#He had a very tragic demise

[rmelster]

17 December, 1830: Simón Bolívar, “El Libertador”, dies aged 47 from tuberculosis. By then, he had grown impoverished and lonely.

>>Hasta la luz de los ojos se le había ido.

[deadrlngers]

everyone pick which romance i should do first i can't choose by myself this is too hard i need others to decide for me i swear i will follow your judgment

[baeshijima]

thoughts on being engaged to duke!sunday, the head of the oak family, an incredibly influential figurehead within society, the close subordinate of emperor gopher wood who brought him and his sister in and raised him like his own, and the villain who faces a tragic ending in a novel you recently finished — the very same one you just so happen to find yourself transmigrated into. he is as cunning as he is blinded, a trait which brought ruin to many in the empire, and one which ultimately brought ruin to himself at the hands of the protagonists.

as luck would have it, you became a barely mentioned side character from a marquis family, whose role was to be the villain's wife stuck in a one-sided love who, too, would get caught up in the tragedy alongside him. however, now that it's you who is stuck in this position, you're determined to try any means necessary to deter him from going down that path, all in an effort to escape your predestined doomed fate!

of course, you didn't expect it to be easy. the day of your arrival in this world was already the night before your wedding, so you had little time to prepare yourself for the nonchalance of your supposed family, how they viewed you as but a means — a tool — to boost their influence and prosperity, the dismissive mannerisms of the household servants, and the absolute beauty of a man you will be married to.

(seriously. the novel descriptions did not do him justice. he was like... like... like he was handcrafted by god himself! and not to mention his sister, robin, was the very epitome of an angel! perhaps you're destined to perish by the god-tier visuals instead...)

to say the least, the wedding ceremony went by quickly. safe to say you didn't spend the night; he was cordial and gentlemanly upon letting you know that he won't do anything until you're ready, that you can take this relationship slow, but somehow you ended up feeling a tad insulted. like, who leaves their newly wedded alone in a big cold bed as they walk out on their own? a sick bastard that's who!

well, whatever. it's not like you need nor want to consummate with him! besides, you have bigger things to worry about — things such as your impending death. and, of course, the only way to stop sunday that you can imagine working is by chipping away at his resolve bit by bit, and opening his eyes to reality.

he is a tragic character, one who cares more about the well-being of penacony and its people than anyone else, but was manipulated into getting his hands dirty in the emperor's stead. you knew this. you sobbed over his story, cursed out the protagonists, and even fought internet randos on novel forums about sunday's motivation and how,

no, he is not just a stupid villain. he is a complex character with flaws and humanity and was cruelly taken advantage of by someone he considered family. he was deceived through the suffering the emperor wanted him to see to make him easily manipulated, creating a rift between him and robin to have that prominent separation. you know what? maybe you're just a !%#@ who can't even #@?"% read properly!

and yet you still find yourself at a loss when faced with the walls he has in place. your initial efforts went as well as it possibly could have; you trying to earnestly help him, while he "kindly" dismisses your offers! well, "kindly" being more condescending since you could read between the lines of his mannerisms and amiable demeanour, but that's fine! you expected this! that just means you have to double down on your sincerity, get through to his heart (somehow), and help him realise humanity isn't as weak as he's led to believe!

you have three years until the novel's plot officially starts, and another year after that until your demise. that's plenty of time to get him to warm up to you!

it was easier said than done, but after your valiant effort and abundance of time put into this relationship, which admittedly you could do with some of that lost time back, you could give yourself a pat on the back with the progress you made! while you definitely could have done without a lot of the headaches, it's safe to say sunday has significantly warmed up to you in comparison to your wedding day. he now willingly eats all his meals with you with some real conversation, takes garden strolls with you in the early evenings, invites you out for dinner at a restaurant at least four times a week, hell he's even joked and laughed with you more frequently! but most importantly, he has begun asking for your opinion before finalising any decisions he is required to make. and he actually listens and considers your side! now, that certainly is the best outcome you could hope for after all this time, and it most definitely will help in your endeavour to save you both from the protagonists!

