#-continues to scour AO3-

[birthday-of-music]

while november 20th did cause me irreparable damage it was much less than i expected and i think there should be more. look it hurts when canon has a bunch of angst but it hurts more when canon SHOULD have a bunch of angst but DOESNT.

[endursent]

My Partner Turned Into A Cat And I Don't Know How To Fix It (2)

【 content; established relationship , fluff , humour , slight shenanigans , gn!reader 】

【 characters; alhaitham , arataki itto , baizhu , cyno , dainsleif , diluc , kaedehara kazuha , kaeya , kamisato ayato , kaveh , neuvillette , tartaglia , thoma , venti , wanderer , wriothesley , xiao , zhongli 】

【 premise; " Your partner has been struck with a curse of some sort which has turned him into a cat, you have no idea how to fix it nor how long it might take. Yet you also cannot help but be rather amused by the situation despite the uncertainty…" 】

【 note; made the genshin version... no reason for this to be like 19 pages 😭 】

【 word count; 8.723 | read on ao3 | hsr ver | hsr reader ver | gi reader ver 】

Alhaitham ;

Kaveh gaped at you when you brought a cat into the house, one that… looked eerily similar to a certain blockhead. “I can explain,” you say as you set the cat down on the floor, he doesn’t enter the house further than you do, instead sitting down by your feet and observing the interaction with… interest? Amusement…? 

  Kaveh didn’t need much to be convinced, and immediately he thanked the Archons for giving him a few days of respite. Even just a few days of Alhaitham being unable to comment on what he does or nag him is a blessing.

  For you, it’s a bit of a hassle… because he keeps disappearing! Not in an alarming way, because you find him again in the most secluded, quiet spots you would never even think of. Under your laundry, in an empty box that Kaveh hadn’t put away after getting a delivery, and even under the desk in the study—Kaveh accidentally kicked him and got a feisty scratch on his ankle. He learned his lesson. 

  He follows you around and—though he let you pick him up the first time—doesn’t let you carry him around, preferring to walk on his own… and wander off to explore nooks and crannies he has never been able to see, but he always shows up again before you reach your destination. 

  He has also claimed your pillow as his own and refuses to let you use it, loafing on top of it exactly when you thought you could get there before him. Which… in hindsight is fine, you’re not opposed to using his pillow, it smells like him after all. 

  You decided to test how much of a cat he really is, whether it’s appearance alone or instinctual as well and bought a cat toy with a whisker on the end as well as a small bell below it. You expected him to perk up and try to whack or catch it as soon as you wriggled it beside him… but his grey furred ears just lowered in annoyance and he hopped off the kitchen counter, it seems like having even more sensitive ears in this state makes his dislike for uncomfortable noises more intense. 

  He forgave you when you spent ten minutes scratching the itchy spot behind his ears after tracking him down. A small, rumbling purr left his chest as you moved your hand to scratch under his chin—he was, however, more curious about this instinctual reaction and demanded you continue after you drew your hand back.     Despite it being very much an unspoken rule between the two of you that neither of you should be disturbed ‘needlessly’ when reading or working at home, when you borrowed a few books from the Akademiya to try and figure out how to turn your partner back to normal, Alhaitham decided it would be very reasonable for him to lay down over your book… which you are very much trying to read.

  But when you ask him what he needs, he just blinks at you three times, very slowly. You’ll likely never be able to crack that brain of his, even in a form that is somehow far more expressive.

Arataki Itto ;

It’s difficult enough to keep track of him—and keep him out of trouble—on a normal day… now? You took your eyes off him for a second, and he’s gone. Shinobu split up with you to cover more ground while the rest of the gang scoured the streets of Inazuma City, at least as much as they could.

  You peek between baskets, crates and stalls, walk through tight alleys and even squint into a few windows… nothing!

  You had been very close to giving up and returning back to the meeting point by the bridge… until you heard a very distressed, very loud meowing. Following the sound, you come to a tree stretching over the gardens of a teahouse. What looks to be the owner of it stands below the tree with a basket, trying to ask Itto—stuck up on a wobbling branch—to jump into it.

  Exasperation is one way to describe what you feel as you approach the old lady, you put your hands on your hips and Itto notices you immediately. His meowing turns from frantic and panicked… to a sheepish pleading. Every movement he makes causes the branch to sway and wobble, and it looks like it could easily bend and break—and you don’t want to cause any trouble for the teahouse owner. “Itto, come on, hop down.”

  He meows and shakes his head, white fur swishing dramatically. 

  A sigh leaves you as you step closer and hold your arms open. “I’ll catch you, trust me,” you encourage him… and he finally relents, with wobbling paws, he leaps from the branch—fur shining in the sun as he practically flies in the air towards your open arms… and lands on your head. He panics and tries to adjust and not fall off, and you try to pry him away from your face as his belly nearly suffocates you—it’s a scene from a comedic play.

  Shinobu is glad for her mask, because when you return with Itto under your arm you have scratches on your face and forehead, and Itto is whining and meowing sorrowfully. 

  He spends the entire evening licking your ‘wounds’, dragging his coarse cat tongue over every spot so often that the licking starts to become more painful than the scratches themselves. But you let him, it makes him feel much better than you—and you don’t particularly need comfort, but if he doesn’t get it, he will whine all night. 

  So you let him knead your thighs and stomach even as his claws prick through your clothes and you make sure to pet him and stroke his fur when he snuggles against you… and then you wake up in the middle of the night, suffocating with his furred belly against your face when the lies on top of you.

Baizhu ;

You’re very happy that Baizhu is catching a break—something you often try to convince him to do—despite the strange way of being forced into it… however, it’s very difficult to focus on running the pharmacy in his place by yourself while also trying to make sure he doesn’t roll off the shelf he’s napping on… especially because Changsheng wriggles in her sleep and keeps nudging him closer to the edge.

  You decide it’s easier if you have them sleeping on separate surfaces and reach up to pick up your pliant partner-turned-cat. He effectively falls into your arms and blinks lazily, slightly confused by the sudden transport. “Just moving you so you don’t hit your head,” you dodge around Qiqi as she runs past you with an armful of jars and set Baizhu down on the counter, his tail sways lazily and he immediately flops on his side as a beam of sunlight sneaks through the window and directly onto his fur.

  Every time a customer comes by—with approval—they give Baizhu a small pet or scratch before leaving, as if paying tribute to the good doctor. He doesn’t seem to mind.

  Unfortunately, you’re not fit to take Baizhu’s place for consultations, and thus they all get delayed—which was a hell of a lot of work to contact everyone and change scheduling—until Baizhu is back to normal. The usual hours of consultation in the morning are therefore replaced with longer opening hours of the pharmacy and by pulling some strings, an increased stock of rarer products at a discounted price. 

  Changsheng does not let poor Baizhu catch a break, she wiggles her tail and swipes it in front of his paws, and unable to control the feline instincts harbouring his body—Baizhu chases after her tail like a kitten playing with a toy. He whacks at it and tries to capture it, but the white snake is far quicker than even you expected her to be as a sudden game of cat and mouse (snake) takes over your living room.

 The feline form, however, doesn’t come with free stamina—and Baizhu is not in good shape. He flops down on the carpet, exhausted from the play even as only seven minutes have passed. You feel a bit bad and scoop him up for some cuddling, which seems to be just the remedy he needed. 

  Baizhu is very careful around the clinic, he doesn’t knock anything over—even though he REALLY wants to sometimes, and is mindful of not getting fur or saliva on anything that could potentially be consumed by anyone with allergies. Changsheng has taken to wrapping herself around your shoulders instead, and though you’re used to her, it’s a little annoying to get a comment on every little thing you do. 

  But at the end of the day, Baizhu curls up next to you and you wake with him lying over your chest, belly to the skies and paws in the air, comfortable and content. Though you will always prefer him in his normal state, he is very cute like this.

Cyno ;

You look around the large front hall of the House of Daena, panting slightly as you try to catch your breath… that damn Cyno! Making you chase him across the entire city! 

  You spot some pawprints and squint as you look around… he’s not bringing all that dirt into the house—you were just going to rinse him a bit, but he’s run off! You finally spot dark and creamy coloured fur… perched up high on a massive decorative piece of the wall. He looks down at you with a swaying tail, completely at ease knowing that you won’t be able to catch him all the way up there.

  You almost consider inquiring about one of those massive ladders the library has to reach the high shelves, it might be long enough…

  But very well, he wins this round. 

  Once he turned into a cat, you were very excited about petting him, rubbing his ears and stroking his tail—but he’s not having any of it. Sometimes, you wonder if someone stuck a firework in his ass and lit it up, because the bouts of zoomies he gets is so frequent you wondered if there was something wrong—but you couldn’t catch him to take to a vet either! 

  After the first few days, Cyno seems to calm down… a little. He still prefers to survey the area (your living room) from above (your bookshelf) and watch you go about your day. It’s quite cute how his perked ears twitch every time you make a noise, as if he’s completely focused on what you’re doing.

  You soon find out after stepping a bit too close to the bookshelf that he might have just been waiting to strike, because he leaps onto your head as soon as you’re in range. 

  The only reason you know he’s fully conscious in that furred head is because while you were cleaning up after dinner, you spotted him sitting next to a cup of tea that was half-filled. You tense as you watch his paw raise to knock it off. “Cyno! Don’t,” you try to sound scolding.

  He looks up at you, he lowers his paw… then raises it again, making you glare at him. He lowers it again, turns away… you turn back to wiping the dishes and look over your shoulders after a few seconds—his paw is raised again!

  This back and forth continued until he finally knocked it over.

  And then he has the audacity during the next day’s dinner to sound like he has never been fed in his life while you’re trying to eat in peace. Meowing at you so loudly one would think he was terribly injured, eyes wide and mouth open. You hope your neighbours don’t think you’re trying to starve him, or treat him horribly.

Dainsleif ;

He’s not happy about it, he has things to do—places to be and investigations to make. Thankfully you’re familiar with where you were going next… but Dainsleif is very limited in what he can do. You decide to give him the task of scouting and sneaking around, something he’s used to doing anyway… but he finds that it’s much more effective to do so as a cat. His footsteps are completely silent and his senses are much sharper.

  Though, he had an instinctual need to swat at a glowing orb that you found in a strange vault half-buried in a cave in Fontaine before he could stop himself—which closed the two of you inside the vault. Thankfully he is now small enough that he could slip out between the bars and unlock it from the other side.

  It is quite cute how his ears flattened as you walked out, as if he was sorry. Though he seemed okay after you scratched behind his ears and assured him it was okay, he was here to help you out after all! His tail swayed in satisfaction to your assurance.

  You start to set down camp for the night, having just one pair of hands makes it a bit more of a lengthy process, and Dainsleif can only sit and watch as you put it together. He’s usually quite distant, even in a relationship—but as you straighten from squatting to fit something down, you feel something press against your leg and see him rubbing his furry cheek against you, then walking around your legs, tail trailing behind.

  He’s usually quite wary and alert, even during the night when you try and convince him to sleep—and it’s no different now. He sits poised and ready… for what? He’s a cat. But you appreciate the effort. 

  Surprisingly, he’s very active at grooming himself, the two of you usually have to bathe often anyway as you frequent dusty caves and muddy backwaters, but every time you make a stop, he sits down and starts licking his fur—at first you wondered if he was frustrated by something or had hurt himself, but as you picked him up to examine for any injuries or strange patches, he just blinked at you, tongue still half-hanging out.

  Dainsleif is rather laid-back when it comes to your relationship, there are times where you want to stay in a larger city for a few days or weeks in between travels, to have a soft bed and four walls around you—which Dainsleif doesn’t mind, there are places he wants to look into where he’d prefer you are safe elsewhere. He knows where you will be and will stop by to ask if you’re ready to continue days or even sometimes a few weeks later, to which you—recharged and rejuvenated—jump at the chance to follow him out of the city.

  But now, as a cat, he doesn’t leave your side for a minute—not even when you need to use nature’s bathroom. You went into a small village in Sumeru when passing through and a vendor was particularly pressing about selling you some type of perfume that you had shown brief interest in—Dainsleif had enough of you being pestered and whacked his paw at the man’s leg, hissing. He would usually be more subtle about guiding you away, but he doesn’t have the presence he usually does as he is now, so he must utilise the aggressiveness given to him in feline form. You take the chance to scoop him up and hurry away before the vendor can get upset, petting between his ears and thanking him for the help—he rubs his cheek against yours. He’s surprisingly more affectionate like this as well.

Diluc ;

Your nose itches… you try to hold back—achoo!!

  Diluc jumps, claws scuttling against the ground and he leaps from his resting spot and hops down to the floor. You sniffle and shake your head. “Sorry, it’s not your fault,” you stand from his chair and round the table to squat down next to him, reaching a hand out. “Did I startle you?”

  He makes a ‘hmph’ sound, fur red as freshly bloomed roses. Diluc bumps his snout into your palm and huffs into it, you turn your hand and pet along his back. “Aaah… you’re so cute~ so soft,” you near coo as you scratch behind his ears—

  Diluc shakes himself and ducks under your hand to walk past you—how dare you baby-talk him?! He’s not an actual cat! The scritches felt too nice, and his ears flicked when you cooed at him—it’s embarrassing…

  He sits down by the door, tail swaying lazily as a small meow leaves him. Let me out. 

  You pout, how can you not convey how cute he is? You want to rub his cheeks. But fine, you  walk over and open the door for him to slip out of. 

  Diluc likes the lounge around the fireplace in the estate, there’s not much work he can do  while you try to figure out how to turn him back—preferably without alerting his brother or any of the knights… or just anyone in general. Unfortunately, he can’t hide it from the staff of the Winery as he is a spitting image of himself in cat form, and you’ve caught more than three people trying to feed him expensive cheeses. 

  It’s only in the recent days that you’ve convinced him to settle down and use the time to rest and nap as much as he can, but Diluc was extremely restless at first, you had to trap him inside a room and trick him into lying down with you.

  One day, Jean came by looking for him, and you had to think fast to come up with an excuse while he had just leapt under the sofa to hide. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to need him urgently, so she just left a message behind and went back to her day.

  You fell asleep in Diluc’s study, trying to keep up with his paperwork—Adeline offered to help you, she’s very familiar with his work, and it’s not like it’s been a long time since he wasn’t there to do it… but you wanted to help, and as the sun sank below the horizon, you laid down on the sofa in his study next to a tall bookcase—only closing your eyes was enough to pull you into deep sleep.

  Diluc hops onto the sofa next to you, he carefully walks over your thighs and settles on the armrest where your head is. His fluffy tail sways and strokes your chin and nose—nearly waking you as you almost sneeze, you don’t have to work so hard for him, he knows you want to help. He wishes he could tell you, and he will, when he’s back to normal. For now, he rests alongside you, head leaning against the top of yours and tail tucked against your neck.

Kaedehara Kazuha ;

Kazuha is a very chill cat, he doesn’t get into trouble, he doesn’t cough hairballs on the floor and he doesn’t knock things over.

  (Instead of coughing hairballs on the floor he swats them off-deck with his paws, Beidou caught him doing it once).

  There’s not much trouble to get into on the ocean, and he’s rather good at keeping out of trouble overall on land, sticking by his side is a sureway to a boring day of exploration or lounging around—which is your perfect type of day.

  You help him into your bag as the Crux ‘boards’ by Liyue Harbour (it stops a bit away and tucked by a cliffside to avoid attention) and you make sure he doesn’t accidentally fall into the ocean as a few crewmates row to land. You’re stopping for a few days, so you make sure to use the time to relax and take in landside air and wander around the expansive Harbour. 

  Kazuha likes to take life at a slower pace, and thus your walk to the Harbour took longer than you expected… as you thought Kazuha was doing his normal meditation on a warm, sun-kissed rock along the road…

  But he was asleep, sitting up and enjoying the sun. It took you thirty minutes to realise—a sitting cat with its eyes closed and a sleeping cat in a sitting position is the exact same.

  He very much likes to people-watch, but in this cat form, he seems even more engaged—he can hear sounds more clearly and he seems even more perceptive than usual. Watching a tea maker brew a cup on a teahouse table you had sat by to rest and ordered some snacks. He sniffs at the tea as it’s placed in front of you—he’s perched comfortably on your lap, you’re surprised the teahouse even allows him inside—and seems to appreciate the detail he gets from this new perspective, af if it smells different in this form.

  He tries to taste it and your food, but you have to block his snout with your hand, you’re not sure if the food you were having would give him a stomach ache or not. 

On a walk on the outskirts of the city, you look back and see Kazuha carrying a stick in his mouth…?

  He’s not a dog, so you’re not entirely sure why he’s doing it, maybe cats do that too? The dogs that hang around the bridge leading to the southeast outside of Liyue Harbour try to approach him with the stick, thinking he was playing, but he hops into a tree to keep it to himself. You’re not entirely sure what’s happening, but he seems to be having fun.

  Kazuha wanders off oftentimes, just in his normal, usual body… so you’re not sure why you’re surprised when you suddenly find him missing from your side—perhaps it’s because he’s a cat and you’re unsure if he can defend himself as well in that form, but you hurry to look for him.

  You practically run in circles until you find him pressing his paw to a brown, crusty leaf… again and again, as if listening to the crunch of it in a rhythm. You sigh and scoop him up into your arms. “Don’t wander off like this,” you scold and poke his nose. Kazuha sneezes from the poke, but blinks up at you and nods his little furry head.

Kaeya ;

Unbothered, in his element. Kaeya sleeps in your windowsill and bathes in the sunlight all day while you scratch your head over how this could’ve happened. You try to leave for work and he practically screeches at the door, likely pleading you not to leave—he does that normally as well, except without the loud meowing. 

  Kaeya finds appreciation in the flexibility and grace that comes with this new body, he easily leaps up on shelves and dives under the sofa, he chases flakes of dust and seems to be having quite a good time—perhaps it’s because he has no responsibilities in this form, he can’t go to work like this and has no control over it. And the loss of control is strangely freeing. 

  You scoop him up into your arms and his tail swishes happily, he grabs his claws into your shirt and purrs as you rub his ears, happy and content with the additional affection. He loves all affection he gets from you no matter what form it takes, and being a cat has given him the opportunity to be pampered in ways he never could experience as a human. 

  He does need his free time as well and he uses it well while you’re out of the house—though you were very optimistic to think that closing the windows would keep him contained, Kaeya easily flips the handles and slips out of your home. He enjoys the attention he gets from any passersby, but is careful not to be too affectionate and get picked up by someone who thinks he’s a stray. 

  His usual guarded front lowers in this form, he feels like he could slip out of any situation—and he doesn’t have to be careful with his words or actions. No one expects a cat to have alternative intentions. 

  He jumps up in surprise as he hears footsteps rapidly approaching—he had fallen asleep on a ledge and the sun was already down. Kaeya blinks as you pick him up, breath heaving. “There you are, I’ve looked everywhere for you! I thought something happened when I couldn’t find you around the plaza,” you sigh a breath of relief and practically crush him to your chest. Kaeya wriggles a little but gives up and nuzzles into you, pushing his forehead into your cheek. 

  After a number of days, Kaeya gets bored, as fun as lounging around and being pampered it… he misses real food, and dragging you away from your work to have lunch—and holding you properly, he can only lay on top of you like this, which doesn’t exactly feel like holding.

  And Kaeya being restless… he gets whiny. 

  He would usually be more subtle, but now that he feels the rush of freedom his feline form gives him, he uses it to protest by loafing on your clothes after you fold them to put away, laying over your lap when you need to get up—even though he’s not really a cat… kind of, you still get the same feeling of not wanting to move him off no matter how much space he’s taking.

  But that’s okay, because he just has to slow blink at you and nuzzle into your hand and you forgive him, how could you not?

Kamisato Ayato ;

Ayato is an unreasonably pretty cat. His fur is soft and silky, he has this… smug kitty-smile at all times, and it makes you want to pinch his ears. He sits on your lap and peeks onto the low table inside his study as you go through paperwork. Just because he’s become a cat doesn’t mean his workload just miraculously lessens. 

  Thankfully, after a few days of trying to juggle his work—how does he do it?!—even with him by your side, albeit in a form that can’t properly communicate… Ayaka decides to lend a hand, she takes it upon herself to attend meetings and represent the clan and Commission in Ayato’s stead. Thankfully no one has questioned where he is yet.

  Or why there is a suspiciously similar cat trotting around the estate in his place. 

  You fish into a bush in the courtyard gardens, hand feeling around—until you find fur and yoink it up. Ayato blinks at you, tail swishing as he has a piece of grilled fish in his mouth that he stole from the kitchens. “You know… you can have all the fish you want—you don’t have to steal it,” you say as you lift him into your arms.

  His ears flick as you talk, but he eats the fish happily regardless. You shake your head in mild exasperation. Looks like he’s using the opportunity to engage in… more mischief than usual. Perhaps a different kind. 

  Ayato likes to use his newfound stealth and agility to his advantage… to torment you.

  You put away some laundry and turned to a shelf to fetch something—only to come face to face with Ayato’s cat-face, making you jump as he meows happily—as if happy to see you! He knows he’s just trying to startle you!

  He winds around your feet when you walk around the estate and purrs happily when you squint at him.

  Ayato knows the limits, he stops before you can lock him inside a room for the remainder of the day. His fur is so soft as you pet him and a rumbling purr leaves him, he knows it’s silly—he’s not really a cat, at least, hopefully not for long. But you keep petting and stroking him while he does. 

  He takes good care of himself on normal days, and as a cat, it’s no different—he grooms himself meticulously, though finds it rather embarrassing if you’re looking, so he tries to do it out of sight… it's very instinctual, but he also likes to feel clean and groomed. 

  You once passed the great hall and saw Thoma wriggling a toy with a bundle of feathers on it while Ayato chased it… it was pretty cute to watch, but you hurried along before either of them could notice you. 

  He hogs the futon, you don’t want to push him to the side and get pushed to the edge of the mattress yourself. Ayato doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. 

Kaveh ;

Distressed, not having fun, he wants to go home.

  A series of meows in varying states of distress and confusion follow behind you as you walk, you stop and turn around, peering down at the strange cat that’s been following you around since you left the Akademiya. You were about to ask what he wants… but as you squint at the cat… doesn’t it look familiar?

  Kaveh doesn’t stop when you do, he raises on his hind legs by your feet and sinks his claws into your pants, a shrill, distressed meow leaves him.

  You reach down and pick him up, holding under his front legs as you inspect him… hm, golden fur with tints of a darker, sandy brown… those big red eyes.

  “... Kaveh?” you must be crazy, there’s no way your partner is a cat, and followed you around without you realising, but you know those eyes very well. It’s him.

  Alhaitham just stares at you like you grew three additional heads, he looks at Kaveh in your arms and then back at you. “... it looks like him, but that’s not proof enough—have you asked him to write his name?”

  You look at Kaveh and he tilts his small head to look up at you. Write his name…? He doesn’t exactly have thumbs… but Alhaitham has a good point. What if it’s just a very persistent cat? 

  Then again… where would Kaveh be? He’s usually home by this time.

  Alhaitham fetches a pen and some parchment and you put Kaveh down on the table. He tries to use his paws at first but just spills ink all over the place—but as he grabs the pen with his mouth and clumsily scribbles his signature, Alhaitham just hums while you scoop Kaveh up again, holding him up. “It is you! What happened to you, Kaveh?”

  Of course, he can’t give a proper answer, he wriggles his paws around and meows in a long dialogue—but it’s entirely incomprehensible. 

  While you and Alhaitham try to figure out how to get him back, Kaveh tries to adjust to his… predicament. He doesn’t do it with any grace, though… his leaps and jumps across furniture are miscalculated and he falls to the ground or hits his head more often than you can count.

  But your worried petting and rubbing the aching area makes him purr and nuzzle into your arms.

  He does hate the heightened senses, he jumps at the smallest noise and scuttles across the room if anything startles him—and he gets startled very easily like this.

Neuvillette ;

You call his name, looking around his office… you scratch your head, he can’t have gone far, you just left to fetch some tea for a few minutes. It’s not like he can open the door or window and slip out—why would he anyway?

  You hear a very… pathetic meow, from next to you—but there’s nothing there, just a sofa. You hear it again—under the sofa…?

  Ducking down, you see that Neuvillette is stuck, he seems to have been trying to squeeze himself under the sofa, and rounding the furniture, you see his hind legs and tail flat on the floor… it’s a bit amusing. “There, I got you,” you say soothingly as you lift the sofa up a little so he can back out. Neuvillette stands up and shakes his body.

  You squat down and smile. “How’d you get stuck under there?” you hold out your hand and he presses his head into your palm, nuzzling against your skin for comfort as you turn your hand to scratch and pet him.

  He’s not very good at resisting the instincts and temptations that come with this form—you’re unsure why he seems to struggle so much, but you try to help him as much as you can, and not laugh.

  You saw him chase a shadow, there is an ornament on the raised blinds that hang above the large window in his office. It's attached to the strings that lower and raise them and it sways slightly—casting a shadow across the floor.

  Another time he was grooming his fur and struggling, he has a thick, long coat and had to lean far back to reach the end of his fur as his tongue dragged along the hairs… causing him to roll backwards off the arm of the couch and into the pile of pillows.

  Innocent, small things that make you smile, but you’re careful that he doesn’t see it.

  He loafs over a stack of court documents as you organise his desk—might as well use the opportunity to clean up while he won’t be making a mess. He doesn’t seem satisfied with his place on the desk and stands… and spots a box on the ground, it’s stacked halfway with old documents to be taken to storage… but it also looks like the perfect spot to rest. He hops down from the desk and circles a few times on the papers to get comfortable. He wriggles a little before sitting down.

  It takes him a minute to realise that he was kneading into the paper when he hears the sound of it tearing under his claws in an instinctual need to make the bottom of the box comfortable. 

  Safe to say, he was mortified to have destroyed the top four documents, but thankfully they weren’t shredded and you managed to salvage them with some memory of what had occurred as well as piecing them together.

Tartaglia ;

You look towards the window above the kitchen counter, cold air brushes into the house as Childe enters through it—with a mouse in his mouth.

  You leap up and push the book in your hand against his face and push him straight back outside. “No! Absolutely not! Leave it outside, not in the house!!” You close the window behind him and sigh in relief, brushing stray snow into the sink. When you look up again, He’s sitting there, big eyes and ears flat against his head… but no mouse.

  Sighing, you open the window a smidge so that he can step inside, where he shakes himself and tosses flakes of melting snow all over. 

  Childe sits down, tail swaying—as if waiting for something.

  You set your haps on your hips. “What?”

  “Mrrow…” he wriggles his head, he wants a pat. 

  … fine, just because he took the mouse outside because you ‘asked’, you raise your hand to stroke his head and he tilts it to lick your palm—but you pull back. “No, you just had a wild animal in your mouth, wash your mouth!”

  What is this?? He feels like a criminal, all he did was bring you a prize… to be fair, he realised how silly it was to bring you a dead animal when you leapt up to push him back out, but it felt completely natural up until that point!

  He whines and meows for forgiveness for the rest of the night, and you do eventually ‘forgive’ him and let Chile lounge around on your lap while you pet him and continue reading.

  He picks fights with swaying curtains, chases your broom when you’re cleaning and even whacked your cup of coffee off the dinner table—spilling it everywhere. He’s a nightmare in this form, because no matter the scolding, he just stares at you with excited, large eyes and a swaying tail.

  Nothing you say gets through his head. In one ear and out the other. 

  He does not give up either, if he wants affection, he will get it one way or the other, even if he has to whine and meow endlessly, follow you around—fake a limp! You shake him a bit after he worried you and you almost went out in the middle of the evening through the snow to take him to a vet when he just wanted scritches. 

  In all fairness… this is just typical behaviour, but now he has the kitten eyes to break your self control and composure within seconds. 

Thoma ;

He tries to do his job even in cat form, using his tail to sweep, he even takes his duster into his mouth and tries to sweep on surfaces he’d usually need ladders to reach, and now he can just leap to them.

  But he also has a problem…

  He has an instinctual need to create a mess, knock things over or sit on things—when he catches himself in an act of pushing Ayaka’s discarded tea off a table, he nearly leaps away to stop himself. 

  Thankfully, everyone around him doesn't mind—and it’s a bit relieving to see that Thoma retains a sense of himself. He finds time where he would usually go into town to instead nap—and the Kamisato estate has perfect napping spots. He lies sprawled across the engawa surrounding the eastern part of the estate near the back gardens, and lets the warm beams of the sun warm his belly—only to shoot up in surprise when he hears footsteps, embarrassed to be caught lounging around. 

  Ayato sometimes plucks him away to keep on his lap for hours while he sorts through paperwork, petting and scratching behind his ears while his other hand signs documents. Thoma gets a bit restless just loafing on his lord’s lap and meows in relief when you come along to fetch him. 

  Ayaka leapt at the opportunity to sew a few accessories for him, guised under the excuse of “practise for smaller bodies” and Thoma ends up with half a wardrobe by the end of the week. 

  But he prefers to be around you, you don’t trap him on your lap (even though Ayato gives very good scritches) or make him model for three hours (even though Ayaka gave him snacks). As you work around the estate, he gets tired—curse this cat body and it’s perpetual need for napping!—and you tuck him gently into your eri*. Thoma lays nestled against your chest warmly, his body light and still as you continue your work. 

  The gardens of the Kamisato estate is a disaster zone, and after the first few days, thoma knows to avoid it. 

  He had strolled past, early in his transformation—and been startled by his own reflection in the pond he passed by, the fish swimming away in a hurry as he ran across the gardens in surprise. A second time, he had spent twelve minutes chasing a butterfly while Ayato watched with a signature smile… he will likely not let him forget it. 

  Thankfully, he’s not needed much in the gardens, and he sits perched atop a high shelf in the kitchens, his tail sways as he leans forward… very much ready to leap and steal some food—before you pluck him up and raise an eyebrow.

  His ears flatten in realisation, but you rub his cheeks and tuck him back into your clothes—grabbing some leftover pears from the dessert the kitchens were making, letting him munch on it while you get back to work. 

Venti  ;

You didn’t think Venti could become even more of an airhead on a typical day as he does when he becomes a cat. He gets distracted by the smallest things and wanders off—leading to a wild goose chase where you have to ask around for a small darkly coloured cat with blue highlights on its ears and tail—a very distinct cat!—and being pointed in every direction possible.

  Only to discover him napping in a crate full of apples in an alley you walked past at least six times just in the last fifteen minutes. 

  He is also very vocal, Venti says anything that comes to his mind… which is unfortunately nothing but meowing nonsense to your ears, but you nod along as if you understand, having a halfway conversation with the lively cat. 

  Somehow, he very much likes to play and nap like he’s being paid to do it at the same time. In one moment, he’s swatting at your clothes and trying to get to play with your fingers—which he accidentally bites and scratches in his excitement, quickly rectifying it with some licks and nuzzles—and the next, he’s passed out cold in a box or on a shelf for five hours.

  He doesn’t seem embarrassed by these new catlike instincts, such as the need to groom himself—he even starts grooming you halfway through his coat, you’re sure your skin is very much clean by the time he finally turns back to himself. 

  Unlike normal cats, who move and settle down elsewhere when the person under them gets up… Venti is not happy about being disturbed nor that you’re trying to get up, he whines and kneads on your clothes to try and get you to stay a little bit longer, giving you the best big kitten eyes he can muster.

  And damn him, it works. He knows what he’s doing. 

  You had been looking for him one morning, thinking he just wandered off again and you’d find him napping in some corner of the city… when Diluc approaches you with a sheepish looking Venti-cat, holding him by the scruff of his neck. “This yours?”

  Diluc doesn’t even seem surprised that the bard is a cat. At least he isn’t an allergy risk when he’s human-like and trying to get into his wares. 

Wanderer ;

He is very aware of himself, he knows he looks stupid (cute) and that everything he does will be looked at through the lens of a typical cat and not someone stuck in its body.

  And thus, he does all he can to be as eerie and unnatural a cat as he can be.

  He doesn’t make a single sound, no meowing, no purring, nothing. He doesn’t walk like a cat—thankfully he doesn’t walk on two legs—nor does he exhibit any of their typical behaviours.

  At least, that was the plan. 

  Every single time Wanderer catches himself doing anything that could be considered “cat-like”, such as grooming himself, chasing a loose string, or gods forbid… kneading—he will immediately stop and compose himself again.

  As opposed to some others, he absolutely hates the loss of control that follows becoming a cat. 

  He can’t write properly, he can’t communicate—and if he tries, no one but you and perhaps Nahida takes him seriously—he’s always sleepy and aware at strange times… he hates it! 

  And once when he was just trying to have some grapes for snacks—you suddenly leapt towards him to stop him, taking the bowl off the table with a relieved huff when you noticed he hadn’t swallowed any of it… after you pried the grape out of his mouth. At his hissing, you explained that cats can’t have grapes. 

  He gave you the cold fur-shoulder for at least two days. 

  You brought him out one time to get some fresh air—since he’s fully aware of himself, he shouldn’t run off and get lost, or into a dangerous situation like an indoor cat might. But when you gave some other cats around the streets of Sumeru attention, he quickly meowed in protest and whacked the other cats away. 

  It’s a bit cute… he doesn’t normally act so forthcoming, and as he bumps his head into your knee afterwards, you rub his cheeks and pinch his ears despite further protest. How cute!

Wriothesley ;

At first, you weren’t even sure if Wriothesley was just a “cat”. He’s huge*. 

  You put a bowl in front of him, filled with foods that are okay for cats to eat but also not… gross, as Wriothesley is very much aware in that cat-head of his. “C’mon, there’s nothing wrong with this, I even tasted it—it’s a bit bland ‘cause we can’t put any seasoning, but it’s food.”

  He leans down, and for a second you think that he’s going to eat it—but as his whiskers brush against the sides of the bowl, he lifts his head abruptly and swats at the bowl, clattering it to the ground—he didn’t mean to hit it at all, but also not this hard. 

  You scratch your head, you just can’t figure out why he won’t eat—you’ve tried everything!

  It took you several hours of back and forth questions and meowing to realise that it was the shape of the bowl that was the problem and not the food itself.

  On another day, you reach down to pet his soft, thick fur—only to get a static shock, it zaps your fingers and both of you jump back. You always have to be careful with petting him, as there’s always a risk of getting zapped at any time. Worst part is, it’s not even every time! It catches you off guard!

  He likes to climb and jump on the pipes that web around the fortress, getting into places he’s never even considered before—and sometimes you look around for him for hours before giving up… only to suddenly be leapt on from above by a nine kilogram heavy cat half your size, knocking you over.

  Siegwinne noticed that he had been brooding lately, he had been stuck as a cat for five days now and it was beginning to frustrate him. So she decided to soak a small blanket in tea mixed with catnip—after it was dry and she rubbed some more on it, she laid it out in his office…

  You watched him for a good long while as he rubbed against it, meowed and rolled on the blanket. It was unbearably adorable, but you eventually pulled him away after a while—worrying it might be too much.

