught in the cold grasp of the dungeons, without the sword of the headsman poised above him, you are free of the fear that your choices might condemn him. His fate no longer clings to yours like a shadow.”

Daenera’s teeth clenched, the muscles in her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her emotions down, shame churning in her stomach. But her eyes betrayed her, burning with anger and anguish. 

“You sacrificed him,” Aemond said, delivering the final blow with cruel certainty. The gentleness in his tone only made the accusations sting sharper. “Mercy may have played a part, yes. But you don’t have to pretend with me. I know you, ñuha byka sȳndor hen bantis rūklon.”

My little nightshade. The High Valyrian rolled off his tongue like a caress, yet there was nothing tender about the way it landed. It twisted within her chest, sharp as a dagger. 

The firelight flickered between them, its warm glow throwing their shadows onto the worn and ancient stones of the Sept. The sacred space, with its towering arches and the watchful eyes of the Seven carved into every corner, seemed to close in around Daenera as she forced herself to stand tall. Her chest heaved with the weight of her emotions, her heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum.

She would not falter–not here, not before him.

Her gaze hardened, locking on Aemond’s face. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, hot and unwelcome, clawing at her throat as though trying to choke her. But even as the emotions threatened to undo her, she summoned her voice. Low, strained, yet laced with a biting coolness, she spoke.

“Don’t presume to know my heart, One-eye,” she said, the insult deliberate, each syllable like the edge of a blade. “Not fully. Not anymore.”

Her words echoed in the vast hollow of the Sept, reverberating off the stone walls and carrying her defiance to the ears of the silent gods. Yet even as her voice rang out, she felt the weight of Aemond’s gaze pressing against her. It was unrelenting, searching, as though he sought to peel back her defenses and lay bare vulnerabilities she so desperately tried to hide.

It was maddening–the way he looked at her. His single eye, sharp and piercing, seemed to see through her façade, past the armor she had built, straight to the darkest corners of her soul. She would have preferred the judgment of the gods, their cold, indifferent stares from their carved effigies high above. Their condemnation, distant and immutable, was far easier to endure than the knowing look in his eye.

Aemond’s expression shifted, the faintest tightening of his jaw betraying his reaction to her barb.His lips drew into a thin line, his jaw tensing, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his otherwise steely mask. She noted it all–the sharpness of his mouth, the slight narrowing of his gaze, the way his control slipped just enough to show the edges of his irritation.

His lips pressed together before parting slightly, and a low hum rumbled from deep within his chest. It was a sound that carried exasperation and something darker, something heavier.

“You may deny it as much as you like,” Aemond said, his voice soft but cutting, each word deliberate, a hammer striking an anvil. “But deep down, you know my words are true.”

He stepped closer, his shadow looming larger against the stone wall, the firelight painting him in shades of gold and shadow. “You killed him,” he continued, his tone smooth, unyielding, “to free him… and to free yourself.”

His words hung in the air between them, thick and oppressive, as though the fire itself had paused to listen. The knowing in his tone, unforgiving in its certainty, wrapped around her like a chain. It was unbearable.

Daenera felt her chest tighten, the understanding in his accusation cutting far deeper than she wanted to admit. Yet she held his gaze, her own defiance unbroken, though the tears still threatened to spill, though the gods above seemed to watch her with silent reproach.

The flames crackled softly in the silence that followed, their dance mocking the stillness between them. In this moment, it wasn’t the judgment of the gods that mattered–it was his. And she hated him for it.

Daenera’s breath caught, a sharp hitch that betrayed the storm roiling beneath her composed exterior. Her fingers twitched at her sides, the urge to lash out–strike him, shove him, anything to silence the words he wielded with such maddening ease–tearing at her restraint. Yet she remained still, her nails biting into the soft flesh of her palms until the pain steadied her trembling resolve. Her gaze dropped back to the flames, their restless dance offering a momentary distraction, though no comfort.

His words struck her, sharp and relentless, slicing through the armor of her resolve and lodging deep in her chest. They weren’t wholly true–yet they weren’t wholly false, either. Her heart twisted on that knife-edge of contradiction, torn between justifications and the inescapable truth of what she had done.

She had made her decision.

All those days ago, she had sat amidst the ruins of her room, the shattered remnants of her world scattered around her like the jagged shards of a broken mirror. The rubble had surrounded her, but it was the ruins within her chest that weighed heavier–a hollowed space where her heart should have been, replaced by the aching emptiness of loss. Her brother was dead, and they had celebrated. They had donned their smiles, raised their goblets, and filled the halls with laughter as if his life had been nothing more than a pawn swept from the board. That night, she had faced them. She had stood among those who had left her world in ruins, their merriment ringing in her ears like a dirge.

Something had changed in her then. Innocence, fragile and fleeting, had been stripped away like the petals of a wilting flower. Her girlhood, once a thing of dreams and soft naivety, had been torn from her grasp. What remained was steel–hardened, unforgiving, ruthless. She had been reforged in the fires of her loss, and the girl she had been was gone.

It was in that moment she had chosen to act, her resolve born of the wreckage around her. She had understood the cost, had weighed the consequences and accepted them. The sacrifice had been inevitable.

Patrick’s life, innocent and undeserving of its place on the scales, had been set against her own. She could still see his face in her mind’s eye, his youthful features etched with fear, his bright eyes searching hers for answers she could not give. She had weighed their lives, hers and his, and with deliberate finality, she had tipped the balance.

If she could have spared him, she thought bitterly, she would have. She would have saved him, sent him home to whatever family waited for him, his wide eyes filled with hope instead of terror. She would have seen him live, alive and unbroken, free of the shadow she had cast over him.

If she could have done it, she would have. She could have.

But she hadn’t. And the truth of that would stay with her, a shadow clinging to her soul, for all her days.

That was the truth that twisted like a dagger in her chest. She had wielded her power to end his suffering, but also to end her own. Patrick had been an anchor dragging her into the abyss, his life a weight tied to hers, threatening to drown her beneath the crushing tide of her enemies’ machinations. She had severed that weight, made her sacrifice, and ensured she would not be as helpless again. She had chosen survival–not his, but hers.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move–each movement languid, precise, like  a shadow come alive. His long fingers curled around a taper, the warm light of the candles casting faint shadows along his knuckles. He lifted it with a quiet grace, his movements purposeful as if the weight of the act was significant–and that, in itself, sent a faint ripple of unease through her. 

Daenera’s breath caught, her throat tightening as she watched him lower the taper, passing the fire to an unlit candle. It flared, brighter now, burning with life. He paused, holding the small, wavering light for a moment, his expression carefully unreadable, as though he alone knew the weight of the act. The warm glow of the candles bathed his face, softening its impossibly sharp angles, muting the cold precision of his features. In that fleeting light, he seemed almost human–almost gentle. The warmth of it caught her off guard, and her heart tightened, the ache unexpected and unwelcome. It was a reminder of a softness she doubted existed, a shadow of what might have been but never was.

She shifted her gaze to him fully now, her chest tightening as her heartbeat grew heavy and uneven. A dreadful weight settled over her, the slow, creeping realization of what he was doing. She forced herself to speak, her voice quiet but trembling with an edge she could not hide. 

“Your father?” She asked, the question barely above a whisper. It was hope spoken aloud–futile, desperate hope she didn’t truly believe in. She already knew the truth, already knew that the flame wasn’t for his father. Aemond Targaryen would never light a candle for his father. The bitterness between them ran too deep, the wounds of neglect and scorn too raw. Aemond despised him; there was no love to mourn, no remorse to soothe the edges of his passing. His father’s death was a thing of indifference, even satisfaction–not grief.

“No.”

Daenera’s jaw tightened, her teeth clenched against the surge of anger and despair welling inside her as her gaze bore into the flame he had just lit. It flickered almost mockingly, alive and unyielding, its small light dancing as though in jest of her turmoil. She felt the heat of it, a faint warmth doing nothing to combat the chill in her fingers–in her bones. 

Her gaze followed his hand, the taper moving with unhurried purpose to the wick of another unlit candle. She knew then, without him needing to say it.

Patrick.

And Lucerys. 

Their flames burned side by side now, equal in their shared fate, and yet to her, the sight was a bitter jest. It mocked her grief, her guilt, her.

“It is not the same,” she said, her voice tense, barely above a whisper. 

Aemond turned his head slightly, his eye catching the light. “Isn’t it?”

He brought the taper to his lips, extinguishing the flame with a sharp, deliberate puff of air. Smoke coiled around his face, the faint scent of it lingering in the air, mingling with the scent of burning wax. Then he placed the stub on the altar. “You and I are the same–two sides of the same blade.”

Daenera felt the rage ignite within her, searing and wild, as though a beast of fire clawed its way through her chest, tearing and burning as it rose. It consumed her, flooding her veins with molten fury–with guilt and shame and outrage. How dare he? How could he compare their actions? How could he claim that it was the same?

“No,” she sneered, her voice low and trembling. The word tore from her lips like the crack of a whip, sharp and stinging. At last, she turned to face him, her eyes burning. 

“What you did,” she began, her voice climbing with intensity, each word a dagger hurled at him, “you did for vengeance.” Her hands balled into tight fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms so deeply she could feel the sting. “You hunted him.” The urge to lash out at him surged within her, wild and unrelenting. It prickled at her fingertips, demanding release–the temptation to reach out and swipe at him, to snatch one of the candles from the altar and hurl it at his chest, to rake her nails across his impossibly sharp features until they bore the mark of her fury. The restraint it took to hold herself back burned just as fiercely as the anger roiling inside her, threatening to spill over at any moment. 

“You chased him through the sky!” She spat at him. “You wanted him afraid–you wanted him to fear for his life. And then,” her voice broke, but she pressed on, the words spilling out like a torrent, “you struck him down. Not in justice, not in necessity, but in rage.”

“We are not the same!” she spat, her voice ringing through the Sept, her sneer cutting as sharply as any blade. Her lip curled, baring her teeth for a moment, and she caught herself thinking how satisfying it would be to sink them into his throat. For a fleeting instant, she felt more beast than girl. Her voice rose again, trembling with unbridled rage. “We are as different as fire and ice.”

He was the desolation of ice–a creeping cold that smothered life. Ice killed with no remorse, no guilt, it was the frozen soil where nothing could grow, nothing could thrive. His presence was a merciless finality, a quiet inevitability that arrived with neither fanfare nor warning but left destruction in its wake. 

And she–she was fire. 

Fire wasn’t like ice that crept in unnoticed and stole the warmth of life in silence. Fire shouted its presence, fierce and unrelenting, a force that demanded recognition even as it destroyed. To burn was to live with purpose, to bring light even as the world turned to ash. 

And fire, in the end, would burn itself out–it did not linger the same way ice did. 

Aemond’s gaze never wavered. He regarded her with that same inscrutable expression, though the faintest flicker of something–curiosity, amusement–crossed his face. His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eye.

“Fire and ice,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, a blade sheathed in velvet. “And yet, they both destroy in the end.”

Daenera’s chest rose and fell with the force of her indignation, each breath stoking the fire that burned within her. Her gaze locked onto Aemond, blazing with fury, defiance, and something deeper–something raw and painful that threatened to consume her. He met her wrath without flinching, his expression cold and impenetrable, his single eye gleaming like tempered steel in the flickering firelight. The quiet intensity in his gaze was infuriating, a silent challenge that only fed the storm raging within her.

"You don’t get to compare your actions to mine," Daenera spat, her voice low but trembling with barely restrained rage. "It is not the same."

Her words reverberated in the vast chamber, echoing back to her like the judgment of the gods. Her chest rose and fell, her breath coming fast, as if she could expel the weight crushing her ribs with sheer force. She stepped closer, the soft tap of her boots against the stone floor breaking the oppressive silence.

"The gods know it isn’t the same," she continued, her voice climbing with every word. “I feel guilty for the blood on my hands. I feel remorse.”Her hands trembled at her sides, the nails digging into her palms with such ferocity that the crescent-shaped marks would surely linger.

She fixed him with a glare so fierce it might have turned lesser men to ash, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, Aemond’s expression remained impassive, the faintest tilt of his head betraying only mild curiosity. That maddening composure stoked the fire within her.

"You," Daenera hissed, her voice breaking under the strain of her emotions. She shook her head, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders, trembling with exasperation and anguish. “You don’t even feel guilty,” she spat, her words cutting and sharp. “You don’t even feel remorseful. You don’t regret it.” Her words faltered for the briefest moment before they surged back, the pain behind them sharpening their edge.

"You take pride in the blood on your hands," she accused, her voice a blend of fury and despair, louder now, echoing off the Sept’s stone walls.

Her words hung in the charged air between them, the silence that followed pressing against her like a weight. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, trembling with the effort of holding back the overwhelming urge to lash out at him. She longed to tear that mask of detachment from his face, to make him feel even a fraction of what she felt.

Daenera couldn’t decide if it would be easier or harder if he did feel regret–if guilt or remorse weighed upon him the way it did upon her. Part of her thought it might soften the jagged edges of her grief, make it easier to see him as something other than the monster she had built him up to be. But another part of her–the part ruled by anger and pain–knew it was easier to hate him this way.

It was easier to hate him as he was now: cold, unrepentant, a creature forged from vengeance and pride. A monster, she told herself, a beast who had hunted her brother through the skies and slain him without hesitation. She clung to that image of him, sharp and terrible, because the alternative was too agonizing to bear.

If there was regret within him, if he grieved in some secret, hidden part of himself, then he would no longer be the monster she needed him to be. He would be a man—flawed, fallible, human. And that would mean confronting the tangled knot of emotions within her, emotions she could not afford to unravel.

The memory of her brother’s death loomed like a shadow over her heart, a wound that refused to heal. She had imagined the scene countless times: Lucerys fleeing through the storm, the clouds roiling and dark, the sea raging below. She saw Aemond in pursuit, his pale hair whipping in the wind, his eye alight with something savage and consuming. He had struck like a tempest, bringing his fury down upon a boy who could not hope to fight back.

No, it was easier this way. Easier to see him as a cold-blooded killer, a soulless executioner who had torn her world apart without a second thought. Anything else–any sign of remorse, of regret–would threaten to shatter the fragile armor she had built around her grief. It would demand that she see him not as a monster, but as a man.

And she could not bear that.