however, you've noticed he's been more... affectionate? well, at the very least he now willingly holds your hand when in private (not just in moments when you're in the public eye and he has to make sure the family's reputation is spotless), sometimes he will hug you out of the blue ("i just need to... recharge. you have a way of calming me down. i hope you don't mind." ...how could you say no to his supreme god-tier face card? that's just a losing battle you won't even bother fighting against.), oftentimes he opts to just gaze wordlessly at you (robin had mentioned over one of your tea times how it almost appears as though there is no one but you in the world when sunday gazes at you with, in her words, "the eyes of a man so deeply in love!" ...whatever that's supposed to mean...), but a more recent development has been his sudden interest in kissing you; well, more specifically giving you a kiss to the back of your hand or on your forehead — certainly not anywhere near the lips! (besides, he's probably just gotten comfortable with you, enough where he can freely act without judgement. nothing more, nothing less.)

well, either way, development is development! soon enough, the time for the main plot to start has arrived. it of course follows what you remember, from the organised balls to the protagonists meeting to the political aspects of it all. the only difference is sunday's less active involvement in all the schemes and the emperor's ploy. rather, he seems more focused on you and the future of your marriage and even displayed a sudden interest in your practically non-existent relationship with one of the foreign diplomats, aventurine— wait...

"[name]," he calls your name out so sweetly you nearly disregarded it as someone else he was talking to. well, perhaps you would have done had he not suddenly appeared before you, a tight-lipped smile tugging the corners of his lips as he steadily approaches you.

oh. he doesn't seem very happy, if his tense figure is anything to go by. you wonder if one of the nobles grated his nerves a little too much this time?

sunday comes to a halt a step away from you. "i don't like that... gambler being so close to you. it... it brings me a rather unpleasant feeling." there's a slight, trembling pause. not a moment later does he close the gap between you, one knee on the ground as he matches your seated height on the fountain rim, your hands gently enclosed in both of his.

you idly wonder if this is what robin meant by the so-called "eyes of a man so deeply in love" she constantly gushed about, for the way in which he gazes up at you is enough to render you breathless.

"tell me, [name]," he begins once more. there is an underlying desperation woven within his tone, one which has your head spinning and heart thumping wildly as his trembling gaze holds you in place. "tell me, what am i to do with this fervent love and overwhelming adoration i hold for you?"

oh.

...oh.

perhaps your impending doom should be the least of your concerns when you now find yourself in the arms of a clingy husband...

(though, it's safe to say you did, in fact, manage to prevent him from succumbing to his tragic fate! you just gained a loving, yet slight slightly emotionally challenged husband along the way.

well, you can help him work through it; you have the rest of your lives now to figure it out, after all.)

[kyseya]

Ancient Mummy

Imagine working as an archaeologist for a museum. However things hasn’t been going so well lately and there are hardly any visitors during opening hours. Sadly, you’ll be forced to close multiple exhibitions and if conditions are not met, the entire museum might have to shut down.

But by some miracle, a new tomb has been discovered in Egypt; undisturbed, unexplored and completely untouched by humans for centuries. It’s said to be the grave of an ancient king- a pharaoh- who was betrayed and murdered by his own cousin.

It’s the perfect opportunity! Maybe you’ll find something that can bring back interest and by extension, save the museum.

You go along with a few other colleagues to the site in Egypt. The journey was a bit tough but it was a hindered percent worth it. With avid curiosity you explore alone and with the others, the different things to find inside the tomb; artifacts and additional discoveries. It’s all very interesting. Wanting to save the best for last, you finally get an in-person look at the grave itself- the sarcophagus.

You have already heard the main tale of the pharaoh within, so you are a little surprised that there is more to the story than you previously believed.

Over the entire stone coffin were multiple hieroglyphs, each one helping and becoming a story together. Your collegue read some inscriptions and told you a basic summary of what it’s about.

Centuries ago there was a king. He had a wife whom he adored more than anything. She was provided with riches, glory and honour. There was nothing he wouldn’t accomplish for her. The people saw the care he held for his wife and therefore both respected and feared her as well, since any ounce of rudeness might end up with their heads spiked on a pole. It was a punishment fitting for those who dare disrespect his queen.

Unfortunately tragedy struck- a disease, more specifically. It took the lives of many and left whole villages empty. That hardly mattered to the pharaoh though, all his focus went to his ill wife; she, too, had been snatched by death. Up until the moment of her demise the pharaoh spent all day and all night at her side, attentively worrying about her needs. When she was gone he was ruined. He didn’t eat, he didn’t sleep, he didn’t even have the energy to clean himself. What was the point? His beloved was gone so there wasn’t really anything left for him.