  He’s so large that it’s almost like sleeping with a person, just a very furry one. He lies halfway over you and as you wake in the morning—he refuses to get up. You give in and relax in bed for a while… until he starts kneading your cheeks, leaving small scratches with his big paws and claws. You don’t stop him—it doesn’t hurt, he looks so focused, like he’s trying to squeeze something out of your cheeks. 

Xiao ;

He meows and wriggles in your arms, but you try your best to hold him until you reach the top of the inn—he swats at you and you finally let him go when you enter his usual reserved room. Despite being paws up when you let go of him, Xiao lands perfectly and immediately hops up to the highest vantage point in the room he could reach. 

  You don’t get him down by yourself, he only comes down willingly after a few hours when he’s calmed down and adjusted a bit to this form. You’re not entirely sure what happened, you had just been exploring a cave that was strangely entwined with a temple of sorts, when a bright light appeared behind you, and Xiao—who had been accompanying you—was suddenly a cat. A very small cat. 

  He loafs on the windowsill in the night, his tail wrapped around his paws as he peers towards the sky—at the slightest noise, his ears flicker towards it and he squints at the roads below that pass and surround the large inn. 

  He is unbothered. Firm. Stoic.

  … after getting wet under a pouring rain that persisted all day, he pretends not to be bothered by his wet fur and the uncomfortable existence he leads under this blanket of wet fur…

  But he can only pretend for so long. You turn away and pretend to busy yourself to allow him some privacy to reluctantly lick along his fur and smooth it down, trying to clean or groom it in a way that makes it less sloppy. 

  He hates it, this weird satisfaction that comes with this very primal instinct, and yet, he does still feel the satisfaction.

  Xiao is difficult to read on an average day, he’s very used to controlling his emotions and maintaining a front that’s difficult to get past.

  But as a cat… he’s an open book, he approaches you with a curled tail, he slow blinks at you when you drag your fingers through his fur as he loafs on the windowsill. 

  But he does. Not. Meow. 

  Except for that time you hauled his ass back to the inn… and when Zhongli makes a sudden appearance, he hops from his perched position and snakes around the former Archon’s legs, purring and meowing as he’s being petted and spoken to. He doesn’t notice his own behaviour…

  Not until the following night after Zhongli leaves, and Xiao is mortified that he behaved like an affection-depraved cat in front of Morax.

  Thankfully you sliding a comb through his fur and untangling some knots from the day distracts and calms him down in the evening.

Zhongli ;

At first, you weren’t even sure if Zhongli was actually aware he was a cat, he follows you around, sits on a bench and licks his paw to clean it while you shop for groceries… he chases anything shiny that you come across and swats at it with his paws, leaps at it and tries to capture it—usually rocks or mora people drop. Maybe he likes the mineral, maybe it’s the shine. You can’t really know.

  You try to give him some nice food, cut down nicely so he won’t accidentally choke on it… but he won’t eat it, not unless you plate it properly…? At least, when you rearranged it better and separated the meats from the greens, he seemed to like it more. Maybe he thought you were treating him a bit too much like a pet rather than a partner that’s unfortunately become a cat for a (hopefully) limited time.

  After a long day of… not doing much, Zhongli realised he had left scratches on the sides of some furniture and he tries to hide or cover them up for the time being, dragging a blanket over the arm of a divan in the living room… hopefully you won’t discover them and he can fix it after he’s back to normal before you notice.

  You do notice that he very much prefers specific textures, he doesn’t like walking on the hardwood floor of your home and instead prefers to lie down or sit on blankets or the silken sheets in your shared bedroom. 

  Despite the strange predicament, Zhongli is very calm, he’s both patient and has a good sense—if this was a dangerous curse or spell that was difficult to reverse, he would likely sense it. Instead, he considers using this time to show and receive affection in a way you haven’t been able to before. 

  He often sits by your legs or thighs, he winds around them and rubs his furry cheeks along your clothes and pretty much anywhere he can reach. Your legs when he’s winding around them, your hand when you reach out to pet him, your cheek when he stands on your chest when you’re trying to read in bed before sleeping. 

  He purrs and cuddles with you, laying in your arms or over your lap—he even hid in your bag once when you went out for the day, and you discovered it too late to take him back home (you did wonder why your bag felt heavier than usual) and thus, he has the pleasure of accompanying you to your work—something he doesn’t often get the excuse or time to do. 

  Thankfully, Hu Tao didn’t question it when you came to her and said that Zhongli couldn’t come to work for a few days (hopefully just a few days). If anything, she sighed in relief and said something about him finally using his paid time off and sick days. Then thanks you for taking him out of commission??? 

  You pour over some scrolls and papers to try and figure out how to turn Zhongli back, and he hops onto the desk in the study, nuzzling against your arm before sitting down, tail swaying as he joins you in searching for ways to bring him back to you in a more familiar form. Despite how cute he is like this. 

* eri is the collar-flap on the front of a kimono/yukata that crosses over the chest, he's tucked into it and lying on his back. if you know about the nioh cat clock scene, yeah.

* wriothesley is supposed to be a maine coon type of cat, just huge and heavy. but not wild cat huge.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Two - The aftermath

So many of you came out of the woodwork for this story and I couldn't be more grateful for all the kind words of encouragement! I'm truly flattered by the amount of love this received for being something that randomly popped in my head on a whim ❤️

I'm glad I was able to get this part out so quickly. It might be a tick before part three, but I've already got some of it worked out. I'll still try to keep chipping away at it while I work on my other series~

Trigger warnings: swearing, angst, depression

“I saw them the other day.”

“...saw who?”

“My scent matches.”

There’s a pregnant pause as your therapist of four years takes the information in, caught off guard by the abruptness of the statement but also the further implications behind the words.

Dr. Miranda has been your life raft and confidant ever since you’d first gone to your family with the appalling reality of your newfound situation. An omega like yourself; she specializes in the treatment and rehabilitation of women who've endured abuse at the hands of their packmates and the dredges of society. Highly recommended by the United Designation Resource Center for psychological trauma.

It had taken you over a week following the incident to gather the strength to confront your fathers on the thorny subject - too ashamed of admittance and too anxious of their response. And even then it was done over the phone in the most uncomfortable video call of your life, the dour atmosphere so at odds with that blessedly clear mid-afternoon sky, its temperate climate and soft summer breeze carrying along an enchanting melody of carefree innocence.

Inside, it was raining.

The wretched bond was a gravity well, sucking you down into a chasmic abyss and siphoning your once bountiful vibrancy. Responsibilities fell by the wayside, locked away in your self-imposed prison as if the globe would simply stop moving if you only ignored its rotations. Not until both your fathers made the three hour flight up north did you muster the courage to finally remove the makeshift barricade guarding your front door, talking through the deceptively difficult act with them on the other end of the phone as the two alphas supported you during the twenty five minutes it took to overcome the all-consuming panic and usher them inside.

They stayed with you for the better part of the month, taking over where depression had failed you in your efforts to function alone. Your parents allowed you space to look after yourself, clearing away the physical filth of your living quarters and, in doing so, sweeping away the cobwebs of your teetering sanity. They scrubbed at putrid greasy plates while you scoured tainted flesh under a scalding hot stream, the dead skin cells contaminated by his poisonous touch spiraling down the drain along with your tears.

The harsh truth of the matter is that there is no escape from your own body. You come screaming into this world given one to do with as you will, to mold and shape based on lived experiences with no regard for the decisions and circumstances made outside your control. There is no space to slip between the weaved threads of time, no hands to turn counter clockwise when you make a mistake. Just a grim acceptance that the life you once aspired to was forevermore out of reach.

There was only so much to be done given your situation. As much aid as your family offered, they were as helpless of bystanders as the soul in your meat suit. Chores were completed, accumulated bills paid, a hearty meal piled high on your plate combating the recent gauntness of your face. You were cherished and fussed over like the wee babe found scattered amongst family photos in your childhood home, cradled in their arms when the horrid presence came calling, dragging a hot poker through your insides and causing mental anguish at all hours of the night. 

The more time they spent around you, the more apparent it was that you could no longer stay there. The closer the proximity to your bonded alpha the more power he held to disrupt your life. 

That's how you landed in Dr. Miranda’s lap. Before you'd even set foot on the tarmac arrangements had been made for a new life in a new city on the other side of the country - spiriting you away on a mission to regain your independence, the distance easing the damage he could do even as the strained bond churned.

Initially dreading having to confess the horrors you’d endured to some random unknown, she’d worked diligently to soothe your broken nerves in both demeanor and environment. A kind omega in her early forties, the subtle crows feet and laugh lines only accentuated her cheerful personality, disarming in her ability to draw out your insecurities and work with you through the trauma in a way that didn’t feel intruding. 

Dr. Miranda was a veritable well of understanding, always encouraging of whatever pace you set, careful of the fragile boundaries constructed to guard your heart from further damage. 

She operated as part of a larger business that provided therapeutic services and catered to all designations alike. You’d been thrilled to find there was a separate entrance away from the cacophony of the common room, bypassing the headache of having to wait amongst strangers and leading directly to her office in the back right corner of the building. 

The space itself was considerably cozy, low lit warmth all plush and homely. The spacious couch against the back wall invited you to stretch out comfortably, decorative pillows available in a colorful assortment of textures - catering to a discerning omega’s personal preferences. A small diffuser wafting light refreshing mists operated as both a handy descenting spray and an emotional pick me up. Every accommodation purposeful, given special care for your emotional easement and wellbeing.

You appreciated the effort she put into making her office feel more like a living room than a sterile setting. It was easier for you to converse when it felt like you were speaking with a friend.

Bit by bit, Dr. Miranda coaxed you from the sheltered recesses in which you’d burrowed; not just a guiding hand through the concrete dust and collapsed rubble, but a mentor recovering your confidence, reminding you of the path you once walked independently and peeling back the suffocating layers that kept you from standing on your own two feet.

In hindsight, you probably could’ve broken the news of your scent match a bit less abrasively - probably should’ve led with it too. 

The pair of you had been engrossed in a topic that was moreso a follow up from your last session rather than anything of actual import. Your brain had been functioning on autopilot the past twenty odd minutes, making sounds vaguely human enough to get by without requiring proper attention. Honestly, most of her words had been drowned out by the incessant buzzing in your ear that had been slowly growing in volume, throat clenching and knuckles flexing, more aware of the sweat dripping down the back of your nape than anything she had to proffer.

Eventually the dam just broke. The words slipped out like grease, lubricated in a film of oil too slick to be contained and begging to be addressed.

There’s a struggle on her face to try and maintain some level of professionalism after the sudden revelation. Knitted eyebrows spiked before smoothing back down, jaw almost dropping until she remembered herself and switched it from an ‘o’ to a relaxed flat line. She mirrored your own position on the couch from her velvet wingback chair, sitting cross legged with an air of casualness. Her only remaining tell was her hands fidgeting in her lap as if her fingers itched to shake you down like a coconut tree or pry your brain open like a valuable specimen. 

Knowing the scarcity of scent bonding, this may have very well been the first time she’s come across this scenario - whether in her personal life or from her spot opposite you in her seat.

“How are you feeling about the encounter?” A loaded question if ever there was one, giving you plenty of breathing room to start the conversation however you needed and giving her a chance to compartmentalize. 

You tried to focus on the initial emotions, remembering that first brush of sweet alpha pheromones on your olfactory senses. The rush of endorphins as your inner omega staked her claim with that first gulp of built up citrus infused drool.

“I didn’t know I could feel like that...” There was a breathy quality to your tone as you visibly brightened, gazing at the plush rug in the center of the room without actually viewing it, a glow to your smile that was soft in your reminiscence. “They don’t prepare you for that first whiff at the Academy. It’s almost like…”

How could you explain in the span of a few sentences what the most ardent poets struggled with over the course of a lifetime? 

“It’s like when someone grows up not being able to breathe properly and they don’t even realize it’s a problem. To them it’s normal to be in a constant state of dyspnea because that’s all they’ve ever known. No one else might be complaining about it, but no one’s asked them about it either. They just assume that's how your lungs are supposed to function and carry on none the wiser.”

Dr. Miranda nodded along, ever patient as you attempted to spew out your thoughts in an at least semi-coherent structure.

“But then, one day, they’re walking behind a guy who’s fumbling with his attempt to shove a small object back in his pocket and watches as it falls to the sidewalk. They pick it up off the ground like a good citizen; strike up a conversation. Ask him about the strange contraption the guy calls an inhaler - learns there's another way to breathe. And so they go home and tell their mom what’s been going on with them and she takes them to see the doctor who gets them one of their own. And when that first dose of medicated mist gets sucked into their lungs…”

The image of a wide eyed innocent gasping in a world full of untold possibilities as if reborn from the ashes of their previous life, no longer chained down by the invisible restrictions tethering them to the globe, eyes glistening full of wonderment at how something so small can be something so cosmically life altering.

With each new breath, they soar.

You’re pulled out of your musings and back to reality as your own lungs expand, something weightless shimmering in your gaze, glassy eyed and perfectly at ease. “Now I know why they call it living.”

The words are floated around the space with a sort of reverence akin to hearing a favored childhood fairy tale read aloud at their mother’s knee. Something wistful and longing and filled with effervescent hope.

“Sounds heavenly...” Her own voice was just as breathy, living vicariously through the moment she herself hasn't experienced. Curling her legs up under herself, Dr. Miranda encouraged, “tell me more.”

“There were two of them,” you went on, smile turning playful and newly invigorated. “The first one was just this big bulk of an alpha. I mean, seriously, he was properly huge!” Animated arms opened wide for emphasis, your grin reaching almost the same diameter. “Built like a fucking linebacker or something. I can only imagine what he must do for a living. Kinda gives off scary vibes, but like… in a non sketchy way? He dresses a bit like a drug dealer, but feels more like a gym teacher. Maybe that’s just me being biased ‘cause he smells like a cupcake, I dunno.”

The energy you gave off was infectious. Dr. Miranda couldn’t help but join in with amused laughter, endeared to the way you were lighting up the room. It wasn’t often she got to see you like this, glimpsing the lighthearted woman you were before the accident. It was a welcome sight after so much negativity. “And the other?”

“Fuuuuck me, Doc.” You groaned good naturedly, head falling back to rest against the spine of the couch as your limbs went limp. “Swear to god he was the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life. Gorgeous smile. Like, I’ve always been a casual fan of coconut, but after that encounter…” You shuddered. “I just wanna roll around in an entire box of fucking samoas.”

“And do these tasty specimens have names?”

Just like that, you wilted.

The temperature shifted rapidly, a violent change that dragged out of your whimsy and back into a world where life didn’t discriminate between those deserving of heaven and those who broke their way in to taint the ghosts at peace. 

She picked up on it immediately, back straightening as if you weren’t the only one in the room with a chill suddenly dripping down their spine. 

Your admission came from a voice far more fragile than she’d heard in a very long time. “...I never got to ask.”

Recounting the excruciating memory was like shoving needles underneath your nailbeds, bringing up the other person in the room keeping you from wanton bliss, describing the torture you’d endured witnessing them existing with their own omega unaware of the damage she’d inadvertently done. You relayed their moment of recognition and sympathy. The confusion on the poor omega’s face.

How you turned tail and fled like a coward from the scene.

“I panicked,” came the strained confession, stumbled out in a frantic rush that spoke volumes of your frazzled mental state. “I-I didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t just waltz up to them all willy nilly and throw a wrench in whatever the hell kinda life they’d already built. I mean, she was right there! How was I supposed to fawn over the men who should’ve been mine to keep when they were never mine to begin with?!”

You flinched away from the unwanted flashback of silvery bite marks, the pale white indents plastered on her skin displayed proudly beneath the collar of her coat like an olympic medal. So at odds with the ones mirrored on your own flesh, hidden now under a thick cotton turtleneck that you fought the urge to scratch.

Dr. Miranda listened closely, keen eyes analyzing the familiar body language and monitoring your growing levels of distress. She watched as you picked apart a loose hanging thread with jittery deftness until inevitably too much unwound and fluffy white stuffing poked out between the seams of the pillow clutched like a life jacket to your chest.

“I can only imagine the hurt you must’ve felt in that moment…”

Where once your voice had been full of life, now there was only a grave emptiness. Color had been sucked from your aura the same way it had been from the room. There was no hiding from your devastation in the tiny office, the frayed threads of the cashmere pillow a reflection revealing the true turmoil roiling beneath the skin. It rotted from the inside out, exposing the vulnerable squishy interior and keeping you reliving the same brutal lacerations again and again and again.

“...I hadn’t even considered it a possibility, you know…?” 

Hadn’t allowed yourself the concept of hope. 

“And suddenly it was right there - the answer to all my problems. For a brief moment, I was shown a glimpse of a better life. A future… one where I didn't wake up with earth shattering headaches and relentless nausea and I’d actually have energy to do more than just be a useless fucking couch potato and there could be laughter and healing and–” 

You weren’t sure at which point in your stream of consciousness you’d started crying, nor when you fitfully clawed into the padded fabric, shredding the delicate material as it twisted and stretched in your trembling hands.

“I wish I never ran into them at the store... I wish I could’ve kept living in stupid fucking ignorance. At least then they could’ve just stayed made up characters in my head. Anything would’ve been better than this–” you spat angrily, chucking the mangled remains of the pillow on the ground and gritting your teeth through the onslaught of tears. “Having them ripped away from me like some sick fucking joke! Like the universe hasn’t already crushed my hopes and dreams and laughed in my face for wanting a normal fucking life!? Well guess what, gods? You win! Okay?! You fucking win! Take my heart! I don't want it anymore!”

Consoling arms encapsulated your quivering form, the comforting florals of Dr. Miranda’s airy omega scent projecting like a protective blanket and overpowering the tart bitterness of your once sweetened pear turned ashen in your mouth. 

The floodgates opened. They couldn't be stopped.

“I’m just so fucking sick of this!” Your screams of devastation become muffled against the softness of her pink knitted sweater, harsh blubbering sobs broken up by heaving gasps as you mourn the life you’ll never have. “I hate him... I hate him! I don’t wanna do this anymore! I just want my fucking life back!”

There are no words that can fix the lesions of the heart. There’s no comfort of a better tomorrow that she can wax poetic whilst drying your tears. Sometimes grief cannot be mended - only managed. And sometimes that means accepting the bad days with the learned knowledge that not all anger is made of evil. 

Holding you close, lulling you into a guarded safety with a placating purr, she grants you reprieve from the mask that you wear.

Not much more was discussed in the aftermath. The remaining time was dedicated to helping you stabilize from the emotional trauma, bringing you down carefully to avoid dropping into a catatonic state. She’d witnessed it with you before - at the start of your visits. When the grief was still too near and your triggers splayed out like a million mouse traps all primed to go off. Avoiding them was all but impossible in those early days. Three hours of your life were forever lost to time, the only proof of its occurrence the foggy aftermath filled memory of cold dampened skin and sweat soaked weighted blankets clutched tight in a dark room, uncontrollable trembles wracking your form and a bone deep exhaustion as if you’d just ran ten miles.

Dr. Miranda never once left your side.

Trudging your way back to your vehicle, the air inside the car was only mildly warmer than its outer counterpart, sinking into the rigid cloth seats and listening to the laboured clicks of the old engine grappling to turn over in the bitter cold. Snowflakes gathered on your coat began to melt as it finally gave way, puttering to life and filling the space with dense heated air.

You huffed out a loaded sigh, absentmindedly scratching at the already abused skin as you felt his presence poking experimentally across the bond. As if you didn’t have enough on your plate without him adding his delightful input, sniffing around your emotions like a trained bloodhound attuned to your melancholic brooding.

He was a spiteful thing; had been since he first opened his eyes the next morning from his drug induced stupor and found the pretty thing he’d coveted had just up and vanished. You never knew when he’d invade the sanctity of your mind. The flicker of amusement from his end was the telltale proof this was all just a sick game. 

The bonds didn’t allow any actual communication. There were no words passed back and forth, no sudden powers of telepathy. Just intense sensations - emotions conveyed as though tangible and speaking ideas down an invisible phone line. 

The whole point of a mating bite in the first place was to bring a further cohesion to the packs. As an omega, you were the fixed point in space around which all other members orbited. A mediator of sorts; it was your job to smooth the serrated edges of an alpha’s instincts, regulating their emotional needs and nurturing them to achieve a sense of balance - and vice versa. 

An omega’s naturally empathetic nature meant you were frequently prone to becoming easily overstimulated. It was an alpha’s duty to soothe your frazzled nerves. 

He liked to abuse his privileges. 

Sometimes he went days without pestering, others his tiresome machinations seemed unending. The longest reprieve had been just shy of three weeks, lured into a false sense of optimism that just maybe he’d overdosed and freed you from his haunting clutches. His return was a hot knife stabbing into your skull, grinding and drilling like a makeshift lobotomy for the clinically insane.

You were grateful for the miles between now softening the blows. Once he’d begun to feel the strain on the flight to your current city whittling away at the strength of your bond, he’d lashed out in unbridled fury. You’d spent the first leg of the trip huddled on your knees in the airplane stall, his mental punishment sawing into your ribs and expelling the simple breakfast you’d eaten an hour prior. 

Sobs of anguish turned to tears of relief as time went on and his reach stretched thin across the continent. 

The bond withdrawals came afterwards. His presence still lurked in the tether that binds you, but no more than a casual thought in the back of your mind, the quiet voice that whispers on the edge of a canyon daring you to ‘jump’.

The bond withdrawals were now the worst of your worries. It was hard to function on a day to day basis when the same distance granting you a second chance caused you to become physically - sometimes violently - ill. Instances like that, Zofran was your best friend.

Buckling your seatbelt, you waged an internal battle over whether or not to do the responsible thing of making a second attempt at grocery shopping (despite your best efforts over the past two days, you hadn’t yet figured out how to miraculously will food to materialize in your barren pantry). Statistically speaking you were most likely safe from another encounter… unless they’d pulled a you and hadn’t left with their wares either. 

But if you didn’t have the luxury before to keep putting it off then you certainly hadn’t acquired it now.

Math was on your side as you emerged with a full cart of goods and a lack of new therapy material. You’d still been the most skittish paranoid thing ever, scurrying quickly through the aisles like the CIA was out to get you, scanning your periphery and emerging quickly from the self checkout lanes to hurry towards your car. But just because you’d been successful in your venture doesn’t mean you weren’t followed along by fuzzy raised brows and curious - if not judgemental - looks. 

It was an odd notion - being terrified of the one thing that should’ve made you feel secure. It was all you could do to distract yourself from the frustrating realization that this was a game you’d be playing for the foreseeable future unless you shelled out the extra cash to bypass doing the chore yourself.

That would have to be a worry for another time. Right now, all you desired was to curl up in your tiny studio apartment with a home cooked microwaved meal and lose yourself in the diversion that was the food network channel.

But first: caffeine.

You ignored the nagging ghost of responsibility tugging at your ear as you pulled into a parking spot alongside the main road, stepping out of the warm confines of your car and hurrying inside the nestled hole in the wall you frequented a few times a week for a caffeinated boost. 

Large crowds still bothered you even with the reassurance he wasn't there, as if he could somehow physically slink out of the bond formed between you and hide amongst the chittering rabble waiting for an opportune moment of weakness to strike. Thankfully you’d arrived after the mid afternoon rush - although there were still a few stragglers with the same mindset as you eager to escape the frosty air with something warm on an otherwise picturesque snowy winter’s day.

The chiming bell above the door hailed your arrival, festive drink flavors assaulting your nose and instantly watering your mouth. Smoky chestnut praline, rich peppermint mocha, enticing caramel brulee. Cranberry laden pastries, chewy gingerbread cookies; all folded together in a Christmasy mix laced with the pleasant aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. 

Your mind zeroed in on exactly what it wanted, pinpointing the most succulent fragrance amongst the bountiful bouquet, cutting through the sea of heavy pheromones belonging to the other patrons and hitting something raw inside your weary soul. 

The veritable nectar of the gods. 

A rich shot of bold espresso. Sweetly caramelized with smooth, creamy, chocolatey undertones. It zapped your spine with a jolt of adrenaline, awakening your senses while simultaneously soothing them. The first relaxing sip of a perfectly hot beverage. The golden liquid flowed down the back of your throat and alleviated the tangled knots still keeping you on edge, settling like a sturdy hand on your shoulder and allowing you the chance to breathe easy.

Something about the blend had your inner omega preening, ears perked up and startling a small purr from your chest that had you blinking down at your torso in surprised confusion. You’d barely stepped foot inside the cafe and suddenly the craving had expanded tenfold, something ravenous and feral urging your steps towards the counter that you had to fight to withstand.

Shrugging off the intense hunger as a simple lack of shoving something slightly more substantial in your mouth before leaving this morning, you adjusted the strap of your purse more securely on your shoulder and raised your eyes level to the awaiting interior.

Right into the most alluring shade of brilliant azure - sparkling like sapphires and already fixated on you.

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[chiaraanatra]

Thief pt 2

∘₊✧────✧₊∘ ! 18+ MINORS DNI ! ∘₊✧───✧₊∘

Summary: Sam has been stealing your panties for a while and you finally decide to confront him. A continuation of this 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑟𝑏.

Warnings: SMUT! Characters are 18+, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), teasing, dry humping, scent kink (kinda?), cumming untouched (m), panty stealing, mentions of male masturbation, dom!reader & sub!sam vibes, Sam and reader are both pervs, pet names (good boy), no y/n. Let me know if i missed something.

Word Count: 2.3k

AN: I'm back! sorry for being MIA. But we are coming back strong with Sam the panty sniffer! Inspo hit me then left then came back with a vengeance! Hope you like!

《 m.list || ao3 》

"I'll be right back, why don't you find us a movie?" You watched as Sam made his way to the bathroom.

You were up in a second, digging through his drawers in hopes of finding what you were looking for. You scoured his dresser with no luck before turning to his bedside table.

A smile spread across your face when you opened the drawer and were met with the site of Sam's stash of your panties, 5 to be exact. You giggled to yourself, grabbing a pair and closing the drawer.

You quickly walked over to Sam's collection of VHSs, pretending to choose a movie for you two to watch. One movie caught your eye, Thief (1981). You wanted to burst into laughter but stopped when you heard approaching footsteps.

"What did you decide on?" Sam took a seat on the edge of the bed looking in your direction.

"How about this one?" you tossed the box over to him.

He caught it, looking at the cover then back at you, "Thief? In a James Caan mood?" He chuckled to himself.

You smiled at him, "I just think it's appropriate."

Confusion spread across his face, and he let out a breathy laugh, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I think you know." You brought your hand in front of you revealing the panties you took from his drawer, the lacy cloth dangled between your fingers.

"Uhh- what are you- I mean why are you-"

"Sam, have you been stealing my panties?" You tried your best to hide the smirk threatening your lips.

"I- umm... I don't know what you're talking about..." He thought about his words and quickly backtracked, "I-I mean wh-why do you think they're yours? I have... girls over all the time..." Sam's eyes drifted to the ceiling, cringing at his words.

"Sam, I know for a fact these are mine, just like the others in your drawer are also mine." You nodded in the direction of the nightstand.

"Fuck... I- I uhh... Fuck..." He shook his head. You were on to him; you had seen the others and there was no use in trying to cover his tracks. He was spiraling. What would you think of him? Would you hate him? Of course you would!

You looked at the purple lace in your hand, "What do you do with them?"

Your words broke him out of his spiral, "Wha-What?" Were you seriously asking him that?

"You heard me," you toss a pair at him before walking over to stand right in front of him, your eyes staring down into worried pools of blue.

He swallowed thickly. "I-I... Look, I'm sorry! I won't do it again! We can just forget this ever happened..."

"Sam," you bent at the waist, leaning in closer to his ear, "Answer my question."

At this point, he was fighting for his life. Half the blood in his body was flushing his cheeks while the other half went straight to his cock. "Please don't make me admit to this shit..."

"I won't ask again." your voice sounded so different, much more stern, demanding, and God was it hot!

"Fuck... fine! I jerk off with them... I'll wrap them around my dick, or... shove them in my mouth." He covered his face with his hands falling back on his bed. "I'm a sick pervert and I understand if you never want to speak to me again..."

"So would you steal just any girl's panties?" Sam swore he could hear a touch of disappointment in your voice. "Wha-What?" He looked up at you in confusion. "Well, no I..." You fought the smile that threatened to grace your lips, "What makes mine so special?"

"I- umm, well I..." he refused to meet your gaze.

You took his stuttering as an opportunity and climbed onto the bed before maneuvering yourself so your legs were on either side of his hips. Your skirt began to ride up, exposing more of your thighs and you could feel his cock straining against his jeans.

His eyes shot open, "Fuck..." he had never seen anything so perfect; he had imagined you in this position a million times, but his imagination could never live up to the real things.

Your voice once again brought him out of his thoughts, "Do you like me, Sammy?"

He spoke before he had a chance to think his words though. "Of course I do! I've liked you since you moved in next door..."

Did he seriously just confess to his best friend that he liked her?

Sam wanted to cry out of embarrassment and fear. Embarrassment that he just confessed to being an absolute pervert and liking his best friend, and fear that this would cause him to lose you.

When his gaze found yours again, he was greeted with the sight of you biting your lip and smiling. He stared at you in confusion and disbelief. He figured you would be running for the hills, not straddling him and giggling. "Why are you laughing and not freaking out? Also, why are you on my lap? It's really not helping this situation..."

You leaned forward, maintaining your gaze as you rested your head on his chest, "Sammy, I've known for a while that you've been taking them."

"Yo-you've known?!" He tried not to focus on your body being pressed up against his, or the softness of your breast, or the smell of your perfume, of how he wanted nothing more than to kiss you…

"Mhm. At first, I thought I was crazy, so I started leaving them out on purpose. A little experiment. A pair on the floor of my bathroom, another meticulously placed just outside the hamper. Lo and behold, each time you came over they were gone."

"If you knew then why didn't you say anything?!" It had been well over a month since he started this perverted escapade, and not only did you know but you were practically encouraging it.

"I was waiting for the right time," you paused trying to hide a smile, "and I also needed proof."

His gaze met yours, his mouth felt dry, “And now that you have your proof..?”

A smirk came to your lips. You leaned down, your chest pressing into him even more while your lips brushed against the shell of his ear. “I find you guilty of theft Sam Monroe.” You felt Sam waver under you, on edge as he anticipated your next words. “And I think you deserve punishment. And I think I deserve retribution.”

“P-punishment…?” Sam didn't know how to feel. Turned on? Yes, beyond turned on. He had never seen you like this so in control and demanding.

Rather than respond to his question you chose to lick the shell of his ear before moving to his neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin.

Sam didn't recognize the needy sounds that were coming from him. Whimpers escaped his lips as you continued your torturous pursuits.

His hands appeared to tease their way under your skirt. However, the moment he was able to feel your soft flesh under his fingertips, your assault on his neck stopped.

"When did I say you were allowed to touch me, Sammy?"

"Fuck, you can't be serious...?"

You lifted your body slightly so your eyes could meet his. "Dead serious." You leaned in, lips so close to his own but not quite touching. "Punishment and retribution." Your breath ghosted over his skin. "If you don't want it, I'll stop. But if you do, and I have a feeling you do, you'll have to beg for it."

A small part of you was anxious, worried that Sam would take the out you had given him. But those fears were quelled by desperate words.

"God, please let me touch you... I'll do anything! I'll be good, I promise... I jus- I just want to make you feel good... Please!"

You had wanted to hold out longer, really make him beg for it. But the need in his voice propelled you forward, connecting your lips to his. His were softer than you expected and he tasted like cigarettes and mint gum.

Sam wasted no time placing his warm hands back under your skirt, reviling at your softness and grabbing at the exposed skin of your thighs, causing your skirt to hike up even more.

You couldn't help but grind your hips against his. He let out a soft groan and your tongue took that as an invitation, dipping into his mouth. The muscles swirled together, feeding off the need you felt for one another.

You could feel Sam's hand tug at your shirt slightly. When you pulled back from him, a sting of saliva connected your lips. You took the opportunity to remove the unnecessary clothing item, revealing the purple lacy bra underneath.

Sam couldn't help but look up at you in awe. You looked like a goddess atop her thrown and he begged whatever deity that might exist that he could forever be that thrown. "God, your so fucking hot..."

You smiled biting your lip at the comment, “What do you want, Sammy.”

His hips bucked slightly upwards as his fingers played with the hem of your skirt, skimming the soft skin of your thighs. His eyes met yours, hoping this would suffice as an answer to your question.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Fuck..." he bit out, "You, I want you…”

You didn't respond. Instead deciding to look down on him and wait for a proper response.

He looked away out of embarrassment. "C-can I taste you?"

"Good boy." You removed yourself from his lap, removing your skirt to reveal matching lace panties.

Before you could make your way back to the bed, Sam was on his knees in front of you, looking up with dark, pleading eyes.

"Look at you... so desperate to please me?"

All Sam could do was nod his head before looking at your clothed core. "Yes, please..."

"Go ahead, baby. Make me feel good."

Without hesitation, Sam pushes himself between your legs, inhaling your sweet scent before kissing the lacy fabric that leaves little to the imagination.

He kissed the fabric a few more times before pulling it slowly down your legs. A low 'fuck' leaves his lips before he is attacking your core. Kissing, licking, and sucking on the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your fingers rake through his dark hair, pulling him in closer and grinding yourself against his face.

During his assault, Sam's hand found its way to your already-soaked hole. The tip of his index finger traces your entrance. He wasn't doing it to tease you, but rather waiting for you to tell him he could.

"Mmmm-fuck, Sam...!" Your grip on his hair tightened and he took this as permission.

His long digits took no time at all, curling inside you and finding the soft spot inside you that made your legs shake and your body feel like is crumbling beneath you. "Yes! Right there," you gasp.

Sam was in a trance. Your taste, your scent, the noises you were making, all had him on edge and he had yet to touch himself.

You could feel his hips buck against one of your legs as he reviled in the taste of you on his tongue and a bit of friction on his cock.

He could tell you were close. Your silken walls contract around his finger and he supports more and more of your weight as your legs start to give out. The pace of his hips increased as he tried to chase his high with you.

Your moans went silent as your body curled into him, the band in your stomach seconds away from snapping. "Oh God!"

Sam looked up just in time to watch you cum and he was met with a heavenly image that would play over and over in his head for the rest of his life. He felt a flood of your juices coat his face just as he came undone in his boxers.

You fell forward, trying and failing to support yourself.

Sams's fingers made their exit before his hands firmly held your hips and led you to sit on the bed.

You expected him to undo his own pants, wanting you to return the favor. When he didn’t you could only look at him with curiosity and a little confusion, "Do you want me to help you out...?"