Aemond met her gaze, his eye gleaming with that maddening intensity that always seemed to cut her down to the bone. He held her in that stare for what felt like an eternity before finally speaking, his voice low, deliberate, and edged with something that made her stomach churn. “Do you think his parents would call it mercy?” he asked, his words as precise and cutting as a Valyrian steel blade. “Do you believe they’d see the difference between what you did and what I did?”

Daenera’s gaze fixed on the two flickering flames as she spoke, her voice measured but cold, each word deliberate and precise. “No,” she admitted, “they won’t see the difference. Because they’ll never know.” 

She straightened, her shoulders stiff and her lower back aching from the strain of standing so long. The cold of the Sept had seeped through the thin soles of her shoes, creeping up her legs like an unwelcome tide, leaving her joints stiff and protesting with every subtle shift of movement. The faint creak of her body reminded her of her own mortality, the weariness pressing down like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Her dark eyes remained fixed on the two flickering candles, their golden light dancing across her features, but her focus drifted far beyond the altar. She stared at the flames as though they held the answers she sought–or perhaps the condemnation she feared.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter but no less cutting, each word delivered with the precision of a needle stitching together a wound. “They’ll think their son died in the dungeons. They will believe he succumbed to illness, a quiet death in the shadows of those cold stone walls, surrounded by rapers and murderers.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed the emotion down, her expression hardening as she pressed on. “And perhaps they’ll think it a mercy,” she added, her voice softening, though the tremor in it was impossible to hide. “That he wasn’t left to rot alone and afraid. That he wasn’t to be hanged like a traitor, or worse, have his head mounted on the Traitor’s Walk for all to see–like the rest of my men.”

For a moment, the silence of the Sept pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating, the faint liker of the flames the only movement in the vast, empty space. “They’ll have their son home,” she said finally, the words bitter on her tongue. Her voice dropped, quieter now, as though the admission had drained her of life. “They’ll see his body and they will have a funeral–they will get to bury him. They will grieve. And yes, they may blame me.”

They would get to bury their child–that was a kindness in itself, she thought. It was more than was afforded her mother. “I don’t expect forgiveness. Not from them, not from the gods.” Her jaw tightened as she steeled herself. “I made a choice. He didn’t deserve to die–no child ever does–but it was a kindness… I will bear the guilt and mourn him.”

Her eyes lifted from the candles to Aemond, narrowing. “Can you say the same for my brother?”

Aemond stood still as a statue carved from marble and obsidian. His jaw clenched tight, the muscles tensing beneath his skin. His face was a mask, cold as steel–she wondered if that was all there was. It was this inscrutable facade that drove her to madness, the implacable, unfeeling calm he wore as effortlessly as the blade at his hip. And yet, she couldn’t help but throw herself against it, again and again, cutting herself on its unyielding edges.

“No,” she said, the single word trembling on her lips, almost swallowed by the emptiness of the Sept. She drew a sharp breath, her gaze leaving his, daring him to respond–to let her beneath his mask so she could rake her nails over his tender, vulnerable insides as he had hers. 

“His parents might not call it mercy,” she continued, her voice measured. “But they wouldn’t call what you did justice either.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the flames. Daenera held her ground, the tremble in her limbs belying the strength of her stare. The gods above seemed to watch, unblinking and indifferent, their stone faces bathed in the light of a thousand candles. But it was not their judgment she feared.

No, it was not the gods’ dispassionate eyes that made her chest tighten or her throat constrict. It was his.

Aemond’s single eye, sharp and penetrating, seemed to see too much–more than she wanted, more than she could bear. His gaze held no condemnation, no fiery reproach or righteous fury. Instead, there was something far worse: understanding. That unbearable, maddening understanding that stripped her defenses bare and left her feeling exposed, raw, vulnerable.

It was not the gods’ cold indifference that terrified her, nor their justice that she sought to avoid. She could face that a thousand times over, endure their silent judgment and accept their scorn. But his understanding? His love? That was the weight she could not carry, the reckoning she could not endure.

The two flames flickered on the altar, their delicate tongues of fire dancing side by side amidst the sea of light that filled the Sept. Hundreds of candles burned in quiet reverence, their glow painting the chamber in shades of gold and amber. Yet, among them all, those two flames stood out, distinct and impossible to ignore. 

Their wavering light seemed almost alive, mocking her with their unrelenting brightness. The comparison he had drawn hung in the air between them like a blade, its edge pressing against her heart, a wound too deep to ignore. She couldn’t dislodge it, couldn’t push it away–it had rooted itself in her chest, a cruel thorn left to fester beneath her armor of composure.

It was not the same.

Her ruthlessness had been born of necessity, tempered by mercy, even if it also served to free her from the suffocating weight of his life hanging over her head. At least she felt the blood on her hands, cold and sticky, clinging to her soul like an unwanted phantom. At least she bore the weight of it, the nauseating shame that churned in her stomach every time she thought of Patrick’s face–the fear in his eyes, the tremor in his voice. Her choice had been calculated, yes, but it hadn’t been without cost.

She clung to that distinction with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. It was her only shield against the relentless tide of his words. She was not the same as him–not wholly, not yet.

He felt nothing.

Aemond stood across from her, the shadows curling around him as though they were under his control, his pale features bathed in the warm glow of the candles. The light kissed the sharp planes of his face, softened the line of his jaw, and turned his silver hair into a crown of molten gold–he almost seemed godlier than the gods themselves. He had no regret. No remorse. The blood on his hands didn’t revolt him–didn’t haunt him in the dead of night or claw at his heart in the quiet moments between breaths. But he was no god.

Daenera’s jaw clenched, the tension in her muscles so sharp it felt as though her teeth might crack under the pressure. Her hands curled into fists, the fabric of her skirts bunched tightly in her grip, the embroidered pattern digging into her palms like thorns. 

The air in the Sept felt heavier now, oppressive and stifling, as though the ancient walls themselves had closed in around her. The cloying scent of incense mingled with the faint tang of burning wax, saturating the air until it seemed to seep into her lungs. It was too much–thick, suffocating, pressing against her chest and making every breath feel like a laborious effort.

 The flames on the altar danced mockingly, their light twisting and shifting like small, writhing prayers of remembrance–futile, empty gestures, as though she could ever forget. They flickered with a life of their own, their restless movement seeming almost defiant, as if taunting her with the weight of what they meant.

“These candles aren’t yours to light,” Daenera said, her gaze tearing away from the flames, locking onto his with a fierce intensity that burned as brightly as the candles themselves. “Do not feign sorrow for lives you never cared for. You feel no regret, no guilt for their deaths. You do not mourn them.”

With a sharp inhale, Daenera stepped forward, her movements deliberate and measured. Her chest rose as she drew in the cold, heavy air of the Sept, and with a forceful exhale, she blew out the flames in one swift motion. The candles flickered violently before succumbing, their light vanishing one by one. Her breath did not discriminate, extinguishing not only the two of them but also those scattered in the surrounding cluster.

The embers in the wicks glowed faintly in the aftermath, their light waning into dull orange specks as smoke curled upward in ghostly tendrils.  The tendrils of smoke twisted and swayed, rising to fill the air between them, weaving a veil of faint, grey mist that seemed almost alive. The acrid scent of extinguished fire filled the space, mingling with the stale air of the chamber.

The silence was thick, broken only by the faint hiss of the dying wicks and the rustle of smoke dispersing into the stillness. Her chest rose and fell as she glowered at him, “Lighting their candles won’t absolve you,” she said, her voice trembling. “It won’t burn away the blood on your hands, and it won’t make you forgiven. Not by the gods, not by them, and certainly not by me.” Her eyes burned. “Lighting a candle won’t make you human again.”

Aemond didn’t flinch. His expression remained carved from stone, but there was something in his eye, a flicker of an emotion she couldn’t place–too fleeting to name, too restrained to understand. His voice, when he spoke, was soft but laced with a quiet intensity that cut through the heavy air between them. “If I am a monster,” he questioned, his words deliberate and steady, “what does that make of you?”

His challenge hung in the air like smoke, curling and twisting, pressing against her resolve. He didn’t rise to her anger, didn’t meet it with rage or denial. Instead, he accepted it, absorbed it, and turned it back on her with the quiet intimacy of knowing her.

Daenera’s lips tightened, the muscles in her jaw clenching as his words struck home. Her chest tightened, her fury a roiling storm barely contained. Yet, she refused to let him see her falter. She held his gaze for a heartbeat longer before turning sharply away, her dark hair sweeping over her shoulder like a curtain. Her eyes shifted to the altar, its flickering light reflected in her cold expression.

“I am what you’ve made of me,” she answered, her tone frigid and unyielding, each word dropping like a shard of ice. Her gaze lingered on the extinguished candles, her dismissal clear. Aemond might have held her in the moment, but she would not give him the satisfaction of holding her any longer.

The silence that followed was weighted, the tension between them almost tangible. Smoke still curled upward from the darkened wicks, weaving through the space between them. 

“Most monsters are made,” Aemond said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur as he stepped back. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and Daenera felt their weight settle uneasily in her chest. She knew what he meant–knew he was speaking of himself. He thought his monstrousness had been forged all those years ago when the blade had taken his eye, when pain and loss had seared into him like a brand.

Perhaps he was right, but to her, that wasn’t the moment he had truly become a monster. The moment was etched in her memory like a scar—the storm-laden skies, her brother’s desperate flight, and the roar of Vhagar in pursuit. It was vengeance that had made him monstrous, the choice to hunt a boy who could never match his strength, to bring his fury down like a tempest that left nothing but ruin in its wake.

Aemond exhaled then, a slow, measured release of breath that sent a faint prickle down her spine. The sound was soft, almost contemplative, yet it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, simply watched him from the corner of her eye as he lingered, his gaze flickering between her and the extinguished candles.

“The council will restrict your movements further,” he informed her, his tone even, with a note of reproach. It was a statement, not an apology, delivered with the same detached authority that he wielded like a blade. “They’ve decided you’re not to leave our chambers, save to come to the Sept.”

Daenera hummed quietly, a sound neither agreement nor protest. It wasn’t much different from how things were now. The walls that surrounded her were already her prison; the only difference was that she’d lose even the pretense of freedom. She supposed she wouldn’t be able to charm or outwit her way around these new restrictions. Not anymore. Not after Patrick.

She remained silent, her gaze drifting back to the smoldering wicks, their faint glow fading into nothing. The shadows deepened around her as the last ember died, the cold stone of the Sept pressing in on her like the weight of the sky.

The tendrils of smoke still hung in the air, a ghostly reminder of what had been extinguished, and Daenera inhaled deeply, her chest tight with the weight of what was to come. The gods watched from their lofty perches, silent and unmoving, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that they, too, had judged her.

The tendrils of smoke still hung in the air, a ghostly reminder of what had been extinguished, and Daenera inhaled deeply, her chest tight with the weight of what was to come. The gods watched from their lofty perches, silent and unmoving, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that they, too, had judged her.

“I suppose they’re worried I might upset the delicate narrative they’ve been weaving with this farce of a wedding,” Daenera mused. A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips.. “I have no cause to play their game anymore–and certainly no cause to act the part of your dutiful, adoring wife.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the subtle motion–a shift in the air, a ripple in the space between them. He moved like a shadow, silent and deliberate, his presence looming closer before she could react. His hand rose, his fingers brushing against her jawline with a touch that was soft, almost tender, yet felt like the kiss of a blade. The warmth of his palm followed, sliding beneath the thick curtain of her hair, his grip firm yet unyielding as he cupped the side of her face. The heat of his touch seared her skin, sending a jolt through her that she fought to suppress.

“Even so,” Aemond murmured, his voice low, the words a quiet claim that sent a shiver down her spine. “You remain my wife.”

His tone was calm, almost dispassionate, but there was something coiled beneath the surface–possessive, unrelenting. His single eye burned with an intensity that unsettled her, its focus locked onto her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered in that moment. The words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, as if daring her to deny the truth of them.

Her breath hitched, her body stiffening as her pulse quickened, a surge of conflicting emotions crashing over her–anger, unease, something deeper and far more dangerous.  Her hand shot up instinctively, fingers curling around his wrist, nails biting into the flesh as she had done before. The half-moon marks she had left the night before were still faintly visible, and now she added fresh ones, pressing harder as though she could sever the connection between them with sheer force.

“Don’t,” she hissed, her voice sharp and venomous, slicing through the tense silence of the Sept like a whip. The single word carried the weight of all the emotions she refused to name, each syllable dripping with barely contained rage and desperation. “Don’t touch me!”

Her voice rose, cracking with the sheer intensity of her anger. “You don’t get to touch me! The blood on your hands has stained me enough already.”

Daenera shoved him back, the movement swift and unrelenting, her palms striking his chest with a force that betrayed the storm roiling within her. Her skin burned and prickled where his had had been, as though his touch had left a mark there–had branded into her skin to claim her as his. Her breath came fast and shallow, her chest rising and falling in quick succession as she struggled to regain her composure.

“You can say the words as often as you like,” she sneered, her voice low but trembling, each word forced through her clenched teeth. “It doesn’t change anything. Any love I might have held for you… it died along with my brother.”

Aemond didn’t move to close the distance she had forced between them. He stood as still as a statue, his piercing gaze fixed on her with that same maddeningly inscrutable expression. His head tilted ever so slightly, a subtle gesture that betrayed nothing yet seemed to study everything. The silence between them grew heavier with every passing moment, suffocating in its weight, laden with all the words left unspoken, all the emotions neither dared to name.

For Daenera, it was too much–his presence, his gaze, the crushing weight of the tension that had built between them. The anger and grief she carried churned within her chest, clawing at her ribs, threatening to break free. She could feel his gaze on her, an unrelenting force that pressed against her resolve, daring her to break.

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

With a sharp exhale, she turned away from him, her movements abrupt and tense. Her arms wrapped around herself instinctively, a gesture that was equal parts defiance and self-preservation. Her fingers pressed into her arms, desperate for an anchor, for something solid to hold onto as the storm inside her threatened to spill over.

She felt his gaze linger, heavy and unyielding, like the weight of a blade poised over her neck. It burned into her back, a sensation as tangible as if he had reached out to touch her. But he said nothing. The air around her seemed to grow colder as the moments stretched on, until finally, she heard the soft shuffle of his boots against the stone.