It was after this that everything took a turn. It appeared that the king had enough with laying around and decided to do something. There were records of him behaving strangely- even by ancient standards- and drabbling in dark magic. He was later overthrown by his brother, who ordered him to be buried alive. It was quite the terrifying penalty go give one’s sibling. The brother didn’t want the darkness to spread out into the world from the old pharaoh, so he locked him inside the sarcophagus and sealed him far away.

What a tragic story, you thought. Well it was back in the old times and a lot of things were practiced then that aren’t okay in modern day. You suppose it wasn’t the most horrible incident that have happened.

It hadn’t been long since your colleague told you the backstory of the tomb and its inhibitor, but now the others wants to get to the good part and open up the stone coffin. You don’t think it’s the best idea in the world- of course something like this needs to be examined closely and so on, but there is something special about the tomb.

Ever since you’ve arrived, you have had a strange feeling following you around. It’s hard to explain. You feel almost drawn to the sarcophagus or perhaps it’s because it feels as if it is looking back at you. You tried ignoring it, however, the feeling came back stronger than ever the moment the others began preparing to open it up.

You should have told them of your concerns. If you did, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

The first few seconds after opening it everything was fine. All was as it should be; people flocking around to see the discovery and fawn over it while being mindful of its fragility. Then it changed. Your colleague who had been the closest had suddenly been strangled by the thin, dirty arm belonging to none other than the ancient corpse that previously had been resting in death. Everyone was silent as her face turned blue from the lack of oxygen. It was only after she fell to the floor dead that people began panicking. It was hard to process what had just happened, after all.

There was chaos.

Folk ran around like chickens fleeing from a fox that’d managed to get inside the coop. In a way, that was exactly what was going on, though. You had watched as the mummified corpse sat right up and climbed its way out of the cold coffin. It stumbled on its bony legs and quickly found a cornered man and approached him. He screamed when the mummy grabbed ahold of his face and brought it before its own. The creature started sucking the life out of the man- literally.

The man who had previously been a healthy and active person was now shrivelled up like a raisin. His face was dry and wrinkled. He died soon afterwards, only a soft wheeze leaving his lips as he passed.

The opposite seemed to happen to the former-corpse, though. It attacked more and more people and for every kill, it appeared to revert to its original state- a man, pharaoh of an ancient kingdom. The flesh grew back and filled up in the right places and he seemed human again.

How can that be? He had been dead for centuries. Although, just about everything was pretty fucked up in this moment, so his make-over is the least important factor.

You backed into a corner. Your eyes followed the mummy’s every move, it was impossible to look away. There was hardly anyone left apart from you. The one person that was still there was getting attacked by the monster and it wasn’t long until they were reduced to nothing.

Now it was just you and the creature, and it appeared it knew that too.

It turned to look at you. The mummy had now completely reverted back into a man and he was nothing short of breathtaking(and very naked, but you tried not to think about it). It pained to to admit it but it was the truth. He was easily the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. His long, dark hair flowed when he stalked towards you. Despite his outer beauty, you couldn’t forget what you’d just witnessed him do.

Trembling, you pressed yourself against the wall. “Stay away.” you weakly mumbled.

‘This is it. My time is over.’

You closed your eyes in fear and braced yourself for the pain that would undoubtedly come; only it didn’t. Instead of death, a hand grazed your cheek. It was a light touch, one reserved for something valuable and fragile.

A raspy voice talked, “…My love..it is you..”

You had no idea what he said, it sounded like an ancient language. You had studied hieroglyphs but did not know anything about what speech might’ve sounded like. You decided to be brave and slightly opened your eyes.

The mummy was staring at you, but there was no malice or hatred in his expression. In fact, the only emotion you could find on his face was amazement, shock and….love? No, that can’t be. This is not some ‘lovers reunited’ situation.

“How can this be? Death took you and left me all alone- not that I hold you accountable, of course. I know you would never seek to hurt me.” the mummy kept muttering to himself. “Perhaps….the magic worked after all?”

His face brightened and he smiled gently at you. Whilst he happily went on about something, you became more confused than earlier. What the hell was going on? He committed multiple murders in one swoop and now, suddenly, he is acting like you’re friends talking about your day. He isn’t even human! Or at least not anymore, not really.

You voiced this opinion weakly, “Ummm, could you let me go?” You tried pulling away from his touch, uncomfortable at his caresses.

His brows furrowed at your reaction. From the look of it, he didn’t understand you any better than you did him. He focused at the subtle way you attempted to peel his hand off your arm. You let out a yelp when his arms snaked around your waist and he pulled you into his embrace.