"Umm... actually I'm already taken care of..." He stood, looking at the floor, far too embarrassed to witness your reaction.

You couldn't help the tired giggle that escaped your lips, "Like me that much, huh?"

"More than you know..." He mumbled as he shifted uncomfortably in his now damp boxers.

Your head fell back against his pillows, "Well then, I guess you'll have to explain it to me."

You watched as a not so subtle nervousness took over his features, "In due time, of course."

You reached over to his nightstand, grabbing a clean pair of stolen panties to replace the damp ones currently residing on Sam’s bedroom floor. "Why don't you clean yourself up and we can get back to our movie night?"

Sam bit his lip and stared at his white ceiling. "Yeah okay..." Was all he said before bolting out of his room.

While in the bathroom his mind was spiraling, hoping that this wasn't a dream or even worse a mistake. Sam liked you a lot. Hell, he loved you but he was not ready to admit it to himself. But when he found you with open arms, clad only in his t-shirt, and still on his bed, his anxiety seemed to melt away.

He crawls on top of you, head resting between your breasts. You couldn't help but kiss the top of his head and whisper into his hair, "I like you too, Sammy."

As always, feedback, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

Taglist: @bimbo-baggins86 @daisydark @lillyxlillian @ineedtosusoutmyreadinglist

𝑊𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑑? 𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 💜

[saveyourblood]

Roll the Dice (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: Buck makes a humming noise, rubbing his lips in thought. “I could do it.” You and Eddie share a look. Eddie is the first to test the waters. “Do what?” “Give someone a lap dance.” The one where you're best friends with Buck and Eddie, the three of you are drunk, and the topic of lap dances comes up.

Word Count: 2.4k Prompt (from @happyhauntt): buddie and reader are hanging out and drinking maybe and maybe they're watching magic mike as a joke or they had a call to a strip club earlier that day and buck asks reader who they think would give a better lapdance, buck or eddie, reader bluescreens and they both give a demonstration. A/N: This was such a fun write! Thanks for letting me steal your idea, Ollie! You can find their work on AO3 too. :^) Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays everyone! Warnings: Spice (not smut), drinking, mentions of vomiting

It started with beer. 

Well, it started with the boys drinking beer. 

You’ve never been a big fan of beer. You’ll occasionally indulge in something on tap at a fancy bar, but other than that, it isn’t your drink. And that cheap shit that Buck buys at the corner store? Absolutely not. 

So, it started with the boys drinking beer and you drinking a canned cocktail. 

See, Buck may have bad taste, but he has a good heart. He always has a 6-pack of cheap beer in his fridge, but since you started coming over, you notice he always has a 12-pack of ready-to-drink canned cocktails. You know he doesn’t drink them; he buys them for you. 

You really don’t drink that much, in terms of both frequency and amount. It takes a singular drink for you to feel a nice buzz, and really, that’s all you need. You’ve never had the desire to get blackout drunk, and more than three drinks gives you a raging headache in the morning. 

You were only going to have one, maybe two drinks, just like you usually do. 

But then Eddie found the fucking tequila. 

“Where’d you even get that?” you giggle. You'd be embarrassed by the sound if you were even a little bit sober. Thankfully, you’re halfway through your second can, and any sense of embarrassment is filled by the warm pool of alcohol in your stomach. 

“Maddie made margaritas the night I moved in,” Buck says, raising his beer bottle to his lips. 

The boys are both on their third beers, but between the lower alcohol content and their stronger tolerances, they aren’t as drunk as you are. Hopefully, the tequila will even the score. 

“Where did she buy it?” Eddie laughs as he inspects the bottle. 

It’s cheap: you can tell that much by looking at it. It’s a 1.75 liter plastic bottle — not exactly top shelf. You expected nothing less from Maddie, since she doesn’t strike you as a girl who sips high-end tequila. No, she’s more like the girl who makes way too strong margaritas and bullies her brother into taking shots in the kitchen. 

Buck shrugs. “Grocery store, probably.”

Eddie starts looking through the cabinets. “You got a blender?”

Buck snorts. “I have shot glasses.”

“I’m not doing shots,” you laugh. “Tequila shots and I have… a bad relationship.” 

Eddie gives you a look. “What type of relationship?” 

“Whatever type ends in me throwing up in someone’s sink.”

Buck tips his head back and cackles. “You did that?! You?!”

“I just graduated from the Academy and went out with some classmates to celebrate,” you explain, cheeks flushing as you smile. “It started with bar hopping and ended with tequila shots at someone’s house.”

“Sounds like it actually ended with you throwing up in someone’s sink,” Eddie points out. 

“And you’re trying to make it happen again!” You accuse as Eddie continues scouring the kitchen. “Shame on you, Diaz!”

“Hey, it would be nice to see the most professional member of the 118 get a little crazy,” Buck says. 

You snort again. “I’m the most professional member of the 118?”

“Professional isn’t the right word,” Eddie says, finally finding a cocktail shaker. 

“Formal?” Buck proposes, looking to the other man. 

Eddie hums in consideration as he fills the shaker with ice, leaving the tequila on the island. “Classy?”

Buck shakes his head. “No, that’s not it either.”

Eddie sets the shaker, now filled with ice, on the island. He then opens the fridge door and comes back with lime juice. “Proper?”

“Proper,” Buck agrees, leaning his hip on the island. His body is turned towards Eddie, watching him as he pours the ingredients into the shaker. 

“Proper,” you echo, your lips wrapping around the word as you say it. “How exactly am I proper?” 

“I don’t know,” Buck says after taking another sip. “Just… the way you carry yourself, I guess.”

“How specific.”

Buck flicks a beer cap, previously sitting on the island, at you. You try to catch it, but it slides off the table before you can catch it. You flip him off. 

“Not so proper anymore,” Eddie remarks. 

The tequila takes you by the hand and leads the three of you into Buck��s living room. You’re on your second margarita on the rocks, courtesy of Edmundo Diaz. The boys decide to take two shots each, back to back, and simply watching them kind of made you sick. 

“You are so full of shit!” you yell. 

You don’t know much at this moment, other than the fact that you’re completely and entirely drunk. Not wasted, not blackout. You’re in that sweet spot where you’re sober enough to know that you’re being obnoxious but too intoxicated to care. As someone who normally presents as ‘proper’ (apparently),  it’s a combination akin to fire and kerosene — absolutely ruthless. 

“I am not!” Buck laughs.

Buck claims he’s never had a lap dance, and you don’t believe him for a second. 

You’re not entirely sure how you got on this topic. It definitely didn’t start like this, that you’re almost entirely most likely probably sure of. It had something to do with the ‘old partners’ discussion. Or maybe the ‘craziest night out’ swapping of stories. It’s hard to tell — you’ve cycled through several topics tonight, and you’ll be lucky to remember half of them. 

“Eddie, do you believe him?”

Eddie chuckles as he raises his hands. “I’m staying out of this one.”

Like you or Buck would let that happen.

“What about you, hotshot?” Buck asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You ever had a lap dance?” 

Eddie’s eyes narrow slightly, almost like he’s sizing up Buck. It makes the alcohol in your belly burn a little warmer. 

“Once,” Eddie eventually answers. 

You turn your head to the side like a curious dog. “Oh?”

“Do tell,” Buck says, leaning forward. 

“It was at my shitty excuse of a bachelor party,” Eddie explains, taking a sip of his fourth beer. “One of my friends in Texas insisted. We went out to a strip club, he paid for it, and… that’s it.” 

“He paid for it,” you echo. “What a gentleman.” 

Sitting in the armchair, Eddie gently kicks your leg on the coffee table. You giggle, pulling both your legs back onto the couch. Buck, at the other end of the couch, puts his feet in your lap. 

“You’re being awfully quiet,” he observes. “Have you?”

You snort. “Have I ever had a lap dance?”

“Or given one.”

You press into the nailbed on one of Buck’s toes using your thumb. He yelps and pulls his legs back. 

“Half an hour ago, you were calling me ‘proper.’ Now, you’re asking if I’ve given someone a lap dance,” you recall. You turn to Eddie. “Can you believe him?”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie says as he shakes his head. “...Have you, though?”

Buck cackles as you kick Eddie’s leg. 

“I’ve never given anyone a lap dance,” you answer loudly. “I almost got one, though.” 

Both the boys raise their eyebrows.

“Do you remember that call we went on a few months back? To a male strip club?”

“Yeahhh,” Buck says. At some point, he replaced his beer bottle with the tequila bottle, which he’s now cradling like a baby. “What was that place called? Thirsty?”

“Just Thirst, I think,” Eddie remarks. “The one where a dancer rolled his ankle, right?”

You nod. “One of his buddies offered me a dance for being such a great first responder.”

Buck smiles and takes a swig of the tequila, wincing as it goes down. You nudge his knee, then pull your fingers towards yourself, gesturing for the bottle. Buck’s smile looks a little more cocky, but he hands the bottle over anyways. 

“You didn’t accept, huh?”

You sip a  little more of the tequila than you should. You can’t help it — it goes down so easily, leaving nothing but fuzzy warmth in its wake. You’ll regret it tomorrow, but for now, you’re basking in it. “Not really my thing.”

“Not even for the story?” Eddie asks. 

“You don’t get to be the ‘proper’ one by doing something ‘for the story,’” you counter. 

Eddie makes a face of contemplation as he reaches for the bottle. “Fair.” 

“You are really hung up on that word,” Buck notes. 

“It was… surprising, that’s all,” you chuckle. 

Buck makes a humming noise, rubbing his lips in thought. “I could do it.”

You and Eddie share a look. Eddie is the first to test the waters. “Do what?” 

“Give someone a lap dance.” 

You can feel your face get hot. You swallow the lump that suddenly took residence in your throat. 

Meanwhile, Eddie laughs. “You’ve never gotten a lap dance, but you think you can give one?” 

Buck shrugs, leaning one elbow on his knee. “Why not? I’ve seen Magic Mike.” 

“You’ve seen Magic Mike but never gotten a lap dance,” Eddie continues after taking a swig of liquor. “That makes sense.” 

You reach for the bottle, which Eddie grants you. You take a long drink, gulping a few times. Pulling the bottle back, you use your thumb to wipe your bottom lip. “Do your worst, Buckley.”

He turns his head to stare at you. He huffs out a laugh, looking at you the whole time. “What?” 

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” you continue, leaning back in the couch. You prop one arm on the back and the other on the armrest, the tequila bottle hitting the end table in the process. “You’ve never given a lap dance, I’ve never gotten one. We’ll pop each other’s cherries.” 

You’d never say any of this sober. Shit, you’d never say any of this two drinks in. You’re in so much deeper than that now; between the margs and the sips, you’ve had at least 6 shots. You can practically feel the alcohol in your blood. It’s hot, thick, and wanting. 

You're 100% throwing up in Buck's sink tomorrow.

You blink, and Buck is on top of you. His hands press into the back of the couch, holding his weight so he can be face-to-face with you. If the booze in your veins is hot, then his breath on your lips is fucking scalding. 

He lifts his hips and brings them back down in a rippling motion: he’s grinding on you. You giggle, high-pitched and shameless. You move your hands to cover your mouth. You can’t wrap your head around the idea that this is actually happening. 

Buck sits up straighter in your lap. He’s careful to keep his weight on his knees, which are on either side of your legs. He puffs his chest before rolling his shoulders forward and his ass backwards on your thighs in a fluid motion. You can feel the friction of his pants on your bare legs. You thank your past self for choosing to wear shorts. 

He gently takes your wrists, moving your hands from your mouth to his chest. He’s fully clothed, so you’re dragging your hands down his sweater. Still, you can feel the rippling of his muscles under his shirt. You throw your head back in laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it, but you know the burning in your stomach is no longer entirely thanks to the liquor. 

“Not bad,” Eddie critiques from his seat. 

You laugh harder. 

“What, you can do better?” Buck challenges. 

Eddie narrows his eyes again before smirking. He pushes himself out of the chair, shooing Buck away with his hand. 

Buck raises his hands in surrender, turning on one knee before flopping on the couch beside you. 

“This isn’t happening,” you laugh, shaking your head like you’re trying to wake yourself up from a dream. 

You’ve had a crush on both of them since the first time you saw them. How could you not? They are completely and utterly gorgeous men. When you realized how funny and caring they both are, it just sealed the deal. You never, in your wildest imagination, pictured yourself in a situation like this with either of them, let alone both of them. 

Not that you’re complaining, of course.

Eddie takes Buck’s place, only he’s towering over you since he’s standing instead of sitting. He puts his hands on your sides, trailing down to your thighs. You shudder under his touch, hoping it isn’t noticeable. The way the corner of his mouth turns up tells you that it’s definitely noticeable. 

Eddie’s hands reach your knees, which he loops his fingers under. In a swift motion, he pulls your legs up and presses his body against yours. You yelp in surprise and wrap your legs around his back, somehow pulling him closer. 

His hands move to your back, and he picks you up. You yelp again, astonished by the ease he can lift you. You shouldn’t be so shocked, considering his career. When his grasp moves from your back to your ass, though, he’s no longer Firefighter Diaz; he’s Eddie, the man you have a crush on. And the man who’s currently holding your ass. 

Eddie turns on his heel and carefully lays you on Buck’s coffee table, which makes you cackle again. Your laughter dies in your throat when Eddie places himself over you again. Your chests are touching, as are your noses. 

You look into Eddie’s eyes, and it’s as if you can suddenly read his mind. “Dancers aren’t supposed to kiss the clientele.”

Eddie smiles again. It’s the kind where only one corner of his mouth curls up, and his lips shift to the side. “Good thing I’m not a dancer.”

His lips meet yours, and it’s nothing but heat. He tastes like a mix of cheap beer and tequila, and if you weren’t already, you could get drunk off of it. Your tongues meet and separate like lovers on a dance floor. When you’re out of breath, you wonder if you could suck the air out of his lungs, just to keep you connected to him for a little longer. 

Eddie pulls away first, his chest heaving desperately for air. 

“You lose,” Buck remarks. 

“How did I lose?”

“It was a competition?” you interject. 

“It’s called a lap dance,” Buck points out. “That wasn’t in her lap.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes fondly. They eventually settle on your mouth. “Eh, I think I won.” 

[my-my-my]

KINKTOBER DAY 6 - Somnophilia: Sosuke Aizen (Hueco Mundo) x Female Reader

Requested by anonymous

Summary: Observing people, shinigami and hollows alike, are just one of the many hobbies Aizen likes to partake in. In one of his visits to Naruki City, he decides to leave a book from his personal collection, in a used bookstore. You, a human who doesn't know any better, become fascinated by the book - never hearing or seeing anything about it before. No one knows of this book, except a stranger, Aizen, who feeds your curiosity.

TW: this is kinda angsty. Implied past somnophiliac acts (reader thinks its a dream), dubious consent, hypnotism, voyeurism, stalking.

Word count: 2491

Read on AO3 here.

In preparation of his descent into Hueco Mundo, Aizen scoured Karakura Town and the nearby Naruki City for test subjects, spiritual readings and hollow experimentation. Sometimes, it’s easier to disguise himself amongst the humans, wearing a gigai.

Aizen is fascinated by the mostly mundane tasks of human beings. They’re so incredibly fragile in his presence yet make the most out of their inadequacies. While their technology is not as advanced as Soul Society, his or Urahara Kisuke’s inventions, he’s amused by what they have made for themselves already.

Sometimes Aizen wanders through the various bookstores and libraries in the World of the Living. He observes mortals and what they decide to read. For whatever reason, today he decided to bring a book from his own collection and places it on the shelf of a used bookstore.

He watches you, with curious eyes, skimming the book. Your eyes widen from what he can see. What will you make of it? He wonders. The store owner doesn’t recognize the book at all but sells it to you for a low price.

He watches you read it in your home, on your commute and your days off. You’re in awe.

You decide to finish the book in a quiet part of the park, under a gazebo with some of your favourite flowers surrounding it. Page after page, you’re engrossed with what the book shares with you, things you haven’t heard of, concepts you had never dreamed of. You had never heard of this book before, no existence of it in the library or online copies anywhere. Yet it captivated you.

“Are you enjoying that book? It’s quite fascinating, isn’t it?” Aizen asks, as he walks into the gazebo to see you.

Today, Aizen would find you enjoying an iced coffee on the patio of a café in Naruki City. In the back of his mind, he had already begun his machinations to move you further away from Naruki City to Kyoto or somewhere else, where you wouldn’t be affected by his plans for Karakura Town and the nearby areas.

You sipped your coffee, thoroughly engrossed in a book that he had lent you. His lips twitched at seeing you enjoying something he also enjoyed, his heart quickened in your presence.

But he ignored it.

Today, Aizen donned a gigai, as he always does when he visits you. A simple white dress shirt tucked in to black slacks, the sleeves rolled up, his hair pushed back as normal. He ordered a white jasmine tea for himself, and a small pastry for you.

“Are you enjoying the book?” Aizen’s voice startled you, but you smiled at him, waving him over.

“Yes, I am, thank you so much Aizen-san! Your recommendations have been wonderful.” You beamed at him, placing a bookmark on the page as you closed the book. It wasn’t often that you bumped into your mysterious crush.

He gave you a small smile and sat across from you, taking a sip from his cup. This café is terrible he thought to himself, tasting the bitterness of the tea leaves. But you were here, and that was more than enough to finish drinking the offensive liquid.

“What brings you here today? I haven’t seen you in a while.” You asked, feeling nervous suddenly.

“No reason in particular, I was in the area and wanted some tea. I just happen to see you here today. It’s nice to see a familiar face.” Aizen said, continuing to drink his tea. He noticed your coffee was also still unfinished. “Are you not enjoying your drink?”

You laughed, then lowered your voice, “I found this place on a whim… but it’s kind of terrible don’t you agree?” To which you gave him a sheepish smile.

Aizen chuckled, nodding his head, “but I got this for you. Hopefully that’s better than our drinks.” Your eyes widened at the pastry, and you immediately thanked him for it.

You ripped a small portion off the plate and placed it immediately in your mouth. Your eyes lit up, it was surprisingly delicious. “You need to try this Aizen-san!” You immediately ripped another piece off and handed it to him.

A blush crept up your face as he ate from your hand. “It is delicious. Maybe they should open a bakery instead.” Aizen surmised, his tone calm and collected, as if your fingers weren’t near his mouth at all.

You gave a nervous laugh and immediately pulled away, “I think that’s a great idea for them.” “Ignoring them, tell me what you think of what you’ve read so far.” Aizen asked, watching your eyes glimmer in excitement.

It had been a few months now, of meeting with Aizen, whose first name you learned was Sosuke. He revealed very little of himself, but you had exchanged numbers with him. As of late, many of your meetings were more like “dates,” that ended with some kisses and heavy petting.

Yet you still didn’t know much of the man. He was a complete enigma to you. You had shared with one of your closest friends what you knew about him, but even their sleuthing skills couldn’t find anything. Was he giving you a fake name?

You doubted that, but you never really saw him around town save for when you two were hanging out. He wasn’t purposefully evasive towards you, he told you as much that he was in the area a lot (but didn’t specify where), as he had work there (but didn’t disclose what he did).

Yet even then, when you two were together, it felt like the rest of the world was gone. The two of you were in a bubble. It was strange in some cases, you thought. On days when you were having an especially hard time, something at work or something upsetting, you would find him, almost as if on accident.

And the time with him felt comforting. Your problems felt like they disappeared when you were with him, or he offered you advice and listening ear if it was too much to bear.

But still, nothing about him, nothing of existence of him. Maybe… you were hallucinating him?

That would make sense, right? Your friends never met him, and any instances of trying to have him meet them were thwarted at some point. Even when you tried to take photos, your phone’s camera would (surprisingly) malfunction.

Now you felt crazy, but the books were real, weren’t they?

You picked up the latest book he lent you. It was heavy, hard and sturdy. It felt real.

You took a photo of it and sent it to your closest friend, who responded with a question mark.

“Why are you sending me a pic of a book?” Your friend responded.

You replied with an “oh it was an accident, meant for someone at work!”

Ok, so the books were real.

Then your phone rang. Speak of the devil and he shall appear your mind thought, as Aizen’s name flashed on your screen. You hurriedly picked it up and heard his baritone voice immediately. “Are you free tonight?”

Aizen had treated you to dinner, at a remarkable restaurant you were saving up for. You savored every part of your meal, from the food, the décor and Aizen himself.

“I think…” you hesitated, wanting to choose your words carefully, “this is the first time you’ve called me for dinner, Aizen-san.”

He gave you a small smile, “it is, and unfortunately there’s a reason behind this.”

You felt your heart dropped at the shift of his tone.

“I’ll be going overseas indefinitely.” He said, “I’m not sure when I’ll be back here again.”

“Oh…” you trailed off, disappointment clear in your voice. “For how long?”

“I’m not sure yet, but it may be the last time I see you.” Aizen said, his face expressionless. He watched your face drop with sadness, while his heart felt a bit strange. But he ignored it, again. He enjoyed your company and nothing more of it would come from it. His plans were too far along now to pull you into them. It was better this way.

Although Aizen shared it was his last night, he wanted to spend the night together. It was a surreal blur to you. The two of you spent time watching the stars, discovering late night gems in Naruki City, with kisses in between, but once a yawn escaped your mouth, he escorted you home. You remember being tucked in to bed, and then waking up to find a new book on your bedside table. Aizen’s last gift to you. You thumbed the pages carefully before hugging the book to your chest.

The following morning, you sent him a text, to have it being bounced back. Calling him left you with an automated tone saying the number did not exist.

The man, Aizen Sosuke, never appeared in your life again. To your friends who knew of him, never brought him up.

At places where you two were seen together, no one batted an eye as to where your partner was. No one asked. As months went by, if it weren’t for the books lining your bookshelf, you would have wondered if he even really existed.

Lord Aizen remained unphased watching Ulquiorra share his update on Karakura Town to him and the rest of the Espada. Everything was going according to plan, plans that he thought well and hard for, plans that had contingencies running if they were (shockingly) to fail.

Ulquiorra’s voice droned out of Lord Aizen’s mind as he saw the briefest glimpse of you. Of course Ulquiorra was not privy to you. Watching you, hearing you, talking to you was only a privilege to Lord Aizen.

To which he thought, he was due for a visit to you.

Some nights you dreamt of Aizen.

Some dreams, the two of you were a seemingly normal couple, traveling the world and sight-seeing.

Other dreams he was a military captain, commanding his troops with his sword and his voice alone.

Some dreams felt real – his touch hot against your skin, his kisses deep and passionate. Your bed, his bed, some other bed – you would wake with the distant memories of moans and pleasure, as your thighs were left sticky, and your body covered in a light sheen of sweat.

Other dreams involved him in a palace far beyond, of stark white in an area devoid of light. Where sand dunes filled the landscape, with strange creatures roaming around. He commanded them, wearing robes of white, with a presence that commanding fear and utmost respect.

You never knew what to make of these dreams. Some days you loved them, to see him again, to “feel” him again. Other days you hated it, you wished you had never met him.

The dreams now, were becoming fewer and far between, and again, you weren’t sure if you were happy with that. To be haunted by him, or to forget him almost completely.

Tonight though, you were exhausted, and your bed called to you more than anything.

Once you were sound asleep, Aizen approaches. He knows you and your bed now. He knows which parts to put weight on – and which not to – to avoid waking you. It amused him some days, to hear you cry for him in your sleep, other days it made his brows furrow, his heart quickening like it did before.

Tonight he wanted you for himself. Seeing you in Ulquiorra’s surveillance update tugged at him. You called to him, both mind and body, and it bothered him. But tonight he would indulge. His reiatsu lightly fills this room, weighing on you more heavily, forcing you into a deeper slumber.

“Sosuke” you whimpered, your eyes still closed, while your brows were knitted. He kisses your forehead and watches you relax, wondering what you were dreaming of tonight.

Aizen cups your face and turns you on to your back. Your breathing is deep – your chest rises and falls to every breath you take, your breasts barely containing your nightshirt.

Aizen muses if you were made for him, as your legs spread apart. He whispers an incantation under his breath that leaves you naked and bare for him alone.

He runs his hands over your body, parts he's familiar with, places he hungers for. Deep kisses are left along your neck as he travels down your breasts, taking delicate care for each nipple.

Your eyes are still closed, but moans are freely spilling from your mouth. Aizen pushes your legs further apart, your glistening cunt in full display for him. He draws slow circles around your clit, earning a gasp and mewl from you. It amuses him how needy your pussy is for him, you’re completely drenched, and he hasn’t even put a finger in.

Aizen pushes a finger into your wet hole and relishes at how tight you are around him. Your mouth opens into a whine, “please, more Sosuke.” Although your eyes remain firmly closed.

Who was Aizen to deny you like this? Undoing a part of his robe, Aizen pumped his cock in his hand, watching you panting, and moaning for him. As if on reflex, he watches in amusement as you pinch and play with your own breasts, before your hand circles your clit, but he stops you before you can go further.

Your body was meant for him, and he would remind you of that fact.

Aizen slowly pushes his cock inside you, relishing at how your face tightens at the sudden intrusion, but slowly relaxes as you moan to the full stretch of him. Aizen brings your face to him, giving you a deep kiss as he slams his hips into you.

A part of him wants to see your eyes open for him, to watch your eyes sparkle at him, trickle with tears as he pounds you mercilessly. But not tonight. He grinds into you, forcing your legs on his shoulders as his cock is covered in your slick juices.

You chant his name, over and over again, cries for more pleasure, more of him. And of course, he would never deny you tonight. Aizen slams into your wet pussy repeatedly, as you tighten around him, before a low groan escapes Aizen, his cum filling you up as he remained inside you. He watches you in fascination as your eyes relax again, your breathing less laborious than before, slowly pulling his softening cock out of you. You let out a soft whine from the feeling, to which Aizen kisses you, as if to say he was sorry.

He undoes the incantation in your room, your shirt appearing back on your body, before fading into the darkness of Hueco Mundo once again. When morning comes, you’re left with another moment of wonder and frustration. Of sticky thighs, sore nipples and kiss swollen lips. A vision of Aizen runs through your mind, haunting you once again.

I've been in a wistful mood for Aizen as of late... and yes, more Ghost sex hahaha. Thank you for reading! This fic was set to VIQ's "Ghost".

[slytherizz]

Fight or Flight - Sebastian Sallow/F!MC

Summary: Sometimes sleeping dogs don't lie.

Two years after his uncles death and with Anne missing the last remaining Auror who scents deception requests a testimony from the only person witness to what really happened between Sebastian and Solomon in the catacombs that day. In a bid to protect those memories and keep him out of Azkaban their marriage is arranged - A marriage Sebastian is hell bent on putting a stop to.

Word count: 15,000 (remember when I said I’d keep it under 10k)

Tags/Warnings: Arranged Marriage, 18+, Explicit Sexual Content, Smut, Angst, Masturbation, First Time

Link: You can find the complete fic on Ao3.

A/N: Sebastian ‘my wife’ Sallow. To the anon who requested this, I’m sorry it’s so late but it was so much fun to write.

Sebastian is almost certain he’d been on the receiving end of a lethal confundus charm. Either that or he was at present suffering a massive life altering haemorrhage somewhere amongst the sun deceptively warming his cheeks and the familiar groan of the dragon bones anchored above them, as it tilted its great head in greeting when they'd arrived in Hecate's office. Full of mysterious tombs and the lingering scent of smoke. Ash trampled so tightly into the grooves in the floorboards he doubted even the house elves could scour out the smell. 

He’d gotten too comfortable. No. Down right complacent as of late and now his psyche in a riotous act of self-preservation was giving him a blistering slap back into reality. 

Pull yourself together. 

Sebastian dug his nails into the soft flesh of his palm. He hissed at the sharp pain as he broke the skin. Felt the blood prickle hot against his sweat slicked palms as it beaded along the thin superficial wound. Uncomfortable. Stinging. And far, far too real. 

“What-?” he managed to croak around a lump in his throat. Praying to Merlin that if this wasn’t a dream it was some elaborate and albeit cruel practical joke. 

“Spousal Privileges,” Hecat repeated. Matter of fact. Her features were drawn and to his dismay betraying no hint of amusement. 

Sebastian choked violently on his own saliva. A hacked cough, raw against his throat. As if the wind had been knocked out of him by a patient and vindictive phantom.

“What this means is you couldn’t be forced to give a testimony or surrender any memories pertaining to anything to do with Mr Sallow. With his sister still missing, the only people who know what really happened in that catacomb are the two of you. If you can’t be forced to corroborate this theory that has been gaining traction at the Ministry that’s the way it stays,” his professor continued to address the witch beside him, unmoved by the blood draining rapidly from his face. 

Her eyes were fixed intently on Hecat, chin raised as she refused to meet Sebastian’s increasingly panicked eye. He shifted in his seat towards her. Turning rapidly back and forth between her and their professor. 

Waiting. A heartbeat and then more passed. Mounting up until it became a deafening drum in his ears. 

He wanted her to laugh. Let it loose. Burst the dangerous tension mounting with every second this insanity stretched on for. Most pathetically of all - he wanted her to save him. Wanted to watch her face crease with laughter at the absurdity of what Hecat was saying. Cling to some sense of normalcy, her stability by his side whilst the rest of him was spiralling out of control.

She was uncharacteristically still in her chair. As frozen as the statue of the mourning lover in the courtyard. Her fist clenched so tightly in the pleats of her skirt her knuckles blanched. A half finished braid she’d been fiddling with behind her ear hung abandoned. Not a shadow of humour remaining. 

“Why now? It’s been years since…”  she asked, with a more measured tone Sebastian felt the situation did not warrant.

She spared him a glance which did little to put him at ease. If anything the serious crease to her brow set him on a razor's edge. 

Sebastian was unravelling. The thread he’d used to stitch back together a semblance of a life was pulling apart at an alarming rate. And the only two people who had any hope of holding him back together were entertaining this insanity. 

“Some of Miss Sallow’s effects were uncovered at the former Feldcroft residence. It seems no one had tended to the home since your Uncle passed…unexpectedly. My contact at the Ministry informs me that there's only one Auror pushing for those memories. Sergeant Tuttle. Old guard. Worked closely with your uncle when they were both juniors in the department. The rest are happy to let Solomon’s memory remain as it has been for the past two years - the heroic final act protecting his young charges from a horde of uncontrollable inferi,” she paused and Sebastian felt the weight of every word. “Personally I am inclined to agree.”

Hecate’s already thin lips pulled so tight they almost entirely disappeared. Her inscrutable brown eyes peeling back the curtain seeing far beyond the truth to the crux of him. Weighing his mettle. And he wasn’t sure she’d be impressed at what she found. 

Because what he was - was careless. Sebastian supposed he could argue that his distress over losing his sister had made it too painful to return. Knowing Anne was not there, Feldcroft seemed rather pointless. 

But really all he’d been was too eager to turn his back on that hovel that had never been his home. Ivy grew thick over its stones and he hoped one day it would pull it down entirely. No one had touched the wards in over a year. Perhaps when he’d boxed up his feelings and shoved them away in his desperation to move past what he had done, he didn’t consider the possibility that there were others out there who, unlike him, may not want to move on so hastily from Solomon's death. 

Anne certainly hadn’t. 

“With you two being so close, this is the cleanest option-” Hecate continued. 

“I don’t bloody care about clean!” Sebastian broke from his stupor. Fist slamming on the table rattling the spoon from where it rested against his saucer. “Tell me the other options. I don’t care how messy they are. I’ll do them.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase,” Hecat said sharply. “This is your only option. And you’d do well not to leap to such dramatics if you want this to work, Mr Sallow. In particular I’d advise against taking such a tone with me.” 

Sebastian didn’t care. He’d already geared up to argue back against this preposterous idea when the statue of the witch beside him suddenly came to life. As if Pygmalion himself had loved her into life just to spite Sebastian. 

“We’ll do it,” she said firmly. 

Sebastian choked again, head snapping to look at her. “You can’t be serious!” 

She simply glared back at him, as if he wasn’t the only reasonable person left in the room. “I’ve kept you out of Azkaban this long-“

Their professor cleared her throat, having little patience for the squabblings of teenagers that was beginning to unfold in her office. It set Sebastian even more on edge. She’d thrown a bomb into their lives and was now regarding him as some petulant child causing a scene. As if instead while he was scrambling to hold it together she expected him to thank her for it. 

“I’d choose your words more carefully in front of an audience but I admire the passion. If you want this to succeed you’ll have to make them believe this. Believe you. You can’t cast any doubt on the reason for any of it. A young couple, so in love they simply cannot wait to be married.”

***

It was like taking a match to a forest doused in kerosine. How quickly word could spread overnight when students kept such close quarters and they were eager for anything to save them from revision. Whispers billowed up from steeped mugs. Steam laced with secrets curled around their lips. Huddled so tightly together they looked like hydras. Each set of eyes alight with amusement. Teeth bared ready to feast on their speculation. 

From the moment Sebastian had stepped into the Great Hall he’d felt it. The oppressive shift to the atmosphere that usually welcomed him each morning. Clouds dark, heavy with the foreboding rain swirled on the enchanted sky. At least it was fitting.

Instinctively he sought her out. Looked for hers amongst the hundreds of eyes turned towards him. Which he pointedly ignored instead following the remaining half who stole glances towards her. 

Blue. Green. Brown. Shifted between them assessing to see what they might do. 

She was boxed into the middle of the table by Onai and Sweeting with Reyes taking up the spot across from them. A vicious hound guarding her flock ensured even the most brazen little wretch who considered interrupting would think twice - give her wrath a wide berth. 

Reyes to her credit - snarling banshee that she was - looked as deeply horrified by the pathetic silver band on her friend's finger as Sebastian felt it deserved. 

They’d transfigured it hastily from a pair of silver spectacles once they’d stumbled out of Hecat’s office the previous evening. One she kept in an odd tangle of items in her satchel and the rushed magic had already begun to tarnish its appearance. It was a wonder anyone actually believed them with how dull and thoughtless it looked sitting on her hand. 

If her smile wasn’t so tight, or her laugh a little too airy she would be executing Hecat’s ludicrous scheme to perfection. 

Sebastian swallowed around the lump in his throat and sheepishly changed course. Rerouted himself away from the group of witches throwing his bag down on the bench and slumping into a seat at the Slytherin table. Which seemed to delight some of the onlookers. Clearly humiliation was a good seasoning for eggs, he thought as he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot and took out his potions essay in an attempt to look busy enough no one would suspect exactly why he was sitting alone. Or worse, try and talk to him. Not that they would dare when his face looked as thunderous as the sky overhead. It didn't, however, stop him from overhearing their animated gossiping. 

‘Do you think she’s…you know?’ 

‘Obviously! Who in their right mind gets married a month before they leave school? Clearly they’re in a rush before she starts to y’know...’ one girl smirked with an exaggerated flourish over her stomach.