Daenera’s eyes lingered on the spot where her breath had extinguished several of the candles. The bare patch amidst the scattered flames stood out, cold and hollow, a small void of darkness in a sea of light. Her chest felt unbearably heavy, her heart beating a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt almost like a betrayal, as though it refused to align with the stillness she craved. 

The faintest sound reached her ears–the soft scrape of boots against stone. She didn’t turn, but she felt the approach all the same. There was an undeniable awareness that prickled at her senses, a subtle shift in the air as someone drew near. It wasn’t the same as the way she felt Aemond’s presence. His movements were like ripples in the air, tethered to her in ways she couldn’t explain, each motion of his creating a reaction within her, a current she couldn’t ignore–as much as she wanted to. 

This presence was different, quieter, less intimate. Daenera felt it in the weight of his gaze pressed against her back, a familiar sensation that all eyes seemed to bring, a prickling sense of being observed. The sound of his footsteps echoed faintly in the cavernous sept, almost drowned out by the sound of rain beating against the windows. He stopped at her shoulder, close but not intrusive, his presence offering neither comfort nor threat. 

“Fenrick made it out of the city,” Finan said, his voice low, a quiet murmur meant only for her ears. 

Daenera nodded once, her expression solemn, her lips pressed into a line. She didn’t respond beyond that, letting the silence stretch between them. The faint flicker of candles reflected in her eyes, and for a moment, she was as still as the carved statues of the gods that loomed over the Sept.

The news should have brought some relief, some fleeting reprieve from the weight pressed against her chest. But it didn’t. It only offered her a small sense of vindication that she had made the right choice–a bitter hope that could crumble as easily as it was made. The darkness between the flames on the altar felt like it had seeped into her, growing and festering in the quiet spaces where her thoughts roamed. She exhaled slowly, her breath steady but laced with the tension she refused to let show.

“How much did you overhear?” Daenera asked, her voice steady, though the faintest edge betrayed her wariness. 

“Enough.” 

Daenera nodded, a subtle motion, as though acknowledging the inevitable. She drew in a deep breath, but it felt shallow, as if the air couldn’t fully reach her lungs. The cloying scent of incense clung to her senses, sharp and oppressive, and it curled at the back of her throat, threatening to unsettle her further–her stomach roiling. 

“You could have told me,” Finan said, breaking the silence again. His voice was low, quiet enough to avoid carrying through the cavernous space of the Sept, but there was a hint of reproach woven into his words. He shifted slightly on his feet, the faint sound of leather against stone punctuating the stillness.

“Had I told you, what would you have done?” Daenera asked quietly. Her tone was neither angry nor outraged–it was calm, almost detached, but her words carried a weight. It wasn’t just a question; it was a test, a subtle probe into the depths of his loyalty. Would his obedience to her have stretched far enough to carry out her will, even if it meant betraying his own sense of right and wrong? 

She turned her gaze toward him, studying him in the dim light of the Sept. Finan’s face looked more severe here, framed by the glow of the candles. His features bore the unmistakable solemnity of the North–the heavy brow, the strong lines of his jaw, the unyielding set of his mouth. His gray eyes, however, remained humanity. They were not cold but carried a notable sadness, a depth of understanding she did not think she deserved. 

“Perhaps there would have been another way,” Finan said at last, his voice quiet. 

“There was no other way,” Daenera replied, her voice steady and firm. Her gaze did not falter. “None that wouldn’t have condemned him to the dungeons far longer than he deserved. None that wouldn’t have exposed you.”

Her chest tightened further as the words left her, but she forced herself to press on. “The Greens wouldn’t have given him up for anything. He was already dead, Finan. All that remained was to choose how much he would suffer before the end.”

Finan’s jaw tightened, the faint movement betraying his inner turmoil. His hands clenched around his belt, but he did not argue. It was not reproach then, but reluctant acceptance. “I know.”

“Would you still have brought it to me?” Daenera asked softly, her voice laced with quiet curiosity. There was no accusation in her tone, no anger–only a question that carried a weight far greater than the words themselves. Her dark eyes remained fixed on the flickering flames of the altar, the light casting faint shadows across her face, as though she feared meeting his gaze might shatter the fragile stillness between them.

The silence that followed was thick, stretching across the empty space of the Sept like a taut bowstring. For a moment, it seemed as though Finan might not answer, his hesitation hanging in the air alongside the faint tendrils of smoke that drifted upward from the extinguished candles.

At last, he spoke. “Yes,” he said, the single word steady but heavy with meaning. His voice, low and solemn, echoed faintly in the cavernous chamber. “You got Fenrick out,” he continued, his gray eyes watching her intently. “I know it cost you dearly, and for that, I am grateful.”

His words were deliberate, each one spoken with care, as though he were choosing them from a place deep within himself. “I swore to you, Daenera,” he said, the faintest edge of emotion creeping into his tone. “And I am a man of my word. I am yours to command.”

Daenera exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the soft crackle of the remaining flames. Her fingers twitched slightly, curling into the fabric of her skirts as she absorbed his words. There was no triumph in his answer, no sense of victory—only a simple and unwavering truth.

She glanced at him then, her gaze catching on the somber lines of his face. In the flickering light, he looked as though he had been hewn from the same stone as the Sept itself–strong, steadfast, but not untouched by the weight of his choices. There was a sadness in his eyes, one that mirrored the ache in her chest, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to meet it, to acknowledge the cost they had both paid.

The silence stretched again, but this time it felt less oppressive, softened by the shared understanding between them. Daenera turned her gaze back to the altar, the shadows of the gods above seeming to shift in the wavering candlelight. The question had been answered, but the weight of their actions lingered, a quiet specter between them that neither dared to dismiss.

Daenera reached for the half-burned taper, her movements slow and deliberate. She picked it up, its weight slight but significant in her hand, and she leaned forward to touch it to one of the still-lit candles. The flame flickered to life, its yellow tongue lapping greedily at the air, hungry and alive. She held it for a moment, watching the fire dance, before guiding it to the center of the darkened space where her breath had wrought its devastation. 

She lit one candle, then another. The flames flared brightly, steady after a moment, their light filling the hollow void she had created. 

Patrick Piper. Lucerys Velaryon. 

The names echoed in her mind as her hand moved, the light glowing brighter. When she had lit the two candles, she brought the taper to her lips and blew it out, the flame vanishing in an instant, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke that curled upward and disappeared. She set the stub aside, her fingers lingering on the cold stone of the altar for a moment before she straightened. 

“I know it’s easy for you to feel guilty,” she said, her voice low. Her gaze remained fixed on the two candles she had relit, their presence a reminder of what had been lost. “To feel responsible. But the guilt isn’t yours to carry. It is mine. Do not take it from me.”

Her tone was sharp, almost harsh, but there was vulnerability beneath it, an unspoken plea she couldn’t quite hide. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and jagged, like shards of broken glass. 

Finan shifted beside her. “I provided it.”

“The smith is not to blame for the blood his sword spills,” Daenera muttered, her voice distant, as if the words were for the flames rather than Finan. Her gaze remained on the flickering light as exhaustion pressed against her bones. She extended her hand over the candles, her palm hovering above the wavering tongues of the fire. The warmth rose to meet her skin, chasing away the icy chill that had settled in her bones. 

“The blame lies solely in the one who wields it,” she continued, her tone thoughtful, almost detached. Her hand lingered over the flames, her fingers spread as though to feel the full measure of the heat. The warmth turned to something hotter, a sharp intensity that bit at her skin the closer she moved to the fire. It wasn’t pain, not at first, just a prickling sensation, almost unreal, as though the heat couldn’t truly reach her. 

The heat became sharper, searing, a faint sting growing steadily stronger. Yet she hardly felt it at all. Her mind was elsewhere, her focus lost in the light and the words she had spoken. It had been by her hand, and hers alone. She would not share the blame. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, until she felt the firm grip of a hand wrapping around her wrist. 

Finan yanked her hand back abruptly, the motion startling her out of her daze. Her palm stung sharply with heat now, the sensation flooding back as the cold air kissed her reddened skin. Her breath hitched, and she blinked, realizing how close she had brought herself to the flames. She was not immune–she never thought she was. 

His brow was furrowed, worry etched into the heavy lines of his face as he held her wrist, carefully turning her palm upward to inspect it. His calloused fingers brushed against her skin, steady but gentle. Daenera’s eyes followed his movements, her own gaze drifting to her palm. The skin was flushed, reddened from the heat, but there were no blisters, no lasting damage–only the faint pink line of an old scar, a memory etched deep into her flesh.

“You shouldn’t carry the guilt alone,” Finan said, his voice low but firm, as though he hoped the words might anchor her to something more solid than the turmoil within her.

Daenera’s jaw tightened at his words, her chest heaving with a slow, steady breath as she stared at her palm. The sting of the heat still lingered, a faint echo of the searing pain that hadn’t quite reached her. She pulled her hand from his grasp gently, letting her fingers curl into her skirts, her head tilting slightly as her gaze returned to the flames.

“It’s mine to bear,” she said softly, her voice raw and distant, like a confession whispered to the fire. “The sword was in my hand. The choice was mine.”

Children and the innocent, she thought, her gaze distant as the flickering flames seemed to blur before her eyes. Children, and innocence.

They were always the first sacrifices of war.

[guess-my-next-obsession]

endure & survive | iv. the storm

pairing: post-outbreak!joel miller x single mother!reader

chapter content: MINORS DNI, written in dual POV/first person POV, no description/name given to reader, reader is a single mother, age gap (twenty-ish years), descriptions of blood/stitches, grief, talks of dead bodies, panic attack, unproofread bc i’m lazy

word count: 2.8k

series masterlist | previous chapter

JOEL

“Everybody good?” It’s a question meant for one person in particular—the woman that just got the air kicked out of her—but with what the kids just saw, there’s no harm in asking them, too.

“Good,” Ellie says, although her voice is quiet. Even if I didn’t know her, I’d be able to tell that she’s lost in her head. After what she did, I’d be lost, too.

“I need…” My attention lands on our host—Red, I think I’ll call her, to match the fire in her eyes. She’s resting one arm against the kitchen counter, the other cradling her ribs. “I don’t know.”

I’m walking over to her before I even realize I’m doing it, my hands reaching out to steady her as she sways a bit and goes clammy. “Y’need to lay down.”

“Need to wash…the blood…” I look down, scanning her body to find a clean slice up her arm dripping blood onto the wooden planks beneath us.

“Shit,” I curse under my breath. Guiding her over to one of the chairs at the dining table, I have to glower at her to get her to sit. “Y’got a med kit?”

She nods, weakly pointing to the cabinet above the sink.

“Ellie, can you boil some water?” I glance at her as I reach to grab the med kit, finding her still in that state of shock.

She needs to get up, to find ways to busy her mind and hands so that she’s not replaying the events from earlier. I know it better than anybody.

“Ellie,” I call again, this time breaking through to her. “Need some help, kid.”

“Right,” she says, her voice still softer than I’d like. “Water, you said?”

“Yeah,” I manage, keeping one eye on her and one on the woman in front of me half-ready to faint. “Quickly as you can manage.”

“Got it.”

Focusing back on Red, I pull up a chair in front of her. “Gonna need to stitch you up.”

“I can…take care of…myself.”

“You can’t even talk,” I grunt, shaking my head at her as I lay out the contents of the kit in front of us. Needles, thread, an antiseptic that I hope still works.

“You even know…what you’re doing?” Even bleeding out and winded, she’s still coming at me.

I have no fuckin’ clue as to why I like it so much.

“Ain’t my first time stitchin’ up an awnry woman, if that’s what you mean.” I don’t want to think about the last woman I tended to like this. If I do, I’ll just get angry all over again. Angry and hurt. “Might leave a scar, though.”

“Mama,” Colt comes up to her, sticking to her side like glue. “What’s gonna happen to you?”

She softens, forcing a smile onto her clammy face. “Well, Joel here…is gonna…stitch me up. Y’know…how I like to…sew?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well…Joel’s just gonna…sew my cut up,” she says, raising her free hand up to his face. “It sounds scarier…than it is.”

“Okay,” he says, blowing out a breath of air. “I’ll hold your hand, just in case it hurts.”

I might be a cold-hearted bastard, but damn it if the sight of Colt and Red together doesn’t warm my soul just a little bit.

“Water’s boiling,” Ellie announces, joining us at the table.

“Alright, soon as it reaches a boil, I need you t’take it off the heat and let it cool a little bit before bringing me a bowl full,” I instruct. “As for you, Red, I’m gonna need you t’sit right here and not bleed out in the meantime.”

“Got nothing better to do,” she says, one corner of her mouth twitching just the slightest bit.

Ignoring the strange feeling stirring in my chest—one I’m sure is a result of the adrenaline high I’m coming off of—I head over to the bathroom and rinse the blood off my hands with the leftover water sitting in a bucket inside the empty bathtub. It’s not the most sanitary of set-ups, but it’s better than nothing.

“Hey,” Ellie pokes her head in the bathroom, locking eyes with me in the vanity mirror. “What, uh, what are we doing about the dead dudes?”

“Don’t know,” I say as I scrub my hands with soap. “Don’t deserve a burial, in my humble opinion.”

“I just mean…like…are we good here?”

I contemplate her question for a few seconds. Truthfully, I’ve got no fuckin’ idea if it’s safe to be here. Those fucks outside could be apart of a larger group and just got dealt the shit end of the recon stick for all I know. So, I settle on the truth. “I don’t know, Ellie. Regardless, no one’s gonna be comin’ out this way in the storm. Once it passes, we’ll be on our way like we planned to.”

“And them?” she asks, her brows lacing together. “We’re just going to leave them behind?”

Rinsing my hands off and grabbing a cloth to wipe them dry, I turn to face her with an exasperated look. It’s been a hell of a fucking afternoon. My body is drained. My mind is all over the place. I’m not in the position to stretch myself any thinner than I already have.

“Ellie, this is their home,” I whisper, gesturing towards where Colt and Red sit just on the other side of the wall. “She can decide what she wants to do. All I’m worried about is us.”

“There’s not an ounce of sympathy left in that cold heart of yours?” She’s getting pissed now, just another part of her dealing with what she did out there in the woods.

“Sympathy won’t keep us alive,” I say, moving past her.

READER

Joel’s hands are warm. Rough, yes, but so fucking warm. And surprisingly gentle.