He leaned down and whispered into your ear, petting your hair at the same time. “Wife, why do you seem unhappy at my presence? I do not understand. Are you not joyous at our reunion? I love you so, I cannot comprehend any reason why you would not wish to see me.”

Even if you didn’t know what he was saying, you could hear the sadness in his voice. The pain and desperation. No! You couldn’t feel sad for him. He had murdured multiple of your colleagues, he’s evil! Although, why hasn’t he killed you yet? It’s very strange indeed.

The mummy continued, “I can sense things are not as they used to be. Things are different now. Although I do not know the extent of it. However I am most certain of one thing; I have miraculously been reunited with my love and I do not plan on letting you fall through my grasp again.”

He held you in an almost suffocating hug.

“I shall make you my queen once more.”

[rayroseu]

Always wrecks me up that Meleanor is as forgotten as Knight of Dawn is, that even her son doesn't remember her.

Just like Silver, Lilia didn't inform him of his identity as a Silver Owl so that Silver can live without guilt of the atrocities his original kingdom did.

But, I think, in Malleus' case, Lilia and Maleficia (I think) didn't inform him too much about Meleanor's demise, not so much because they don't want to guilt Malleus about her sacrifice to him, that's a part of it, but I also think it was more so that his hatred for humans wouldn't go deeper. Especially since he was raised in the castle with only the Senates and pure faes who has limited interaction with humans, so naturally he grew disliking humans too (until he met Silver).

As we know, Malleus is very attached to his past, that's why in Book 7, he's having a hard time to let go. Even his interests mirrors his tight attachment to the past, i.e his fascination on history, ruins, antiques, abandoned places, etc.

I think in an alternate reality where he had knew about every detail that happened on Meleanor and Levan and the faes on Wild rose Castle basically, his view on humankind would be even more negative. He might even reject his invitation on NRC just like Gen. Lilia did. And, unlike Lilia, since Malleus always attaches to the past and not on the possible future, he might even never give chance that he can get along with humans.

I know its popular analysis that Meleanor and Malleus are different, but to me, they're fundamentally the same person, just raised in a different environment. Meleanor was never given a chance to see a good side of the humans, Malleus was like that for a bit, even in NRC, he still held his deep rooted belief that he really doesn't believe that humans would understand faes as Lilia hopes (Dorm Uniform Vignette). Malleus and Meleanor are the "same person" but Malleus just "had the chance to not know" the entire history of it, so that he can form his own opinion about it as he grows up.

Even if he grew up knowing it, it would be immature to stay on his hatred for humans for so long (I think Malleus would do this considering his trait of being attached to the past) and I think Lilia and Maleficia didnt want Malleus to grow up like that,, they must usher him to a better future yk.

Its just that its tragic that for Malleus to grow up and take a chance towards a better future, he has to forget major things about his mother and all the sacrifices that his family made, just so he wouldn't be "stuck with it. "

Maybe in a reality where Malleus does know every detail of his history, but just that, it would take a long time for him to let go of his guilt and hatred, that by the time he's ready to forgive humankind, Lilia might not be there to guide him anymore.

I think I read an analysis back then (or was it a legit line in game?? lol) that Malleus shouldve been in Briar Valley for just a bit longer instead of suddenly transferring to NRC where there'll be too many culture shock for him, he's just not entirely capable yet of balancing his feelings and power, but I think Maleficia/Lilia couldn't afford to have that much time to emotionally grow Malleus in Briar Valley, for the reason that by the time Malleus would be in control of his power and feelings, Lilia wouldn't be there anymore to guard him in NRC and guide him about human culture. (He says his magic weakens over the years)

I feel like Maleficia only agreed to take Malleus to NRC bcs Lilia will be there, he's the perfect guide for Malleus to have with in NRC, he's strong so he can physically protect him while also being a wise person that can teach Malleus about understanding humans while still upholding his fae values. Other guards wouldn't be suitable. Silver and Sebek are not fully trained, Baul is an advisor now not a soldier and he wouldn't be a great guide to have in human society lol So, she has to take that chance while Lilia is still here, even if Malleus is just "too young."