Sebastian shot a glare across to the gaggle of Ravenclaw’s in the year below. Who giggled even more loudly when they caught his eye, one turning pink from the tips of her ears to well past the neckline of her jumper. Sebastian on the other hand felt like someone had doused him in a bucket of water from the lake. 

If Reyes didn’t skin him for the insulting piece of jewellery she certainly would if she suspected he’d gotten her favourite flying partner up the kyte. 

Sebastian tried to focus on his potions essay. List even a single ingredient of ‘Felix Felicis’ which was proving to be impossible when behind him a brazen fourth year proclaimed and loudly he’d caught them sequestered away between the stacks of the restricted section - her body bent over a desk. Sebastian’s grip on the quill tensed as he strained himself to write the differing effects between wyrm and dragon scale on a potion - and not a very vivid description of what he apparently looked like on his knees buried between her thighs. Ink blotted on the parchment. 

Sod Hecat on ‘selling it’. Why did they need to go to such lengths when apparently every gossiping vulture was content to click their beak and do all the work for them? 

Surely Azkaban couldn’t be worse than this? 

Well, that was delusional - but if he overheard one more person comment on if her robes looked bigger he was more than likely going to do something that would get him thrown in Azkaban regardless. 

Sebastian had anticipated suspicion but he still wasn’t prepared for how much it would chafe. 

He knew if they were not at the centre of this farce, the two main players on the stage they would have jovially picked apart their performance too. She would have speculated over their sanity as she picked idly at her cauldron cake. Made some snide comment about being too eager to get his leg over. He’d bet her a galleon they’d see the proof in nine months and she would have snorted, undignified unladylike into her pumpkin juice. 

Being the subject of this speculation however was mortifying. 

Would that be next? Bringing a child into the fucking mess he’d made just to cover his own back? If the thought of dragging her into a marriage him feel ill it paled in comparison to the feeling of crippling dread that conjured. 

But would she want that one day? In a young witch's sacrifice to keep him had she truly considered all the things she was giving up in his stead. Things she may not know she even wanted until the opportunity had already been bartered and sold off for the price of his freedom. What kind of man was he to take the hope of any kind of family from someone who already had none to show for it? Take away the chance for someone to love her. 

Or maybe she never intended to give up on that particular dream. And Sebastian would be expected to play his part - the cuckolded husband. 

Work late until the candles burned down to the wick to give her lover time to retreat. Share her with one; or with many. 

Vow now to never let her go without. 

Even go as far as to raise her children as his own. Glamour their cheeks with foreign freckles he’d wish were inherited. Brand them with the Sallow name with ink on thin parchment but not their blood; their ties to him just as flimsy and performative as hers.

Her easy smile as she lathered honey onto her toast set his teeth on edge. Sebastian felt in that moment like he never really knew her at all. Head pounding Sebastian stuffed his ink pot and notes back into his bag. Abandoned his breakfast in a rush to get out of the stifling hall. Away from the whispers that he knew would also be deafening in her ears. Perhaps even more so.

‘I didn’t even know they were courting. It’s a shame he’s off the market.’

‘Here’s the thing - I don’t think they were. Clearly, he’s marrying her to do the right thing. Now that she’s trapped him with a baby.’

She caught his eye, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but it did not offset the rigid lock of her furious ticking jaw. Teeth set, clamped together as if Hecat had clamped a muzzle on a fucking dragon and then handed her chains to Sebastian. 

Shamefully, he couldn’t bring himself to hold her gaze. Couldn’t even bear to face her in that moment despite knowing he was the reason she had to listen to these lies spread. He should tell her he was sorry. But instead he fled. 

Complete fic can be found on Ao3.

[stepinthyme]

The Red Means I Love You

Alice Wu Gulliver x Necromancer!Reader

Your girlfriend told you she'd be gone to finish some buisness, and you feel her death happen. You refuse to let her go.

Word Count: 1k

Content: second person, no use of Y/N, ressurection, kissing, fluff, blood and gore, Alice is naked but that is not the focus here. Reader is refered to as "girlfriend" at one point, but otherwise this could be read as gender neutral

A/N: If no one will feed me, I will feed MYSELF. I may cross post this to ao3 in the morning, but I needed to get this out of my head while it was all still fresh. This is very heavily inspired by Marcille's ressurection of Falin from Dungeon Meshi, but fuck it, if Billy's allowed to ressurect Tommy by putting his soul into another kid's dead body, then theres gotta be at least one other person able to do necromancy, and why not do lesbianism. Alice is probably a little ooc but I did this in like an hour, cut me some slack.

Today, running the butcher’s was very slow, predictable for the sleepy little metropolitan area of Eastview and Westview. It was run of the mill and average, what everyone in the town basically forced it to be ever since the scarlet witch scared half the people within a three mile radius.

You were just finishing the last of closing procedures and headed into your apartment above the shop, making a quick dinner and settling in for a simple night watching tv when you could feel it. The moment Alice's life was snuffed out. No, more like drained out of her, in a drawn out action. She had told you she was just going to finish some family related business, that she'd be back before the night was over. She'd be back before you knew it. Kissed you on the cheek and everything like she did when she'd head off to work.

Before you had even really processed anything else, you were already setting up the ritual, drawing out a sigil with chalk, placing candles in the appropriate places, scouring your cabinets for all the assorted offerings needed.

You and Alice had met because you were outcast witches. She had distanced herself from the craft after the death of her mother. And you were known as the disgrace of all green witchcraft. You were an odd duo, but you were happy so long as you were together. She had asked you a few times how you had earned your title, and you always laughed it off.

She was going to finally learn why you were called that very quickly.

You were grateful for your day job as a butcher, as you used magic to carry large cuts of cow and lamb, bones and all from the commerical freezer to the living room. plopping them haphazardly onto the sigil. It wasn't her body, but it would do in a pinch. You would deal with any consequences later. You lit the candles and got onto your knees, placing your hands on the sigil as you began the incantation you had done at least a dozen times. Your voice almost seemed to echo through the room as forbidden magics are called upon.

In a basement a couple miles away, death reaches out for a soul, only to see her violently yanked away from her grasp, disappearing from sight.

You continue to shout as the meat and bone fuse together, almost melting as it reformed itself into a human shape, features slowly refining itself to resemble the soul now bound to it. The last touches are added as your girlfriend, albeit covered in blood and naked, now lies in the middle of the circle. You nearly collapse, but you stare anxiously, hoping, praying, that it worked.

Alice's eyes snap open as she bolts upright, gasping for air. You release a breath you didn't realize you were holding as the tears finally roll down your face and pull her into a tight hug.

“Alice! Alice, I thought I lost you, I..”

You continue to squeeze her, kissing various spots on her face, not caring about the copper taste of the blood. Alice seemed to be finally coming out of shellshock as her hands found their way to tangle in your hair. Her eyes met yours.

“Is… is this real? Am I really here?”

“Yes Alice, you’re really here, I promise. You're here. I'm here.”

Without much warning, you were pulled in for a deep kiss. If you didn't know any better, you'd have thought she hadn't seen you in months with how desperate it was. Your tongues danced with no clear rhythm as you tried to get enough of each other, only stopping when you both needed air. Alice let out a huffy laugh of disbelief.

“How did you… how did you even do this? I was dead. I saw death.”

You glance away, picking at some of the melted wax on one of the candles, suddenly conscious of what you had done, how much of an overreach it might have been.

“It's. A long story, trust me. I understand if you don't want to be around me anymore after this, I just-” Alice gently takes your hands in hers, rubbing circles with her thumbs.

“Hey, hey. It's okay. Look at me?” You meet her gaze once more, her warm eyes looking softly at you.

“It's okay. What happened was weird, yes. But I think quite literally breaking the laws of life and death is maybe the most romantic thing a girlfriend has done for me. Just don't make a habit of it, okay?” You can't help but laugh at that.

“Only if you don't make a habit of it. What even happened?” Alice paused at that.

“It’s also a long story. I’ll tell you after I get cleaned up. You should probably too, considering” she gestures to your now bloodsoaked clothes, and you nod.

“I’ll take care of the cleaning in here while you shower, and I'll meet you in the bedroom later after I get washed up. If you're still awake by then, we can exchange stories. Otherwise that can wait till morning. Alright?” She nods, placing one last kiss to your forehead before attempting to get up and then immediately falling over. You stand up, offering a hand to her.

“Need help?” She takes it, and you help pull her up, resulting in a much more successful attempt to stand than the last one.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one protecting you.” You can't help but giggle at the remark.

“Everyone needs help once and a while. The usual doting can wait for later.”

You walk with her to the bathroom to make sure she doesn't fall again before even making it to the tub, before heading back to dig through the supply closet. You pull out the cleaning supplies and head back to the living room area, and the now giant stain of blood and chalk on your floor. Necromancy is a bitch, but it's all worth it now that you have Alice back with you. Whatever happens next, the two of you can sort it out together.

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 18 - Revenge

CONTINUE TO DAY 10 go read that one first if you haven’t <3

sorry it’s late again, I was lovingly kidnapped yesterday and too busy after I got back. These might just all be a day late now I don’t even know 😬 we’ll see. Also thank you to everyone who’s been reading these!! I really REALLY appreciate you guys <3 thank you so much!

Warnings: blood, violence, grief, brief mention of a dead body

ao3 link

Day 10

NEXT (day 26)

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

Hyrule has been gone for over a week, and nobody knows why.

He just... disappeared. Gone out to grab some firewood, and then never came back.

Nobody was too worried at first, thinking of Hyrule’s propensity of getting lost, but as the hours, and then days, had worn on, nobody was cracking jokes anymore. Their search became frantic, and they’d combed the forest they were camped in, every bush and tree scoured. Twilight had even followed Hyrule’s scent as a wolf, but his trail had abruptly stopped, leaving no trace of the traveler.

There was no sign of him anywhere.

Something had happened to him, that much was plain to see. And they all knew the odds of it being something bad were high.

Hyrule wasn’t a loud presence in their group, but his absence was strange, and tensions grow the longer they go without any clues to where their traveler has disappeared to. Anxiety and worry color every conversation, heavy looks exchanged, and theories of good things that might have happened to Hyrule get passed around with shaky voices and glassy eyes.

And Legend stays silent through it all, a feeling deep in his gut that something was very, very wrong.

Heroes don’t just disappear.

They don’t stumble upon a portal until a full week after they last see Hyrule, and Legend isn’t the only one who stiffens at the sight. Nobody speaks, and hands remain near their weapons as they file through, faces lined with worry. Legend is the first to go, Wild right behind him, brows determined but hopeful.

Legend’s heart thuds in his ears as he enters the magic, hope and fear warring in his chest. The dark magic ripples like a syrupy soup as they step through, thick and disgusting, but Legend brushes it off, and emerges without issue.

And stares.

The others do the same, coming out from the portal, then stopping in their tracks, staring at what Legend saw with just as much dismay as him.

The sky is red.

They all stare up at it, eyes transfixed on the crimson sky, dark wisps of clouds curling in thin tendrils. All of them shift into defensive stances, breath catching, eyes wide, memories flickering in gazes.

Legend stares up at the sky, frozen as he takes in the deep, blood-red color, and has a horrible, awful, heartbreaking thought.

The blood drains from his face as he tears his gaze away from the sky and looks around the land they’re in, struggling but hardy plants, wild woods and tangled thickets, a castle standing proud in the distance. A particular flower catches his sight, an herb their missing member often keeps on him, and it hits Legend like a lynel’s hoof to the ribs.

This is Hyrule’s time.

And Legend can only think of one reason why it would look like this.

“No,” Wild whispers, obviously coming to the same conclusion as Legend. “No, he... no.”

“No what?” Wind asks, his expression worried and concerned at the devastation on Wild’s face. Not all of them know about Hyrule’s blood curse, but those of them that do soon remember it, and their expressions turn horrified as well as Wild sinks to his knees. “Guys, you’re scaring me, what does it mean?” Wind asks again in a panicked voice.

“It means Ganon is back,” Legend somehow manages to whisper. “And Hyrule...”

“He’s dead,” Wild chokes out.

“What?!”

Time quickly explains Hyrule’s blood curse to those unaware, which Legend is grateful for. He doesn’t think he could handle telling the story right now. Not with the pressure building behind his eyes, the denial, the first few sharp pricks of grief like freezing rain on his soul, the anger...

Legend latches onto the emotion, knowing it’ll serve him well in the upcoming days. Anger is what he needs right now. Not anything else.

He looks back up at the crimson sky and around at the forest, proof of Hyrule’s blood being spilled soaked into the very land itself, and feels his stomach harshly lurch. Everything around them already looks wilted and sucked of life, grass crackling under their feet, all because Hyrule is dead.

Dead.

Hyrule is dead.

Legend’s anger falters, an icy wave of grief shooting through his chest. He’ll never share a stupid joke with the traveler again, chastise him and Wild for running off to explore. Never insist Hyrule isn’t taller than him despite what the others say, never argue with him about magic, never hear his laughter that has an extra chime to it after he makes an awful pun.

Never tell him how proud he is to have a successor like him.

Kind, sassy, humble Hyrule.

Dead.

Legend can’t even remember what the last thing he said to him was.

“Oh Hyrule,” Sky whispers as Time finishes the explanation, still staring up at the crimson sky. His voice is nothing short of horrified, and Legend curls his hands into fists as he looks up, forcing back the sting in his eyes.

“Is he really dead?” Wind asks in a small voice. He looks at Legend, and Legend looks away.

“He might not be... right?” Four says hesitantly. “You just said his blood needed to be spilled to bring Ganon back. Isn’t it possible the ritual didn’t need all his blood?”

“And then what, you think Ganon would just leave him alive?” Legend snaps, and Four purses his lips.

“I only meant it’s possible,” he says quietly, his face pale, and Legend turns away. He doesn’t want to see the emotion on everyone’s faces, listen to anyone try not to cry. He can’t. He needs to focus.

Legend sharply inhales, and looks down at the castle in the distance instead, flags and banners noticeably absent from the walls. There’s smoke drifting in the air, signs of a battle at some point. Ganon must already be down there, probably captured both the princesses, probably told them of how he murdered—

Legend’s nails leave red crescent-shaped marks on his palms.

Ganon.

That vile pig.

A few of them had been quietly talking, but soon a horrible silence falls over them, heavy with shock and grief and...

Rage.

Legend wouldn’t say that they’re an angry bunch, but something hits them all then, a deep, righteous fury. That one of their own is dead, pulled away from them without any hope of helping him, that their greatest enemy used him to come back.

That they never got to say goodbye.

Legend unsheathes his sword without thinking, clutching the handle so tight it’ll leave dents on his palms.

“I’m not letting that filth roam free,” he whispers, and doesn’t even care how violent he sounds. “I’ve killed him thrice and I’ll do it again.”

“I’m with you,” Wild says, eyes blazing, his bow already out.

“We’ll take him down,” Warriors agrees in a voice like ice, eyes sharp and grieved.

Time closes his eye. “We’ll do what Hyrule could not.”

The sounds of the others drawing their swords rings out, and they stand in a circle, a noticeable gap in their ranks. Wind is the one who raises his blade forward, and the rest touch the tips together, bowing their heads in a quick mark of grief for their fallen brother.

“For Hyrule,” Twilight says in a voice both grieved and enraged.

Legend closes his eyes, hating the tears that escape.

“For Link.”

(...)

They hit the castle like a hurricane, striking fast and decisive.

There’s tons of monsters around, but they go in with everything they’ve got, only holding back in preparation for fighting Ganon himself. Their stock of equipment and healing supplies is remarkably full for once, and so nobody hesitates as they rush in a side door and storm the halls leading to the throne room.

There’s signs that there was a fight in the castle before now, but they see nothing alive except monsters. It worries Legend, but a part of him hopes that maybe the majority of the civilians got out before the worst of things, or are hiding somewhere safe.

His cynical side snorts at that, but he hopes anyway.

Vengeance speeds their blades, and they draw nearer and nearer to their goal. They’ve never been here before, but Hyrule had told Legend about it, eyes bright and smile wide as he talked about how his land was healing, the castle fixed up, what the princesses were like. Legend knows he’d hate what it looks like now, curtains and tapestries torn, plants dying, walls broken, bodies and blood strewn across the floor.

A vibrant, gory picture of what he failed to protect.

Oh Hyrule, Legend grieves, nearly wailing as he catches the dead eyes of a soldier slumped against the wall. I hope it was fast. I hope you didn’t see this.

We’ll fix it. I swear.

A smell in the air gradually strengthens as they near the throne room, a metallic, heady one. It reeks of blood, but the intensity of the scent doesn’t match the amount of crimson on the ground. Legend would maybe be concerned, but he’s stuck firmly in a cloud of grief and rage, and the fact that he notices at all is surprising in and of itself. The more squeamish Links look a little pale the stronger it gets, but it doesn’t quash their determination a bit.

And soon the doors of the throne room loom ahead of them, elegant wood looking nothing but foreboding in the red light from outside.

The heroes pause for just a moment, healing injuries that need it, taking stock of gear, going quickly over the plan of attack. Legend already has it memorized, and his very bones seethe with impatience despite how fast they got here, knowing the single being he absolutely, truly, hates is right behind the door.

His murderer is right there.

But the others finish quickly, and Twilight gives his shoulder a single squeeze. His expression is full of a lot of things that Legend knows will make him either cry or scream if he studies them too hard, so all he does is nod in return.

And finally they all face the door, grieving, fierce, and determined to take their enemy down.

They burst inside, and see him.

He isn’t as big as he is sometimes, probably only about half again as tall as Time. There’s red lines painted all over his skin and into his fur, stripes and symbols rather striking against the bluish color of his skin. They’re on his arms and chest, cheeks and forehead, though the biggest is a single blood-red handprint, right over whatever shriveled husk must be left of his heart.

He watches silently as the heroes run in, weapons unsheathed and ready to attack him, and looks only vaguely amused.

“Ganon,” Wind spits, eyes grieved and furious.

The monster smirks. “In the flesh.”

Legend startles a little, not having expected him to speak. But he supposes it makes sense. Hyrule fought a mindless beast, but his blood resurrected something more.

Ganon takes a long draught of the wine in his glass as the heroes point their blades, holding it with his long claws in a surprisingly delicate manner. He licks his lips as he lowers it, revealing fangs stained red, and Legend realizes with a sickening lurch that it wasn’t wine that he was drinking at all.

Someone gags behind him.

“Don’t look so surprised. The little hero’s blood is quite the energizer,” Ganon says with his smile growing, picking up on their horror. “Freshens one right up. Tastes better straight from the source, but it’s not bad a bit stale. And this castle has some very nice goblets.”

“You—” Twilight spits, a fury in his eyes Legend’s only seen maybe twice. “You vile—”

“Yes yes, I’ve heard it all,” Ganon says with a yawn, almost lazily picking up a huge trident by his throne. “You hate me, I hate you. Let’s skip the theatrics, shall we?”

“Bold words from the monster drinking blood from a wine glass,” Legend scoffs. Then he almost throws up as it hits him again that Ganon is drinking Hyrule’s blood.

Oh goddesses let it have been a quick death.

Ganon snorts, twirling his weapon. “Hero of Legend. You haven’t changed a bit.” His eyes narrow, and an enraged sneer alights on his face as his eyes lock with Legend’s. “You’ll find that I have though. And I can’t wait to add you to the list of heroes I’ve crushed. Would you like to know how it happened to your friend? How he sobbed at my feet, groveled, begged me to let him—”

“Liar!” Wild snarls, and looses an arrow straight at Ganon’s snout.

The monster simply moves his head right before it would have hit him, the arrow sinking into the wood of the throne with a loud thunk. Ganon laughs, a familiar booming sound that has nearly all of them freeze, and stands up, his face gleeful and enraged.

“He was a pitiful insect, unable to stand against my power. Weak. What a glorious legacy you’ve left, Hero of Legend.”

Then he rushes forward and strikes.

Legend leaps out of the way of the trident, prongs leaving marks in the floor mere inches away from him. The others scatter as Ganon laughs, and they try to put their strategy into effect.

Wild and Twilight harry Ganon with arrows from a distance, trying to hit something vulnerable like an eye. Four and Wind go for the legs and tail, while Warriors, Sky and Time do their best to deflect weapons and also hit his torso. Legend moves around to anywhere he’s needed, and as he strikes where he can, he keeps a sharp eye out for a weak spot. Ganon must have one.

And yet, no matter how hard Legend and all of them look, Ganon doesn’t show any signs of a weakness.

He’s fast on his hooves and dodges most of Wild and Twilight’s arrows. Something about his skin and fur is thick enough that any blows they land barely do a thing, and every attack he hits them with brims with power. He blasts magic at them that singes hair and very nearly takes Four’s head off at one point, and can even turn himself invisible for a few terrifying seconds, making him impossible to hit.

This Ganon is worse than any Legend has fought, which is saying something.

It’s Hyrule’s blood, he realizes grimly, narrowly dodging a strike to his chest. It must be. Almost all of us have beaten him on our own, and yet eight of us are struggling to land so much as a scratch.

They’re all accruing injuries too small to use a potion on, but draining nonetheless. Legend is bleeding from a scrape on his cheek, and his arm aches from how many times he’s had to shield against an attack.

The blunt end of the trident catches Time in the side, launching him sideways with a sickening crack. He’s back up in a few moments, face pale as he wipes potion from his lips, but they can’t keep taking hits like this.

Legend’s mind is whirling with plans, what items he could use, what needs to be done. The only thing that even remotely phases Ganon is the Master Sword, but he’s been exceptionally good at avoiding it so far.

Legend’s thoughts are going so fast he almost misses it when it begins, a tickle in his head, a featherlight touch of magic. It grows to a whisper, distracting him from the fight, but as Legend’s hair raises on the back of his neck, the strange feeling grows louder, forming abruptly into words that he can actually understand.

“...please hear me please hear me please he— AURORA I BROKE THROUGH IT WORKED!”

Legend jumps at the shout, and a few others flinch as well, Sky and Four looking around in confusion, Wild’s eyes gone wide. The others don’t react, but Legend isn’t focused on them.

He’s too busy finding that little spot in his head, the only place he ever hears a voice beside his own.

Legend hurriedly falls back to a safe distance from the fight, and focuses on the voice he’d heard, trying to connect to it and respond despite the way Ganon follows him.

...Princess? he thinks hesitantly, forcing the word out as far as it’ll go. Or, princesses? Is that you?

“Oh we really did reach them!” the voice exclaims again, tears in the words. “Oh thank the goddesses. Yes, it’s us, we’re in the uppermost tower, Ganon has magic trapping us here.”

“And you’re okay?” Legend asks out loud, dodging an attack. Ganon follows him, eyes narrowed like he knows what he’s doing.

“Yes, Yes we’re fine, but listen hero of Legend!” Zelda’s voice says frantically, her voice shaky but determined. “Link is alive!”

Legend freezes, heart pounding.

Wild almost falls off his perch nearby, and Sky and Four stop dead in their tracks.

“You’re sure?” he chokes out, and Wind nearby looks at him like he’s insane.

“As sure as I can be. We don’t know where, but he’s in the castle somewhere,” Zelda’s voice promises, still shaking. “I... I would feel it if he were dead. Ganon is drawing on him for power, you need to find him and break their connection.”

Legend almost falls over at the rush of emotion, and his instincts are the only thing that save him from being skewered by a thrust from Ganon’s spear.

Hyrule is alive, he’s strengthening Ganon against his will, he’s alive—

He whirls on the beast, fury and hope clouding his vision.

“Where is he?!” Legend howls, lunging at Ganon with his blade, Ganon barely deflecting the strike.

Emotion roars through him as he attacks, hacking and slicing and fighting furiously as he tries to land an hit on the beast. Ganon still avoids his attacks, and starts laughing, not answering his question in the least.

Legend is so blinded by fury that he misses Ganon charge a magic attack, and the blast hits him square in the shoulder. He goes flying backwards with a shout and sear of pain, and his world blacks out for a moment when he hits the ground.

He comes back to Warriors pressing something to his lips, and Legend swallows the half a potion with a pained groan, hurriedly sitting back up when he remembers what’s happening.

“Legend what are you doing?” Warriors asks when he tries to launch himself at Ganon again, grabbing his shoulder and giving him a concerned look. “What’s going on?”

“He’s alive, the princesses reached out, he’s here somewhere,” Legend snarls, and tears his shoulder out of Warriors’ grip. “That pig knows where he is!”

“Legend, slow down, explain,” Warriors demands, and drags him far enough away from the battle that hopefully they can actually exchange a few words.

Legend growls and explains as fast as possible, trying not to listen to Ganon’s laughter and the cries of the others as they struggle against him. Warriors’ face lightens with hope as he hears the princesses’ message, and Legend can see the gears turning in his head.

“We’ll have to split up,” he says finally, wincing at the thought.

“I’m going,” Legend says firmly.

Warriors nods. “I’ll go with you, and Wild can be our backup,” he says, looking quickly out at the battle. “This way we have fighters and someone to carry Hyrule as well. The others should be able to handle things here while we’re gone.”

“Sky and Four heard too, they’ll pass it on,” Legend says, catching Sky’s eyes across the room. The Skyloftian nods, face determined and furious, and Legend and Warriors rush across the room, looking for Wild.

“Hero of Legend,” a slightly different voice calls suddenly, the voice of the other Zelda. “Link is difficult to pinpoint, but we think he’s in the dungeons somewhere. Neither of us can reach out to him, you’ll need to free him and break Ganon’s hold, or else Ganon will remain undefeated.”

“Thank you. We’re going right now,” Legend chokes out, his eyes stinging again. He hurriedly wipes them on his sleeve and keeps going.

They finally reach Wild, the champion still shooting arrows, two and three at a time. He immediately turns to look at them, his cheeks damp and expression fierce.

“You heard?” Warriors asks quickly, and Wild nods, his eyes red.

“He’s alive. And we’re getting him out,” he hisses, shooting one last hail of arrows at Ganon’s face. “Let’s go.”

The three of them rush for the door, and Ganon howls, throwing magic at their backs. Time leaps forward and deflects the blast with his sword, knocking it back at Ganon, who knocks it back at Time.

“Four told us, go find him!” he shouts, the magic exploding onto the wall.

The three of them nod and they bolt, rushing out the door with Ganon’s roar shaking the walls behind them.

We’re coming Hyrule, hold on, please.

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

༉‧₊˚. 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 || 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧

― pairings: daryl dixon x plus size!reader

― era: season 4/pre-Governor

― summary: while out on a run, you find a cowboy hat, and what was once light-hearted teasing had actually woken up something inside of you, because he just looked too damn good.

― warnings: daryl in a cowboy hat (duh), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), cumming inside, oral (d. receiving), blowjobs, come eating, riding, biting (mentioned literally once), marking, established relationship, kissing, praise, dirty talk (mostly daryl's dirty mouth 'cause yes).

― wc: 1841

⋆ a/n: uhhh it's the way this almost turned into a 2k one shot of just straight up porn?? like i shit you not i one hundred percent think i lost my self-control while writing this, but oh well, i enjoyed it and i hope you guys do too! thank you all for the mass influx of support over the last few days, it never fails to blow my mind every time. i love you all!

masterlist | AO3

You swear your intentions were pure at first; it was just you trying to shoot the shit with Daryl and a cowboy hat, but you hadn't expected him to look so… natural with it on.

Walking around the shopping mall you, Glenn, Daryl, and Maggie were scouring through, you had come across a plain black cowboy hat lying on the floor alone. It appeared to be relatively spotless besides a little dirt and dust on it. You bent over and picked it up, your hand patting away the grime as you examined it. You couldn't help the shit eating grin that split on your face, your eyes flaring mischievously as you made your way back to your poor unsuspecting boyfriend who was searching through the camping department. 

Sneaking up behind him, you quickly placed the hat on his head, eliciting a surprised grunt from the man in front of you. 

"There," You said with your hands placed on your hips. "Now you're a real cowboy." He turned around to look at you with a glare. "Ain' no cowboy." He grumbled, and your breath caught at the sight of him. Every witty comeback you had been curating in your mind had suddenly died in your throat along with your ability to speak. "Wha'?" Daryl asked at your sudden silence. You swallowed nervously, "You look great, real sexy." 

“Shuddup.” He scoffed, taking the hat off and placing it on your head so that it slightly obstructed your vision. He continued further into the department.  “I’m serious!” You called out with a laugh as you chased after him. 

“Wild west movies used to really get me going, you know!” 

He didn’t see you shove the thing into your bag, or the fact that you were biting back a smirk the whole ride back to the prison. 

You hadn’t forgotten about the way he looked in it, nor the fact that everytime you passed by your bag, the hat felt like it was going to burn a hole right through the floor. You were waiting for the perfect opportunity to bring up its potential use in the bedroom until one fell into your lap - more like his.

You were sitting on his lap as he had his back pressed against the prison wall, his lower half resting on the two mattresses the both of you had pushed together to make a makeshift double bed. His fingers dug into the skin of your hips, your hands tightly clasping his cheeks, holding his lips onto yours as you made out fervently. Your body was slightly raised above his when you remembered the cowboy hat. You pushed a finger in between your mouths as you separated with a smirk.

“Wait.” You breathed. “You okay?” He asked in concern, searching your face and eyes for any sight of discomfort. “I got something I wanna try, if that’s fine with you.” You nodded gently. “Wha’ is it?” Your smirk formed into a wide smile at his question.

He watched you with a mix of curiosity and anticipation as you leaned over and unzipped your backpack, his palms that rested on your hips continued to keep a firm grip on you as reached for what you were looking for. His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets when they caught sight of the brim of that stupid cowboy hat.

“The hell?” He couldn’t help but say. It wasn’t full of disgust, but rather surprise. You laughed, “I may or may not have brought it back home with the intention of asking you to wear it while we have sex.” The sides of his lips quirk as he takes the hat from your hands. “I guess ya really were serious about wild wes’ movies gettin’ ya goin’.” But nonetheless, he puts it on, and you bite your lip. 

“Like I said, you’re the sexiest cowboy I’ve ever seen.”

He tilts his head up as your lips lock in an amorous embrace, and you grind your hips down on his hard-on. He groans against your lips, gripping and pressing your body down to receive maximum pressure from your cloth covered cunt. Your kisses trailed down his neck, nibbling on his scruff and unbuttoning his sleeveless shirt to push off of his shoulders, which he helped you do. Your greedy hands trailed through the patch of hair on his chest, following the hair down to where it disappeared into his jeans. You unbutton them, moving your butt down a little bit so that you could take him out of his underwear.

He hissed in pleasure as you pressed down on his leaky tip, rubbing his precum around before you bent forward, adjusting your body so that your ass was raised and arched, licking a stripe from the vein on the underside of his cock to the tip, twirling your tongue around it.

“Shit!” He let out a raspy whimper, burying his thick fingers gently gripping onto the roots of your hair. The pressure on your scalp was welcomed as you took him further down your throat, swallowing around him and fondling his balls with your free hand. Daryl desperately tried to keep himself quiet, seeing as though the walls of the prison weren’t thick, and anyone could hear him, and that was something that he didn’t think he would be able to live down.

He could feel himself nearing his climax with every suck of your devilish mouth, and he knew that you could feel him too. You peered up at him through your eyelashes, watching his shirtless chest rise and fall heavily, he looked dark as he practically gazed into your soul, the cowboy hat adding a shadow over his features that turned you on beyond comprehension. You pressed your thighs together to desperately relieve the growing tension between your legs, and when the fat of them put pressure against your clit, you whined, the noise shooting up your boyfriend’s spine.

“Fuck, sweetheart. ‘M gunna cum.” He warned, his back arching and hips chasing your warm mouth. You only pulled off to say, “Down my throat.” Your words were heavy and breathy, but you didn’t care, taking him back into your throat and stroking what you couldn’t swallow. He gulped, allowing his head to lean back on the concrete cell wall, biting on his bottom lip so hard in an attempt to stay silent that he could’ve sworn he tasted the metallic tang of blood.

“Yeah?” He asked with a breathless groan. “‘Wan’ me to paint that pretty little mouth of yours white?” You whined at his dirty words, and he felt your noises burn through his veins like fire. He didn’t hold back from occasionally bucking his hips, his thrusts growing sloppy before he pressed your head down, shooting his load deep down your esophagus. 

You swallowed his cum, which caused him to hiss due to oversensitivity. You pulled off of him, licking your lips before sticking your tongue out to show him that you hadn’t wasted a drop. 

“God damn, girl.” He grunted as you crawled your way up to his lips to place a deep kiss on his lips, allowing him to taste himself. “Are ya tryin’ta kill me?” He asked when you pulled away. You giggled, dragging playful fingers up and down his chest. “Maybe?” You said, biting your bottom lip with a smile.

He just scoffed, kissing you once more as you avoided knocking your head against the rim of his hat. “Let me ride you, cowboy.” You heaved.

He nodded, allowing you to stand and take your clothes off as he rid himself of his pants and underwear. 

You clambered back on top of him, allowing your soaked slit to gently caress his hard cock.

“Fuck.” He cursed, the grip on your hips turning bruising due to your teasing. You mewled at the feeling of his heated skin brushing your sensitive clit, your self control slipping as you reached down and lined his cock up to your entrance, slowly sinking down due to the lack of foreplay and prep. The initial stretch of his tip hurt, your nails digging into the skin of his tanned shoulders, a silent cry leaving your lips as your head fell back. 

Daryl gave you a moment to adjust to his size, distracting you with his calloused thumb, which rubbed comforting circles onto your tiny bundle of nerves. Your muscles loosened as you moved, slightly bouncing until you found a rhythm where your ass met his thighs. He aided you in your riding, guiding your body up and down.

“So fuckin’ wet.” He grunted, rolling both of his lips between his lips as he watched where your bodies joined together, as though he was in a trance. “‘S all for you, D.” You slurred. His cock repeatedly brushed against that sensitive spot inside of your body. He was already sensitive, which made him all the more determined to help you reach your peak first.

“Put yer hands on the wall.” He rasped. You placed your arms on either side of his head, your breasts pretty much shoved in his face when his hips rose up, fucking themselves into you harshly. You yelped in surprise, pressing your palms harder against the walls as he pounded into you from below. He raised his head, his eyes searching for yours from under the hat. 

His irises swam with lust and need, but also a hidden determination that only he knew about.

“‘Gunna make you cum real good, pretty girl.” He huffed a ragged breath. “Promise.” 

“Please, Dar. I need it!” You cried. 

He looked away from you, focusing on his thrusts which were unforgiving, bruising your cervix with every slam of his tip. Your arms grew shaky as you neared your end, almost causing you to fall forward if you hadn’t laid your head on the cool rock. 

“So close,” You breathed, “‘M so close, baby, please.” You begged. “I gotcha. ‘Gunna cum with ya, sweet cheeks.” Your body flushed with relief at his words. 