He’s got one hand resting beneath my forearm as it lays on the table, squeezing both sides of my wound together as he stitches it closed. He just finished washing it clean, his fingers gentle as he dragged the damp cloth along the slice until it was no longer caked in dark blood. He’s by no means a surgeon, but damn it if he’s not completely focused and careful with me.

It’s painfully attractive. Even if the guy still pisses me off with all of his grunts and scowling.

Then again, I always did find competency sexy. It was the main reason Kit ever made it out of the friend zone back in QZ.

A man who can take care of shit is an entirely different level of desirable.

“You have done this before, haven’t you?” I don’t know why I’m making conversation, other than the fact that for the first time in the last hour, I can speak without feeling like I’m going to pass out.

Between the chest kick that knocked the wind out of me and the slice across my arm, I’m surprised I made it this long without fainting.

“Yep,” he says, sighing a little bit.

“Surprising,” is all I reply. He glances up from his work and pins me with dark eyes, but I’m quick to look away. Instead, I turn to look at Ellie and Colt in the middle of the living room, sitting side by side on the floor as they color in companionable silence. They’re both handling this better than I would, especially Ellie.

“Why?” Joel’s soft, deep voice brings my eyes back to him, but thankfully, he’s not looking at me this time.

“Just don’t seem like the caretaking type is all.”

“Right,” he murmurs. “Because travelin’ around the country with a teenager doesn’t involve any caretakin’.”

“Ellie seems pretty self-sufficient, that’s all I mean.”

“Still a kid,” he says, stabbing the needle through my flesh quickly enough that I barely register the pain. “Still someone to take care of.”

“She yours?” I’ve been meaning to ask ever since they arrived, but between our little arguments and then staying out in the shed, there hasn’t been much of an opportunity to pry.

“No,” he replies, pursing his lips.

“How long have you been watching over her, then?”

“Since summer,” he says. “Promised someone I’d take her across the country. It’s taken us this long to get here.”

I nod, not wanting to ask for anything more than he’s given me. Lord knows I certainly haven’t been all that giving in terms of my history.

“What about you?” he asks, sticking me with the needle again. “I’m assumin’ he’s yours.”

“Yeah,” I smile softly, my eyes wandering to Colt. “He’s mine.”

“And the father?”

I suck in a deep breath and let my eyes fall to my lap. “He died before Colt was born.”

Joel’s eyes flicker up to meet mine. “You gave birth by yourself?”

I nod, chuckling a bit at the memory. “And I’ll never do it again.”

Joel’s lips threaten to curl upwards. “Can’t say I blame you.”

It’s odd making conversation that doesn’t end with me calling him a dick or him judging my parental skills, but what’s even more strange is that I’m starting to think he’s not a dick at all.

Or maybe he is, but only when he wants to be. Maybe he’s a dick because it’s the safer option out here. I sure as hell haven’t been the most friendly person in the world.

“So…about what happened out there,” I say, my free hand tracing the hole in my jeans at my knee in order to distract myself from what I know is inevitable. “We’re not safe out here, are we?”

Joel’s jaw clenches a bit as he works the final swipe of his needle through me. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, hoping Colt’s keen ears don’t pick up on it.

“You’re safe out here at least until the storm passes through,” Joel says as consolation, his fingers working quickly to tie the thread into a knot before he’s wrapping my arm up in a bandage.

“It could be over with by tomorrow,” I say, lifting my eyes to meet his. “I don’t…I don’t know if I can make it out there on my own, not with Colt. I’m not like you, and he’s not like Ellie. We’re…too soft.”

Joel’s eyes grow stern, his hand still holding my arm even though he’s finished with sewing me up. “Trust me, Red, you’re anything but soft.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “You don’t know me. I might pretend to be brave, but…deep down, I’m just scared.”

“Y’don’t think I’m scared every goddamn day out there?” His voice is low, hushed to the point that I have to lean in to hear him. “It’s alright to be scared shitless. What’s not alright is to give up. You stay out here, y’all are just sittin’ ducks waitin’ for someone to come by and take everything from you. Now, I don’t know you well enough to trust you, but I trust that you’ll do anything to save that boy of yours. You’ll find a way to be brave.”

I swallow the lump forming in my throat and give him a nod. It’s all I can do not to cry.

I wish Kit were here.

I wish I didn’t have to go through this alone and make these decisions.

Most of all, I wish Colt never had to live in this dangerous, uncertain world.

“Listen, I gotta talk this through with Ellie, but…” He rubs the scruff on his chin, appearing at war with himself for what he’s about to say. “Maybe y’all can tag along with us, least until you find someplace to settle.”

I give him a wary, almost skeptical look. “We don’t trust each other.”

“No, we don’t,” he agrees, shrugging one shoulder as he lets his hands finally slip away from my arm. “But we’ve both had plenty of chances to kill each other and haven’t yet. I figure as long as we continue like that, we’ll be alright.”

“I’ll keep my end of the bargain if you do, too,” I say, holding my free hand out for him to shake on. Joel eyes it for a moment before grasping it in his warm grasp.

Still so rough.

Still so gentle.

JOEL

“Jesus, is it like this every winter out here?” Ellie asks, sitting beside me at the table while we eat the dinner Red whipped up for us.

I’d offered to help—actually, I’d offered to do it myself—but ever the stubborn asshole, she refused to let me do so much as boil water. Tess always told me I was the most stubborn person on the planet, but I think she’d change her mind if she ever met Red.

”It ebbs and flows,” Red says, wiping her mouth with a cloth. “Some winters it’s calm, barely snows more than a few inches. Some winters—like this one—are brutal.”

My eyes flicker to the boy sitting beside her, his chair scooted up so close to hers he might as well have been sitting in her lap. He’s clutching his spoon hard enough to bend it, and his eyes—eyes that don’t match his mother’s—look wild. Red catches me staring, watching her son like he’s a wolf bronco that might buck at me any minute.

“Colt and I always get a little jittery when a storm like this rolls through,” she says, reaching her hand over to rub her son's shoulder. “But it’s nothing we haven’t faced before, right?”

“Mmhm,” he manages, clearly trying to put on a brave face for his mom.

I hate how much it reminds me of Sarah.

I hate being forced to revisit old wounds I haven’t touched in decades.

Most of all, I hate hating the memory of my daughter. She deserves to be remembered without all these extra emotions that come along with it.

Regret.

Anger.

Shame.

Letting my spoon drop into my bowl with a clank, I push my chair back and stand up abruptly, drawing all eyes. “‘Scuse me. I need…uh, need some air.”

I turn to walk towards the door to the cabin, hearing Red call out behind me. “Wait—out there?”

I don’t stop. I can’t.

My ears are ringing, my hands are numb, and all I can think to do is get up and go. I need to be alone. I need to not break down in front of Ellie. In front of Red and her boy.

The icy wind hits me as soon as I step out of the cabin, flecks of snow whirring in front of me and cutting into the warmth of my skin, but it’s a welcome sensation. I’d rather feel something than nothing, and if putting my body into shock is what I need to snap out of it, I’ll gladly sit out here in this blizzard for hours.

“Joel, come back inside!” I expect the person to come chasing after me to be the awnry fourteen-year-old in my care, but it’s not. With a voice full of irritation, and even a little concern, Red is calling my name and shouting orders like she has any right to.

“I’m—“ The words aren’t coming out smoothly, not with the way I can’t seem to catch my breath. “Fine.”

“You’re walking into a blizzard!” she shouts.

“Just…go on back,” I manage, though it’s hard to register if I’m actually getting the words out or just thinking them. All I know is the haggard in and out of my breathing, the pounding in my chest, the empty feeling in my stomach.

Until she rests her hand on my shoulder.

Until I know her touch.

Her warmth.

The gentle squeeze of her hand as she brings me back to myself.

“Come back inside,” she says, her voice softer than it’s ever been towards me. When my eyes settle, the haze turning to clarity, I find her expression just as soft. Just as gentle. “You can freak out in the bathroom if you want. It’s too fucking cold out here and Ellie said if I didn’t get you to come back inside, she’d come out here next.”

I let out a chuckle, or what’s meant to be a chuckle, and nod my head slowly. “Alright, Red.”

And just like that, I’ve gone and done the most dangerous thing a person can do out here.

I’ve made a friend.

[mommyslittlebird]

It Felt Like Coming Home

WandaNat x Reader

Summary: After being strong for so long, the veil starts to slip.

CW: Dissociation, Crying, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Gang, I don't know how long this slow burn is gonna last. I might have to adjust to a medium paced burn, cause I apparently don't know how to write a blossoming relationship in a compelling way. For that reason, this one is kinda short.

Chapter 3 of A Room of Your Own

The next morning you found yourself awake earlier than usual. Again. You had a habit of not sleeping well when adjusting to new environments. So you once again made your way to the kitchen before sunrise, where you once again found Wanda leaned up against the counter in the same silk robe from yesterday.

She smiled over her coffee mug when she saw you. “Good morning! Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

You nodded, taking a seat on a stool at the island. 

“Same as yesterday? With my creamer?” 

“Yes please,” you yawned. 

She slid the mug across the island and leaned forward against the counter. “Did you sleep okay?”

You took a sip of coffee and nodded. You hadn’t really slept okay, but you didn’t have any desire to share that with Wanda. She was clearly trying very hard to make you comfortable. She wasn’t buying it. There was clearly something under the surface that didn’t escape her notice. She let the silence sit for a long moment, hoping you would say something. There was a warm glimmer in her green eyes urging you to speak up. You looked down into your mug, idly tapping the mug with your pointer finger. 

Realizing you were going to need more prompting, Wanda spoke again. “How are you feeling? About everything.”

You shrugged, not looking back up at her. You felt surprisingly fine, aside from not sleeping much. But there was another feeling too. One you couldn’t quite describe. It felt like you were stuck in a perpetual hypnopompic state, trapped in the liminal space between being asleep and awake. You were probably just tired. “I’m alright. Just tired, I think. I always have a bit of trouble sleeping in new places.”

Wanda nodded, not entirely satisfied with your answer, but unwilling to press you any further. 

You both turned your head as a very tired looking Natasha came through the doorway. Even with bedhead and tired eyes, she was beautiful. And the smile that spread across Wanda's face as her wife approached was breathtaking. They were picturesque: a type of beauty you could see even through your grief. You had a good feeling about them. Naive as it may be, you were compelled to trust them.

“Morning Y/N,” she yawned, wrapping her arm around Wanda’s waist. “I trust Wanda is taking care of you?” 

You nodded and smiled at them both. “She is.”

“Mmm, she always does,” she hummed, kissing her wife’s cheek. Natasha poured herself a cup of coffee, setting up next to you on the island. She slid you a pen and a pad of paper. “Wands and I are gonna go to the store in a bit. If you’re up for it, you can write down a list of the things you want. Favorite foods, snacks, school supplies, whatever you want.”

You cautiously took the pen. “Oh you all don’t have to go shopping for me or anything just because I’m staying here.”

Natasha leaned against the island, bracing her elbows against the marble. “What if I want to?” She asked in a low, almost testing tone before straightening back up. “It’s really no problem. We’re going to the store anyway. No reason to have you make a separate trip.”

You smiled. You really did hate the grocery store, so you weren’t going to argue. “Careful,” you said lightheartedly. “I might get used to you spoiling me. Then you’ll really have to kick me out.”

Wanda chuckled. She loved seeing this witty, playful side of you peak out beneath your shy, meek exterior. Natasha seemed to bring it out of you. Natasha seemed to bring it out of a lot of people. You couldn’t see the mischievous smirk that spread across her face. “Oh don’t worry. By the time Nat and I let you go you’ll be so high maintenance you won’t settle for anything less. I think you’re due for a good spoiling.” 

A faint blush rose to your cheeks as you finished your list and slid it back to Natasha. “Five items. Woah. I tell you what Wanda, this kid really pushes the limits,” Natasha teased, setting the pen and paper back down in front of you. “Make it ten and I’ll promise to reign in Wanda when it comes to spoiling.” She gives you a wink as you quickly scribble down a few more things. 

************

After a quick trip upstairs to get dressed and ready, they both headed off to the store, leaving you alone to explore the house. The house wasn’t necessarily a “mansion”, per se, but it was certainly bigger than any house you’d ever lived in. Every room had its own special charm. You carefully perused all the repurposed bedrooms and storage spaces you came across, thoroughly exploring all of your surroundings.

Your favorite room, though, was Wanda’s office. It appeared to be a repurposed bedroom on the top floor with a massive window lining the wall and a huge L-shaped desk. It was cluttered, but in a way that made it look more lived-in than messy. Best of all, there was a small indentation in the wall where you guessed there used to be a closet that Wanda had fashioned into a reading nook. The nook sat, pristine and unused, but you could see yourself curling up there for hours. Maybe Wanda would let you sit here and read while she worked. 

You were so caught up in your thoughts you didn’t even hear the front door click open as Wanda and Natasha returned from the store. 

“Y/N? We’re back!” You heard Natasha call from the foyer. You quickly left the office, closing the door as if you were scared they would catch you. You weren’t sure why the idea made you so nervous. They made it clear you were free to explore. You just naturally felt like an intruder, despite being a welcome guest.

“And we have a surprise for you!” Wanda sang as you came down the steps. 

She sat down a number of paper bags before pulling a mossy green blanket from one of them and handing you the silky soft material. You smiled and took it from her, rubbing the soft material against your cheek. 

“I know we’re still getting to know each other, but I noticed yesterday how much you love soft material and I thought you might like a new blanket for your new bed,” she explained, swaying nervously on her feet. She was worried you weren’t going to like it. 

You hummed contently, unwrapping the blanket and throwing it over your shoulders. It was so incredibly soft and it was big enough to cover your whole bed. Much more suitable than the throw blankets you’d brought with you. “Thank you so much. It’s so nice and soft.”

“And we got some popcorn and ice cream because we were thinking about having a little movie night,” Natasha added. “What do you think? We could gather up all the softest blankets and build you a little nest.”

You stood still, shocked by the suggestion. You thought in staying with them, you’d just be a roommate, coming and going with a few scattered interactions. But this wasn’t just a passing interaction like morning coffee was. They were proposing that you spend the evening together. They wanted to hang out with you.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Wanda blurted out after a long moment of silence. “You’ve had a rough couple of days. If it’s more beneficial to just take some time to yourself, hang out in your room, that’s absolutely fine. It’s just a suggestion. If you wanted company.” 