side note: what if thats also the reason why Maleficia let go of Meleanor to Wild Rose Castle alkfdklsd She trusted Lilia and Levan would protect her and they did yet even so.... 😭😭😭 I feel like its so tragic that everytime Maleficia let go of Meleanor/Malleus, they're always leading into a danger where she cannot reach and help them (on Meleanor's case, the communication on Black Scale and Wild Rose was disrupted bcs every envoy that Lilia and other soldiers sent to inform Maleficia that Wild Rose was besieged was all killed by the Silver Owls, so Maleficia knew too late. On Malleus' case, it would be too risky for her to just suddenly show up on Sage Island, it would leave Briar Valley in a very vulnerable state with no Draconia residing in their land, STYX is calling her to meet Malleus but I think many faes would disagree on their plan bcs that's exactly the type of situation that cornered Meleanor years ago, Levan/Malleus is lost and in danger so Meleanor/Maleficia has to save them, if you think about it in Briar Valley's view, it feels like a trap lol. It's not an easy decision to just let go of their only Draconia ruler to a human territory and on top of that, they're on the verge of losing one(Malleus). I wish they create a scene of the Briar Govt in the book, I'm sure the Senates are in ruins and regretting that Malleus went to that school or something, like its always STYX when its equally intriguing to know Maleficia and the Senates reaction to Malleus' overblot.

I find it really depressing that Malleus, like Silver, was born out of so much love from their family, yet they never knew the full scope of it (until now). 😭😭😭

[meanbossart]

What are your thoughts/takes on Astarion's relationship with sex? How does that reflect on his relationship with Drow?

(Obvious disclaimer: this is just my opinion, and my goal is always to entertain myself - never to argue or be the most correct about canon interpretations or themes.)

Hm. So, something that I find very unique (and frankly, overlooked!) about Astarion's previews experiences, is that when speaking specifically about his M.O for luring marks for Cazador the majority of the encounters he seems to have had were not, primarily, "negative".

They weren't positive either, of course. There is no way around it: having sex against your will is rape. But in his case, the perpetrator was never inside the room. From the way he speaks of the people he slept with, he seems to hold a mixture of contempt and pity; but never anger; from the way he speaks of and with Sebastian, it even seems like, sometimes, perhaps in the early days of those 200 years he might have even allowed himself to indulge in small, brief attachments and hopes. Then, as fatigue settled in and the permanence of the situation hit him, I'm sure the motions became mechanized at best and agonizing at worst.

But I think whatever harm the experience has done to his sexuality or self-value, it's damage struck him tenfold in the concept of object permanence. Imagine it: throughout the course of two centuries, you are not allowed to form a connection with a single person who isn't damned to die later the same day. You never see the same face twice. You are never allowed to progress past impersonal first encounters. Astarion says he wants to be seen and known, but a reality that hurts almost more than being invisible is that there were probably thousands of people who would have loved to do that. But you ruined them as much as they ruined you.

I wholeheartedly believe that he was sick of sex, and that for decades to come there will be times when he still turns the lights off during the act, or, ideally, just says No Thank You and moves on, but the hypothetical that really haunts me is that other thing: the almost pavlovian association between sex and looming demise. That people are going to be taken away from you, so why bother being present?

This is a feeling he struggles with sorting through and vocalizing. And in turn, DU Drow often is under the assumption that this is all about sex, and about whether he truly wants it or not. This is yet another small theme in A Novel Experience but, in summary, for a while he still doubts Astarion's own agency to initiate or participate in it - this reduction of the issue as a matter of physical touch, while the big picture is much more complex.

And this does not always externalize in the far more palatably tragic "woe is me, everyone I love leaves" way. Sometimes Astarion still catches himself thinking of the ones he loves as disposable, and acting with due disregard for their lives like it's second nature.

But back on subject: he can have, does have, and likes sex. By finally being allowed to form a friendship and rapport with a sexual partner for whom he does not feel the need to perform to, he can finally enjoy the silly, the awkward, the gross and even the subpar aspects of sex with true intimacy; the anxiety sets after the fact, as he wonders about what comes next once you're out of his sight.

[queenshelby]

AMERICAN GIRL (PART ONE)

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace's Stepdaughter!Reader

Warning: Grace is a bully, infidelity, taboo

On a brisk autumn day, you and your younger sibling Emma sailed into Liverpool harbor. You each carried a large, old-fashioned cart filled with towering brown suitcases, with a satchel casually slung over your shoulders.

The journey had left Emma exhausted, clinging to you as she marvelled at the unfamiliar sights of the port with wide eyes.

"I'm afraid," she confided in you, her words barely audible as they grazed your ear.

"I understand Em, but we have each other, and I will always look after you," you comforted her, putting on a smile. You promised to always take care of Emma, and true to your word, you have been her guardian angel since the day she arrived in this world.