Your bodies worked together to help reach your climaxes, and when you did, you held back a loud moan, and Daryl hid his in between the valley of your breasts, which lightly bit into. There might be a mark there tomorrow, but who cares?

You shuddered through your world shattering orgasm and he worked you through it, lazily thrusting into you until you muttered the words, ‘no more.’

You slowly sat back down, wincing seeing as though his softening cock was still shallowly buried inside of you.

“Holy fucking shit.” You laughed deliriously. “If I knew ya would’a been all pent up like this over some hat I would’a worn it sooner. Maybe even take ya righ’ then and there in tha’ mall.”

You smirk in amusement at his daring words, “Is that so?” You asked with a mischievous smile. “Mhm.” He hummed with a grin, his hands descending to gently massage your outer thighs whilst you cupped his cheeks, both of you falling into a blissful, giggly kiss. 

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @murdadixon

[cosmos-coma]

Winter Mountain Soldier Spy - Part 1

A/N: I'M BACK. I've been stewing on and writing this idea out for an entire year now and I'm finally ready to put out the first chapter! I'm REALLY excited for this piece because I really wanted to make it self indulgent and more applicable to who I am and what I do. I am a naturalist and I live in lonely wooded mountains and I wanted to really reflect that. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Pairing: Winter Soldier x F!Reader

Words: 3747

Summary: The Winter Soldier, armed with only a knife and his fragmented memories finally flees HYDRA's grasp. Bloody and fading, he stumbled through the woods and countryside to find safe refuge.

You think yourself a simple woman. You live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by deep woods and farm fields and you're happy. It's a sleepy little place, hardly any excitement to go around, but you're happy to call it home. When driving home on the empty country road you encounter the last thing you expect: a man stumbling from the woods, bleeding out and wary of anything that moves. You try to take the soldier home, but will he accept your help?

And even If he does… Will he stay?

Bucky Masterlist | AO3

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________

Flecks of snow danced along the wind, dusting the forest floor in a pristine blanket of white that perfectly blended his dark figure into the rocks and surrounding woods. Cold, biting air settled around him like an old friend, his breath puffing out like chimney smoke, but he did not feel it. 

A raven cawed its passing overhead- a grim reminder of exactly what he was here for. He watched his target move through the scope; male, average height, middle-aged, unremarkable in just about every way- save for the fact that he happened to be in HYDRA’s way. 

‘A man… not just a target.’ The Winter Soldier reminded himself in an odd thought, but he knew better than to say it out loud. The last time he did, it didn’t end well. 

‘There are civilians-‘ he paused, wincing instinctively at the pain that used to follow, he corrected himself, ‘There are obstacles on the premises.’ His target was with their family, surrounded by bodies who had been getting in the way all evening- all evening until now. 

 ‘Proceed as intended,’ his handler replied, their voice void of any remorse for their hand in this bloodshed.

His finger ran over the trigger, but remained hesitating, ‘They’re children….’ 

They had him wiped mere seconds after that mission’s debriefing, but- whether fortunately or unfortunately- they did not wipe him well enough. Fragments of thoughts and memories of the waking weeks before remained like scattered puzzle pieces. Now all he had left was to put them back together. 

He’d been discovering more and more of these fragments as of late- remembering pieces of missions here and there, things he’d done…. And blood he’s spilled. Yet these memories never go very far back, a few months at most, and he was beginning to wonder just how much was still locked away. 

“I said: Soldier, do you copy?” The voice in his earpiece interrupted, slicing through his thoughts and bringing him back to the task at hand. “Prepare the machines, we may need a wipe upon debrief...” he heard his handler continue in the background.

“I copy.” He was quick to reply, his tone even and cold just as it always was. He couldn’t risk another wipe; he had been quiet and obedient to a T to keep his changes under the radar. He just needed to hold out until the time was right.

“Finish your job and get back here for debriefing.” 

His finger twitched on the trigger.

“Yes, Sir.”

——- 

The world was painted in various shades of black, white, and muted browns, all blending together as you drove through the winding country road. The sky was a blanket of low gray clouds, tiny droplets of rain making their slow descent like dust from a shaken-out quilt. Fog crept down the mountainsides like an ancient creature scouring the earth, its breath leaving ghostly wisps that lasted long after the creature had moved on. 

You hummed, half-singing the lyrics to a song you didn’t even realize was stuck in your head. You tried to listen for the patter of rain against your windshield, but even that was muted, too soft to even leave an audible mark.

This was one of your favorite types of weather- a midwinter rain. Perhaps it was something about the way it melted the snow back into what it once was, making the cycle whole again. Or perhaps you just liked the dreary weather, and there wasn’t any more to it than that.

Wide open fields expanded to the right of you, sectioned off by old stacked-stone walls and whatever old trees had taken root there decades before. To the left of you lay steep forested mountain, the ground littered with rotting leaves and brightened only by the still green ferns that poked out of the melting snow. Mossy rocks of all sizes covered the mountainside, providing texture and support for the fallen trees as well as giving credence to the local phrase that there were ‘two rocks for every dirt’.

Nodding along to the quiet music now knowingly stuck in your head, you took the last sharp turn toward home when- 

SCREECH

You slammed on your brakes, nearly standing straight up on the pedal as you came to a screaming halt, your bumper coming just shy of the large dark figure that stumbled wildly into the road. At first, you’d thought it was a massive black bear- albeit out of season- until the figure slowly clambered up onto its two legs and turned to face you.

This was no bear. 

His cold, distant blue eyes seemed to bore right through you, leaving nothing hidden as he scanned you through the windshield. Long strands of dark, shoulder-length hair framed what you could see of his face, the rest hidden behind a rigid, muzzle-like mask. Even then you still found him… oddly handsome-for a man who had just stumbled from the woods.

Broad yet slumped shoulders drew your eyes next- the way they stretched and pulled his leather jacket with each labored breath. His right side had a full sleeve, sitting snuggly around a muscular arm while the other side was completely bare, showing off a silvery, plated prosthetic the likes of which you’d never seen before. He looked like a soldier, a man on a mission - but as his hand pulled away from his side you began to guess that was not quite the case- not anymore. His hand came away a blazing crimson as blood coated every inch of his palm and began to steam against the cool air. It looked like he had been trying to apply pressure as he ran- and from the looks of it, it was not working.

“Fuck…,” you whispered, quickly putting on your hazard lights and jumping out of the car. Thank god this road was always empty. “Are you okay? What-What happened? Did you-“ Your words faltered as you spotted other wet streaks running down his jacket, fitted with bullet holes above each one. Glancing briefly into the woods you spotted the scant red trail left in his wake, following it with your eyes until it ran out of sight. Blood continued to pour out of him even now as his pulse hammered on. How on earth had he still been running like this…? 

“You’re hurt-“ you said, stepping toward him with your hand outstretched.

Blue eyes widened in a flash of momentary fear as he took a staggering step back, trying to keep his distance and biting back a grunt of pain as it jolted up his side. “I’m fine,” he spoke firmly through the mask, his voice far rougher than you had imagined, or was it just the exertion? Fingertips hovered over the knife hidden in his belt as his feet steadied into a defensive stance, repeating, “I’m fine….” 

“You’re not fine...! You’re bleeding out!” You exclaimed, “I’m not here to hurt you, okay? Please, just let me drive you to a hospital or-“

“No-“ he rushed, a slight panic hidden in his tone that he was quick to extinguish before continuing, “No hospitals….” 

Slowly you nodded and held your hands up, glancing down at your feet as you risked another small step toward him, “Okay… Alright, that’s fine. No hospitals then-“

His fingers glided over the handle of his knife, but for some reason, his instinct refused to draw it. Perhaps it was the disarming softness in your expression…  or…. Or was it the loud breath echoing in his ears? Unaware at first that they were his own they now became something overwhelming, taking over his senses as they ebbed and flowed shallowly. When did he start breathing so hard? Has he always been moving this slow…? And Why… Why were his thoughts… lagging…?

“-Let me take you to my place instead.” You suddenly offered, surprising even yourself as you took another slow step forward, yet you couldn’t seem to help yourself as you continued, “It’s just up the road here.” You pointed beyond him, “I can patch you up and then you can leave whenever you want, okay? No hospitals. No doctors. Just please let me help you try to survive this….” 

The Soldier’s jaw clenched as you finally came within arm’s reach, his eyes searching and scanning for any semblance of a threat in you. But there was none. All he saw were your big eyes; Soft, round, and… earnest. It wasn’t an emotion he was familiar with- seeing or feeling- But between the blood still weeping from his wounds and the way his vision was beginning to swim in his eyes he wasn’t sure he had a choice anymore.

Slowly he nodded, pulling his hand away from the knife and bringing it back to its place on his side, “Your place…” he breathed heavily between his words, “No hospitals….”

“No hospitals,” you agreed with a short nod, moving even slower this time as you reached out again and laid your hand on his cool metallic shoulder. Like nervous prey, his wide eyes watched your every move as you came up beside him, your hands carefully placed between the bullet holes to support him.

He stepped forward on his own at first, his movements seeming to insist that he could do it himself, that he was still fine, but as his feet began to stumble toward the next step his cold metal hand shot out for your support. His movement still felt stiff and distanced now under your supportive touch, yet you found him leaning into you more and more as you helped him towards the car.

Once the stranger sat securely in the passenger seat you hopped into your still-idling car and sped off through the rest of the empty winding roads. 

You tried hard not to let yourself get distracted as you drove, yet you still found yourself stealing glances at the handsome stranger. He had finally relaxed into the seat, his head falling back against the headrest as he took in heavy breaths. Though blood still seeped from his open wounds, you grew hopeful as his breath began to even out; with any luck, it’ll keep him from bleeding out in your care.

You lived along a quiet semi-dead-end road, with only a few houses here and there that sat occupied by older couples you had yet to actually see. You were fortunate to be where you were, with no neighbors close enough to bother you and town a good 30 minutes away, you could live in relative peace and solitude.

Pulling to a stop in front of your old farmhouse you quickly hopped out to help him in, finding his rather dense weight leaning heavier on you now than before. His adrenaline must’ve finally passed and now he was beginning to fade. You weren’t sure how many waking minutes he had left- let alone if you could continue carrying him.

You needed to work fast.

“Come on, big guy- we’re almost there…” You urged as you tucked yourself under his thick metal arm. He didn’t fight this time as you slipped your arm around his torso, half-walking and half-dragging his heavy feet inside. He grunted half-heartedly as you entered the house, looking around through slow-blinking eyes.

“Okay, we’re almost- It’s right over there- fuck… !” You felt his knees begin to buckle beneath him, tugging the both of you down. Thankfully the coffee table was already nearby and, though it was a struggle, you managed to pivot and slowly lower him onto the table, leaving him in an upright slump.

Tired blue eyes looked up at you- your relentless efforts and your heavy breaths as you took a second to recover. His lips parted beneath his mask; he wanted to say something, but even he wasn’t sure what it was. But before any noise had the chance to spill from his lips you were off again, the sounds of you rummaging through drawers and cabinets evident as you went throughout the house.

“Aha!” you exclaimed in victory as you ran back to your patient, the first aid kit held proudly in hand.

 You approached the stranger once more, kneeling down, “We need to get this mask off first, okay? You need to breathe properly…” You explained as you reached toward his face. With a flash of silver, you felt cool metal wrapped around your wrist; impossibly strong fingers held you with surprising delicacy. Though fear dwelled in his exhausted eyes, his touch held no malice, only that of caution. 

For a brief moment, the two of you stood in silence, fixed in place by each other's unyielding gaze until your hand finally continued on its path. Though his grip loosened, his touch remained steady on your skin as you disconnected the mask with a click, and slowly pulled it away. 

You prayed he didn’t hear your quiet gasp as you finally gazed upon him. Soft blushed lips, protected from the winter’s harsh cold, lie parted as he breathed through the radiating pain. His sharp jaw and shallow cleft chin were roughened with days-old stubble, perfectly suiting his disheveled look. 

Trying to focus your attention back on the fading man in your care, you carefully peeled away the blood-soaked jacket and shirt, unleashing a strong whiff of iron along with it. You chewed the inside of your cheek as you looked over the man stranger below you, trying not to let your mind dwell on his state of undress. ‘NO! No, getting distracted now! Focus..!’’ You yelled at yourself internally, reining your thoughts back into place as you went about patching up the gruesome wounds.

He had been hit 3 times; once in his shoulder, once in the side, and once right above his hip. Thankfully the one on his hip seemed to go straight through, but the other two were not as lucky. You’d have to go in through his back and dig each and every piece out. 

Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration as your tweezers dug through his flesh for every fragment you could find. It took all your composure to ignore the way each sickening squelch turned your stomach, but somehow you managed to prevail. “You were shot in the back…? ” You prodded, trying to keep him awake as you pulled out the last of the pieces. “You must’ve pissed someone off real bad….” 

His head bobbed shallowly, “Something like that…,” his brows drew together in pain, but otherwise kept his practiced expression. Ever observant eyes and craning neck tried to watch you as best he could over his shoulder, but to little avail. 

It’s your touch that concerned him now; like a taser, each brush of your fingers sent lightning across his skin. Its warm, crackling sensation ran throughout his body like a storm cloud charging up for its final strike. It was a new sensation for him, the way his skin grew warm and his heart stirred- it had never happened before, and yet still felt so deeply familiar- as if in another life he’d known it by name. 

Did you feel it too? The thrum of energy deep in your bones? The kind that both put you at ease and made your heart bounce off its walls? The kind that soothed your inner storm yet still left the waves running passionately for the shore?

He grunted, digging the heel of his palm into his forehead as he attempted to wrangle his thoughts. ‘It’s the blood loss talking. Nothing more…’ he assured himself, his metal hand moving to clamp tighter over the still-seeping wound of his hip. The pain would ground him, force him to think clearly again, of that much he was sure.

“You okay?” You asked, your worry evident as you smoothed the medical tape over his skin “I’m almost done with your back and then I can move on to your hip….”

It felt like his mind was being torn in two, warring with itself as it tried to determine whether or not he could really trust you. “ Fine… I’m fine,” he barely assured.

He couldn’t afford to trust anyone- not yet. He was on the run now and who knows how far HYDRA’s claws reached or who they had already sunk them into… but as you moved to settle before him, a small smile on your lips as you brushed his metal hand aside- he wanted to.

 He’s never wanted anything more.

You simply nodded, not wanting to press him any further, and gently pushed his hand out of the way, revealing the last of his wounds. Eyes followed your every movement as you secured the last bandage, each accidental brush of your fingers against his skin, each firm press of the gauze against the staunched wound.

 He wanted to trust you.

“There… that should be the last bandage,” You said with a grateful sigh, wiping the blood from your hands, “but I’m no doctor, so you might need to take it easy for a while.” You said as you stood once again and motioned to the couch behind him, a small, yet resigned frown passing over your expression, “However…I  did promise that you could leave whenever you were ready….”

By God, he wanted to trust you.

You wished beyond anything for him to stay. Not only for the pleasant curve of his lips, the smooth skin that stretched perfectly across toned muscle, nor for the interesting company he would no doubt be. No… it was his eyes that really captured you, that made your heart beg for him to stay. Cold, calm, and vibrant blue- the kind eyes that wrapped around you and held you under. It reminded you of a frozen lake and part of you craved to find out what made him so. 

But you knew better than to try and hold him. 

“I’ll gather the rest of the bandages and antibiotics for now, but there's no rush.” You offered with a tight smile, hoping he couldn’t read your expression as easily as you felt it was painted on your face. You carried the littering of packaging and the now significantly emptier first aid kit back to the bathroom, pausing just inside the cracked door to listen for leaving footsteps.

But the Soldier hesitated.

His eyes moved to the front door. It was left ajar in the rush to get him inside,  the cold of winter still pouring in. He could leave. Leave and never look back, ever moving toward a fate unknown. But a part of him- a part that had been wiped clean so many times- urged him to stay and find fate here.

For once in his life he could choose to listen to this part of him, no matter how small or repressed…

And he would not waste the opportunity. 

———- 

Craning your neck to look beyond the pile of blankets, pillows, and clothes overflowing in your arms, you padded your way up the creaky wooden stairs, “Hopefully, the spare room will be okay for you tonight. And I found some old clothes in the basement that should be about your size.” You offered as you blindly opened up the door before you. 

The man followed only a few steps behind, his trained footsteps eliciting barely a squeak on the usually talkative staircase. He watched on in confusion as you made up the modest queen-sized bed for him, and stashed a few extra blankets and pillows to the side just in case.

You smiled gently as you finished, and finally turned to hand him the clean change of clothes.

Like a sheet of ice in the ever-warming sun he felt his once-piercing gaze now grow soft as he took the small bundle with the utmost care.

It was such a quick and subtle change you weren’t sure you really saw it, but you sincerely hoped you did.

“I know it’s not much right now, but I hope you’ll still be comfortable for the night.” You said as you looked over the room, hoping you didn’t forget anything. 

He blinked, tilting his head to the side a bit as he lingered on your words.

Why would it matter if he was comfortable? What purpose would it serve you? And why were you just giving him these things…? Did you want something in return? “I…” He paused, a small frown coming to his lips before he managed to speak again- the most emotion you’d seen from him yet. “Why?” he questioned.

“Why? Oh, well…“ You thought for a moment, surprised by the unorthodox question, and eventually shrugged, “You deserve to be comfortable…It seems like you’ve been through a lot recently and you deserve to finally rest…” you said with a hint of a smile. And you meant it. Between the bullet wounds and the near-bleeding out- not to mention, whatever must have come before- you figured he probably deserved a few years rest if nothing else. But for now, you were happy to help him take it day by day.

He didn't return your smile- though you didn’t really expect him to- but still, a softness lingered in his eyes. However, this softness did not dwell alone; beyond that, it laid an inkling of fear- an inkling of impermanence. How long could all of this really last? And what would it be like when his time finally ran out?

But for now, he would allow himself the rare unguarded moment as he repeated your words, his voice scant above a whisper, “I deserve to rest….”

His eyes cast down to the soft fabric in his hand, his calloused thumb running over its well-loved structure. They smelled old, but it didn’t bother him. These were the first clothes- the first gift- that he had received in… well, he wasn’t sure how long.

With a soft and reassuring smile, you nodded and slipped past him as you stepped out the door, “I’ll let you get settled, okay? I’ll be downstairs if you need anything-“ You paused “Ah… Hm, I guess I never really got your name in all the rush earlier…” 

The Soldier shook his head, his voice rough and low with its minimal use, “Don’t have one.”

Your brows furrowed, “You don't have a name…? Hasn’t anybody ever called you anything...?”

His weight shifted from side to side as he thought about his next words, his eyes flicking up to yours; they looked like they carried the weight of lifetimes.

 “They used to call me the Soldier… the Winter Soldier.” 

_________

General Bucky Taglist:

@writingmysanity @simpxinnie @goldylions @yeehawbrothers

My apologies if i missed anyone! Its been a while writing for the winter soldier! If you wanted to be added to the general or WMSS Taglist please ask and let me know!

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Chapter 18: When the gods choose to punish us, they merely answer our prayers.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Masterlist

Read on AO3.

Art by Shiroishi

“Sweetheart,” she called out placatingly. He scoffed and bit down on a tart, his jacket draped over his other shoulder. He’d decided he would start early today; there was little doubt going through the lower city would take some time. Ban was lounging on her throne, legs crossed and documents in hand. In his absence she would have to manage three meetings - not too horrible, especially since one of them was to finalize the turnover of the Sharran cloister to the city.

“I was just teasing!”

He rolled his eyes, turning back to scowl at her one last time, the faux-anger shifting into mirth. He shot her a wink. “I’ll try to be home relatively early. If not, well…” he waved the last of his tart, “it’ll be a lonely dinner for you yet again. Maybe you’ll miss me this time.”

The sound of her laughter was the last thing he heard before the door closed behind him.

He and Ban hadn’t been back to the lower city often since the end of their adventure. They’d visited occasionally, but there had been no reason to of late.

Over the past week, he had sent his staff to begin searching.. So far all of the upper city had been scoured and to no one’s surprise it had yielded no results. He had also covered a fair amount of the lower city. That had likewise borne no fruit.

He had also considered… other possibilities. A Sending spell had allowed him to contact the twins in Waterdeep and inquire as to whether Vel or any of his associates had been active in Baldur’s Gate at that time. They had answered in the negative.

The morning proceeded in relative boredom. He went from house to house, knocking on each door and holding up Adrien’s portrait. A lot of them seemed surprised to see him - an elf in ostentatious clothes - tramping about lower city in all his finery going door to door about some man, but he found that he didn’t mind, as he agreed with their assessment.

He ended up at a house at the far end of a street and knocked on the door. It looked relatively well-kept, if a little old. The door creaked open, and a younger elf peered at him. Astarion cleared his throat, and began his spiel.

“Hello. My name is Astarion Ancunín.” He had avoided tacking on his title for this errand. “Have you by any chance seen or met this man?” He held up the open locket. His name is-”

The elf scratched his head. “Adrien, yeah.”

Astarion’s mouth fell open. He closed the locket, pocketing it. “Adrien Glasscraft, yes. You know of him?”

“He was my friend.” He opened the door wider. “You should probably come inside, Mister Ancunín.”

The house was quaint, even cozy, and Astarion made himself comfortable on the couch. Sprawled in his usual way, he caught the disapproving glance from the other elf as he sat on the chair opposite him. Astarion pointedly ignored it.

“My name is Lulen.” When Astarion made no response, merely tapping his knee, Lulen continued. “Adrien is someone I knew for several years, before he stopped coming by. If I may ask,” and he leaned forward. “What is your interest in him?”

Astarion’s lip curled. “He is important to someone important.” That, he felt, was as detailed an explanation as he was willing to give. Lulen fell silent, eyes fixed on a spot behind him, and Astarion waited.

Lulen scanned Astarion’s clothes. “It does make sense. He comes from a rich family, as far as I know. Some offshoot of a patriar family. He griped about it a lot.”

“Tell me what you know of Adrien, then,” Astarion prompted, “and perhaps you might be able to help me find your friend. Where and when did you see him last?”

“It was an evening, several years ago. He arrived here, angry, which was not an uncommon occurrence with him. We talked for some time, then he said he would head out and get some food, clear his head, and…”

“And?” Astarion prompted, leaning forward, hands on his knees. “Did he tell you where he went?”

Lulen shook his head. “No, but he mentioned heading to Wyrm’s Crossing.”

Astarion stood outside Fragyo’s, his scowl deepening. The sun was high in the sky, the midafternoon light harsh. There were several places to get food in Wyrm’s Crossing, and he had left this one for last, hoping he wouldn’t have to go in. The idea of stepping back into that cesspit was unpleasant; he did not relish the idea of having to relive all of his previous activities in that establishment, but it couldn’t be avoided. He’d been hoping to have his meal somewhere better, but he had lost track of time, so he supposed he’d grab something here while he investigated. Perhaps Adrien had slept over in the flophouse before he left Baldur’s Gate.

He made his way in. It wasn’t too busy at this time of day, and he headed up to the counter. The halfling custodian peered at him, seemingly recalling his face.

“You’re- you were with…”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, waiting with his arms crossed.

“With the group - the ones who saved the city!”

Ah. He was relieved to be remembered for that and not for his other, older exploits in the flophouse.

“Apologies,” the halfling - Dashkent, he remembered now, bowed. “I am not very good with faces, and so it took me a moment to remember where I knew you from.”

He scoffed, but waved his hand dismissively. Resolving to question the halfling after he’d eaten, he ordered his lunch, and then slipped into a seat at an empty table, scanning the room. He had been here countless times before, of course. They’d always kept a low profile when they’d hunted here, hunkering in corners and darkened alcoves at night, whispering those sickly sweet words, laying their traps.

He ate with disinterest - the fare here was still bland, despite having his sense of taste back - and flicked open the locket, studying Adrien’s features for what felt like the millionth time. The black hair, that jawline, those eyes…

They always stood out, those eyes. They could hardly have done anything else. They were Ban’s eyes, after all, an exact match down to the shape and shade of brown-

No… not just that. He’d seen them somewhere else.

It was a cold night, and it had begun to rain. He pulled his cowl over his head. Ahead of him Dalyria and Petras had already opened the door, heading inside. Neither left the door open for him; he slipped inside without a word.

The three split up, as was their wont. Astarion took his usual corner, mug in hand, scanning the room. Searching for potential marks was a skill he’d fine-tuned. Anyone who seemed alone, a little lost, would be perfect. Attractive, if he could manage it, but when pickings were slim it didn’t matter. Tonight, however, was a good night for hunting - the flophouse was teeming with people, the rain likely helping force them indoors. He took his time; there was no need to rush with so many options.

Dalyria slipped into the seat beside him. He rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“I told you it would be a good idea to come tonight, didn’t I?” Her eyes also roamed over the patrons. “Good pickings. I’m sure even Petras will find someone. Why aren’t you mingling yet?”

He scoffed, and took a sip of whatever he had ordered - he didn’t exactly remember. “Petras needs them blind drunk before they’ll even look his way. I’m giving him a head start.”

Dalyria laughed. “Of course you are. Astarion, the prettiest of us lot, barely even needs to try, eh?” She tried to playfully touch his cheek; he growled and shifted away.

She stood up. “Do find yourself… something. Two more nights of coming up empty-handed and you’ll be…” she bit back a laugh as he snarled at her.

The thought was unpleasant, but he did not let it show. “Worried about me? How sweet of you.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Godey has nothing new under his metaphorical sleeves, dear sister. It’ll be uneventful.”

“Judging by the way you screamed last time, I doubt that’s true.”

She drifted away and Astarion seethed, stewing over her flippant remarks.

Two weeks. Two weeks of coming up empty-handed and he’d come face to face with Godey. The door would latch closed behind him and not open again until the master was thoroughly satisfied. A date with Godey’s toys, a night of manacles and instruments and of blood, of screaming himself hoarse and it still not being enough to sate their lust. Two weeks - sometimes less, if Cazador’s whims dictated it so - until he was reminded of exactly how painful drawing his master’s ire was - not that he ever forgot. The man took what felt like boundless joy in breaking him, after all - far more than the rest. He rubbed a hand over his face, resentment bubbling to the top. Even in their shared suffering, he endured more. Far more.

Astarion swirled the contents of his mug, staring down at it absently. It wouldn’t do to fail tonight. He slipped into his thoughts, however - something he found himself doing more often lately, his mind sinking into nothingness. When someone jostled against his table and snapped him out of it, he had no idea how long it had been. He scanned the room. A fair bit of time must have passed, he realized, as Dalyria was now in the arms of a burly man.

A man caught his eye. He was seated at a table, alone, nursing a goblet of what looked like wine. Handsome. Black hair, square jaw, and alluringly dark brown eyes. Astarion sauntered over.

To his surprise the man looked up before he managed to say a word. “This chair’s free.” He tapped the seat beside him. Astarion slid in.

“You look awfully lonely, darling. Is it the weather, or something else?” Astarion sipped from his mug.

The man shot him a nervous smile. His eyes brightened as he took stock of Astarion’s face - a look he knew all too well. Tonight, that meant success.

“Something else.” The man returned his gaze to his drink. “The rain doesn’t help, I suppose. I headed out before it started. And you? What brings you here?”

Astarion noticed, belatedly, that the man had no cloak or anything to cover himself with, other than a jacket that was already soaked. He clicked his tongue. “Well, then. I’m all ears, if that’s what you need.” He would have added a coy ‘and perhaps more, if you want’, but something told him he’d have to take this particular mark slowly. He didn’t bother answering the man’s questions; more often than not people just wanted to talk about their own problems.

“It’s nothing more than common family drama,” the man said, pushing his sopping hair off his eyes. “The usual, really. I really don’t want to talk your ear off,” he chuckled, “and I’d rather hear about something else.”

Astarion found himself pleasantly surprised, but he was ready. “I am a magistrate. I’m here to meet someone, but…” he pretended to look around the room, “it seems that they have misplaced their clock.” He huffed. “Not my loss, considering that I now get to talk to you.”

“Adrien.” The man held out his hand.

He shook it, allowing his fingertips to subtly drag as he pulled away from Adrien’s grasp. “Astarion.”

Adrien nodded. “A wonderful name.” Again the man took a moment to look at his face; Astarion smiled, angling himself slightly so the light would catch his cheekbones. “Do you come here often?”

“Mm, once in a while.” Astarion took another sip of his drink. “And you? I haven’t seen you before, I feel. I’m certain I would have remembered a face like yours.”

“It’s my first time here, yes. I don’t come to this area often.” A blush crept across Adrien’s cheeks. Perfect.

“There must be a good reason then. With all the rain, and the frankly horrid state of this place… I will be very concerned if you tell me you’re here for leisure.”

Adrien laughed. “You… you got me. I was walking by to just… get my bearings, and have some dinner, but it started raining. I might have to stay the night here, and as correct as your assessment of this place is… I’d still rather be here than at home.”

“You and me both,” Astarion mused. It wasn’t exactly a lie, he supposed. Clapping his hands together to snap himself out of his melancholy, he sat up. “So. You’ve made me tell you my frankly boring reason for being here. Your turn, dear.”

“I suppose so. It’s a long tale, but I can give you the sum of it.” He wrapped his hands around his goblet and took a small breath. “My parents are shit, and I’m here-”

“To get some reprieve from them, yes.” Astarion slid closer. “While I would agree that that’s common… it doesn’t mean that it’s not important.” He waved a hand. “Like I said. I wouldn’t mind lending you an ear. Or my… company. Whichever you prefer. I’m not picky.”

A small risk, that.

The man turned to him, surprised. His lips pursed. “I would love your company, really. But I’ve already promised the rest of my evening to another. However, the first part of your offer I would heartily accept.”

Astarion groaned inwardly. He wanted to make a quick exit, but there was nothing for it. The night was likely to be wasted, anyway; the patrons were slowly clearing out as the rain began to ease off. “Of course. Please, do regale me.”

“My father wants me to be his heir. Wants to marry me off. If only she hadn’t left…” Adrien murmured angrily, and Astarion opened his mouth to ask some followup question he didn’t even give a thought to when the words died in his throat.

Petras stood in front of them, drink in hand, glaring at Astarion.

“Petras!” Adrien smiled. “Please, sit. I was merely talking to… uh…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Astarion stood up. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this conversation, darling, I must be off. After all, my associate may yet still arrive. Wouldn’t do well to be otherwise occupied, as pleasurable as that would have been for both of us…” He couldn’t help that last statement, smirking as Petras resisted the urge to hiss - and failed.

“Nice to have met you, Adrien.”

He sauntered off, a little miffed that Petras, of all people, had stolen a mark off him. Not stolen, exactly, he corrected himself, but still. Petras? Over him? That Adrien must’ve had bad vision. Astarion slinked back into his corner, nursing his drink and pointedly not looking at where the other two were in deep conversation.

To his dread, the night ended fruitlessly for him. He headed home some hours later, slipping into the palace and down to the dormitory. Petras had left first, followed by Dalyria, who had also managed to bring home a victim.

Astarion opened the door to find Petras on his bunk, legs crossed and smirking. He sighed. “Of course you’re filthying my bed, Petras. Won’t you ever be anything but predictable?”

“You have to admit I was anything but tonight. Didn’t expect that, did you?” Petras shifted, and Astarion bit back a snarl as he realized his sibling was lying on his blanket.

“Expect what? A man to be kind enough to uphold an earlier arrangement, even to one as… well, to someone who looks like you do?” Astarion laughed. “A surprise, to be sure, but angels do exist. As do charity workers.”

Petras glowered, and then he flicked something at Astarion. He caught it instinctively, opening his hand to see what it was. A cufflink. “Here. A consolation gift. Gods know you’d gripe about losing to me for days. Maybe this’ll get you to shut up.”

It looked expensive, jewel-encrusted, and he held it to the light.

Astarion frantically reached into his pocket, pulling out the cufflink the Glasscrafts had given him. There was no doubt - this was its counterpart. Fuck.

How would he tell her? Darling, we killed your brother. He was there, that day, perhaps only a couple of rooms away. We stupidly did the rite, not thinking someone we cared about might be in one of those damned kennels. We-

He snapped the locket shut, unable to look that portrait in the eye. Her eyes. He should head home, that was for certain. There was nothing to be done. There was nothing to search for. Nothing.

Astarion’s mind whirled with the possibilities. He could not tell her, that was always an option. He could already imagine the words he’d say.

Darling, I have some bad news. I’ve scoured all of Baldur’s Gate, and there was nothing of your brother to be found. Perhaps he’s made his life somewhere else, and we’re better off leaving him to his peace?

Darling, your brother told me he wanted nothing to do with you. He shooed me away, threatened to stake me- gods, you didn’t tell me he was vehemently against vampires!

Darling-

…He couldn’t do that to her.

Oh, but it would be easy. He could simply say the words, run his hands down her body, cup her ass, slip a finger between her legs. Purr and say the right words with just the right tone, and she’d believe him, because she trusted him. Trusted him to no longer use his skills to deceive her, trusted him to be honest.

And he would. As frightened as he was of her response, he would.

The long carriage ride felt like mere seconds. He was willing it to drag out, to delay seeing her face, asking him, ‘Love, how was your day?’ How would he respond?

He wondered if she'd leave him. Likely not, he figured - hoped, but she would be beside herself and rightfully so. He had no idea how much affection there was between Ban and Adrien, but he had no doubt it was more fond than he and his own siblings had been. Would she blame him? Not unreasonable, if so - that price was paid for him, after all.

What would she have done if they’d walked past those kennels and seen Adrien? Would she have stopped the ritual, told him to find a spare to swap her brother out? Would that have been the push to make her entirely say no to the idea? What if he’d argued back? And he was sure he would have - he could still recall the ice-cold fear that had gripped him then, the smell of blood and rot so strong it had suffused his senses and clouded out all other thoughts.

They would have fought. No, she would have talked him down. No. He would have stormed off. No. They would have-

He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was little use in what ifs, especially at this point.

He felt a sudden surge of loathing and he placed his trembling palm over his racing heart as he watched the mansion come into view. The price that had been paid for it, for all this - it had never really mattered, not for him, and barely for her, but now…

He was sure some god was out there, laughing at their fate. He would have seen the humor in it himself, if it hadn’t befallen them.

Soon he was spilling out of the carriage into the courtyard, breaths coming too short, praying she wouldn’t yet be out of her last meeting for the day. Please.

He stepped into the foyer and called the chamberlain over.

“My lord?”

“Rainier, where is the lady of the house?”

The chamberlain frowned. “She is still occupied in the gardens, making arrangements with Shadowheart and the city representative. The cloisters-” he cut off as Astarion waved a hand at him.

Good. He had some time to try and at least present a solution together with the problem. That would at least ease the blow.

“A Sending spell. To Gale. Ask him to come as soon as possible. Tell him it is an emergency. Bring him to the study the moment he arrives.”