“A movie sounds nice,” you said quietly, pulling the blanket tight over your shoulders. 

Wanda visibly relaxed and smiled softly. “Then I’ll put these groceries away while you two find some blankets.”

“I found one!” Natasha shouted playfully, picking up your blanket wrapped form and carrying you to the corner of the couch where she gently set you down. “You stay here and get comfortable. I’ll go round up some more soft things.”

Both women returned a few minutes later, Wanda with a big bowl of buttery popcorn, and Natasha with a random amalgamation of blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals that she promptly dropped directly on top of you, burying you in the heap. 

“Natalia Alinovna Romanoff!” Wanda shouted disapprovingly, setting down the popcorn bowl and rushing to dig you out. You emerged with a giddy, content smile, snuggled up with a fuzzy body pillow. “She could’ve suffocated.”

Natasha jokingly rolled her eyes, which earned her a playful slap on the bicep from Wanda. She couldn’t possibly stay mad at Natasha after watching you happily wiggle under the comforting weight of the soft blankets. You twisted and flopped around like a puppy walking in circles and scratching its pillow so it could lay in its bed just right. The women smiled and giggled affectionately. 

After a few minutes, you finally settled, surrounded in a nest of blankets. 

“Do you have something in particular you’d like to watch?” Wanda asked, grabbing the remote and settling in next to Natasha on one end of the large couch. 

You shrugged but they couldn’t see it under all the blankets. “I don’t know. Maybe Robin Hood or The Aristocats. Something lighthearted and old.”

Wanda clicked the remote, waving her arm in different directions to try to get the TV to respond. After a moment, Natasha took the remote and easily found an old movie on Disney +. Wanda sneered and scrunched up her face. Natasha kissed her nose. 

The movie played in the background, but you spent more time paying attention to the women curled up on the end of the couch. They weren’t “cuddling”, per se, but their bodies weren’t pressed tightly together with their legs nearly intertwined. They both looked so at peace with each other. You yearned for that feeling. 

“You wanna join us?” Natasha asked almost playfully when she caught you staring. 

Wanda, who was closer to you, opened her arm and beckoned you over. 

You paused for a moment before emerging from your blanket nest, crawling up and laying hesitantly beside her. You rested your head in the crook of her arm, but kept your hands curled up against your own chest. 

“Well hang on now, I want some cuddles too. Get over here,” Natasha said with a mischievous smile before pulling you in between them. You giggled as you were gently pulled over Wanda plopped into a small spot on the couch in between them. You nearly head butted Natasha in the process. Wanda pulled your new blanket from the heap and tucked it around the three of you. Natasha wrapped her arm around you and smiled. “Much better.”

You settled into Natasha's chest with your back pressed up against Wanda while she ran her hand gently up and down your spine. You sighed, content in their cocoon of warmth. You felt so supported and loved, affectionately squished between the two women. 

“Are you alright, honey? You're shaking,” Natasha asked, looking down at you with a hint of concern. You furrowed your brow in confusion. You weren’t shaking. But as you started to pay more attention to your body, you noticed she was right. There was a small, almost imperceivable tremble in your muscles. Almost imperceivable unless you happen to be laying on top of someone, of course. 

“And your muscles are so tight. Like you're constricting your entire body,” Wanda added, sitting up to look at your face. “If this is making you uncomfortable we don’t have to…”

“No,” you interrupted. “No it’s not that. It’s just…” You were suddenly aware of your body in a way you hadn’t been in quite some time. It felt like returning to a home you didn’t remember leaving. It was like when you’re going somewhere and you get to your destination, and you can’t remember the drive. You were just… home.

Before you even recognized it, the shield you had unintentionally built started to crumble. Tears fell from your eyes, wetting Natasha’s shirt. “Oh poor baby, you must be exhausted, living with your body so… activated all the time,” Wanda cooed sympathetically.

Neither of them were surprised. In fact, both women acted as if they had anticipated this. Natasha pulled you closer, cradling your head under her chin and gently rocking you. “It’s okay. You're safe now, baby. We’re not gonna let anything happen to you. We’re gonna protect you.”

Their words only made you cry harder, but in a freeing, cathartic way. Wanda rubbed the back of your head gently, leaning over to say “Let it out. We’ve got you, angel. You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

Their words seeped into your bones, giving you permission to crumble as you sobbed into Natasha’s chest. They both continue to soothe you, rubbing your back and stroking your hair. Neither of them chided or rushed you, giving you time to adjust. Wanda brought you some water. Natasha helped you sit up as she pressed the cool glass to your lips. 

As your sobs faded to sniffles and your eyes started to droop, Natasha whispered “It’s alright. You can fall asleep here. We’ll get you to bed.” You drifted off, finally relaxed and at peace.

[boobabietch]

Chapter VII: “A Game To Remember: O’Hara And Taurasi’s Night Didn’t End At The Buzzer” | Diana Taurasi x OC

Warnings: Smut :)

A/N: So, hello. I know I've been MIA, and I am very sorry for that, but I have a reason. First of all, per usual, college is kicking my fucking ass. It's clear who is who's bitch, and honestly, uni already put me a leash, okay? But I gotta say guys, this chapter is probably one of my favorites so far. Also, I've been taking so long between updates because I kind of lost where I was going with all of this, so I had to sit back, reconnect with all, and, you know, plan something new. But it's all good. Chapter 8 is already in the works, and honestly, it's kind of finished, so it should come very very soon, I want to say the weekend, but don't trust me on that, because yeah, I don't want to be that girl. But as I said, I loved this chapter with all my heart. I hope you guys love it too, because this took a while. As always, English is not my first language, so if you find something that is wrong, please tell me ASAP so I can change it, likes, reblogs and comments(!!!) are super appreciated and my ask box is always open. And I have nothing else to say, so I hope you enjoy! Love, Sof :)

Making headlines masterlist

I told myself I wouldn’t lose my mind over this.

I told myself it was just a game.

I told myself a lot of shit that turned out to be fucking lies.

It had been weeks, weeks of pretending like my body didn’t betray me every time I closed my eyes. Weeks of pretending that I hadn’t spent every night tangled in sheets that suddenly felt too empty. Weeks of pretending that the kiss didn’t mean anything. That Diana hadn’t dug herself so deep into my brain that I couldn’t get her out even if I tried.

But now, the wait was over. The schedule had finally lined up.

Las Vegas Aces vs. Phoenix Mercury.

Victoria O’Hara vs. Diana fucking Taurasi.

I had spent every second leading up to this game trying to convince myself that nothing had changed. That she was still just a rival, just another obstacle in my way. I’d stared at myself in the mirror that morning, gripping the sink so hard my knuckles turned white, and I told myself Victoria, you’re being fucking stupid. This is just a game.

Not a rivalry. Not a friendship. Not whatever the fuck that kiss was.

Just a game.

So I walked into that arena with my head held high, my mind locked in. I was ready. I was going to play like a beast, and I was going to win.

And for a while, it worked.

From the moment the ball tipped off, I was locked in. My body moved on instinct, footwork crisp, shots falling, defense locked. I wasn’t thinking about her. I wasn’t thinking about anything except the weight of the ball in my hands and the sound of the crowd with every bucket.

I wasn’t thinking about her.

Even when we brushed past each other on the court.

Even when I felt the heat of her body inches from mine on defense.

Even when she fouled me, gripping my waist a little too long before letting go.

Nope. Not thinking about her. Not thinking about her lips. Not thinking about-

Fucking hell, focus.

So I did. I shrugged off the tension. I kept my mind in the game, not on Diana. And I fucking owned it.

Triple-double. Complete domination.

By the time the final buzzer sounded, I had done what I came here to do. We won. I played like a monster. I proved I didn’t need to think about her to be great.

I should have felt satisfied. Instead, all I felt was exhausted.

I changed quickly, barely acknowledging the celebration around me, just wanting to get to my car, to get home, to sleep, if I even could.

But the moment I stepped out into the parking lot, I froze. Because nothing can be that perfect, because god hates me, because there she fucking was.

Leaning against the hood of a car like she had every right to be there, arms crossed, looking like she had been waiting for me.

You have to be fucking shitting me.

I groaned, rubbing a hand over my face. “No. No, no, no. I am not doing this right now.”

She smirked, pushing off the car. “Didn’t even say hi first, baby. That’s rude.”

I clenched my jaw. “Don’t call me that.”

Her smirk widened. “You’re really gonna act like nothing happened?”

I threw my hands up. “That kiss? Didn’t mean anything. It was the heat of the moment. Happens to the best of us. Move on.”

Her eyebrows raised like she was amused, like I was some little kid throwing a tantrum. “Yeah? Heat of the moment?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been sleeping just fine since then, huh?”

I stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She took a step closer. I took one back.

“You sure about that?”

I hated how easily she saw through me. Hated how her voice sent a shiver down my spine. Hated how I couldn’t run from this conversation because my body was already betraying me, drawn to her like she was fucking magnetic.

“You should go,” I muttered. “Go with your team to your hotel. I don’t even know why you’re here. Why are you here?”

She tilted her head, watching me like I was something interesting, something worth figuring out. “Because you haven’t stopped thinking about me. And I wanted to see what you’d do about it.”

I swallowed hard. I was so fucking tired. Tired of running from this. Tired of pretending. Tired of fighting myself.

“I just want you to go” I whispered, my voice cracking in a way that made my stomach twist. “This is my job, okay? Basketball is my job. That’s what we are. We are rivals in our workplace. That’s what we are. Nothing else.”

She stepped closer. “You know damn well we’re not that.”

And that’s when I snapped.

I shoved her back and tried to walk away, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to feel something other than the mess of emotions clawing at my chest. But she caught my wrist before I could pull away, and suddenly we were close, too close, her breath warm on my lips.

I hated this. I hated her. I hated the way my body responded like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

“You drive me fucking insane,” I whispered.

She smirked. “I know.”

Then I was kissing her.

It wasn’t slow, it wasn’t careful, it was reckless, it was raw. Teeth, tongues, hands gripping wherever they could.

And suddenly, I wasn’t in the parking lot anymore.

Suddenly, we were in my apartment.

Suddenly, clothes were on the floor.

Suddenly, Diana Taurasi was knuckle-deep inside me, and I could finally, finally, stop pretending.

She was everywhere, her mouth on my throat, her hands holding me open, her body pressed against mine like she never wanted to leave. And fuck, it was better than I imagined, better than the dreams that had kept me up at night.

It wasn’t just sex.

It was everything.

The hate, the competition, the year and a half of tension, the unspoken questions neither of us wanted to answer. It was the fire in my veins when she kissed me, the ache in my chest when she whispered my name against my skin.

It was need.

Her hands burned where they touched me, her mouth leaving bruises in places no one else had dared to mark in so long. My body reacted to her like it had been waiting for this, for her.

“Fuck, Vic,” she muttered against my lips, her fingers gripping my hips as I pulled her closer.

Vic.

Not Victoria. Not O’Hara. Vic.

Like she knew me. Like she had the right. Like she belonged here.

And the worst part? It sounded good coming from her. I could get used to the sound of my name coming out of her lips while she moaned it against my skin, while her teeth sank into my shoulder, while her fingers pumped inside me, knuckle deep, stretching me open until I was gasping for air.

I could get used to Vic being the last thing she said before she buried her face between my thighs, before her tongue flicked against my clit, before she had me gripping her hair guiding her deeper, begging, fucking begging, for more.

I could get used to Diana Taurasi knowing exactly how I sound when I break.

I could get used to it real fucking fast.

I gasped as she grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze, her thumb brushing over my parted lips before slipping inside. Her other hand trailed lower, teasing, just enough to make me squirm.

She smirked, voice low and smug.

"You like making things difficult, don't you, baby?"

I hated her.

I hated her.

And I whimpered when her leg hooked over mine, her hips pressing flush against me, the slick heat of her rubbing against me in a rhythm that made my head spin, arching off the bed as she swallowed my moans with her mouth.

It wasn’t just hate sex.

It wasn’t just love sex.

It was war.

Every thrust, every touch, every breath was a battle neither of us wanted to win. We just wanted to feel it. To consume and be consumed. To take and be taken.

I held onto her like she was the only thing keeping me grounded, and maybe she was.

Because when the world faded to nothing but the feeling of her, I realized something terrifying.

This wasn’t just sex.

This was her owning me.

And I let her.

I came undone beneath her, around her, because of her. And she knew it. She knew it in the way she slowed down just enough to make me whimper, in the way she murmured, “that’s it, baby” against my ear, in the way she never took her eyes off me as I fell apart.

And when it was over, I laid there, trying to catch my breath, my body thrumming with exhaustion and something terrifyingly close to satisfaction.

But then I heard movement.

I turned my head just in time to see her pulling on her clothes. My chest tightened as I sat up. “You’re leaving?”

She didn’t answer right away. She just zipped up her hoodie, redid that fuckass slick-back bun she’s always wearing, and then, then she walked back over.

She leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my forehead.

Then she whispered something, something I couldn’t even process through the haze in my mind.

“You’re mine, baby.”

And then she left.

I sat there, in the empty room, the only evidence of her presence the lingering scent of her and the dull ache between my legs.

I laid there, feeling everything.

The ache in my body. The heat still lingering in my skin. The growing, crushing realization that she had just wrecked me and left.

I stared at the door, waiting. Hoping.

It never opened again.

I exhaled, closing my eyes. I didn’t know what the fuck just happened. I didn’t know what we were. But I knew one thing

I was in so much trouble.

Requests are Open!

Masterlist

[skeletinmoss]

The curse of the dark Phoenix

Chapter 22: Council

First chapter | Previous

"Yes... I would like a word with them too," King Thomas agreed as he stretched himself.

"Terance said they are in the sanctuary," he told them, bending down to touch his toes, giggling in excitement when he succeeded.

"You can tell me what really happened while we head down there," he instructed as he got up and walked in brisk steps towards the doors gesturing with his hand to call his sword to his hand and opening the heavy doors. "Even magic is easier!" He exclaimed, delighted.

"Halt. Who are you?" One of the guards announced as both aimed their blades at the king.

“Where is the king!?” they demanded.

"I am right here. I am the one who covered for you when you skipped on practice, James," the young king declared, flustering the guard who immediately lowered his sword. "So let me through. I am going to talk to my council!" King Thomas said, pushing past them.

"Your highness, wait up," Roman insisted as he rushed to the king’s side, followed closely by the others.