Shortly after Emma was born, your mother sadly passed away due to unexpected complications during the pregnancy at her age.

It was a shock to everyone and left you to step into the roles of both mother and sister to Emma at the young age of 12.

Even in your youth, you held onto the hope that your father would one day find love again. Little did you expect that it would come in the form of Grace Burgess who was a young Irish woman with no money to her name after fleeing England in a haste. Grace had cleverly leveraged his wealth and power to her benefit despite their significant age difference.

Your father fell head over heels for her the moment he laid eyes on her at the corner grocery store in New York, just after your 13th birthday.

Their romance blossomed quickly, leading to marriage in less than a year.

At the tender age of seventeen, your father's love for her tragically transformed into heartbreak as she started a romantic relationship with a man from England - the very same man you were about to start living with.

Thomas Shelby was a name that sent shivers down the spine of those who knew of him - an enigmatic and formidable figure who held significant sway in the depths of England.

In the streets of Birmingham, he controlled his own illicit kingdom, bending the rules to his liking. And yet, your stepmother Grace couldn't help but be drawn to him, just as she had been to your father all those years ago when they first crossed paths.

Just before ending his life due to a broken heart, your wealthy father decided to cut ties with his second wife, leaving all his possessions to you and your sister for your 21st birthdays. This decision left Grace boiling with rage.

Soon after, she vanished to be with her lover in England and the two of you were forced to reside with a cruel family member instead as you had not yet turned 21, being the age of adulthood in America.

Within less than a year of living with this man however, you brought about his demise with a single bullet to the head, all because he dared to touch your sister Emma. It was in that moment that your entire world began to shift.

After a series of run-ins with the law leading to stints in juvenile detention, your father's lawyer came to the rescue, securing your freedom at the age of nineteen, albeit with the catch that you had to leave the country for good.

Of course, you gave your consent, but you were taken aback when it was revealed that your grandparents had struck a deal with Grace, out of all people, to care for you and Emma until you turned 21 and inherited half of your father's wealth.

What also came as a shock was the discovery that for the past two years, your family had been colluding with the Shelby Family, smuggling liquor into the United States without your knowledge and you knew that this must have been Grace's doing.

Grace had always been fascinated by the concept of wealth, much like your grandparents and uncle who shared her passion. Therefore, it didn't come as a shock to you when you recently stumbled upon the name 'Shelby Company Limited' in multiple transaction records within your grandfather's office.

While you understood the reasons behind everything relating to the business deals between your family and the Shelbys, the mystery still lingered as to why Grace decided to take you and Emma in after all the turmoil she had caused. After all, she had found herself entwined with a man of considerable wealth, so she had no need for the money that your family would have been willing to pay her for looking after you and your sister unless, of course, she was worried it wouldn’t last.

After two years had passed, this man still hadn't made her his wife, leaving you to ponder whether she harboured any doubts about his commitment to ever tying the knot.

Your stepmother may have been anxious about her partner abandoning her once the business arrangement in the US came to an end, a deal that she likely orchestrated and this, in itself, made you think that, perhaps, you would now finally have the upper hand.

As any young woman in your situation would, you nurtured a deep-seated anger towards Grace. She was the last person you wanted to rely on, let alone live with.

But you shoved those emotions down as you and Emma disembarked the large ship, weaving through the bustling crowd, ready for what lay ahead.

Just as instructed, outside the dock, you were greeted by a young man named Finn.

Finn, in his early twenties, extended his hand to take your luggage with a friendly smile as you approached.

"I am Finn, and you must be Y/N and Emma, right? Tommy has sent me to pick you up," he told you and Emma clung to you tightly, before peering at Finn suspiciously.

"Nice to meet you, Finn," you replied, offering a warm, polite smile.

Once your luggage was stored securely in the back of the Bentley, the three of you set off on the two-hour journey from Liverpool to Birmingham.

Emma's head rested on your shoulder as she slowly drifted off to sleep, her energy depleted from the journey, while Finn was attempting to make small talk with you while, occasionally, looking back through the rear-view mirror.

It was obvious to you that he had already taken a liking in you, but his youthful charm and charisma was not enough to sway you, not after everything that had happened in the past.

You acknowledged his attempts with brief responses, unable to fully engage in the conversation until he brought up the fact that you had killed a man.

"So, my brother mentioned that you had to leave New York because you killed someone. Is it true?" Finn questioned earnestly and without any filter whatsoever.

Your heart raced as you contemplated the best way to respond to his question.