Astarion’s head whipped up a little while later as Gale stepped into the room. He was still dressed in what looked like his teaching robes. The man looked slightly harried, the robes ink-stained on the sleeves.

“Astarion.” Gale sat in the armchair opposite his. “What brings me here, in such a hurry? Did something happen? Where’s Ban? Are you both alright?” His eyes followed Astarion as he quickly shut the door, locking it.

“Ban is fine. She’s outside, in negotiations with Shadowheart and the city planner.”

“Then what is-”

“It’s about her brother.” He sat in his own armchair, then leaned forwards, rubbing his face. “We were making attempts to look for him. He disappeared several years ago, and she wanted to seek him out.”

“A brilliant idea, which I assume did not yield the results you wished for. What can I do to help?”

Astarion glanced at him, grateful for the offer. “We - or rather, I - found him.” He looked away. “Or what became of him, at least.” There was a waver in his voice, he knew, but there was no hiding it.

“What became-” Gale trailed off at the look on his face. “Astarion. What exactly befell the man?” Gale’s concern was obvious. Astarion felt some relief there; at least someone could share in this burden that felt like a stone in his heart. “If he’s dead, a scroll of true resurrection would work, provided either his body or in the absence of it, his soul…”

He shook his head, and Gale’s sentence trailed off. How would he say this? Gale had been there as well. In some ways they all had doomed Ban’s sibling.

“He was one of the seven thousand, Gale.” Astarion kept his eyes fixed to the wall. “We killed him, and damned his soul as well.”

Gale swore. “Then why would you ask for me to come, if you knew this? True resurrection would definitely not work.”

“Wish.”

“Oh, no. No.” Gale shook his head, raising a finger. “The risks involved in casting that spell… no. It cannot be done.”

As Astarion opened his mouth to protest, Gale pushed on.

“Wish is a difficult spell to cast, for one. I’m not even certain I’d be able to cast it. Then there is the issue of intent - what is your stated goal? To return Ban’s brother, yes. But by what means? Are you able to specify, down to the minutest detail? If you do not, the spell will have unintended consequences, consequences that are certain to only bring more trouble.”

“If I specify-”

“What do you specify then? Undoing the rite itself? What about everything else that came with it? What about Ban? What about the arrangement with the hells? Would they not come after you if seven thousand souls they owned suddenly disappeared? What if it undid time itself, reverted everything back to before it happened, including our memories?” Gale stared at him, and Astarion had no choice but to meet his gaze head on. “Wish is a spell that alters reality, but it does so in completely unpredictable ways. It is manageable for smaller requests, smaller wishes that wouldn’t unravel so much of the fabric of reality. But you’re dealing with something that’s on a massive scale, involving thousands of souls, Astarion. I would not risk it.”

Astarion found that he could not disagree. “If I only ask for one soul back, what then?”

“You could, but what would happen with the rite? It required each and every one of them as payment. What would the hells do, were you to renege on your arrangement and pluck one right out of their grasp? And what condition would her brother be in? Would he be a tormented soul? A spirit? He might even come back in the form of a coin, for all we know.”

“A coin?”

Gale exhaled. “When souls are sent to the hells, to demons or devils - it matters not - the soul may be used in some other manner, but they are usually turned into soul coins.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. “The coins we found when we were wandering about? The same coins Karlach used?”

“One and the same,” Gale nodded, voice grim. “Now, a lesser devil might have used some of the souls for something else, made them into servants or something of that nature, but the fact that Mephistopheles was the one who received them, and received seven thousand of them in one go… it’s likely her brother’s soul is now, in fact, in a coin.”

Astarion swallowed. “And am I not able to simply wish him to come back as a whole, living being? That would circumvent his arrival as… as that, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, but yet again we do not know the consequences of it. Usually turning into a coin is a one-way process. And there’s a chance the spell would consider that as a second wish: one, that her brother return unharmed, and that two: he returns as not a coin. So you see-”

“I know!” Astarion got up, pacing. Wish would not work; that much was obvious. “Do you have any other ideas, then?”

Gale stared at him, askance. “Simply accepting what happened and mourning her brother aside, I would suggest reading up on the circumstances regarding the rite.”

Astarion froze. “And what good would that do?”

Potentially a lot of good, he knew. He still didn’t want to do it.

“Because you’d want to know the specifics of the contract. It might help with understanding or finding a means by which to retrieve Ban’s brother, if any such method exists. You could also consult a diabolist,” Gale added. “Or, Karlach and Wyll might be able to wrangle some fiends for you.”

They were all good suggestions, but right now it merely felt like meaningless words swimming in Astarion’s head. There were too many options, none of which seemed to lead to better chances of success. Then there was the bigger concern in his mind - telling Ban about it in the first place.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. “I’d invite you to stay over for dinner, but I doubt tonight will be anything but deeply unpleasant.”

Gale stood. “I understand. I will, of course, begin researching on my end as well. Let me know if you need anything more, and I will be in contact if I find anything of use. Good luck, my friend.” He clasped Astarion’s shoulder, and slipped away, leaving him to his thoughts.

He found her seeing Shadowheart and the city planner off. She was standing by the front door, waving goodbye. Shadowheart shot him a smile from afar, no doubt thinking about her wedding present, but he could barely muster a response, merely raising his hand in farewell.

As they departed, Astarion wrapped his arms around Ban from behind, pressing his nose against the top of her head. Taking a deep breath, he held her close, hoping she would let the moment stand. He did not know what to say, or how to even begin; but he needed to seek comfort. Gods knew this might be the last peaceful moment they would have for a while. Possibly ever.

Her hands settled on top of his arm, rubbing gently. Her muscles were tense, he noted, but that thought was brushed aside. “Good evening, love.”

Ban arched her neck, and he pecked the proffered cheek. “Did your day go well?”

“Well enough. I-” He stopped himself. Not yet. She didn’t turn to face him, or ask him about what he had just tried to say. Evidently something else was on her mind. “I trust the business with the cloister has now been fully resolved?”

She pulled away from his grasp, heading back inside the palace. “It has. They’ve agreed on a lump sum. Only the paperwork needs to be signed.”

He followed her in, a step behind her. “That’s… wonderful news.”

They headed towards the dining room. If she was avoiding his gaze as much as he was hers, he couldn’t muster enough courage to ask.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The only sounds were of clinking glasses and the utensils as they ate. Neither reached out to the other’s mind - an uncommon thing during mealtimes - but neither commented on it. He was thankful for it - it gave him some time to think and consider exactly how he wanted to broach the topic.

She finally cleared her throat after dessert, the first sound she’d made in a while, and he looked up.

“Astarion,” she said, her face tight. He tensed. Did she already know? How?

“My love?” He forced a lightness he did not feel at all into his voice.

“I think it’s time you tell me how much contact you’ve actually been having with my parents.” Before he could say anything she passed an envelope to him, and he looked down at it.

A letter addressed to him, from Roderich. Ban hadn’t opened it. He fought down a flood of relief, then waved it at her. “If you were so concerned about our correspondence, love, you could have opened it. I would not have minded.”

“I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.”

Cold. Angry. He sighed, thoughts of Adrien temporarily pushed from his mind. He ripped the envelope open, scanning the text as quickly as he could. As expected, it was nothing of import.

“Here.” He passed the letter to her. “They are merely asking for updates, the impatient wretches.”

Ban read the letter, and then reread it. “I see. But why would they ask for updates in the first place?”

“I made an agreement with them,” he confessed. “I was to inform them if… if we found Adrien, and in return they promised to leave you both alone.”

Her eyes softened. “That… well.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “Sorry. It’s just that… when it comes to them, I… I find it hard to be reasonable.”

“I don’t blame you.” His old methods slipped back in without his conscious choice. Sidetrack the conversation, spin it into something else. Do anything, everything - just to avoid what needed to be said. “There’s little need to apologize. Shall we head to our room, then? I've yet to finish that book.”

Ban stared at him for a long moment, far longer than she usually did. He felt her eyes move from his face to his body, her index and middle finger shifting to feel his pulse.

Controlling his body language was something he could do without much trouble, seeing as he'd had to do it for centuries. Calming his pulse however, was another; he hadn’t had much practice with that. As her fingertips touched his wrist he pulled it away.

She frowned. “What's wrong?”

No. Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I’m not ready!

He spoke anyway.

“Adrien left your parents.”

She broke into a laugh. “Well, that's ironic. And also good! If he ran away, I'm sure we'll stumble onto him eventually, but there's no rush. He'll handle himself well - at least I hope.”

He made a small, strangled sound, fighting to get the words out.

“He… left, to cool off.”

“Oh.” She sat up straighter. “And then decided to run away? Impulsive as always.”

“That was my initial conclusion.” Astarion gripped the table, knuckles white.

“But there's more to it.” The smile on her face died. “What happened, Astarion?”

“He-”

A deep breath, and then another. His hand sought hers, gripped it tight. Ban bit her lip.

“He's dead, isn't he?”

Astarion didn't know whether to shake his head or nod. He felt frozen, eyes locked onto hers. “He…”

“He is.” Her voice cracked, and he hated it. Ban was never one to cry, after all. He could count on one hand the number of times she'd allowed it to happen in his presence. “Y-you don't have to say anything, I… thank you, for finding him.”

“He isn't just deceased, Ban.” He locked eyes with her, steeling himself. His jaw tightened.

“Then what? Please. I know it's bad. The way you've been acting all night, the way you haven't spoken - please.”

“By all definitions he's dead,” he managed to say. “The circumstances of his demise are, however, a matter in and of itself.”

He stared at her for a long, hard moment.

“We killed him, love. We killed him in the rite.”

[gingerwritess]

hello!

popping back in here to let you all know that i see you and your sweet messages. i reread comments, i scroll my ask box, i scour the reblogs. every single one of you who have left comments, likes, sent messages, read my work; thank you.

your words and support helped me finish writing my first novel.

i stepped back from tumblr a while ago to finish uni, travel/move, and work on my own projects, and you all helped me along the way. i’m currently editing my first novel and am beginning the query process, so if anyone is interested in hearing more about that orrr potentially beta-reading, please lmk :)

now the info you’re really here for:

for all my remaining loki loves—i hear you, you want more pre-dating idiots. i’ll do my very best to find a way to wrap that storyline up.

for my dear elucien (kqav) readers—i had big plans that may have been too big for me at the time, and for that i apologize! i’m outlining the rest of that story so please rest assured that it will be continued soon. to everyone who supported me over the last few years on ao3 with that story, thank you so so so much; i’ll do my absolute best to finish it for you.

this little community on this blog is so lovely and i will always be grateful to everyone who has supported my writing even at its very rocky beginning (and middle). I’ll try to be more active on here now because bringing you joy brings me immense joy—and nothing screams “graduated college” like reviving an old tumblr blog.

lots of love,

theo

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 86

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, 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 86: A Vow of Fire and Blood

AO3 - Masterlist

The incessant ringing in Daenera’s ears drowned out the clamor of the throne room, its persistence mimicking the relentless crash of ocean waves against rocky shores. A debilitating nausea twisted through her, churning in the pit of her stomach as she forced herself to remain poised and unyielding. Her eyes, sharp and blurry, swept across the gathered nobles–a sea of faces etched with varying expressions. 

Her thoughts churned like a turbulent sea, threatening to engulf her from within. Aegon’s voice reverberated in her mind, each word a piercing echo of cruelty and mockery. His taunts were deliberate, designed to provoke and inflict pain-–‘what did you say, brother? You feed him to your dragon and you’ll feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards?’

Whatever Aemond had once claimed about what happened in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay now seemed a faint echo to the harsh truth laid out by Aegon’s cruel words–a bitter truth that sliced through Daenera more sharply than she had anticipated. It gnawed at the already tattered remnants of her heart, for had he not claimed, with a voice bordering on repentance, that it had not been his intention to kill her brother? That he had never meant for it to happen?

Had that confession been nothing but a lie? Was his semblance of remorse merely a facade crafted to soothe the sting of his actions? 

Aemond’s face bore no sign of regret or guilt as he was being celebrated for his deed. Instead, Aemond maintained a composed, chilling demeanor. The corner’s of his lips were slightly upturned in what was almost a smirk, his eye sharp and discerning, as he bore the weight of what he had done with his head held high. And somehow, this managed to tear even more at the remnants of her heart–betrayed by love for someone more beast than man. 

Daenera swallowed hard, her throat parched as she clenched her teeth, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. She fought to maintain his composure, even as her heart pounded loudly, its beats echoing in her ears like the relentless drum of war. The turmoil within her threatened to spill over, yet she held herself steady, by driving her nails into his hand–she could almost hear the crack of thunder in the depths of her mind and the haunting sound of wings beating against the tumultuous winds as her brother attempted to flee. The sharp, metallic taste of despair lingered on her tongue, as she thought of the terror her brother must have felt, and for a fleeting moment between heartbeats, Daenera thought she caught sight of him among the gathered guests–his dark curls matted and sticking to his skin, his pale blue eyes, flecked with hints of brown, catching hers. His skin appeared ghostly pale as if he had emerged from water, watching her with a deep frown. He was there, and then, he was gone. 

Was there even anything left of him for her mother to find? The thought lodged itself like some terrible blade driven between her ribs, twisting and burrowing deeper with each passing moment. She could only imagine her mother’s agony, scouring the rugged coastline of Shipbreaker Bay, her eyes scanning every cliff and rock, her pleas directed at the stormy, unforgiving sea to relinquish what remained of her son. She imagined her mother’s despair, begging the waves to return even a trace of him so she could be certain, so she could properly lay him to rest. 

‘A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death.’

The words reverberated in her mind, a haunting refrain amidst the cruel taunts of Aegon, who seemed to revel in her torment. 

Laughter filled the grand hall, an echo of heartless mirth that mingled with the clinking of glasses and the swell of music, and Daenera felt as though she was going to be sick. They toasted the death of her brother as if it were a cause for celebration–a grand feast, complete with wine and song, treating his demise with a festivity that suggested his life had been devoid of any worth, as if his death were deserved. 

Aemond was a monster, and Aegon, sharing in the revelry, was no different. None of them were. They had usurped her mother’s throne, they had killed Joyce and Darvin, they had hung Kevan and Sithric. They still held Fenrick, Eddin and Patrick in the dungeons, pawns to be used against her. They had coldly murdered Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell for refusing to bend the knee. They had conspired, stolen and murdered to put a monster on the throne. And now, they exalted the slaying of her brother as if it were a heroic deed, celebrating his killer as though he had won a great battle. But it was neither great nor a battle. It was murder. What chance did a mere boy have against a dragon like Vhagar?

Every cheer, every toast added weight to her condemnation. They were all complicit, every last one of them–and the Greens most of all. Daenera damned them, her heart seething with rage and despair. 

Daenera stood abruptly from her seat, unable to remain any longer. Her voice trembled, tinged with emotion as she excused herself, “If you’ll excuse me, I fear I have worn myself out.”

Aemond immediately rose to his feet as she did, a frown etching itself onto his brow as he watched her intently. His hand stretched out towards her, pausing mid-air to reveal shallow cuts across the palm of his hand, and the bruising indent of her nails on the surface of it, “Let me escort you to your chambers…”

“No,” Daenera responded coolly, her eyes fixing upon him with a chilling detachment. He still bore the visage of the boy she had once loved, yet now he seemed nothing more than a monster disguised in the remnants of that past affection. “This feast is in your honor; you shouldn’t leave. I have Edelin, she will escort me back.”

His reaction was immediate; his jaw clenched, muscles tensing as he gritted his teeth. He looked away, clearly stung by her rejection. Daenera turned her back on him, her movements graceful and deliberate as she gathered the heavy fabric of her skirts and moved around the table, descending the few steps from the dias and onto the floor. 

Daenera drifted into the shadows cast by the columns, skirting the edges of the throne room  where the dim light enfolded her like a shroud. Lacking the strength or inclination to take the same way back from which she had come, moving through the festivities, she chose a path less noticeable, one that avoided piercing through the throng of revelers. The thought of every eye upon her, scrutinizing her trembling form, was unbearable. It was already enough to have his gaze on her–she had felt it from the moment she had entered the throne room. His gaze had lingered on her, skimming across her skin like a gentle caress, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Once a thrilling sensation, it now felt invasive, as sharp and unwelcome as a cold blade pressed against her throat. She had refused to meet his gaze, fearing what she might find there–feared finding the cold cruelty of his mask, more monster than man. Or worse, she feared that if she looked at him, she might find some semblance of warmth there, a flicker of something once familiar–something terrible and loving. It had been almost a relief to find the mask he wore with such seamless perfection that Daenera had been left wondering if his visage of steel and ice was not a mask at all but rather his true self, sculpted to slice through whatever lay in his path. She had once believed she could see beneath his mask of steel, foolishly finding something genuine and tender lurking beneath. But had there ever truly been anything there other than the darkness? 

As Daenera retreated into the shadows, she could feel his gaze trailing her every move, its weight cruelly tearing at her heart. The sensation was disquieting–and she loathed it, despised the way her heart still responded, still tore itself apart under the burden of his attention. 

Daenera’s heart seethed with hatred. She hated Aemond for murdering her brother, for the lies he had woven with such ease, each one a silken thread that tied her hands together. She hated him for the mask he wore–if any–and she hated herself for the inability to discern where the facade ended and the man began–if there was a man at all beneath the facade. She hated him for the deep, aching pain that gnawed at her day and night, for the accolades he received with smug arrogance, as though self satisfied. She hated him for ensnaring her heart, for making her love him.

But above all, amidst the swirling tempest of her hatred, a dark, insidious thread wove itself through–the hatred she harbored against herself for still feeling, for still aching, for still loving the shadow of a man who might never have existed at all. She hated herself for it, and this self-loathing gnawed at her as deeply as any betrayal. 

Amidst the tumult of her thoughts and emotions, which threatened to shatter her fragile composure, a figure suddenly blocked her path. The man, tall and lean, was adorned in a dark green robe edged with black fur lapels, his chest bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King. Otto Hightower stood draped in the shadows cast by the revelry, his gaze imposing as he looked down at her, effectively halting her retreat. His voice, carrying a measured weight, broke through her thoughts. “Princess…”

As Daenera faced the man whose machinations had brought them to this, she clenched her jaw tightly, struggling to maintain her composure. A strained breath escaped her as she fought to keep her voice steady, her fingers curling into fists at her sides while a surge of bile burned in her chest. His discerning eyes wept over her with a cold, meticulous gaze, always analyzing, always assessing. 

“I offer my condolences for your brother,” Otto began, his voice low and even, stepping forward with deliberate calm, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is a shame, had your mother agreed to our generous terms, it would never have come to this. Your brother would still be alive and the heir to Driftmark.”

Daenera’s voice was sharp with scorn as she addressed Otto, her eyes wide with indignation and disbelief. “Do not lay the blame at my mother’s feet for the actions of your grandson. He has marked himself a kinslayer, and that stain is his alone to bear. And don’t dare pretend that the terms you offered were anything but a mummer’s farce.” She paused, her gaze cutting through the space between them. “Do you truly think the realm is blind to your machinations? That it will not see through your schemes? That it will not condemn him?” Her hand swept towards the ongoing celebration, where the clamor of conversation melded seamlessly with the lull of festive music. “Condemn you for celebrating the death of a child, honoring the very man who murdered him.”

“And yet, it seems we are not the only ones who may face condemnation,” Otto replied, his gaze steely and chillingly calculating–filled with intent. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself, and your attendance here will not go unnoticed by the realm.”

Daenera’s hand glided down the bodice of her dress, fingers tracing the cool, beaten metal of the dragon adorning it. The head of the dragon nestled snugly against her lower abdomen, its wings sweeping up to her shoulders and tapering to gleaming points just past them. The dress was elaborate and elegant, crafted from a heavy fabric designed to fall in perfect, graceful drapes around her form. It was dramatic and to that effect, was why she had chosen it–because of the spectacle it made of her. 

“My mother’s colors are not only black,” Daenera asserted. They were also red. While the Hightowers had seen to the removal of all her black dresses, they had not thought to take the red ones as well. It was their mistake.  “She will understand.”

“Will she?” Otto questioned, eyes flickering across her face. “Your grief is known–Maegor’s Holdfast has heard your cries. Yet here you are, adorned in finery, participating in the celebration. You sat by his side, holding his hand…”

The accusation twisted her stomach–that she had been there in support of him, that she had declared for Greens–draining the color from her face as dark spots danced at the edges of her vision. Through a sheen of tears, she met his gaze firmly. “My mother will know the truth of my heart.”

“Will Daemon? Will the realm?” Otto pressed, tilting his head slightly, his voice carrying a challenge. 

Daenera felt a surge of nausea as the bile rose in her throat, her stomach churning–turning in on itself. A coldness nipped at her fingertips and crept up her spine, her limbs growing heavy and her chest tightening as if her ribs were constricting around her lungs. With effort, she swallowed the bile and responded with a bitter edge, “My presence will be spoken of as defiance–a spectacle. You may weave your web of lies, and some may indeed become ensnared, but the truth will stand firm; I wore red. I am the daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I did not bow to your usurper king. The realm will recount my grief and my defiance, and it will also recount your cruelty.”

Otto inhaled thoughtfully–unconcerned–his eyes scrutinizing her intently, as if trying to peel back her skin and reveal the bloodied and broken girl beneath, and answered measuredly, “What is certain, is that you attended the celebration of your brother’s murderer. Your presence here will be noted across the realm, and whether you wore red or not, your intentions will remain in doubt–a grieving sister or a girl celebrating her betrothed…” 

He stepped closer, his tone sharpening, “This is a dangerous game, Princess, one that I believe you do not fully understand. Remember, you hold no power here; you are playing on our side of the board, and it is only by our grace and mercy that you remain. I would advise you to think carefully about which… comforts you are prepared to forego, should you decide to defy us again. Or more pressingly, which of your men you are willing to sacrifice…”

With that, Otto stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with his arm, indicating that she was free to pass. His demeanor suggested that the conversation was over, dismissing her with a finality that echoed the coldness of his warnings. 

Daenera was certain that Otto would spin his web of deceit. He would craft the narrative to suggest that her presence at the feast was their decision–that it symbolized her endorsement of their regime. 

Clenching her teeth tightly, Daenera forced herself forward, barely suppressing the urge to scream and expose the true depths of her grief and hatred and rage to the court–to the realm, to her mother across the sea. She managed to hold herself together, teetering precariously on the brink of madness. The abyss seemed to yawn open before her, beckoning her to succumb to its depths. It was unclear whether it was rage or grief that gnawed at her, but the sensation of unraveling was unmistakable–she felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness envelop her. 

Otto’s web, spun with masterful grace, ensnared her–tying around her lips, weaving through her intentions, and tightening its embrace with each breath she drew. She could not move without the tightening of the strings, she could not breathe as it strangled her, she could do nothing. She was lost–lost and suffocating.

Daenera's mind was a tempest, relentlessly revisiting the cascade of events that had shattered her world: from Viserys's untimely death to the usurpation of her mother’s crown, the myriad humiliations she had endured at their hands, and the grim reality of the position they had forced upon her. She agonized over all that she had lost, all that she still stood to lose, and the relentless barrage of insults and cruelty she had faced–years of mockery and taunts, years of belittling and undermining. Aegon's cruel words echoed ominously in her head, her ears pulsing with the rush of her own blood, effectively drowning out the raucous sounds of the feast.

Edelin was waiting at the doors of the throne room when Daenera emerged from the shadows cast by the columns. Her expression was tight with worry as she quickly fell into step behind Daenera. Her pace was quick, hand pressing against her bodice as she felt the harsh burn of bile rising in her esophagus, threatening to choke her. 

As she moved through the dimly lit hall, her movement was silent, her footsteps absorbed by the swish of her skirts and the steady, oppressive pounding of her heart. Each step carried her further into the shadows, away from the light and laughter that seemed so grotesquely out of place, isolating her in her grief and fury.

Bile invaded her mouth, and Daenera quickly turned towards a secluded corner, away from the view of people, as she heaved, emptying her stomach onto the floor. Her body convulsed, her skin clammy and hands trembling as she braced herself against the cool stone wall. The sound of her sickness hitting the floor was harsh, and the acrid stench filled the air immediately. The ringing in her ears persisted as her stomach churned again, expelling more bile and partially digested food. Her eyes ached with the weight of unshed tears. Amidst the turmoil, she barely registered her name being called, but she felt the presence of a gentle hand at the small of her back, drawing soothing circles, comforting her with the tenderness usually afforded a child. 

“Princess,” Edelin murmured, her voice laced with concern, yet it wasn’t her touch that drew Daenera’s focus. Instead, another hand gently pressed against her back, steadying her as she lifted her eyes. 

“Princess,” Finan said softly, greeting her with worried eyes–gray as a gloomy day.

“I’m fine,” Daenera managed to croak, and with a trembling hand, she wiped away the residue of spite and bitterness from her lips. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she swallowed, her throat still burning from the acrid sting of stomach acid. “It’s nothing…”

“I should fetch the Maester for you, Princess,” Edelin suggested, her hands persistently soothing Daenera’s back. Her expression of concern somehow made her appear older than her age.

Swallowing hard again, and placing a hand on her unsettled stomach, Daenera answered, “No, that won’t be necessary. It’s just a minor upset, nothing serious enough to bother the Maesters with. A cup of mint tea and some crackers should help settle it, I’m sure.”

Tears of indignation and embarrassment threatened to escape as they prickled behind Daenera’s eyes. Her throat constricted as she swallowed hard, her mouth dry even as the bitter taste of bile lingered on her tongue. Her heart thudded loudly, the pulsing in her temples and the continuous whooshing in her ears contributing to her dizziness. 

“Let me escort you back to your chambers, Princess,” Finan offered, his hand poised near her back–not touching, but ready to offer support if she faltered again.

“Thank you, Ser…”

“Finan Pyne, Princess,” He formally introduced himself, maintaining the pretense that they did not know each other. There was almost a palpable insistence in Finan’s posture–his silent urging for her to allow him to escort her, and perhaps, for a moment alone to speak. 

“Ser Finan, that would be most kind,” Daenera accepted, feeling the weight of his unspoken plea. She then addressed the attentive Edelin. “Edelin, would you please see to cleaning up this mess? I wish to avoid any further embarrassment.”

“I am not to leave you alone, Princess,” Edelin responded, her voice tinged with hesitation. The conflict was evident in her eyes, a desire to comply with Daenera’s request despite it conflicting with prior instructions. She was kind, Daenera thought and she appreciated that, even as the girl was wary to comply–it was understandable, and showed that she was not too foolish in her kindness to be blind to the world around her. 

“She won’t be alone,” Finan quickly assured, giving Edelin a comforting smile. “I will ensure the Princess’s safe return to her chambers.”

Edelin paused, considering the situation for a moment before finally relenting. “Very well, see the princess back to her chambers,” she directed Finan with surprising authority. Then, turning her gaze to Daenera, she added, “I will join you shortly and bring some tea to ease your stomach.”

Daenera expressed her gratitude to Edelin and watched cautiously as she departed, presumably to fetch a bucket and cloth to cleanse the stone of the unpleasant evidence of her sickness. The acrid smell would linger, even after being cleaned up–a minor  inconvenience that time alone would erase. Beside her, Finan offered his arm, which she gratefully accepted, leaning on him for support as they moved through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. They passed through the main doors into the cool embrace of night. 

The sky was overcast, heavy clouds masking any sign of the stars or the moon, shrouding their path in darkness. The night air was crisp, biting gently at her clammy skin as they crossed the courtyard towards Maegor’s Holdfast. 

“How are you?” Finan asked, his voice low to ensure their conversation remained private. As they walked, the crunch of gravel and stone beneath their feet gave way to the solid, smooth surface of the steps leading to the Holdfast. 

Daenera’s expression tightened slightly, her brows furrowing as she moved up the steps, her hand clutching her skirts to avoid tripping over the heavy fabric. “Alive… if you can call this being alive.”

“It is more than what others can claim,” Finan replied, his tone equally solemn. He quickly caught the harshness of his words, adding hurriedly, “Forgive me, that was cruel of me to say.”

Daenera remained alive, yet it was a bitter mercy–if a mercy at all. She was not dead, but her existence hardly felt like a life at all. To her, it felt more a burden than a privilege at the moment. Being alive hurt, and she was so awfully tired.

“No, you’re right,” she said, her voice raw and constricted. As she swallowed, the scratchiness at the back of her throat mirrored the jab her emotions took at the reminder. “I am better off than my men…”

I am better off than my brother. A sharp pang of grief twisted her heart and she averted her gaze from Finan, attempting to shield herself as though the acknowledgement of it would be too much. She blinked rapidly, fighting to keep the surge of sorrow at bay–a sorrow that threatened to break free from its confinement, threatening to engulf her and pull her back to that sea of emptiness where she had been adrift, lost in another world. “What news of my men?”

They made their way along the sheltered path of the inner courtyard, where shadows cast by the columns deepened and stretched across the floor and the opposite walls. The feeble light from distant fires did little to dispel the encompassing darkness. Maegor’s Holdfast was wrapped in an eerie silence, devoid of any other souls–a peace that was both soothing and unsettling, though not unexpected given the ongoing festivities in the throne room. This solitude offered them a semblance of privacy, albeit one that still required vigilance. 

Finan stole a glance at her, his eyes nearly as dark as charcoal, framed by a brow furrowed with seriousness. “They survive. The boy is frightened and longs for home. And Fenrick worries for you.”

They ascended the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast, their path illuminated by flickering torches that cast long shadows against the ancient stones. Finan matched his pace with her’s, giving her the time she needed to move up the steps. Her body was weary, weakened by the turmoil of the evening, her stomach hollow and head light and throbbing with a persistent ache. Each step seemed to demand more of her than she felt capable of giving, yet she moved with determination. 

“He ought to spare his worries for himself,” Daenera muttered. “Will you be able to free them?”

If she could free her men from the clutches of the Hightowers, Daenera knew she could finally breathe easier. No longer would the lives of her men be held over her, a noose tightening around their necks with every defiant move she made. Yet, with each man she lost to their cruelty, the noose seemed to loosen, a bitter form of freedom–freedom through the absence of anyone left to threaten. She might be trapped, but perhaps there was a chance for them to find escape. 

As they continued their ascent, the harsh light from the torches cast eerie shadows on their path, Finan’s head shook slightly, his expression somber. “The guards are vigilant, especially after the escape of Princess Rhaenys. Even if it were possible to free them from their cells, sneaking them out of the Keep is another matter entirely. All exits are either locked tightly or kept under guard. There are too many eyes, too few allies.”

Daenera had assumed as much. The usurpation had ushered in a regime of fear and uncertainty, with anyone daring to oppose or resist bending the knee finding themselves imprisoned or worse. The Keep now thrummed with an undercurrent of uncertainty and distrust, as people concealed their true opinions and allegiances close to their chest, wary of crossing invisible lines and finding themselves at the end of a noose. 

“Perhaps you could use your influence–”

“I have no influence,” Daenera interrupted him sharply, her voice trembling with bitterness and indignation. “I am powerless. The friends that I had won’t go near me in fear that any association with me might brand them traitors.”

As they continued through the corridor, the flickering torches sputtering around them, Daenera’s mind turned to the faces of those she had once considered allies–friends, even. She recalled Trish Caswell’s averted gaze after her father had been hung, her eyes finding the floor or a sudden turn away whenever Daenera drew near–a clear sign of fear and caution she couldn’t blame her for. Lady Fell had suffered a harsher fate, thrown into the dungeons for her refusal to submit, alongside other defiant lords and ladies. Kaylys Merryweather had left the city to visit her mother, and Alan Beesbury had gone home to Honeyholt long before his grandsire’s death. 

“I have no friends left, no allies, no influence,” Daenera’s voice broke through the silence of the hallway, tinged with a profound sense of isolation. “Too many of my men have been hanged. I am utterly trapped and alone. I have nothing…”

She was acutely aware of the confines of her invisible cage–sensing the web of intrigue that coiled around her neck like a noose, poised to tighten with the slightest misstep. It was as if she were balanced precariously on a tightrope, hands bound behind her back, every movement fraught with danger. She had been reduced to nothing more than a pawn to be wielded cruelly against her own mother in their sinister game.

As they reached the solitude of her chambers, a bitter taste of anger and shame filled her mouth. With a voice sharp and laced with frustration, she confessed, “I can’t protect anyone, Finan. I don’t know how to free them.”

A profound sense of powerlessness settled over her, a pressing weight that made her footsteps falter as her remaining strength ebbed away. She staggered, barely a few steps from the doors of her chambers, her hand reaching out to the cold stone of the wall for stability. Slowly, her knees buckled, and she found herself sinking to the floor, the harsh reality of her circumstances once again pressing down on her with unforgiving weight. 

Seeming to sense her distress, Finan reacted swiftly. He slipped one arm supportively around her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her with a quiet display of strength that nonetheless betrayed the effort required. Her dress was heavy, the fabric adding to the burden of her weight, and she could sense the strain it imposed on him as they approached the doors. 

Using the hand supporting her knees, Finan deftly maneuvered the door open. The metallic head of the dragon adorned on her dress pressed uncomfortably into her lower abdomen, its snout poking against her upper thighs, creating a persistent discomfort–promising to leave a bruise. Clinging to him, Daenera’s fingers dug into the leather of his doublet, seeking stability in the warmth of his grasp as they crossed the threshold into the sanctuary of her chambers. 

They moved through the quiet expanse of her chambers to the hearth, where Finan gently lowered Daenera into a chair positioned before the crackling fire. The warmth radiated from the lively flames, seeping over the cold stone and gently warming her chilled skin. 

Daenera swallowed hard against the tightness constricting her throat, the sense of desolation and powerlessness wrapping tightly around her chest. As Finan knelt before her, his gray eyes were murky, reminiscent of the sky heavy with the promise of snowfall. He gazed at her with a depth of sympathy and something more–something that strained her already burdened heart with its intensity: faith.  

“You possess more power than you realize, Princess,” he said, his voice soft yet earnest. “I could offer a poetic analogy about nature’s resilience–how even in the midst of the fiercest storm, flowers may be battered but still stand, grow, and survive. But I suspect you might find such platitudes wearisome.”

A small, fragile smile crept onto her lips, breaking through the solemn atmosphere–a fleeting moment of lightheartedness. “It does grow rather tiresome to be compared to flowers…”

As he rose from his kneeling position before her, a smile briefly brightened his features. Finan hooked his thumbs into his belt, a gesture so reminiscent of Fenrick that it momentarily caught her off guard–and though they didn’t share a drop of blood, it was clear that Finan had taken after the man he considered a father figure. The smile faded into a solemn frown again. 

A pause filled the space between them as Daenera turned her gaze towards the hearth. The room was bathed in the warm, flickering light, illuminating the darkened space. When she spoke again, her voice was faint and weary. “Are there any news from Dragonstone?”