"A magical bond, huh?" King Thomas asked curiously as Roman caught up. "Yes, it was an accident. I was caught off guard by the ashes and such," Roman shrugged. "I imagine you were," his king mused before turning to Virgil. "What happened? I was hoping I'd get answers through this investigation. This is beyond my wildest hopes, though," he told his mentor.

Virgil nodded and explained what they'd been able to figure out so far.

The king frowned, and they came up on the door that led to the sanctuary. "Something always felt off. But I had no proof," he mused. "I can't believe he stabbed you," he added.

"It's all just assumptions for now. Once Remus figures out where the ruins are, we might learn what really happened for certain," Virgil said.

"Hm," Thomas nodded before laying a hand on the door, and with a magical glow, it opened.

"Come on," he instructed, heading down, the spring in his step returning in moments.

Virgil chuckled at Roman's amusement. "I can't blame him. After my crash course on aging, I imagine experiencing youth again Iike this comes with a deep appreciation for the lack of body aches," Virgil concluded. That made sense.

"Good catch on pulling him away. I guess I forgot to warn him with the nerves," Virgil admitted.

"You weren't sure you'd reincarnate," Roman concluded. His voice teasing, but his heart disapproving.

"I wasn't sure if I’d manage to return myself to late twenties. There was a chance I’d end up in my thirties or something," he admitted casually. Though his heart was genuinely remorseful.

"Hm, that would explain the grey hairs," Roman mused, getting a playful push from Virgil in retaliation.

They both laughed, and they got to the bottom of the stairs. Startling Terance, the real one.

"Y... your majesty?" Terance asked, shocked. The rejuvenated king handed Terance the sending stone back.

"Thank you for letting me borrow this. Where is the council?" Thomas asked.

"Ah... the- the meditation room sire," Terance explained.

"They are trying to connect with their guide?" Roman realized.

"And they’ve been in there for days? This is gonna be good!" Remus cackled.

"Curious that they waited until you three were successful," Janus mused.

Virgil was extremely annoyed at this news and strode forward only to come to a sudden stop when he caught sight of one of the statues. "The fuck?" He said.

"Those were made right after the plague. I had nothing to do with them," the king promised.

"Is that supposed to be the council of ten?” Janus huffed, unimpressed as he looked at the 10 statutes set along the walls.

"Why in the world, do I have six arms?" Janus huffed.

"Um, to symbolize that you have a hand in many pots?" King Thomas suggested.

"At least you look like you. I'm hotter than this guy by miles," Remus complained, indicating the monstrous, vaguely humanoid looking collection of animal parts, that was supposed to represent him.

"Well, you do like to change shape," Patton offered.

"Uhu. And what symbolism has this?" Virgil wondered. Indicating the much more scantily dressed, winged statue that held Virgil's likeness holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand while reaching out benevolently with the other, eyes downcast to anyone who passed bye. Roman had only been in the sanctuary for the ritual and had been too distracted to pay it any mind. Which was a good thing. It would have messed too much with his head. Both for the ritual and upon meeting Virgil in the flesh later.

“Those types of clothes haven’t been in style for centuries,” Virgil huffed. Roman blushed as he realized that at one point they had been in style, very much so, specifically for people of high rank. Though he was pretty sure that when it was in style it wasn’t common to have only half the chest covered.

"Let's focus on the task at hand," Logan suggested.

"Yes, excellent idea," the king agreed leading them to the ritual chamber.

They could hear arguing on the other side of the doors.

"Killer entrance?" Virgil suggested.

"Oooh can we?" Remus grinned excitedly.

"I think it would serve them right," Janus agreed. The three ancient high mages gestured to be given room.

Thomas, Roman, Patton and Logan stepped back and watched as they transformed to their guide forms.

Virgil beat his wings and blew the door open. He'd have to teach Roman how to do that.

He imagined seeing the solid oak doors be dammed open was already a shock. But to have a Chimera and a basilisk come through, and it definitely warranted the horrified screams.

Roman entered right behind Janus, prompting Virgil to land on his shoulder.

He took a look around the room. No one was turned to stone but they were all understandably frightened.

"We're back," he announced, trying not to laugh. It was a little funny.

"You!" Desmond, the de facto leader of the council and honestly a particularly insufferable character, exclaimed. "You return. You disturb our meeting! And you bring these beasts in!?" he surmised accusingly, but also still terrified.

"I should have known sending you out was a mistake. You probably faked your rituals! I knew you were trouble the moment you walked into my classroom. You snotnosed, novice wannabe..."

Roman dipped into his magic, calling it not to his hands but his voice. He thought of Janus swaying the knight and king Thomas ordering Virgil to transform.

"Shut your mouth you petulant overhyped stagnant wind bag," he said calmly. Stunning the head council mage into silence. Not in disbelief. He tried to talk back but found his mouth incapable of producing sound.

"I believe the term 'wannabe' is better suited for a mage pretending to be worthy of the position of Star council while he hasn't evens scratched the surface of what that entails," he added.

"May I present. The true high Mage of the stars, Virgilius fate spinner, the dark phoenix,” Roman offered. Virgil took his que and jumped off of Roman’s shoulder. Soaring up to the roof and then diving down, changing form mid dive and landing in his human form. They were far enough underground that the sun didn’t overpower his amulet anymore it seemed.

He looked down on the trembling councilman.

"Me and my friends have a few questions we'd like answered," he said, prompting Janus and Remus to shift back to their human forms.

"And you better answer honestly," the king warned as he joined them.

Roman was struggling not to laugh at the way the councilmen stared at the king, realized what had happened, and all flailed in wordless panic. It seemed as though his spell had affected every council member in the room.

Realizing they couldn't talk had them even more upset, which was even funnier.

"How did you do that?" Virgil asked.

"Um... I just channeled my magic through my voice instead of my hands, and I used the insult to get him off guard so he'd be more susceptible... kind of what Janus did..." Roman pointed out.

"Janus can sway people a little with care. Thomas managed to give me an order because I already swore myself to serve him on his 18th birthday. This is neither of those things," Virgil smirked. Then Roman realized.

"Did I just make my own spell?" He asked, astonished.

Virgil nodded fondly. "Congratulations, Roman, great wizard high Mage off disarming wit," he bid

"Wait, wasn't buddy new?" Patton asked.

Virgil pursed his lips. "That would have to be put up for debate for a jury as golems aren't new exactly. So they’d have to debate on whether Buddy is distinguishable enough from others to be considered unique. But in Roman's case, Buddy falls under herbalism, so it doesn't count regardless," he explained.

"Oh, right. Forgot about that," Patton admitted.

"As entertaining as this is, and it is truly a delight to behold," Janus said, looking at the frustrated council members. "It will be hard to interrogate them if they can’t talk," he pointed out.

"Oh, right," Roman realized. He frowned in concentration and took a deep breath.

He focused on the head council member, felt the hold if his magic, and loosened it. "I will shut you up in an instant if you get annoying," he warned.

The councilman nodded in understanding, though he clearly wasn't happy about it.

"Your majesty... they used forbidden magic on you?" he asked, horrified. Hm. He might have been just as much of a believer as Roman was a few days ago.

That or he was upset that their king no longer believed in the rules set out by Gustav.

"Clearly the plague wasn't what Gustav said it was. And I will trust my mentor and my family's longest ally above the fear mongering tales of someone who jumped on the opportunity to improve his influence as soon as his friends started disappearing," the king countered.

The councilman clearly didn't know what to say to that.

"Tell us what brought you here," Virgil ordered.

The man hesitated but gave in. "Knowing that the ritual could, in fact, be survived, we made the executive decision to attempt to complete it. We could not have great mages in our ranks without rising ourselves. Especially if they succeeded in finding the arch mage. We weren't going to bet against them a second time." Roman nor Virgil were very happy with the implications off that. "We decided that it would be in the best interest of the kingdom if we took the next step in our studies. If the arch mage hadn't disappeared, he would have given us his blessing long ago," he continued.

"We were unsuccessful so far," he admitted displeased.

"How did you get chosen to be members of the council?" Virgil huffed

"We were tutored and hand-picked by the arch mage himself." Clearly, that was a point of pride to him. And a few days ago, that had earned him Roman's respect by default.

"And you were his favorite, right?" Janus mused. Oooh, good plan. Flattery tends to loosen the tongue.

"Well, he had me as second in command do I suppose he saw potential in me," the older man agreed with false modesty.

"Then he must have given you some insight in his plans for the kingdom," Janus continued.

"Yes, actually. It was imperative that the king didn’t pursue magic again, for the sake of his health.

The council was to focus on keeping relations with the neighboring kingdoms stable. We didn't have the manpower to provide the idyllic lives of the past.

Distribution of information related to magic could only be done by official libraries and with approval of the council. Those sot of things. To protect the people from forbidden knowledge. I did a lot of governing in the five years before he disappeared as he spent a lot of time in the tower. Personally, I think the dark magic from his past had finally caught up to him. Truly tragic," the mage concluded.

Roman looked at the others. Something felt off.

"Why didn't you ever try to find Gussy if you are such a devoted fanboy?" Remus wondered curiously.

That clearly was the right question.

"Well... you see... uh..." he stammered.

"I suppose you liked the power that came with his absence more. Where is he?" Virgil pressed.

"I really don't know. Last I saw him he was headed for his tower. He claimed he had figured it out. He didn't give more details," the mage rushed slightly panicked. Good. He deserved it. Power hungry prick. What kind of sick person bet against people surviving anything?

"Guards!" Virgil called.

The two knights who'd blocked their path earlier sheepishly shoveled into view.

"That was a good stealth spell. Your teacher can be proud. Would you mind putting the council under house arrest? I'll make sure they don't use their magic," Virgil instructed.

"W-what? I don't know what you mean!" One of them stammered flustered.

"We already know of the secret mages. Don't worry. Now," Virgil made a gesture and a faint purple glow lit up the entire group of mostly still mute council men.

"There. That should hold out for at least a week," he noted.

"You have no right!" The head council exclaimed.

"Actually the only one who'd have more right is the king himself," Logan countered.

“Virgil was mentor and closest confidant to the first king, and after that a very close advisor to every king and queen that followed up until Thomas’ father. He was Thomas’ mentor both in life and in magic. He was head of the council of ten since its founding. He was general to our armies. He has every right,” Logan argued.

“Well put darling,” Janus purred in approval, making Logan blush.

“He is right. Unless the king disapproves, he has the authority to order the knights to detain you,” Janus added.

The councilmen paled. “Should I take back my spell, or is it better if the knights don’t have to listen to them complain?” Roman wondered.

"Hm. Best not. Just in case one of these fossils works themselves up unto a heart attack," Virgil mused.

"Hey!" King Thomas protested. Being older than most on the council, he would take offense to that.

"I said what I said. I'm still a bit shocked that I didn't need to save you from a heart attack at any point during our conversation," Virgil stated seriously. Roman could feel he was just teasing, though.

Which, honestly, was wild to Roman even though he could understand how Virgil's relationship to the king was different from most of his subjects.

"Well," he sighed. "You lot get one chance. If I hear complaints, you'll have to suffer in silence," he warned as he let go of his hold on everyone.

"To be honest, I was only aiming for him," Roman admitted.

"Your magic is more potent now. It's like waking up with much more physical strength. You'll walk around using much more force than necessary and constantly break things or misjudge how hard something will be to lift for you.

You have to relearn it a bit," Virgil offered.

That made sense.

Ten soldiers came in and took the disgraced council away to their chambers.

"Good. With that out of the way. What is next?" King Thomas asked.

"Well, me and Roman need to get in 8 hours... I'm pretty sure I locked my room, so that should still be around," he said.

"Even if it hadn't been locked, Father and I would never have allowed anyone to rake it," the king promised.

"Good. I remember the way," Virgil smiled.

"Patton, can you help Remus narrow down which ruins Gustav might have been talking about?" Virgil asked. Patton nodded. "Of course, I'll do my best," he promised.

"And I shall help this one get ready for his ascension. We'll do the ceremony shenanigans you boys wake up," Janus offered, laying his hands on a flustered Logan's shoulders.

"And i presume you will want to teach the baby bird to fly?" He added.

"That would be for the best. The sooner we start, the easier he'll pick it up," Virgil explained.

"And then we'll go and kick Gussies butt!" Remus grinned eagerly.

Thomas frowned.

"With the council gone, the country needs you here more than ever," Virgil pointed out.

Thomas nodded. "Come back soon. Hopefully, with more old friends," he bid.

"We aren't gone yet," Virgil smirked, laying a comforting hand on Thomas' shoulder. "We'll probably stick around a day or two. I would like to pay your father my respects. Hus is the only funeral in your family line I missed. I wish to rectify that as best as i can," he explained.

"He would appreciate that," Thomas smiled carefully.

Virgil squeezed his shoulder and turned to Roman.

"Care to join me?" He asked. Roman smiled and took his hand.

And suddenly, they were in front of a dark wooden door decorated with silver stars.

"That took a bit more out of me than I thought. Good thing I'm about to sleep like the dead," Virgil mused tiredly. Waving his hand.

The door glowed and opened for them, revealing a Room with a large bed and a desk.

"Cozy," Roman noted.

"Through that door, I have access to my own home should I need anything," Virgil revealed, pointing at a door half hidden behind a silk purple curtain.

"Really?" Roman asked.

"It saved time traveling. And teleporting here every time was a pain. The room is mostly for show. I rarely slept in the bed or used the desk. But no one knew that. Virgil smirked, amused as he ked Roman to bed.

"No memories this time. We both need actual sleep," Virgil pointed out.

Roman nodded. Just looking at the bed made him realize just how exhausted he was. 8 hours sounded great.

They got ready, and soon enough, they settled in each other's arms.

Roman was too tired to feel flustered about it.

He barely heard Virgil wish him a happy dream before he was taken by darkness.

He was walking down a forest path. Following something.

The plants around him felt more alive than usual. Welcoming him. He could swear he saw deer and birds and rabbits pause what they were doing to acknowledge him.

The very ground he walked on seemed to urge him onward. Humming a tune he came up with but never finished ages ago.

The forest gave way for open sky, and the sun was setting before him in a welcoming ocean. The moon popping in in the sky. Even merging with the sun for a brief moment, forming an eclipse. Which shouldn't be possible.

Then Roman realized what he had been chasing.