"Yes, it's true," you finally admitted bluntly, looking straight ahead, not wanting to engage in a detailed conversation about it.

Finn, seemingly surprised by your response, paused before shifting the Bentley into a higher gear.

"Did you shoot him?" he asked, curiosity piqued.

You nodded, your jaw set.

Finn didn't press for more details, for which you were grateful. But you could sense his intrigue as he glanced at you through the rearview mirror.

Emma stirred in her sleep, mumbling softly, drawing your attention back to her peaceful face. You smoothed her unruly hair back, your heart swelling with protectiveness.

You would do anything to keep her safe. After all, you had already lost so much in your life already, so you could not lose her as well. 

***

Eventually, the streets of Birmingham came into view, appearing as a striking contrast to the glamour and elegance of your hometown. 

"Wow, this is different," you murmured to yourself, your gaze locked on the sprawling slums that lay outside the car window. There were workers fighting each other and whores selling themselves on the cobblestone streets, while children ran in all directions, many of them ragged and filthy.

"Don't worry. I am taking you somewhere nice," Finn assured you, seeing the look on your face and you could only hope that he was right, because if this was what Birmingham looked like everywhere, you wondered how you could possibly survive here for the next two years.

Despite Finn's enthusiasm, something about the place left you feeling uneasy, like a predator lurked in the shadows and you could see the appeal for criminals to operate here.

Before long, the Bentley turned into the private road of a luxurious home outside of Birmingham  .

The driveway was long, shielded by trees, and it wasn't until the last bend that you caught a glimpse of the mansion at the end.

The house was stunning, with intricately carved mahogany furnishings, rich velvet curtains framing large bay windows, and marble floors polished to a high sheen.

The structure exuded opulence while maintaining a cozy air with its plush décor.

Upon arrival, Finn hopped out of the driver's seat and opened the back door for you and Emma.

You carefully stepped out onto the cobblestone driveway, feeling the weight of this new world pressing down upon you. Emma rubbed her eyes and slowly emerged from her drowsy state, taking in the splendor of the ornate mansion with fascination and open admiration.

Finn led you through the imposing oak door, which creaked slightly as he pulled it open. As soon as you entered, you were met with a grand foyer adorned with chandeliers that cast an amber glow upon the walls.

"You made it," Grace 's stern voice eventually echoed off the marble tiles, causing you to turn around.

She stood there in a long-sleeved maroon blouse and black pencil skirt, her piercing blue eyes sizing you up like some sort of puzzle she couldn't wait to solve.

Emma, seemingly intimidated by her appearance, slowly retreated behind you as Grace approached with determination.

"You look well, given the circumstances," she then said to you, her voice laced with a noticeable hint of sarcasm, causing you to roll your eyes.

"I was hoping not to see you again, but here we are," you murmured under your breath, drawing Grace's ire as she narrowed her bright blue eyes infinitesimally.

"You should be grateful that I took you in," she snarled sharply, causing you to chuckle.

"How much are my grandparents paying you to have us?" you said, unflinching, watching Grace's face for a reaction.

Grace's expression barely changed, merely raising an eyebrow as if amused before replying scathingly, "Nothing. At least not until you make it to 21, so you better behave," she warned.

You took a deep breath, realizing that this was not the time to engage in a war of words with your stepmother. You turned to Emma and noticed that she was trembling slightly and you could see the worry etched into her delicate features. You slipped your arm around her shoulders, pulling her close and offering what you hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Let's get you settled in," you said softly to Emma, who managed a weak nod in response as Grace turned and led the way down the grand hallway.

"The maids will show you to your rooms. You will be staying in the staffing quarters,"  Grace snapped as she pivoted and strode through an arched doorway, leaving you and Emma with two young women wearing crisp white aprons who appeared in your line of vision.

You watched silently as Grace disappeared before you turned to Emma, smiling despite the tension thickening in the air, and whispered gently, "She can't hurt us, Em. She needs us. So just ignore her." 

Emma nodded slowly, but it was clear that she wasn't entirely convinced.

You couldn't blame her - the past few years had been nothing but a series of harsh lessons for both of you, leaving you both vulnerable and wary. But deep down, you knew that things would be different here. This was a new beginning for the two of you, away from the cold-hearted family members who had mistreated you, and into the care of someone who, while intimidating and unpredictable, was bound to follow your father's final wishes for financial reasons.

You were determined to make the best of this opportunity, no matter how difficult that might be considering your complicated history with Grace and, with that in mind, you unpacked your suitcases and settled in.