Finan shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze also drawn to the flames. He spoke gently, his voice a low lull, as if trying to soothe her worries before they could deepen. “Your mother has left Dragonstone. It is said that she is searching Shipbreaker Bay for your brother…”

Daenera gritted her teeth, struggling to swallow against the overwhelming surge of pain that threatened to wash over her. Aegon’s cruel taunts echoed hauntingly in her mind, battering against her resolve like rain lashing against a windowsill: ‘‘With each passing tide, the rumors swell that our dear half-sister has lost her senses and is searching the coast of Shipbreaker Bay for her bastard’s remains… It appears she hasn’t realized that she ought to be searching a pile of shit just beyond the city walls if she wants to bury her son, but I suppose what Vhagar didn’t consume, the sea claimed. A bastard in life, Velaryon in death.’ 

Was there truly anything left for her mother to find, or would she be searching the sea for the rest of her life? The thought pierced her heart anew.

Her hand rose to her lips, fingers brushing lightly over the delicate, chapped skin, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to escape as tears blurred her vision. Daenera struggled to steady herself against the overwhelming tide of grief and fear that tightened around her heart. The image of her mother, alone and heartbroken, searching the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay for any trace of her son, was almost too much to bear. “She shouldn’t have gone alone–she shouldn’t be alone…”

The chilling cascade of ‘what ifs’ flooded Daenera’s mind, each more harrowing than the last. What if the Hightowers had dispatched men to hunt her mother down? What if an arrow found its mark? What if an ambush awaited her at every turn? The most terrifying possibility of all crept into her thoughts: what if they’ll send Aemond after her?

Each thought tore her heart further, rekindling the embers of fear and anxiety that she struggled to contain. 

Her mother, now a queen fighting to reclaim her throne, had to recognize the gravity of the risks she had taken by going to Shipbreaker Bay alone. Without her, the losses would extend far beyond the throne itself; the greens would not hesitate to annihilate her siblings, erase their names from history, and in doing so, destroy House Targaryen from within. Moreover, her mother was with child, making her safety and well-being paramount–not only for her own sake but for the unborn childs. She’d have to consider Jace and Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys. 

“If she’s anything like you, I wouldn’t fear for her,” Finan reassured her, his voice steady as he turned his eyes from the flames and back to her. “No man can withstand a mother’s rage, especially not one who commands a dragon. Anyone foolish enough to challenge her would quickly be reduced to nothing more than ash.”

Daenera’s hand dropped from her lips as her eyes met Finan’s. A flicker of hope ignited within her at his words–her mother was a force to be reckoned with, that much she had always known. If they dared send men after her, she would surely turn them to ash before they could even notch an arrow. And should they send Aemond after her…

“You may think you have no power here,” Finan continued, his eyes reflecting the intensity of the fire before them, flames casting a dramatic light that seemed to lick against one side of his head. “But you are Daenera Velaryon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. Your name and blood speaks for itself.” He paused, taking a breath as if to gather his thoughts, brows furrowing slightly before adding, “You are held in high esteem both by the smallfolk and the nobility, and the Hightowers are aware of this. Your refusal to bow to them—that alone takes strength, far more than many can claim for themselves. They would be fools not to fear you–they do fear you, and rightly so.” 

A thoughtful frown settled on her face as she turned her gaze from Finan and to the flames. The wood in the hearth popped and sputtered, glowing white-hot with orange tongues lapping voraciously at the air, consuming everything in their path. Within her, something stirred–resignation and acceptance seemed to twist and turn, growing teeth in the process, a latent ferocity that had always lurked beneath the surface. They had cornered her, confined her to a place from which escape seemed impossible, leaving her few options. Like a mistreated animal driven to desperation, she understood the dangerous lengths which such creatures would go to secure their freedom, even if it meant gnawing off its own limb to escape the trap. 

They intended to use her as their pawn–and a pawn she would be. Daenera resolved to play her part in their game, biding her time with calculated patience. Once freed from the leverage they held over her–the lives of those she cared for–she would become a thorn in their side, she would make them suffer as they had made her suffer. Even a caged animal had its claws. 

A twist of ruthlessness unfurled within her, coiling like a serpent ready to strike, as an inking of a plan began to form at the periphery of her mind. Daenera’s gaze remained on the flames as they devoured the wood, fierce and unyielding. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Finan turning to leave, perhaps interpreting her silence as an end to their discussion. Finding her voice, she spoke in a low, measured tone. “Can you arrange to be assigned as one of my guards? I am in desperate need of someone close whom I can trust.”

Finan paused and turned back towards her, his expression lighting up with a gleam of satisfaction–bordering on smugness. The corner’s of his lips curled slightly. “I can and will, Princess.”

Daenera adjusted her posture in the seat, straightening up as a renewed sense of purpose filled her. “I need you to reach out to Joyce’s informants,” she instructed, her voice carrying a quiet authority. “I’m certain she shared some of their names with you. We need to ascertain who still remains loyal to me. But tread carefully,” she added, her eyes narrowing slightly with the gravity of her words. “There are eyes and ears everywhere–spiders, worms, fireflies… Your safety is paramount. Do not expose yourself unnecessarily.”

Finan acknowledged her directive with a simple, resolute nod, straightening his own stance in a  subtle mirroring of her determination. “And what shall we do about Fenrick, Eddin, and the boy?”

Daenera absently picked at the dry, chapped skin of her bottom lip, lost in thought. “The Hightowers are unlikely to release them.”

“Fenrick–” Finan started to say, but quickly stifled himself, stopping short of speaking out of turn. In that moment, it became apparent why he had come to her side this night; he wished to free Fenrick from the dungeons. “We must get them out.”

“Concern yourself with getting assigned to my detail and making contact with the informants,” Daenera instructed with a measured calm. “And there’s a girl in the kitchens–Cerys. Ensure her safety and well-being. Inform her that she must not take any action without my explicit command; reckless moves could doom us all…”

A look if inquiry flickered across Finan’s features, though he held back from voicing his questions. Nevertheless, Daenera responded, “It’s not my story to share, but understand this–it’s not easy for her to watch her tormenter ascend the throne. I need her to know that my life could very well be in her hands. If she acts impulsively to spill blood, she risks spilling mine as well.”

Finan regarded Daenera with a solemn expression, offering another cut nod. He refrained from pressing her for more details or demanding explanations, a restraint for which she was grateful. The intricacies of Cerys’s past and her incident with Aegon was hers to disclose, should she choose to share them with him. For now, Finan was left to his assumptions. 

“Your dagger,” Daenera said, her gaze finally shifting away from the flames. “I would have it.”

At her request, Finan’s initial reaction was one of hesitation. His hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his hip, a protective gesture born of reflex. His gray eyes searched her face, seeking an understanding of her intentions and perhaps gauging the gravity of the situation that would warrant such a request. 

“It would provide me a small sense of assurance that should the need arise for me to defend myself, I would have it.”

Finan responded with a firm tone, “I cannot give you my issued dagger.”

However, his hand moved past the weapon at his hip to a smaller blade discreetly concealed within his boot. With a skilled motion, he drew the hidden blade, its steel catching the light from the flames and gleaming with a cruel sharpness. He then expertly turned it around, extending the handle towards her. The dagger was slender and designed for precision, ideal for piercing rather than slashing. 

As Daenera’s hand wrapped around the hilt, a modicum of comfort washed over her. “Thank you, Finan.”

“I trust you know how to use it?” Finan asked, taking a step back to give her space, his expression a mix of solemnity and curiosity. Behind his gaze, Daenera sensed a flicker of concern–perhaps fear that she might use it on herself.

“I know how to use it,” Daenera responded firmly, leaving no room for doubt. She then nodded towards the door, a silent signal for him to leave. Finan acknowledged her gesture with a respectful bow of his head before turning on his heels and exiting through the doors. The doors closed softly behind him, sealing her within the solitude of her chamber. 

Clutching the blade firmly, Daenera rose from her chair and moved toward the hearth, drawn irresistibly closer to the flames. As she knelt down, the skirts of her dress spread out around her, pooling like a puddle of blood on the cold stone floor. The warmth of the flames caressed her skin, almost an embrace. The fire’s glow was brightest near the wood it devoured, white-hot and all-consuming. 

What brought her here, she couldn’t say; it seemed almost instinctual. This feeling was inherent, both familiar and dangerous, wrapping around her like the heat radiating from the earth. 

It was as if the flames echoed the same ancient song that coursed through her veins–a visceral melody of destruction and devouring, of death and rebirth, of fire and blood.

Daenera lifted her hand, her gaze falling to the array of wounds that marred her palm. Some of the deeper gashes were held together by a few precise stitches, while others were healing naturally. Amidst this intricate web of healing wounds, one stood out–a long-healed cut that traversed half of her palm, a permanent reminder etched into her skin. 

Love, it seemed, was either a shrine for worship or a lasting scar. For Daenera, it was more akin to a bleeding wound–still fresh, unhealed, and raw, inflicted by the sharp blade of his love.

Daenera carefully positioned the point of the blade against the curve of one of her stitched wounds, its sharp edge slicing through the tread with ease. As she removed the stitch, the wound parted slightly, revealing a fresh vulnerability. She then pressed the blade deeper into the opening, parting the flesh anew. Blood welled up at the incision, the sting of the blade making her teeth clench. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she watched as the blood began to flow, tracing a crimson line to the center of her palm where it pooled ominously. 

The pain, though sharp and unwelcome, had become an almost familiar companion. How many ties had her blood been spilled? How many scars marked her body? How much had she endured? 

Echoes of the tumultuous events following Viserys’s death reverberated through her mind–the usurpation of her mother’s rightful throne, her own imprisonment, the haunting image of Joyce’s body swaying alongside Lord Caswells, being forced to bow before the usurper, the vigil she kept over her men whose lives ended at their orders. She could almost sense their presence, specters standing among the shadows, silent and judging, aligned shoulder to shoulder with the other ghosts haunting the Red Keep. The firelight flickered, catching a glimpse of dark brown curls and blue eyes flecked with hazel–features set in a face she would never see again. The memory twisted inside her like a cruel blade, each flicker of the flame reflecting a moment lost, a face forever gone, stirring a deep and relentless ache within her heart. 

They had killed her brother, mocking him even in death, dismissing him as a bastard as if his life held no value–as though he didn’t come from the womb of Rhaenyra Targaryen and had her blood flowing through his veins, as though Laenor Velaryon hadn’t claimed him as his own, as though he wasn’t a dragonrider, as though he deserved his cruel fate. Her brother, who was nothing but good and brave and kind, had been cruelly ripped from this world.

And it had been by the man that she loved. 

The boy with the stars in his eyes. 

Tears burned Daenera’s eyes as she felt the familiar tearing of her heart—a raw and relentless pain. Within her, a fierce wrath burned, fueling a desperate desire for retribution–vengeance–against those who had caused her such loss and suffering. She blamed them all, each one who played a part in her brother’s demise and her torment. 

Daenera murmured a curse under her breath, her voice low and resonant against the hymn of the flames–her blood seemed to sing along with it’s own evensong. “I curse you, Larys Strong. May your deceitful nature lead to your downfall–may you meet the sword’s edge, and may the earth upon where your body lies barren. May the wolves feast upon your flesh and may you be forever remembered only for the worst of your actions.”

She extended her hand over the flames, allowing the heat of their flickering tongues to sear her skin–intense yet not enough to burn her flesh. And then, after a moment, she tilted her palm, causing the pool of blood that gathered at its center to cascade over and dripple down into the fire. The droplets sizzled as they struck the hot wood, sending up a scent of smoke and ash and burning blood that clung to the air and filled her nostrils. 

With bitterness edging her voice, Daenera continued her dark litany of curses. “I curse you, Ser Criston Cole,” she declared, her hand curling into a fist above the flames. She allowed more droplets of blood to fall into the fire below. May you meet your end as you have lived, without honor. No songs shall be sung to commend your name, for you will be remembered only as the disgrace you truly are–a man who has sullied his white cloak with blood, whose vows mean nothing, a man bereft of any decency.”

Pressing her fingertips into the reopened wound, Daenera barely felt the sting, distant against the heat that licked at her skin from the flames below. The pressure coaxed more blood forth, dripping steadily into the fire.  “I curse you, Otto Hightower. “May your ambition lead your house to ruin, and may you be stripped of the power you so desperately seek, and may you face the executioner’s block as the traitor you are.”

The shadows around her seemed to writhe and swirl, deepening as if alive, responding to the dark timbre of her curses–her heart beat discordantly within her chest, a strange litany that filled her with a sense of power. Her hand trembled slightly as she stretched it out above the flames, then curled it in on itself again, squeezing more blood from the wound.

“I curse you, Aegon Targaryen, second of your name,” she intoned, her voice solemn. “May history remember you as the usurper. May you know the fear and humiliation you seek to instill in others. May your existence be besieged by pain and torment–may you endure suffering at every waking moment.”

Her words emerged deliberate and somber, a dark incantation reflecting back the agony he inflicted, their resonance hanging in the air as densely as the smoke curling from the fire. The firewood crackled and popped lousy, sending up a gust of embers  as the structure of wood collapsed inward. A muffled noise momentarily drew her attention away from the flames, her eyes searching the dimly lit room. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end, giving her an eerie sensation of being watched by countless eyes, though the room held only shadows. She was alone, accompanied solely by the flickering light and her own echoing curses. Finding only silence, she quickly dismissed the disturbance, refocusing her gaze on the fire. 

“I curse you, Alicent Hightower,” Daenera continued. “May the weight of your decisions forever burden you, leaving you unable to flee the consequences of your own ambition. May your heart swell with regret as you come to understand the depths of the pain you have inflicted. May you lose all that you love, and may you endure the agony you have inflicted upon my mother.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, tracing lines to the corners of her mouth where they mingled with the salty taste of her anguish–a bitter flavor of heartache, grief, and wrath. Each tear seemed to carve deeper into her soul, as the words lodged in her throat seemed to slice her heart open. With a voice quivering with emotion, she spoke her curse into the flames, a dark wish mingled with the blood that dripped from her palm, sealing her bitter hopes for his fate.

“I curse you, Aemond Targaryen. May you get a taste of that which you desire and may it turn to ash in your mouth–may it be forever beyond your grasp. May you know the sting of betrayal, and may you lose that which you have taken from me…” Her heart ached painfully within her chest as tears continued to stream down her face. “May you suffer as you’ve made my mother suffer.”

Blood dripped from her clenched fist, falling into the eager flames, sealing her curse. For a moment, Daenera held her hand suspended above the fire, indifferent to the heat that licked close to her skin, the flames that hungered for more than just the wood they consumed. She stared intently into the fire, feeling her heart beat a discordant rhythm within her chest–an ancient, chaotic hymn that felt beyond her understanding. 

The world seemed to pause, caught between light and shadow, in a quiet so profound it felt like a breath held. Her voice broke the silence, a careful lilt of finality, “With fire and blood, I curse you all.”

Then, slowly, she withdrew her hand, uncurling her fingers to reveal the blood-smeared skin of her palm and the gaping wound from which it came. The act, though simple, felt immensely significant, if only to her. 

Daenera rose, stepping back from the warmth of the hearth. As she moved away, she immediately felt the retained heat radiating from her skin, sharply contrasted by the cold air that lashed against her. She walked over to the table behind the settee, bending down to tuck the dagger into a previously unused hiding spot. The dagger couldn’t just be hidden anywhere lest the servants find it. 

A wave of sheepishness washed over her as her gaze drifted back to the flames for a moment. It felt almost childish to believe she possessed the power to truly curse anyone–childish to think that speaking words into the fire and feeding it blood could actually wield any effect. And yet, she had done it, if only to soothe herself with the thought that one day, they’d face the consequences and come to understand the pain they have wrought. But she couldn’t rely on mere curses; if she truly wanted retribution, she would need to seek it for them. It would require time, planning, and sacrifices. 

As Daenera secured the dagger beneath the settee, the doors behind her swung open, revealing a slightly disheveled Edelin, whose cheeks were flushed red. Their eyes briefly met before Edelin’s gaze dropped to Daenera’s hand, noticing the blood dripping from her fingertips onto the floor. 

“Princess!” Edelin exclaimed, stepping quickly into the room. She set down the tray on the side table, which held a plate of dry crackers, some bread, and a steaming mug of tea, then swiftly grasped Daenera’s hand to inspect it closely. “What happened? Was it the man? Did he do this to you?”

“No,” Daenera reassured, gently extricating her hand from Edelin’s soft grasp. “Ser Finan was quite helpful. He carried me here after I stumbled on my skirts while ascending the steps. The fall simply reopened the wound.”

Edelin gave no indication of doubt; if she harbored any, she kept it to herself. Instead, she took a deep breath, brushing a stray strand of red hair from her face with a sense of urgency. “We should clean and bandage this.”

Picking up the tray once more, Edelin carried it across the room, setting it down on a table and gesturing for Daenera to sit, then quickly turned and disappeared into an adjacent room. Daenera obeyed, seating herself at the table, raising a hand to rub against the ache that prickled at her temples. Moments later, she returned with a small chest, setting it on the table. 

As weariness began to claw at her once more, Daenera felt it nibbling at the edges of her consciousness, her eyes heavy and scratchy. The ache in her body returned gradually, accompanied by a creeping chill. 

Earlier, when she had donned her dress and walked down the aisle of the throne room to face her captors, she hardly felt the ache. Her spine had been straight as a sword, her heart aflame with hatred, and the fire within her seemed to dispel all sensation of pain. It had burned away the aches in her muscles and the creaking in her joints, masking the weariness that now overwhelmed her, leaving her dizzy and exhausted. 

Edelin meticulously cleaned the blood from the wound, and Daenera barely felt the sting of the water as her eyelids grew heavy with the struggle to remain awake and in her body. As her gaze drifted from her hand to the young woman tending to her, Daenera observed the freckles scattered across Edelin’s button nose and the youthful plumpness still evident in her rounded cheeks. She seemed about Daenera’s age, though at the moment, appeared younger. 

“We should have the Maester look at this,” Edelin commented, her voice laced with concern as she dabbed at the blood that continued to well from the cut. “It is deep and needs stitches.”

Daenera traced her fingers along her forehead, feeling the onset of a headache beginning to throb within. “I do not want to disturb the Maesters at this hour. They’d insist on milk-of-the-poppy, and I do not want it.”

“But it will help with the pain.”

“The pain I can endure,” Daenera responded firmly, pinching the bridge of her nose to starve off the encroaching headache. She left the sentence hanging without further explanation, though her distrust of the Maesters was implied. The Maesters at the Red Keep were, first and foremost, loyal to the Hightowers, bound to do their bidding. She did not trust them, acutely aware of how simple it would be for them to administer poison under the guise of medicine–the line between medicine and poison was perilously thin, dictated only by dosage and deception. 

Daenera offered a slight, reassuring smile. “You can do it.”

“Me?” Edelin’s face paled, her eyes widening with uncertainty as they flickered between Daenera’s bleeding hand and her face. At least she wasn’t squeamish, Daenera thought, if she was, she’d have fainted long ago.

“Yes, you. You know how to make a stitch; it’s much the same.”

“It’s not much the same at all! It’s flesh and–and it will hurt.”

“It will, but I trust you to do it gently,” Daenera answered. “It will hurt far worse if you don’t stitch the wound and it festers. I might even lose a hand…”

Edelin narrowed her eyes, a look of exasperation crossing her face. Nonetheless, she picked up the needle and thread, cutting a suitable length before expertly threading it through the needle’s eye. With hands that betrayed a slight tremor, Edelin took hold of Daenera’s outstretched hand. The needle hovered uncertainly over the tender flesh. She looked up at Daenera, her eyes flickering through her eyelashes, seeking affirmation to continue.

Daenera gave a nod, gently guiding Edelin’s efforts, instructing her on how to position her hand and where to insert the needle. The sharp point hesitated at first as it touched the tender skin, then decisively pushed through to the other side. The needle emerged through the parted flesh, drawing the edges of the wound together as Edelin pulled the thread through.

The sharp bite of the needle made her grit her teeth. Edelin, following Daenera’s guidance, pushed the needle through the opposite side of the wound, threading it carefully and tying off the ends with a simple knot. She then snipped away the excess threat. The stitching wasn’t as precise as the work Daenera might have done herself, but it was competent and held the wound closed effectively. 

Daenera brought the tea to her lips, savoring the calming blend of chamomile with milk and honey, yet her voice was hoarse with fatigue as she asked, “What happened to your cheek?” 

Edelin’s face flushed, her hand instinctively rising to touch the tender, reddened skin of her swollen cheek. “Lady Mertha wasn’t pleased with your presence at the feast. And she was even less pleased that I wasn’t with you…”

A twist of pity coursed through Daenera as she softly said, “I’m sorry.”

Edelin looked up, her expression settling into a frown that creased her brow. She continued to wrap Daenera’s hand with bandages, securing the dressing with a knot similar to the one used for the stitches.

“Don’t be,” Edelin replied, standing up and beginning to tidy away the medical supplies. “It wasn’t right to keep things like that from you…”

Silence enveloped them as Edelin assisted Daenera in removing her dress, the heavy fabric slipping from her form like a layer of armor. It felt almost surreal, as if the fabric itself had been what held her together, as though it was made of something more solid and impenetrable–fabric made steel. The dress pooled around her feet like a spill of blood, the metal dragon ornament on the bodice clattering against the stone floor, then scraping slightly as Edelin carefully lifted the garment. 

With each layer removed–first the dress, then the crimson underdress and then finally the chemise beneath–it felt as though Daenera was shedding more than just clothing. And yet, despite getting lighter, her body felt heavier and heavier with each removal. A chill seeped into her bones, gooseflesh dotting her skin and prickling at the nape of her neck. The light blue nightgown she donned offered little in the way of warmth. Swiftly, Edelin wrapped her in a silk robe and guided her to the dressing table, the movements methodical and protective. 

The intricate process of styling Daenera’s hair, brading it into a crown and weaving a ruby hairnet through it, was just as laborious to undo at the day’s end. As Daenera wiped her face with a damp cloth, removing the minimal powder and lip color she had worn, Edelin carefully removed the hairnet. One by one, the pins were taken out, and the braids loosened. Daenera watched her reflection wearily in the mirror, her gaze distant, barely recognizing herself. Her dark curls, finally released from their confines, cascaded over her shoulders, prompting her to emerge slowly from her reverie. 

Edelin then assisted Daenera to bed, tucking her in with a tenderness that evoked the care usually reserved for a child. “Sleep well, Princess.”

“Wait,” Daenera called out, halting Edelin’s departure. “Would you… would you lay beside me?”

Edelin paused at the threshold, her red eyebrows lifting in surprise, her eyes widening slightly as she contemplated the request. It was an unexpected childlike plea, and Daenera felt a rush of embarrassment warming her chest. 

Without uttering a word, Edelin returned to the bedroom, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet room, accompanied only by the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth. She sat down on the bed, carefully removed her shoes, and then lay down beside Daenera, bringing an unspoken comfort to the dimly lit room.

“You are kind,” Daenera murmured, lying on her back and gazing up at the canopy where a carved dragon chased dragonflies and birds in a perpetual dance. “Kindness is a rarity.”

“I try to be,” Edelin responded softly, her voice carrying the honest tone of children whispering secrets under the covers in the dark of night. “I try to keep my head down; it’s easier, I think. But I am not as stupid as Mertha would claim. I see things, hear them too, and I know when to pick my battles…”

“And yet, you are kind, even when you don’t have to be, even if it might put you at the hands of those who are cruel.”

Edelin shifted slightly, turning her head to meet Daenera’s gaze directly, and Daenera did the same. “Perhaps it is because I like you… You are kind too, even if your kindness is sometimes an act of deception.”

A tightness lodged in Daenera’s throat as she averted her gaze back to the canopy. A wave of shame suddenly enveloped her, burning beneath her skin. “I don’t have anyone I can trust.”

“I know.”

“But,” Daenera continued, turning her gaze back to Edelin, her eyes searching, “I do consider you a friend…”

Edelin’s face tightened, and she suddenly confessed, her eyebrows drawing together in a furrow of concern. “I report to Prince Aemond.” Her eyes held Daenera’s, filled with a plea for understanding. “He wishes to be kept informed of your health and well-being, and has ordered me to report to him. Mertha keeps the Queen Mother informed, and the guards report to the Lord Confessor.”

Daenera wasn’t exactly surprised to learn that Mertha was a pawn of Alicent, nor was it shocking that Larys had his spies within her staff too. Yet, hearing it confirmed aloud still seized her with a visceral tightness. She felt the bars of her invisible cage draw tighter, the intricate web woven by the Greens constricting around her neck. She blinked rapidly, struggling to suppress the tears threatening to betray her emotions.

“I wish to consider you a friend too,” Edelin continued, her voice carrying a gentle sincerity. “I do not have many of those, but I wanted you to be aware of my obligations. I do not wish to deceive you, and I thought it right that you should know. The prince… he cares for you. Deeply.”

Daenera turned her gaze away, the weight of Edelin’s words pressing down on her.

“Mertha insisted on having you removed from your chambers,” Edelin continued, her voice trembling slightly. “When you refused to eat or drink, she wanted to force it… but the prince stopped her. He told me that we should let you mourn in whatever way you needed, to leave you be until you were ready to rise. He was confident that you would… He was greatly concerned about you.”

Edelin’s words lingered in the air, resonating with sincerity that filled the silence of the room. The words twisted inside of her like a cruel blade, invoking a tightness in her chest and a tremor of grief in her heart that she detested. 

“I understand,” Daenera finally managed to say, her voice steadying as she turned back to face Edelin. “Thank you for telling me. I understand the position you are in–I realize you must keep him informed… However, I would ask you to consider the information you share with him. Not always, but at times, discretion would be appreciated…”

“Of course,” Edelin responded, her agreement quick and earnest.

“Thank you, Edelin.”

Alicent sat silently before the hearth, her fingers deftly pushing the needle through the fabric as she added another stitch to the shirt. She had begun mending her husband’s shirts shortly after their marriage–a task he had once praised, claiming he favored the way she repaired his garments above anyone else’s. She had smiled and thanked him then, and from then on, had tended to every single shirt.

This act had evolved into a routine, another quiet way of caring for her husband, even as his appreciation waned, replaced by an indifferent expectation. This ritual had crystallized into habit, and habits, she knew all too well, were seldom acknowledged or thanked, and yet, she continued to do them. 

On the fourth night following his death, Alicent found herself mending his shirts when it dawned on her with sudden clarity, and the sudden weight of desolation had settled on her. There was no longer a husband for whom to mend shirts; the expectation, like his presence, had vanished. She was a wife without a husband, a queen without her king.

How strange it was, to no longer bear such titles. It had been all she was for so long–it had shaped her existence for longer than the years she had lived without those titles. How much she had sacrificed and suffered for them, only to lose them with her husband. 

The freedom that came with shedding her previous titles felt less like liberation and more like the burden of finding a new role to fulfill. Alicent had diligently preformed her duties as wife and queen, but now, in the absence of carrying such titles, she found herself assuming another set of responsibilities–that of the widow and Queen Mother. These new titles and the expectations accompanying them were chafed at her. Yet, despite the discomfort, she continued to carry them with the poise that was expected. 

A part of her missed her husband. Over the years, she had found purpose in caring for him, attending his needs as a wife does, overseeing his well-being. This had become second nature to her. It wasn’t the love she had envisioned in her childhood fantasies, nor was it the love she had once envied in others, but it was something–companionship, a sense of duty. 

Now, with her husband gone, Alicent had taken up the task of the mending of her son’s shirts. 

The needle slid smoothly through the white fabric, and the gentle hiss of the thread pulling through was a strangely comforting sound in the quiet of the room. The fire cracked softly in the hearth, radiating warmth into her chambers–chambers that would soon become her daughters. Alicent rested her bare feet on the footrest, drawing warmth from the fire’s glow. 

She had departed the feast earlier that evening. Her exit was timed carefully–not so early as to openly display her displeasure, yet not a moment longer than necessary. 

The feast was an affair of excess, which Alicent found wholly inappropriate. She had voiced her objections clearly, both when Aegon had first proposed it and then again when it was brought up during a council meeting. The death of Prince Lucerys was a grave enough matter; to celebrate it was to compound the tragedy with insult. Aegon, however, insisted on the feast, deaf to her protests, and Aemond had not opposed his brother. Both her sons disregarded her warnings, failing to recognize the folly in the demise of a prince–bastard or not, and their nephew no less. Such actions, Alicent feared, would only invite trouble and scorn. 

Alicent was certain that once news of the feast reached Dragonstone, Daemon would mount his dragon, fly to King’s Landing, and unleash fiery vengeance upon them all. There was also a part of her, a deeply unsettled part, that dreaded how Rhaenyra would react upon learning that her son’s death was being celebrated so brazenly. 

She had harbored the hopes of avoiding a war and bloodshed, clinging to the belief that there was a path through this that did not end in death. The letters she had sent to Rhaenyra expressed as much, though there had been no word in return. 

A seed of anger still grew within her. She had explicitly warned her son not to undertake any action that would invite scorn–to refrain from drawing first blood and ignite this war. 

Alicent held her son responsible for the grave turn of events. There had been a chance–a chance to avoid a war, a chance for peace without bloodshed. Yet, he had extinguished that possibility when he killed Lucerys Velaryon in an act of vengeance. Any hope for surrender and peace had sunk to the ocean depths along with the boy her son had slain. 

Her condemnation extended beyond the mere act of vengeance; it was what it wrought upon her son that distressed her most deeply. He had become a kinslayer, a man cursed by the gods. 

Amidst her reflections, a troubling thought nagged at her–was she, in some way, to blame for his actions? This question lingered in her mind, adding a layer of personal torment to the already heavy burden of her son’s deeds. 

For years, Aemond had been the son she could trust, the dependable one that she could rely on. While her eldest had shrugged his duties, succumbing to his own indulgences and vices, her second son had strived to uphold his responsibilities, bearing them with determination and integrity. He had always listened to her guidance–until now, until her.

The needle pierced through the fabric and unexpectedly pricked the soft pad of her finger, the sharp sting pulling Alicent from her thoughts. She glanced down at the small droplet of blood that had formed and drew her finger to her lips. The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth for a moment. 

A knock at the door cut through the silence. She looked up at Lady Talya, who met her gaze and then nodded in understanding. She rose from her seat, carefully setting aside the dress she had been mending. Talya’s footsteps were soft as she crossed the room to answer the door. 

Alicent could hear the door open, followed by low murmurs. 

Returning to the room, Talay stood at the steps, smoothing her hands down her dress. “The Lord Confessor is here to see you.”

“At this hour?” Alicent responded, her tone tinged with surprise. She straightened up, withdrawing her feet from the footrest, and then slipped them into her slippers, letting her nightgown and robe fall over them neatly. 

The rhythmic tapping of a cane echoed through the room, each click sending a spike of apprehension through Alicent as she rose from her seat. Lord Larys Strong entered, pausing beside Lady Talya, leaning heavily on his cane. He offered Alicent an apologetic smile. 

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I bring news from the feast.”

“What is so important that it cannot wait till morning?” Alicent asked, setting aside the shirt she had been mending and crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious of her attire. She was clad in a long, silken nightgown with a thick robe of silk and green velvet wrapped snugly around her–and yet, it seemed not enough beneath his gaze. 

Despite not having been invited to proceed further, Lord Larys advanced towards her, ignoring the customs and the discomfort of Lady Talya, who shifted uneasily at the edge of the steps. 

“I thought you might wish to be informed of what has transpired at the feast in your absence,” he explained, his tone suggesting the urgency and significance of his news without revealing what he might bring. The tap of his cane against the stone floor punctuated his approach, drawing him down the steps into Alicent’s sitting room. While his demeanor remained friendly and unassuming, there lurked an undercurrent of something more calculating, a subtle assertion of dominance that filled Alicent’s stomach with dread.

Larys settled himself into the chair that Lady Talya had just vacated, his cold gray eyes meeting Alicent’s with an expression that was unassuming yet expectant. Reluctantly, Alicent looked up at Talya and gave a subtle nod, signaling her dismissal. Talya, her loyal lady-in-waiting, curtseyed gracefully before departing, effectively closing the doors behind her. The act seemed to seal Alicent within her chambers, leaving her in the company of a man, who despite his unassuming exterior, held a sickening twist of cruelty to him. 

“Let it be quick, my lord. I wish to retire to bed,” Alicent stated, resettling herself in her chair with a visible hint of irritation flickering beneath her composure. 

“Do you recall, years ago, when you first took to wearing green?” Larys began, his voice smooth, tinged with an amusement that seemed to taunt her. He always kept the true purpose of his visits hidden, only to be revealed once he had played his game. His manner was polished, akin to the deceptive smoothness of a well-honed blade. It always left her dirty. 

“I remember it vividly–the entrance you made during the king’s speech, and the immediate silence that followed. It was then I knew I had made the right choice in serving you–”

“Where are you going with this?” Alicent interjected, her voice sharp with impatience, too wearied for such games at this late hour. 

Larys offered a cold smile in response. “It is said history has a habit of repeating itself. Tonight, it appears, such repetition has indeed taken place. The Princess decided to attend the feast.”

For a moment, Alicent could only stare at him, perplexed, her heart pounding tumultuous before sinking into the pit of her stomach. Her brows furrowed in a frown, her head shaking slightly in disbelief. “The princess hasn’t been well these past few days. She has scarcely moved, or so I’ve been told…”

“It seems she found the strength,” Larys remarked casually, his fingers rhythmically tapping against his cane. “The princess was quite a sight to behold, clad in a dress as red as blood, adorned with a dragon on the bodice. She made quite a spectacle of her presence, refusing to bow to the king.”

Alicent turned away with visible irritation, her gaze settling on the flickering flames of the hearth. She absentmindedly lifted her hand to trace her finger over her lower lip as she contemplated the news, muttering under her breath, “Insolent girl.”

The dress, Alicent knew, was more than mere attire–it was a statement, a bold declaration for her mother as much as it was a direct indictment against their own actions. It was a declaration of war. 

Honoring Aemond with a feast for the death of Lucerys Velaryon was contentious enough, but for the sister to attend such a celebration would be seen as exceptionally cruel. Yet, that very implication was why Daenera had chosen to appear. She knew how the realm would be likely to perceive her forced attendance at such a celebration as not just cruel but a calculated indignity. 

Daenera had manipulated her grief into a public spectacle, wielding it as a weapon against those who orchestrated the event. In doing so, she wasn’t just mourning her brother; she was condemning those who celebrated his death. 

“It is not all,” Larys interjected, recapturing her attention with his deliberate tone. “The king held a speech to commemorate his brother for his victory…”

The implication of Larys’s words hung heavily in the air between them. Alicent closed her eyes, a gesture of resignation as she rubbed her brow. She didn’t need Larys to elaborate on the details; she could well imagine them herself. Yet, he continued, and despite her expectations, the actual recounting of her son’s actions shocked her with its cruelty. Aegon had always possessed a certain callousness, a trait she had longed hoped he would outgrow. 