A light phoenix was sat a few steps before him. Glowing against the darkening sky.

Roman walked over and very carefully reached out.

The phoenix bowed his head, and as soon as Roman's finger touched his head, they were one and the same.

He looked around and took to the sky. Higher and higher. When he looked down, he saw no ground but endless night. He was surrounded by stars that happily blinked at him. Rejoicing in his presence.

He landed on nothing and bowed.

The sky enveloped him with live and joy and sorrow like nothing he ever felt before.

He empathized. When the righteous fury came, he did not flinch back. He had nothing to fear.

The fury simmered down and hope took its place.

Roman righted himself full of determination.

There was no one there with him. But he felt almost like someone kissed him on the forehead.

He felt encouraged.

He bowed again and took flight once more. He intended to return to earth. He found himself approaching a light that got brighter and brighter. Until he shot upright in bed.

[soranker0]

bro is dead next chapter

[kbwrites]

Found Family

synopsis: Yuji was so seamlessly integrated into your lives, a ball of sunshine in your normally quiet life. How will he react to the news that you're expecting?

⚝content: Nanami x f! reader, Yuji being your adopted son basically, a tiny bit of angst, mostly fluff, found family.

⚝wc: 1.5k

The Nanami household was usually quiet, and peaceful. Light jazz music filled the rooms, the soft notes from the record player gently floated through the air. Every detail in the house had been carefully considered, a home where Kento hoped they could build a life filled with love and serenity.

The serenity, however, was often interrupted by his pink-haired cohort.

“Seconds please (Y/N)!” Yuji beamed holding up a clean plate with a wide grin.

Kento, seated at the table with his usual composed expression, felt a warmth in his chest as we watched his dear wife and Yuji. He secretly cherished these moments, finding comfort in the young man’s lively presence. The way his laughter filled the room, the way his energy brought a spark of joy to the quiet corners—it all made Kento realize just how much he had come to love having Yuji around.

“Itadori, you’ll get sick if you eat so fast.” Kento scolds gently, earning a pout from the high schooler. You can only smile apologetically as your husband maintains his serious demeanor.

“Kento…” You chide. “Yuji’s a growing boy, he needs to eat~” You wink at Yuji as he digs into his second helping.

You were always so quick to defend the younger boy from your husband. And although it would earn a disapproving sigh, Kento couldn’t help but adore you more for it. The way you cared for Yuji as if he were you own. This was the life he had always hoped for—a beautiful home…you. It was an unspeakable joy that made every day worth living.

And the best part? The little family you had built was about to get a bit bigger.

You glance over at your husband, wondering if you should be the one to break the news to Yuji. He returns your gaze with a small smile before clearing his throat.

“Yuji,” Kento began, his voice steady. “We have… something to tell you.”

Yuji looked up from his plate, his mouth full but curiosity shining in his eyes. You reached for Kento’s hand under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze as you shared a tender smile. The moment felt perfect, filled with the quiet anticipation of the next chapter of your lives—one that would bring even more joy and love into your growing family.

You took a deep breath, stilling your nerves. Yuji would be the first one outside of yourselves to find out.

“Yuji… I’m… we’re–”

“Pregnant.” You finish, the proverbial weight being lifted off your shoulders. You take in a breath as you look at Yuji, waiting for him to process the information.

He swallows, gaze flicking between you and Kento. He uncharacteristically… quiet. You could see the wheels turning, his mouth slightly agape.

Kento’s brow furrowed slightly, unsure of how to interpret the silence. He had expected Yuji to be excited—overjoyed. Jumping up immediately and grabbing you into a tight hug, at which point Kento would scold him again, reiterating that he would need to “Be more gentle… (Y/N) is pregnant.” He exchanged a concerned glance with you, searching for some understanding.

Yuji cleared his throat, voice softer than usual. “That’s..” He takes a breath, flashing his signature smile, however it didn’t quite reach his eyes as it normally did. “Amazing. I’m…really happy for you guys!”

You reach out, offering a comforting smile. “We wanted you to be the first to know.” 

The dinner continued, but the lively atmosphere had dimmed. The excitement that had filled the room was now replaced by a more subdued mood. Yuji picked at his food, his usual quips and jokes conspicuously absent. The lively energy that normally accompanied his presence was replaced by a contemplative silence.

Kento cleared his throat after a few moments, trying to shift the focus and bring some warmth back to the table. “Do you have any plans for the weekend? Maybe we could all do something together.”

The pink-haired teen looked up, blinking as he found himself again in his lost thoughts. “I think I’ll be busy with training.” He replies, not quite making eye contact with either of you.

You spoke up, intent on breaking through the walls. “You’ll be staying over tonight though?” 

Kento had bought a house with four bedrooms, partially because he wanted to be prepared for any children you’d agree to give him. But also because he was tired of Yuji sleeping on the couch when he visited your old place. He was given a room, furnished with some of his essentials. Kento made it very clear that Yuji always had a place there.

But instead of the usual eagerness to sleepover—he hesitates.

“I’m not sure–”

“Yuji. It’s late. Just stay here.” His voice soft but firm, leaving no room for argument.

You leave the bathroom, rubbing the last bit of cream into your skin. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the room as you saw Kento sitting on the edge of the bed, lost in thought.

“Something on your mind honey?” You question taking a seat next to him, already knowing the answer.

Kento looked up, his honey-brown eyes reflected in the gentle light of the lamp. “Yuji didn’t seem… happy about the news tonight.” 

You reached out to your husband, placing a hand on his knee “He was probably just caught off guard Ken. It’s a big change, give him some time.”

He sighed, fingers absentmindedly brushing against yours. “I thought he’d be excited. I thought—”

You leaned closer, resting your head on his broad shoulder. Kento wrapped an arm around you, pulling you to him. The warmth of his embrace filling you with a silent reassurance. He glances down at you.

“Dear… could you…” His voice trailed off, a subtle hint of hesitation in his words. You already knew what he was going to ask. After all, Kento’s bedside manner wasn’t exactly what made you fall for him. You just nod at him, before standing up and leaving the room.

Knock Knock.

You wait outside Yuji’s room before you hear him say “Come in.” 

You pushed the door open slowly, taking in the space. It was so uniquely Yuji, posters of his favorite actresses (that Kento would most definitely disapprove of). Beside them, a few shelves were crammed with manga volumes and action figures, the game console he loved to play with game discs littering the floor by the TV. And right by his bed, a picture of the three of you on vacation last year. Taken right after you both pushed Kento into the pool. It was his room. Without a doubt.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his posture slumped, gaze fixed on the floor. You approached him, sitting down on the bed. He looked up, his eyes reflecting unease and weariness.

“Hey, Yuji.” Your voice as soft as a feather. “Can we talk?”

“(Y/N). It’s not that I’m not happy for you and Nanamin. It's just—” He takes a shaky breath. Your gaze softens, waiting patiently as he tries to find the words to express his feelings.

“It’s just,” his voice breaking slightly. “I… love it here. You and Nanamin are like my family. And now you’ll have a kid. A real kid. I’m just worried I won’t have a place here anymore...”

The vulnerability in his words was palpable, the pink-haired teen looked down again, his fingers nervously twisting the edge of his blanket. He took a deep breath, you take one too. 

You gently squeezed his shoulder and stood up, motioning for him to stay put. You left the room briefly, walking down the hallway to where Kento had left the bedroom to wait. He looked up as you approached, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. You took his hand, leading him to the room.

As you entered, you guided Kento to stand beside Yuji. Yuji looked up at him with a mixture of apprehension. The older male took a deep breath, his usual composed demeanor much softer.

“Yuji. You will Always have a place here.”

Yuji’s head snapped up, surprise evident in his eyes. 

“I know that and I—”

“No. You will always have a place here because you are family.”

The room seemed to exhale collectively, the tension lifting as Yuji’s eyes widened with a mix of disbelief and relief.

“(Y/N) is going to need all of our help, our baby will need all of our help. We need you Yuji. Our family wouldn't be complete without you.” Kento’s hand reaches out, resting on Yuji’s shoulder. 

Yuji’s eyes glistened as the reality of Kento’s words sank in. The years of feeling like an outsider, of worrying about his place in the world. Finally finding his family. Without a word, he stands up drawing you both into a tight embrace.

“Thank you… (Y/N). Nanamin. I’ll be the best big brother ever, or uncle? I’m not sure but I’m here. Whatever you need.”

In that embrace, the uncertainty began to melt away, replaced by a deep sense of belonging and love. The family you were building together, with all its changes and challenges, felt more united than ever.

[juletheghoul]

ache

a/n: another dope, unhinged request that sent me clean into the sun. I will have girl reciprocate in another chapter! Thanks so much for loving my version of Marcus, hopefully you like where this is going. This is un-beta'd, barely edited. All mistakes and errors are mine! Hope you enjoy what I came up with! (this is before chapter IX)

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Marcus' pov, Marcus makes girlie squirt, *feelings*, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance), Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus - let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 1.6k (😅)

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series masterlist

----

He’d been away from his home for longer than he wished to be. Away from her. 

He’d been resigned to be gone for two days, three if he was being generous. That was the time he’d been prepared to spare. Those three days had stretched to three weeks.

An endless parade of niceties and feasts and courtesies extended. His presence was essential it seemed, and so he’d had to grit and bear it. He’d slept in those foreign beds and craved her warmth, her smell and her touch so much so that a rage filled him, a restlessness that only soured his mood more and more. 

Had he not put his foot down he might have been gone from his house for three months instead of three weeks. He’d fought wars quicker than this. 

Only when he was on his journey back home, back to her did the smile return to his face. Only waning when his journey had taken longer than expected, and by the time he’d finally stepped foot inside his house the moon was high, and she was sleeping peacefully in her bed. He’d watched her for a time from her doorway, almost willing her to sense him and wake. She didn’t, and he didn’t have the heart to disturb her, so he retreated back to his chambers and fell into a fitful sleep. 

Even in his dreams, she haunted him. He could smell her, feel the warm clutch of her cunt around his cock, hear her passion in his ear. He could taste her lips, could feel himself spilling inside her. 

He woke with a gasp, cock aching, heart racing and sweat beading on his brow. The moon was still bright, and the hour late, or early, he could not tell. The only thing he knew for certain was that if he didn’t go to her now, he’d die.

-

The heavy blanket of sleep shifts to gossamer, fine as silk. The dream, so clear just a moment ago slips away, forgotten as your room comes back into focus. A heavy weight presses beside you, a soft caress pulls you further into wakefulness. Too tired to be scared, you turn towards the feeling, the soft press of familiar lips at your shoulder and are both startled, and delighted to see your Dominus in bed with you. He’d been gone so long, you almost wept to be within his embrace once more. 

“Dominus, you’re home.” It’s not a question, more a sleepy, contented statement. 

“Yes, Girl, I am at last home.” You press closer, heart swelling that he would crawl into your bed with you. His passion so great, it pressed hot and hard against your belly. “I dreamt about you Girl, could not wait until morning.” His hands roamed, sweeping from your back down to grab at your ass, pulling you ever closer in the quiet dark of your chamber. 

“You dreamt about me Dominus?” You smiled into the warm skin of his neck, butterflies swarming in your belly at his confession.

“Yes Girl, I was hoping you would be awake when I got home, I wanted you so bad I ached but you were asleep and I couldn’t bring myself to wake you. I found no peace in sleep, even in my dreams I craved you.” His lips descend, soft and so welcome where they meet yours, his tongue insistent. “Did you miss me Girl?” He shifts, pushing you onto your back and fitting himself between your thighs. the heft of him makes your cunt turn to liquid. The absence of him these three long weeks had been difficult, so accustomed had you become to him taking you that feeling him now could have made you weep with joy. 

“Yes Dominus, I have been so empty without you, I have missed the feel of you here–” You reach down and grasp him in hand, delighting in the gasp he breathes into your face and guide him into your soaked cunt. “I missed you here Dominus, needed you here desperately. I have gone without your gift for so long.” 

His forehead is pressed to yours, your legs bent and high on his ribs while you both catch your breath. Your heart races as he adjusts and rests on his arms, bracketed around your skull. Your nipples harden against his chest as he presses soft kisses to your face, your cunt leaks when he starts to move, a slow, but heavy thrust. His cock is so stiff, so filling that it takes a moment for you to adjust, for that stretching burn to subside.

The moans slip out with every push and pull of his hips into yours and when you move your legs a little higher and tilt your hips he hits something divine. His cock pressing against an undiscovered, almost forbidden part of you with every roll of his hips. 

“Is that where you like it?” He keeps his stroke steady, hitting the spot he knows he’s found and you can barely form a thought, all you can focus on is the fullness, on the delicious feeling in your hips, in the deepest part of you. “Answer me Girl, did you miss me fucking you?” He doesn’t speed up, only thrusts harder. 

“Yes Dominus, yes, I missed it so much–” He moans and it heightens the pleasure building in your core, in the base of your spine. His tongue is obscene in your mouth, your hands clutch at him, moving from where they clawed at his back up to curl into his waves, gripping at him like talons. 

His pace picks up, faster, harder and the feeling grows, something heavy, something altogether too big building unlike anything you've ever felt before. Big enough to almost frighten you. You pull away from his kiss, frantic to warn him. 

“Dominus, wait–something–God’s above–” You moan out because he doesn’t stop, he only shifts cat-quick to push at the back of your thigh up towards your chest, opening you up wider and hitting at that same spot harder.

It’s so loud, the wet plunge of him into the cunt he owns, the cunt that weeps and gapes for him and him alone. Your heart races, sweat beads at your hairline and his, the sound of the bed rocking with his movements; all of it ignored and unimportant compared to the feeling.

“Dominus–” your eyes drift down to where he fucks into you, hands pressing at his chest as the crushing wave inside finally crests. 

Your body pushes him out with a wet gush and a scream. Your hands claw at him, your body bows almost on its own as you soak him in your climax. He doesn’t stop, instead he holds you down, his strength showing it’s face as he fucks you through the strongest climax of your life. 

“That’s it Girl, take it, take my cock, and my gift.” He groans it, filling you to the brim despite your inability to do anything but lay there under him, soul outside your body, and shake with the force of the pleasure he’d given you. 

He smiles as he cleans himself after, moving to you to wipe down the mess he’d made of your sex.

Your legs still shake. 