Another knock at the door broke the tension-filled silence, followed by the creaking sound of a door swinging open. A low, urgent voice called out, “Your Grace?”

“You may enter,” Alicent responded, straightening herself in her chair. After all, hadn’t her chambers turned into an audience already? 

Lady Mertha appeared at the doorway, descending the steps into the sitting area with measured steps. She moved to stand by the hearth, casting a brief, wary glance at Larys before her eyes settled on Alicent. And with a respectful curtsy, she spoke, “I beg your forgiveness for intruding. I have urgent matters with you that cannot wait until morning.”

Alicent, her tone sharp with reproach, responded, “I’ve just been informed of the princess’s decision to attend the feast…” She paused, her gaze fixed sternly on Lady Mertha. “Were you not tasked with ensuring that she did not leave her chambers unbidden, let alone make a spectacle of herself?”

Alicent stared at the older woman, her eyes sharp and discerning, as a flicker of annoyance twisted within her chest. This woman had been entrusted with the responsibility of keeping the princess compliant, tasked with keeping a vigilant eye on her to prevent precisely the kind of spectacle that had occurred. Did no one heed her any longer? 

Lady Mertha had been part of Alicent’s staff ever since she’d moved from Oldtown to King’s Landing, when her father had assumed the role of the Hand of the King. For years, she had served her well and without complaint, a respectable woman who had always demonstrated faithfulness to the gods, to House Hightower, and to her duties. Alicent’s expectations had been clear, and the breach was not taken lightly. 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mertha responded, her hands folded in front of her. Her posture did not suggest cowering; rather, she bore the weight of Aliceent’s reproach with firm shoulders. “I left the princess in Lady Edelin’s care. She hasn’t moved in days, doing nothing but staring into the flames. She has scarcely taken food or drink, accepting it only when offered directly by the Queen herself. I did not expect that she would choose to leave her chambers, much less attend the feast–”

“But she did,” Alicent interjected sharply. “And she made a spectacle of it.”

“I will see to it that the girl is reprimanded for her lapse,” Mertha responded, her gaze briefly flickering towards Larys before settling back on Alicent. She shifted uncomfortably, an air of urgency and discomfort stiffening her movements. “But… that is not why I have come, Your Grace. I would prefer to speak alone if you would allow it.”

Alicent drew in a deep breath, the onset of a headache beginning to throb at her temples. She glanced towards Larys, intending to dismiss him with a silent look. However, Larys met her gaze with an expectant, almost challenging expression and made no move to leave. Instead, he shifted his attention back to Mertha, who remained standing, effectively ignoring Alicent’s unspoken command to leave. Feeling the invisible strings of influence Larys seemed to have tied around her tighten, Alicent’s irritation churned in her stomach. She gritted her teeth in exasperation, exhaling sharply before turning her full attention back to Mertha. 

“The Lord Confessor has my confidence,” Alicent stated, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. Although she didn’t look at him, she could sense Larys’s satisfaction radiating across the room, palpable through the web of control he had woven around her. She supposed that his presence, though oppressive, was perhaps a lesser evil compared to other demands he might impose.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mertha responded in deference. “Not long after the princess had excused herself from the feast, I too took my leave. I had intended to look in on her when I encountered a most unsettling scene…” Her voice trailed off, tinged with hesitation, and her expression twisted into a deep, almost fretful frown. “The–the princess was sitting before the hearth…” Her gaze faltered from Alicent as she took a deep breath, seemingly gathering her composure. She reached up to touch the seven-pointed star resting against her chest, a gesture of seeking reassurance. “The gods protect me, the princess was spilling her own blood into the flames and uttering curses into the fire…”

“Curses?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Of what kind?” Alicent pressed, feeling the weight of dread settle in her stomach like heavy stone, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. “What did she say?”

“It was the most vile of curses, those that are made in blood,” Mertha replied, voice laced with fear. She clutched the seven-pointed star necklace more tightly, as if seeking protection from the gods. “She condemned that your name alongside those of the Lord Hand and the King, invoking a life of anguish and despair for you—Your Grace, she cursed you to endure the same pain and suffering her mother has faced, to face the same loss as she has…”

Fear clawed at Alicent’s heart, its grip tightening, nails digging into the tender flesh as dread seeped into her veins. Her throat constricted, tears burning at the back of her eyes as her gaze shifted from Mertha to the flames of the hearth.

Alicent swallowed the rising tide of fear, steeling herself against the disturbing revelations, even as her heart trembled within her chest. Striving for composure, her voice emerged measured but with a discernible tremor. “Lady Mertha, thank you for bringing this to my attention. It is clear that the princess is suffering. Your guidance and the sanctity of the gods may be what saves her soul.”

And what saves us from her, she thought silently, the weight of the responsibility and the potential threat pressing heavily on her mind. 

With a solemn nod, Alicent dismissed her. “Let us discuss our course of action on the morrow.”

Mertha hesitated, her eyes flickering uncertainly between Alicent and Larys. She released her tight grip on the seven-pointed star pendant and placed her hand against her chest briefly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She then smoothed the fabric of her dress with a composed gesture and replied, “Yes, Your Grace.”

As soon as the door closed behind Mertha, Alicent rose from her seat and walked over to the hearth. Her fingers brushed anxiously over her lower lip, the impulse to bite down, to tear at the skin beside her nails, itched beneath her skin. She began to pace the floor, her mind racing with the weight of the night’s revelations. 

“I wouldn’t concern myself with curses,” Larys spoke up, breaking the tense silence. 

“What do you know of curses, my lord?” Alicent asked pointedly, pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. Her fingers pressed against her lips as she nibbled at the skin, the urge to bite down growing stronger still. Was this her punishment? 

“They say Harrenhal is the most cursed place of all,” Larys answered, slowly rising from his chair. His cane tapped coldly against the floor as he leaned on it for support. “The only real curse is the one we forge for ourselves…”

His footsteps echoed heavily across the floor as she moved towards her, each step deliberately closing the distance between them and subtly invading her personal space. “If such things as curses exist, they are not brought into being merely by speaking them. If that were so, we would find ourselves cursed long ago.”

Sooooo the new episode is out and I've gotten A LOT to work with; so I've decided to go back to DS the next chapter, but the chapter will likely be wedged between existing chapters which means that while there might not appear to be a new chapter, there is, it's just added between ch. 82 and 83--so 83 will become 84 and so forth. You can also expect some events to be changed in order to fit with this story, as there's just about 7 months from the pregnancy reveal to B&C--which means in that time, we'll focus on characters and some minor events; a battle over the blockade, a battle near Harrenhal, trying to win House Tully and the Riverlands to each side + House Tyrell, 2 assassination attempts, trying to establish alternative trading routes to get food to KL which gives the Blacks chances for guerrilla warfare, and growing tensions between Daemon/Rhaenyra as Daemon presses for escalating the war while she tries to keep it together because the Greens has her daughter. I will do my best to finish next chapter by Friday, but I can't promise anything, it's a long one that stretches from the moment Daemon received word of Luke's death to the day after and contains multiple scenes. Some things will also be stretched because it didn't make sense how fast they all travel between great distances and I just need it to make sense. I will say, we will also get a chapter following Rhaenyra as she searches for Luke because I'm a glutton for angst, and I will add more details because I need it. But this chapter will likely be chapter 87? I think. or 88---we'll get a KL chapter before it and after.

[floralcyanide]

⊱ 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑙𝑑 ― 𝐶𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑢𝑠 𝑆𝑛𝑜𝑤 ⊰

[ ᴀ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ ɢᴀᴍᴇs ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ]

1960s ᴜs ᴘʀᴇsɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴄᴀɴᴅɪᴅᴀᴛᴇ!ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜs sɴᴏᴡ x ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑤𝑜: 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑡.

౨ৎ 18+ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀs ᴏɴʟʏ !

⊹ summary: your first full day with coriolanus snow doesn't go without a hitch somewhere along the way. ⊹ pairing: young!coriolanus snow / fem!reader ⊹ warnings: mentions of poverty, mentions of alcohol, descriptions of alcohol, rough kissing (brief) ⊹ word count: 3223 ⊹ author’s note: so sorry for not being able to post this last week!! was high key withering away in the hospital like a frail victorian child lmao. but here's chapter two, I hope ya'll enjoy ♡

౨ৎ divider credit: @cafekitsune

౨ৎ sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ | sᴇʀɪᴇs sᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ | sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

౨ৎ this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

❝We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth.❞ ― John F. Kennedy

“What shape do you want them?”

“Mickey Mouse!” “A heart!”

“Alrighty, then. One Mickey Mouse and a heart pancake are coming up, John John and Miss Caroline.”

John Jr. is perched atop the kitchen counter to your right, sitting patiently while Caroline sneakily dips a finger inside the pancake mix next to him. The three of you had worked to make the batter perfect, and you’re all fairly satisfied. You manage to make a decent Mickey Mouse shape in the pan, and a nearly flawless heart and the kids clap with delight. Coriolanus quietly watches you interact with Jack's children from behind the wall separating the kitchen and dining room. He’s initially shocked to see you so vulnerable and soft with other human beings, even if they’re small ones. Coriolanus didn’t expect you to be someone who interacts with children in general, given the snarky and stubborn personality you’ve shown him so far. But he shouldn’t be so quick to judge you yet- after all, there’s a lot to Coriolanus that isn’t as it seems, either.

Jackie, Jack, and the rest of the family present in the Compound had an obligation with their father later in the morning. So, you decided to get some food in John Jr. and Caroline beforehand. Hungry kids are cranky kids, after all. You were to stay behind with Coriolanus, as the two of you weren’t needed at the gathering. You don’t mind as you need to organize the notes you’ve taken so far, as well as finish reading Profiles in Courage. You had a lot of questions for Jack about it already, and it’d be better if you had every possible question ready as soon as possible to ask upfront. Not to mention, you need to work on your dissertation a little more briskly now, considering you’re going to assist Coriolanus in his presidential campaign. 

John Jr. graciously accepts the Mickey Mouse pancake on his favorite Superman plate, and he scurries off toward the dining room. Caroline remains by you at the kitchen counter, dousing her heart with a disgusting amount of syrup. You almost say something about the sugar but decide against it quickly. Caroline seems to hold herself together better than her younger counterpart. Speaking of John Jr., he nearly runs into Coriolanus as he dashes down the hall to your dismay.

“Oh, good morning, Mister Coryo,” John Jr. beams up at the tall blonde man before continuing his path to the table.

“What did we agree on about walking, John?” you quirk an eyebrow after the boy, who is long out of earshot.

Coriolanus walks into the kitchen casually as if he wasn’t eavesdropping the entire time, opening the refrigerator and scouring the shelves for orange juice. When he doesn’t find it, he closes the door and walks over to you.

“If you’re looking for orange juice, John John drank the rest when he woke up. Chugged every drop,” you say without turning around from the sink where you’re doing dishes.

“Oh,” Coriolanus says, “Not surprised. The boy loves juice.”

You chuckle, “I learned that very quickly. He drank almost all of my peach juice the first night I was here.” 

Caroline looks between you and Coriolanus, a knowing smile on her face as she chews her food. Without a word, she leaves the room.

Coriolanus cracks a smile but quickly brushes it off before you can see, “Need help with those?” he asks, motioning to the dishes.

You glance at him over your shoulder, “Oh, no, I’ve got it. Thanks, though.”

Coriolanus wordlessly picks up a dish and dries it off with a nearby dish towel, his neutral gaze on you. You sigh, looking at the man defeatedly as you begin rinsing your soaped-up dishes, “I said I didn’t need help.”

“I know,” Coriolanus shrugs, “But it’s the least I could do since you treat the children so well.”

You turn to him, hand on your hip, “I think every child should be treated with kindness. Besides, John John is a good boy despite his father, and Caroline is a gentle little thing anyway,” you say jokingly.

Coriolanus chuckles, “You’re absolutely right. Anyone tell you how rowdy Jack was at John Jr.’s age?”

“No,” you quirk an eyebrow, finishing up rinsing off the dishes, “Do tell.”

As you and Coriolanus dry off the pans and plates, he tells you stories of how Jack and his siblings would go buck wild around here at the Compound. You find yourselves openly cracking smiles with each other as Coriolanus describes the antics. When Joeseph Jr. is brought up, the room becomes solemn. 

“Did you ever meet him?” you ask as you put away some of the dishes, Coriolanus doing the same.

“Only once. He was a man of few words,” he admits, folding the dish towel and neatly placing it back on the counter.

You hum, closing the cabinet, “Well, I’ll probably be working most of the day. If you need me, I won’t be far.”

Coriolanus nods, watching you carefully as you leave the kitchen. He decides you, too, are someone of few words. But you always know when to use them correctly. And he admires that a little.

You feel like a ghost roaming around the house throughout the day, reading your book as you aimlessly walk into rooms and halls. Occasionally, you stop to look at things in the various studies and unoccupied bedrooms. Despite the warm and welcoming hospitality of the Kennedy family, at times, you still feel sorely out of place. You didn’t grow up lavishly by any means- no one in your neighborhood did. The outskirts of Boston during the Great Depression weren’t much better than the city itself. Food, clean water, and bare necessities were hard to come by, even in the suburbs. You learned to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and be nifty with minuscule things. It’s one thing Coriolanus notices when you wander into the den, Profiles in Courage tucked under your left arm and your notes in your right hand. Every single available space on the paper you had current notes written on was taken up as if you’d run out of paper at some point. But you had an ample amount of pages left in your notebook- one that hadn’t already been filled like your others, at that. Coriolanus is sitting at the fireplace, puffing lightly at a pipe as he skims through a book he’s half-reading. He stops fully paying attention to it the moment you enter his presence, and he notices your notes.

“How much do you plan on writing about Jack?” he asks abruptly, breaking the dead silence in the room.

Coriolanus’ voice startles you from your trance, your lips letting go of the pencil you had between them, “A lot. I sort of have to. Why do you ask?”

The tall man’s eyes flicker between your face and your notebook folded in on itself in your hand, “You seem to be writing your notes like it’s going out of style.”

Your eyes fall to your endless scribbles of words, eyebrows scrunching up for a moment, “I don’t understand?”

Coriolanus carefully closes his book and sits his pipe down on the table, taking two long strides over to you. He cradles your notes in his large hands, tracing the delicate handwriting with his fingers. The scraping of every drop of the mixing bowl earlier, the tedious way you used dish soap and warm water, your early rising, and your short showers. The way you carry yourself and your words. Coriolanus knows and knows it well.

“I still have a few rationing stamps,” Coriolanus says, his looming figure dangerously close to completely blanketing yours, “They’re in an old tobacco box of my father’s. I can’t remember the day we stopped needing them.”

Your face falters as you peer up at him, his gaze glued to your notes in a focused and avoidant fashion. You gently take your journal from the blonde, closing it before placing Profiles in Courage on top of it and pulling away from the odd warmth from Coriolanus’ cold tallness.

“I think I’ve done enough writing today.”

You don’t like being seen, and as often as possible, you hide away. It’s something you dislike about yourself. And no matter how much you work on it, when your foundation is shaken, you tend to lose your grip. The Compound suddenly felt quite small, and you needed a moment to breathe. So you scurry away to your room to put away your books and grab a thick coat, as it had snowed overnight despite being warm yesterday. Said snow crunches under your feet loudly as you descend the steps toward the beach, wrapping your arms around yourself as the breeze nips your face. All that can be heard for a while is birds overhead and waves crashing to the sand banks. You breathe in the stale, salty air while you have flashbacks of hunger pains from childhood. It’s something you don’t let bother you anymore, but the memory is still very much there. 

“Sorry if I overstepped,” Coriolanus suddenly says from behind you, his hands shoved into his coat pockets.

You physically jump, your hand flying over your heart in genuine surprise, “Jesus, Snow. And no, you didn’t overstep. I’m just too inside my head today, I guess.”

Blonde curls fly around Coriolanus’ face erratically as he stoically stares at you from behind, and you avoid him. He stands beside you now, looking down at you in a way that makes you feel odd.

“I think we both expected different things from each other, hmm?”

“How so?” you ask, your face slowly beginning to burn from the cold ocean air.

“Well,” Coriolanus says, staring out at the open sea, the grey spaciousness giving him a moment to ponder, “I didn’t think someone so outspoken could be so inside their head at times.”

You bite back a fiery retort but instead come back with a simple, “And I didn’t expect you to know humbleness, Mister Snow.”

Coriolanus doesn’t respond right away, so you follow with, “But it seems we both learn something new each day, correct?”

“Yes,” the blonde says, “And I think we’ve also both learned to always be honest with each other.”

“When have I not been honest?”

“I did overstep. I shouldn’t have assumed anything, but I did. And even though it’s only been a day of knowing you, I also know you’re the last person to spend too much time in their head. You have enough in the real world for you to care about.”

“Alright, fine. I’ll see through you, you’ll see through me.”

“Good.”

After quite some time bearing the unrelenting ocean air alongside Coriolanus, you decide to make use of yourself somewhere other than the Compound. Coriolanus retreats to his room, and you go into town. Maybe you’d find a little something for the kids or the family for Christmas while out. It isn’t absolutely freezing, so you opt for walking to the market not far from the main road leading out of Hyannis Port. It’s bustling with people despite the temperature. You pick up a basket and fill it with a few oranges for John Jr. and Coriolanus for juice in the morning. After paying for the fruit, you’re called over the aisle by a younger woman you don’t recognize. 

“Are you by any chance the young lady researching Jack Kennedy?”

“Yes, I am,” you say.

“Oh, how wonderful! I’ve known the Kennedys since we were kids. I’m glad someone is going to make Jack’s work more known!”

“I am glad to be of help with that, then,” you smile at the woman, who couldn’t be too much older than you.

“Forgive me, I’m Candice. My father is the mayor of Barnstable,” she reaches a hand out for you to shake, which you take graciously.

“Lovely,” you say, glancing around at her various tables covered in small trinkets, “What are you out here bartering?”

“Just odds and ends I’ve found throughout my travels. I don’t have nearly enough room for it all, sadly. Take a look, you may find something!”

You skim the different buttons and brooches all varying in size and design, until you’re stopped by a particular gold brooch. It’s shimmering in the winter afternoon sun, the edges of the leaves and petals of the rose pendant sharp with precision. You gingerly pick it up, studying it closer.

“One of my favorites from Europe. Never could quite find anything worthy enough to pair it with,” Candice fawns, “It’s yours if you want it. No charge.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly-“

“It’s a gift, love. Take it.”

You slip it into your coat pocket with graciousness before continuing your brigade around the market. Some solid fiction books for Caroline and comics for John Jr. join the pile of oranges in your basket. Shopping for Christmas gifts for Jackie, Jack, Bobby, and Ted would be for a more dedicated day. Upon returning to The Compound, the house is bustling with the children and Bobby and Ted working on dinner. You hurry to put away the things you’ve bought in your room before washing up and making your way to the kitchen. Jack is leaning against the counter as he watches Bobby delicately season steaks, and Ted works on vegetables, his arms crossed across his chest. He stands up straight upon your arrival.

“Good evening, how was your day with some peace and quiet?”

“Ah, it was alright,” you shrug, a small smile on your face as you watch Jackie give Caroline and John Jr. her warning look as they circle the dining room table, “Too much peace and quiet is a little harmful, don’t you think?”

Bobby scoffs, “Not when you have children. Peace and quiet are rare. Be glad the other junior isn’t here to torture ya.”

“He has a point,” Jack grins, pointing at Bobby in agreement, “Bobby Jr. is worse.”

“Oh, come on, now. You know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree with John John.”

Ted snorts, and you decide to leave the brothers to their banter. Before you completely leave the room, though, Jack pulls you aside.

“Do you mind going down to the cellar? Pick out a bottle of something. We can all have some downtime after the kids go to sleep,” he says.

“Sounds good. Anything in particular?”

“Like I said, your pick.”

You wordlessly nod and find yourself at the cellar door moments later, the door already unlocked. You curiously open it and walk down the steps quietly, the lights dimly revealing a few shelves of wine varying in flavor and age. In between two shelves, you see Coriolanus pacing with a book in his hands. 

“It seems we always find each other somewhere around,” you say, being the one to startle him this time.

He snaps his head from his book, which appears to be the play Coriolanus by Shakespeare. Closing where he was reading, he disheveled looks at you off guardedly as he brushes himself off. You approach where he stands, your eyes scanning the shelves for any eye-popping bottle. A part of you feels heightened at being the one to unnerve him, and you feed on it as you stand dangerously close to Coriolanus on your tip toes to look at a wine more closely. You wonder why he’d be so nervous to be down here. Or what he had been doing to make him so uneasy of your presence.

“Which do you prefer?” you ask, pulling a bottle of rich red wine from by his head, “red or white?”

“Red,” Coriolanus says simply, his eyes shining with nerves, “I like the taste better.”

Your stare bores into his for a moment before you let yourself read the label, “A Nineteen Ten. Sounds nice,” you tilt your head at the man before asking, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Coriolanus blinks, “I just didn’t expect anyone to find me here.”

“Well, it is the cellar. Not much to hide here,” you encircle the bottle in your grasp, studying the rest of its details.

“Right.”

“Coriolanus, huh? By Shakespeare?”

Coriolanus scoffs through his nose, unbuttoning his sleeves and rebuttoning them to his elbows, “You’re familiar?”

“Not as familiar as I’d like,” you shrug, a hint behind your tone, “But maybe someday I’ll read more into it.”

The truth is, Coriolanus had been down there pacing and thinking of how to go about working with someone like you so closely. It’s been a day, and he already feels drawn to you in a way, and part of him feels disdain for it. But another feels so curious yet unnerved. Coriolanus usually reads the play when he feels he’s looking for something, and every time he is, he finds it within the play. It’s something new every time. No matter how many times the physical book has been deeply ingrained in his psyche. Your familiar and sarcastic tone from the night prior drinking similar wine makes his heart surge with something. And before Coriolanus realizes, his hand is grasping at the back of your head, bringing your face close to his.

“Maybe you should.”

Your hands are all but gripping the bottle of Cabernet, and your knuckles are white enough that you could press your fingertips into the bottle and break it if it were plastic. Coriolanus’ icy eyes are holding yours threateningly, and you don’t dare break the contact. It isn’t until Jack creaks the door of the cellar open to announce dinner is almost ready that the two of you think of separating. But you don’t. You feel bold and hungry and not like the type of hungry you were as a child, but rather bold and hungry for knowledge. A knowledge you won’t and can’t get from researching a man of power or holding a position of political power. But rather an energetic power you can’t quite explain unless you feel it. And you felt it the second you looked up to see Coriolanus standing in front of you by the fire the previous night. Again, when you walked into Jack’s office to see him standing there, and every time since. 

Your cheeks are tingling with fire, and your eyes weigh heavily on Coriolanus, unblinking and wild, “And if I don’t?” you whisper.

“I don’t think I’d allow it.”

“Hmm,” you narrow your eyes, letting your hand that’s not wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle grip the back of Coriolanus’ neck, “Try me.”

It’s almost like a dramatic scene from an old black and white your mother used to watch during the daytime, Coriolanus’ other hand flying to your cheek to hold your head firm as he gives you a bruising kiss. And your willingness to kiss back is almost as dramatized. But the tension from the start has been palpable, and it was only a matter of time before your clashing yet molding personalities came together somehow. Whether physical or mental- or both. You have to pull away to gasp for air, reluctant to remove yourself from the embrace. But you know you had to at some point, and you realize this is a dangerous game you’re already playing. What you don’t know yet is there are worse games to play.

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[feralkat]

A commission for @fleshkink who gave me the super fun prompt of a trans guy going through a rapid pregnancy and giving birth to triplets. This is also posted on AO3 and I'll have the link for that in my pinned post on my blog.

If anyone enjoys this and is able to, tips are hella appreciated since money is super tight right now or if you'd like to commission me go ahead and send a DM and we can work things out!

The Rule of Three

Word Count: 2.2k

Characters Used: Kieran (transmasc OC) & Max (cis-male OC)

WARNINGS: rapid pregnancy, triplet birth, trans character giving birth, orgasmic birth. Also - I do use AFAB terms to describe the characters' genitalia so please be aware of that.

If it weren't already obvious, this is a birth/labor fetish fic so if you are a minor or not into that then DO NOT INTERACT. You have been warned.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"Um..." Kieran mumbled into the phone, all words suddenly out of reach as he scoured his brain to find a way to tell his husband what was happening. "So... you - uh - you know how I suggested trying a - um - a fertility spell?" he stammered, staring down at his steadily growing stomach as it continued to swell.

"Yeah, I remember," Max said, suspicion clear in his tone. "I also remember us agreeing that those were too unpredictable and not worth the risk," he added.

Kieran sucked in a sharp breath as a baby landed a kick right to his ribs before he was able to respond. "Mmhmm, well... Maybe I decided to try one," he replied timidly, rubbing his free hand over his swollen stomach in an attempt to calm down the rapidly growing baby inside.

"Kieran."

The way Max growled his name said everything and, honestly, Kieran couldn't blame his husband for being upset. They had agreed not to use magic to conceive which is exactly what Kieran did.

"Yeah, um, so I think we're going to be parents a lot sooner than we expected," Kieran mumbled, he already looked like he was overdue with a huge baby (or two) and he assumed it couldn't be long before labor started.

"What do you mean by 'a lot sooner'?" Max questioned, apprehension clear in his voice.

A small, involuntary whimper left Kieran's throat as his whole midsection tensed, the cramp wrapping around his back and thighs. "T-Today? Maybe?" he answered tightly, having no idea if the labor would progress just as quickly.

"Today?! Shit, Kieran, I - fucking hell - I've gotta go. Love you."

Click.

For a few long moments, Kieran just sat there on the couch trying to process everything that just happened. Honestly, the only thing keeping him from completely losing it being the quick 'love you' that Max added before hanging up.

"Ah!" Kieran gasped as a gush of fluid left him, soaking his underwear and the couch cushion underneath him. "Okay, okay, okay," he mumbled to himself, taking a couple of deep breaths in a feeble attempt to calm himself before he tried to get up.

It was difficult with the sudden heavy weight of his stomach and it took Kieran several tries before he finally managed to stand up.

He managed to take a few slow, unsteady steps before another contraction stopped him. Luckily, they weren't too bad yet so he was able to breathe through it before continuing to waddle to the bathroom to clean himself up - resolutely ignoring the pressure growing between his hips.

It was all going so fast and Kieran was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was even pregnant already - let alone about to give birth.

And he had no idea what Max was doing - if he was going to come home early from work or not - but he had a feeling that calling him again wouldn't help things.

Kieran peeled his soaked briefs off of himself once he got to the bathroom before stripping off his T-shirt, which had rolled up a while ago to sit on top of his large, rounded stomach. Not even a minute after stripping down, Kieran found himself leaning against the sink counter as another - stronger - contraction started.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," he muttered through gritted teeth, the pressure between his hips slowly working its way down until it felt like a bowling ball had wedged itself into his pelvis.

There was just enough time between contractions for Kieran to start up the shower and step into the tub, but that one - along with the general added weight of his stomach - sent him to his knees.

This time he couldn't help but bear down a little against the increasingly intense pressure, a strangled groan coming from him that was equal parts pain and relief just from being able to push back against the pressure.

Reaching down with a shaking hand once the contraction was over, Kieran managed to slip two fingers into his vagina, wanting to see if he could figure out how dilated he was. Just the slight stretch of his fingers sent arousal burning through his veins, his cunt still sensitive from the night before along with all the different hormones coursing through his body right now. "Oh," he moaned, hole twitching and clenching around his fingers as the tips of them found his cervix.

It had to be something with the spell because Kieran was sure his cervix usually wasn't that intensely sensitive but right now? Fuck, Kieran almost couldn't keep his mind on track as he slowly spread his fingers.

Honestly unsure how to actually measure cervical dilation, Kieran could only guess that he had to be close to 10cm with how far apart he was able to spread his fingertips and the fact that he was almost certain he had brushed against the baby's head at one point.

Apparently, the pregnancy wasn't the only thing that was going to happen rapidly.

Kieran hardly pulled his fingers out of himself when his abdomen tensed again. "Oh God," he groaned, leaning forward against the edge of the tub and instinctively rocking his hips as the contraction built.

Again, he couldn't help but bear down as it got more intense and he swore he could feel a hard, heavy mass pressing against his cervix and forcing it to stretch even further. It was equally uncomfortable as it was oddly pleasurable and Kieran's head swam with the conflicting sensations.

That continued for a while, Kieran choosing to stay in the tub and let the warm shower water flow over his aching back as he worked through contraction after contraction.

It was all he could do, bearing down with each one and trying his best to ignore the heat flooding through his veins and the way his big, swollen clit throbbed between his legs every time.

There was no telling how much time had passed before Kieran, in the middle of a contraction, realized the pressure was moving lower and his cunt felt like it was filled to its limits by the time the contraction was over. "Fuck, oh fuck - it's coming," he whimpered to himself as another contraction started almost immediately after.

As he pushed, panting and moaning and grunting, he could feel his labia bulge and start to part. Everything hyper-sensitive in both the best and worst ways, clit throbbing as the skin under and around it pulled taught.

"Oh, oh, ohhhh - Ah!" Kieran cried out as all the sensations became too much all at once and he was pushed over into what had to be the best orgasm he's ever had. "OhmyGod, o-oh, oh God, ahh, fuckfuckfuck," Kieran whined, hips moving in small circles as he panted and cursed because fuck the baby was at a full crown and it was the best thing he has ever felt in his life.

That had to be thanks to the spell but by now Kieran wasn't really complaining about being stuck in orgasmic bliss as he goes through what is usually one of the most painful things a person can.

The sound of the front door opening broke him partially out of it, realizing that Max must have come home.

"Max!" Kieran cried out, sitting up carefully on his heels and gasping as the baby's head slid out just a tiny bit more from the movement. "Ohhh," he moaned as his stomach tightened in a contraction. "Max!" he shouted again, words strangled as he had no choice but to push, "Max, it's coming! It - Ahh!"

Kieran nearly screamed as the rest of the head popped out all at once, a gush of fluid and immense release of pressure coming with it that sent Kieran into a second, even more intense, orgasm which left him writhing and shaking until Max came in.

"Holy fucking Hell, Kie," Max's gruff voice exclaimed as he quickly knelt to the floor in front of Kieran. "Shit - lean back, babe, I can't see anything like this."

Unable to reply, Kieran just carefully leaned back against the other side of the tub. The change of angle made it so Max could see everything going on between his spread thighs, the baby slowly turning in preparation for the shoulders to come out.

"Okay - okayokayokay - M-Max, catch - catch it," Kieran stammered out as he felt one last contraction start, gritting his teeth and pushing as hard as he could.

Max was saying something to hm but Kieran barely heard him as his clit twitched and throbbed hard in response to the first shoulder making its way through.

All Kieran could do after that was sob through the rest of the contraction as his whole body pulsed with pleasure. He barely even realized when the baby slid the rest of the way out into Max's hands with another gush of fluid.

Panting hard as he came down from it all, Kieran collapsed against the tub and worked on catching his breath.

Once he managed to open his eyes a few seconds later, he found Max holding the newborn as it started to squirm and cry.

"Hey there," Max mumbled to the baby before grey eyes flicked up to look at Kieran. "Here, you hold her and I'll round up some supplies to deal with the rest of this," he said as he leaned over to put the fussing baby in Kieran's arms.

That's when it fully hit Kieran that holy fuck - he just gave birth despite not having even been pregnant yesterday.

It was the most surreal, unbelievable thing Kieran has ever experienced and he knew he and Max would have some things to talk about but, in the moment, Kieran couldn't stop smiling as he gently cooed at the infant to calm her down.

By the time Max had come back, cut the umbilical cord, and helped clean off and bundle up the infant, Kieran was starting to feel some cramps starting up again.

He could only assume it was the afterbirth even though his stomach was still quite swollen.

"Oh," Kieran whined, rocking his hips a little as pressure started to build. "H-Hey, Max," he muttered, grunting softly as his body instinctually gave a small push and that pressure increased tenfold. "Fuck," Kieran gritted out, unable to help but bear down against it and feeling the undeniable sensation of something big moving slowly through his cervix.

"What's wrong, Kie?" Max asked, taking his eyes off of their daughter to look over at Kieran again.

Panting as the contraction ended, Kieran looked down at his stomach and back up at Max. "I-I think... there's another - um - baby," he stammered. "Can you look?"

"Are you serious? Fuck," Max swore, "Hold on. Let me figure out where to put the kid down."

"Kay," Kieran squeaked out as another contraction began and he was forced to push whether he wanted to or not.

It was such a strange sensation, too. His cunt unbelievably sore from the first baby but still so intensely sensitive. It felt just as good as it hurt when he pushed.

At least until his abused labia started to bulge out and Kieran lost his momentum with the sudden burn. "Ahh!" he cried out, a hand flying between his thighs to press against his lips and hole. "M-Max," he whimpered shakily, panting and grunting as he gave a series of smaller pushes to try to make the stretch more manageable. "O-Oh God, Max, i-it's coming," he sobbed, lips bulging out more and more with each little push.

"I know, Kie, just breathe, I-"

"N-No, it's - fuck - it's coming now," Kieran managed to stammer as another contraction started and he was bearing down again with no hope to stop.

And fuck it was both the worst and best thing Kieran's ever felt, the intense burn of the head crowning coupled with Kieran subconsciously rubbing the heel of his hand against his throbbing, swollen clit.

There was no stopping it now, either, everything happening in mere seconds as the baby's head popped out and Kieran screamed in a mix of pain and pleasure as another orgasm washed over him even as the contraction continued.

"Max!" Kieran cried out, feeling the baby's shoulders stretching him and knowing it would only be seconds before the rest was born.

And Max was just a little too slow, Kieran barely managing to catch the second baby as it came out with a gush of fluid. 

The couple sat in shocked silence - save for the two newborns fussing - for a few long moments while they came to terms with the fact that they suddenly had not only one surprise baby but two.

Anyway, that had to be all there was. Kieran’s stomach was still a bit swollen even after delivering the placenta but, despite the pregnancy happening all in one day, it would probably take a little while for Kieran’s body to recover and that was completely fine.

Except…

Kieran had just enough time to clean himself up, get into some comfy clothes, and have Max help him into bed to rest when his abdomen tightened in a very familiar way.

Max was in the other room with their two newest additions, trying to figure out how to get what they’d need for their surprise twins without having to leave Kieran alone in case something went wrong. 

It was a good thing Max stuck around, too, when Kieran suddenly yelled for him. 

By the time Max got into the bedroom, he was greeted with the sight of Kieran laying on his side, pants halfway off, and one leg pulled up to make way for the third baby that was starting to crown.