“I had heard rumours in my youth that if you were skilled enough, you could pleasure a woman enough to make her burst like a fountain.” He has a smugness about him as he presses the damp cloth to your skin. You are silent still, shocked at the way he’d made you feel, at what he’d made your body do. “You are the first to prove them right. Have you ever done that before, Girl? Has any other man ever made you do that?” 

“No Dominus, I have never felt anything like that before.” A shyness creeps in, a vulnerability you don’t know how to express. Your eyes cannot quite meet his and despite the pride you can see in him, he senses it. 

“Did you enjoy it? I do not want to chase that again if you did not enjoy it.” He tosses the rag back into your basin, and slips into your bed with you, gathering you into his arms. You are grateful to feel his warmth, to have the comfort of his embrace. 

“I did Dominus, I enjoyed it immensely, I am just–I–I,” You stutter, unsure how to explain how you feel and the curiously emotional response that amount of pleasure has borne in you. 

“What is it Girl, tell me. I wish to understand.” He pulls you into the crook of his neck, his hands rubbing at your back. 

“I do not know Dominus, It is strange. The pleasure was great, greater than any other time we have lain together but it is so much more. It is as though now I am tied to you, I cannot get close enough. If you leave me here now, in this bed I shall die without you.” A shyness creeps in and warms your face, an embarrassment at the intense need you have for him now. So much more than when you are aroused.

“I will not leave you, Girl. I would never leave you. I must confess, seeing how much you enjoyed that changed me as well.” He pulls your sheet up, tucking the both of you in for what is left of the night. “There is an intense pride in me now, that I could be the one to make you feel that good.”

“You always make me feel good, Dominus.” You press your lips to his neck, rubbing at his chest while you make yourself comfortable in his embrace. 

“As do you, Girl. I was a mess while away from this house, away from you.” You smile into his neck before moving up to press your lips to his. There is no more need for words after that, instead you both fall into an easy rhythm of soft kisses, and gentle sweeps of your palms. A reacquainting of yourselves with one another, as though it’s been years since your last meeting instead of less than a moon’s turn. 

In the safety of the dark, it was okay. The lines of your roles could be blurred, you could kiss him as often as you pleased, you could press yourself closer, and speak words of devotion without fear. You could ignore that this was a slaves bed and not his place.

When morning came, you would wake alone and serve once more, but here, in the dark; that could wait. 

-

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[artistic-pussy-power]

Think I went a little too ambitious with this folks

What I might have to do is try cram as much story as I can into the current three chapters I'm attempting and then edit from there

If I (lets say hypothetically) wrote a gentlebeard innkeepers fic that was told through stranger pov (as in from their guests pov) then who would yall want me to include

(currently I'm planning on having mary and doug, then anne and mary and also have the crew come and stay like it's a vacation)

[pellucid-constellations]

Trial and Error (6)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the request: "Azriel with single mom reader? I feel like being a single mom in ACOTAR would be tricky as hell… reader comes from autumn court and flees to night court because she got pregnant out of marriage? 😯 the shame"

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: Angst, brief mention of an abortion

a/n: guess what everyone here’s another chapter ahhh!!! Love you 🫶

Read part one | part two | part three | part four | part five (part five bonus) | part seven

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Your breath left you, lungs emptying of every comfort until they felt tight and constrained. You might have made a sound—might have gaped as Azriel’s eyes darted across every square inch of your face to gauge a reaction. 

Mate. 

Had he said—

“What?” you finally choked out. 

Azriel shook his head with a pained furrow of his brow. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.” His hands steadied as they cradled your cheeks—stability in a time of utter confusion. “But I had to, y/n. You… I needed you to understand why I care so much. Why I want you to let me care. Why you…” 

His words trailed off. 

Something compelled you to reach up and wrap your fingers around his wrists. You stared into his eyes with nothing to offer him but the uncertainty and poorly disguised hope edging considerably closer to the surface. 

“Why I what, Azriel?” 

Azriel licked his lips before he spoke, mouth dry at the prospect of the conversation. “Why you can tell me. Everything. You can trust me with everything there is to know about you and Melanie. I wouldn’t—I would protect the both of you. Over anything.” 

You felt a piece of you deflate. Azriel’s fingers slightly spasmed against your skin as your shoulders slumped. 

“You can’t promise me that, Azriel,” you sullenly replied. “You work for the High Lord. You can’t promise me you would keep things from him for my benefit. I can’t trust that—” 

“Y/n, you are my mate,” Azriel emphasized, eyes wide and pleading. “I know you can’t feel it yet within you but it has been carved into my chest from the moment we locked eyes. The way the bond pulls each time I see you—the way it screams at me to keep you safe. I can’t…” 

His words broke off as he spoke them—cracked and fractured and desperate. 

Azriel cleared his throat and started over. 

“There are two things you should know. First, the High Lord and Lady—Rhysand and Feyre—they would never do anything to put you in danger.” You opened your mouth to argue, but Azriel gently spoke over the rebuttal. “They would never. They do not even know you but you are my mate. As an extension, you are their family. Whatever it is you are running from, they would go to lengths to run with you.” 

“You can’t promise—” 

“I can. And I am. Because the second thing you should know is that I have waited for my mate for centuries. I have dreamed of you and wanted you and I don’t know if that scares you but I hope it can be some consolation.” 

The kitchen lulled into a silence punctuated by your heaving breaths, the unsteady sound countering Azriel’s flickering wings as he stood before you. You had no words for him, nothing to rectify the worried way he captured your gaze with his own. 

Your instinct fought against everything he said. 

To put all of your trust into Azriel—all of it. To make him an integral part of Melanie’s life, of yours. 

Could you? Was being his mate enough? You didn’t feel the pull yet, the indescribable ache that caused the desperation on Azriel’s face. 

“—and,” Azriel’s voice was low but startling as his eyes shifted to land on the wall behind your head. “It’s not just the bond. It’s you. I care about you, y/n. I care about Mel. I can’t go back to acting so casual about that. I want to be all in with two of you. My life has… it’s changed. It’s different now, because of you.” 

He found your eyes again.

Something shifted in your chest, but it didn’t snap. 

You wanted him to be all in, but something still needed to be aligned. 

You had heard stories about mates in the past—about mates that had children before the bond had made itself known. The stories did not end well and they certainly did not match the pleading way Azriel held you or the hopeful pool of hazel that his eyes had dipped into. 

“What about Melanie?” you whispered, squeezing his wrist with your fingers because although he had included her in all of his pinings, you needed to hear him say it. 

Azriel adjusted his stance and blinked at you as if you were speaking another language. “What about Melanie, angel?” 

His soft-spoken endearment was like a punch to the gut. “W-Would you love her the same? Even though she isn’t yours? I’ve heard what can happen with—” 

“I don’t care about that—I’ve never cared. I can’t imagine looking at her and not loving her, y/n. She is so much of you.” 

A loaded breath left you as you leaned forward and rested your forehead on Azriel’s collar. You were still sick, still exhausted, and this overwhelming display of affection and devotion was filling you more than you thought you could handle. You released your hold on his wrists to bunch your fists into the front of his shirt. Azriel acted instantly, one hand coming to the back of your head while the other rested along your back. 

“I want to trust you,” you promised. “I do. It just might take time. I can’t—I don’t think I can tell you yet. I don’t know why, I just—” 

“I know, y/n. You don’t have to tell me. Just… just let me in. Let me be here.” 

~~

The rest of the day moved slowly. 

Azriel stayed. 

When Melanie woke up from her nap, a walk was introduced, Azriel proclaiming that the group had spent entirely too much time inside and fresh air was needed to fight the remaining sickness. That suggestion was met with a raised brow from Melanie who argued that sleep was supposed to be what made us better, Mr. Azriel. Why do you keep changing it?

You had watched the interaction with new eyes; the way she squinted up at him with a skeptical gaze and the way he stared down at her with a smile so wide it looked as if it hurt. Did he smile that broadly all the time? You hardly saw him in any public context, so it was difficult to know. 

You doubted he did. 

He smiled at you the same way when you teased him for Melanie’s benefit. 

The walk was soothing and beautiful and Azriel had wrapped two scarves around Melanie’s neck before he let her get out the door. She had huffed and pointed at his own neck, frustrated that he wasn’t wearing a scarf, but his shadows answered for him as they whisked around Melanie’s eyes and turned her around. 

As she giggled, Azriel shrugged a jacket over your shoulders. 

“It’s not that cold, you know,” you commented later as footsteps echoed along cobblestone. “I don’t know if she needed both scarves.” 

“Can’t be too careful. Wouldn’t want her to get more sick.” 

“We aren’t that kind of sick, Az.” 

“I know.” He tore his gaze from Melanie and directed it towards you. “But I can’t do anything about Autumn fever. I can, however, make sure the two of you don’t catch a cold.” 

You pressed your lips inwards and breathed through the fluttering in your chest as he looked upon you. His gaze was unabashedly admiring and you couldn’t remember if he’d looked at you like that before he’d told you you were mates, or if he had been holding himself back before. 

“I am from the Autumn Court,” you thought to say, if only to quell some of the strange feeling in your chest. “Although, you already knew that. Your healer kind of gave it away.” 

“You don’t have to—” 

“I want to,” you interrupted. You looked out towards Melanie as you skirted along the Sidra, your daughter kneeling by the shore to look in at the fish. “Maybe not all of it at once. But for now, I’m from the Autumn Court. I came to Velaris when I found out I was pregnant.” 

You shoved your hands into the pocket of the jacket Azriel had placed on your shoulders. You realized it wasn’t yours when your knuckles swam in the space. And the scent of night-kissed air delicately wafted up.

Azriel said nothing as you collected your thoughts. He simply watched Melanie giggle and dip her fingers in the water. 

“Um, I came under duress, obviously. The circumstances of my pregnancy weren’t exactly optimal and there were several people that would have been… more than upset that I was pregnant.” 

“What does that mean—upset?” 

“Several things. They could have taken Melanie from me, made me end the pregnancy when I didn’t want to, sent me into hiding for shame. I didn’t stick around to find out which horror-fueled thought would come to fruition.” 

“Is that who you’re running from?” 

You tilted your head to the side as a light breeze swept past your skin. Azriel was already looking at you with an intensity that felt out of place compared to the joyful laughs that flowed from the child by the water. But that was good, you reminded yourself, you were keeping her away from all of these harsh realities for as long as possible. 

“Yes.”

“Can I ask—”

“No.” You were quick to cut him off. Your tone wasn’t mean or harsh; it was exhausted. “You can't ask who or why—not yet. I haven’t actually said any of those names aloud since I left. That part might… take me a while.” 

“That’s okay,” Azriel softly reassured. He took a half step towards you, hesitated, but then fought against that and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into his chest. “I just need to know what I’m up against. If you think they know where you are or if they’re still looking for you.” 

Melanie had begun throwing rocks into the Sidra, the sound of the stones plopping into the water mingling with silence and birds chirping. 

“I don’t think they know where I am,” you mumbled into his chest. It was so easy to stay there. “But I think they’re still looking. I don’t think they’ll stop.” 

You felt Azriel’s lips press against the crown of your head. His chin found a home there as you both shifted to watch Melanie. 

“Okay. Okay, that’s fine.” 

“Is it? You didn’t exactly sign up for this.” 

“I signed up for you. Whatever that entails.” 

A calm silence washed over the scene by the Sidra. Azriel brought his other arm around to hold you closer to his chest and you let him, seamlessly sinking into his hold. Melanie was none the wiser to the conversations behind her as she began dropping sticks and leaves into the water. 

Azriel kissed your hair once more. 

“It could be safer—“ Azriel began, words laced with reproach. “—if some of the Inner Circle were involved.” 

You wrenched yourself back as quickly as the words left his mouth. “No,” you shook your head vigorously. It made an ache bloom at the base of your neck. “No, no court involvement. You can’t tell them anything. You can’t, Azriel. I know you said it was safe but you don’t understand. This can’t have anything to do with High Lords or court politics or, or—” 

“Okay, okay—hey, I’m sorry. Come here.” 

The panic had taken hold of your bearings and inched close to your heart. You reached up to place a hand against the pressure there as Azriel tugged you back against his body and glanced toward Melanie to ensure she hadn’t picked up on your stress. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” he comforted, running his hand down your hair. “Nothing with the court, okay? I won’t tell any of them.” 

“Do you promise?” you all but whimpered. A tinge of embarrassment seeped under your skin at your actualized panic, but the fear took precedence and Azriel showed no repugnance at your reaction. 

For a brief, fleeting moment, you considered that a promise didn’t really mean anything at all—not before. 

But, from Azriel, it felt like something. 

“I promise.” 

A small voice then sounded, facilitating the natural end to the sharing you had offered. “All of the fishies are gone.” 

Azriel didn’t even attempt to move you away from his chest as he spoke, his words creating vibrations along your body. “That’s because you keep throwing things at them, Mel.” 

“I wasn’t throwing things at them. I was trying to offer those things to them.” 

You turned to speak to your daughter, Azriel’s arms unmoving around you. “Why were you offering things to the fish?” 

“Just in case they’re water gods. Ms. Fern tolds us about them in school. If you make them offerings then they protect you.” 

Your laugh was echoed by Azriel. The two of you shared a smile before you slowly unraveled yourself from him and beckoned your daughter forward. “Well, I’m sure they were very grateful for your offering. It was probably just their bedtime. Just like it’s almost yours.” 

Melanie made a face but didn’t argue, instead taking steps past you to stand at Azriel’s feet. “Mr. Azriel, is it my turn to cuddle? I don’t want to walk all the way home.” 

You watched Azriel’s mouth twist into a small smile that was obviously in place of a much larger one. He looked over Melanie’s head to send you a wordless question that you were quick to nod in response to. 

As if you would tell him no. 

Azriel reached down to haul your daughter up, settling her against his hip as if he’d done so a hundred times. Melanie rested her head on his chest almost as quickly as he’d grabbed for her, fiddling with a stick she still held in her grasp. You made to walk alongside them and calm your pattering heart, but certain people had other plans. 

“You too, mommy,” Melanie called, peaking the side of her face out from Azriel’s chest. 

“Me too?” 

“Uh huh. You come too. Mr. Azriel has two arms. And I can hold your hand.”

You sent a knowing glance up to Azriel, but he forwent the snickering and already had his arm open by the time you looked. “In,” he prompted with raised brows. “And you have a hand to hold.”