The rooms were modest but comfortable, with the staff quarters being clean and well looked after, much to your surprise.

Soon enough, your first day in Birmingham was drawing to a close and after you put Emma to bed, you decided to have a warm bath before venturing out to explore this somewhat opulent mansion. 

You put on the satin robe which once belonged to your mother and strolled towards the grand staircase with bare feet, looking at all of the incredible paintings that lined the walls, showcasing various landscapes and portraits of people whose names you did not yet know.

As you reached the second floor, you came across a door which seemed slightly ajar and upon pushing it open, you discovered a library.

Your eyes widened at the sight of thousands of books neatly arranged on wooden bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling before, in the room next to it, finding a large piano.

You walked over to the piano and gently touched its surface, marveling at the intricate carvings before looking back at the books surrounding you.

The library was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards settling. You moved further into the room, running your fingers along the spines of various titles.

There were novels from authors you recognized like Charles Dickens, Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters but there was also an array of non-fiction texts ranging from science, philosophy to mathematics and history.

There was also a section dedicated to poetry where you spotted a few works by Lord Byron, Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth which intrigued you.

Despite the vast quantities of books in this room, the smell of old leather-bound volumes filled the air as if it was just yesterday when they were placed on these mahogany shelves.

Just as you were about to pick up a book of poetry, the door creaked open, and you heard a dark voice behind you.

"It's quite sad, really," the man said, his tone heavy with contempt. "The book, I mean," he clarified as you turned around, meeting the stranger's gaze.

"I am Thomas Shelby and you must be Y/N,"  he introduced himself, approaching you with a confident stride.

Your eyes widened as you took in the sight of the man who stood before you. He was handsome, there was no denying that, but it wasn't just his chiseled features or his magnetic blue eyes that caught your attention. No, it was the air of danger that surrounded him, like a cloud that warned others not to get too close.

You composed yourself, extending your hand towards him. "Yes, I am Y/N. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Shelby," you greeted him with a polite smile, determined to maintain your composure.

"Please, call me Tommy, eh,"  Thomas replied, his cockney accent more pronounced than you'd expected.

He took your offered hand, giving it a firm shake before letting go and stepping back to study you with his intense gaze which lingered a little longer on your bare legs than it probably should.

"Thank you for letting me and my sister stay here, with you," you said almost professionally , breaking the silence. You had to admit, Thomas was an intimidating man but you held your ground without flinching under his scrutiny.

"Well, it wasn't my choice," he chuckled. "Grace practically begged me and I find it rather difficult to say no to her these days,"  he admitted, his tone softening.

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his candidness. "Well, my stepmother can be persuasive, I give her that," you told him while putting the book back into the shelf. 

"You could say that," he replied, offering little insight into their relationship. "Do you drink?" Thomas asked in a manner so casual that the question caught you off guard, but your curiosity was sparked, and you wanted to know more about him. Despite his intimidating presence, he struck you as an intriguing puzzle you couldn't wait to solve.

"I wouldn't say no," you responded with a slight tilt of your head, smiling coyly.

Thomas chuckled at your response before turning around to pour two glasses of whiskey from a crystal decanter on the leather-topped table nearby. With an elegant grace, he handed one to you.

You took it with a slight nod, allowing your fingers to graze his before taking hold of the glass. The warmth spread from your fingertips and up your arm, causing a pleasant shiver to run down your spine.

"There you go, now you can keep me some company," Tommy said with a sly grin as he took a sip of his whiskey and sat down.

"Why don't you get Grace to keep you company?" you asked as you followed suit, feeling the alcohol burn your throat and spread through your body, warming you from the inside out. 

"Because, by now, I would assume that she is sound asleep," Thomas replied, chuckling wryly.

"Well, it is midnight already, which brings me to the question of why you are still up," you asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Because I can't fucking sleep, Love," he replied in a tone of voice that made your heart race, "there is always business on my mind, day and night." 

You stared at him for a moment, contemplating whether or not to ask more about his life. After all, you had heard stories about Thomas Shelby and his criminal empire. 

"Well, the booze doesn't export itself to New York now, does it?"  you replied, a small smirk playing on your lips.

Thomas chuckled at your response, finding amusement in your wit. He appreciated a challenge - it was something he hadn't encountered in a while. Grace had always been so timid around him, obedient almost. But you, on the other hand, didn't cower in the face of his daunting presence.

"So you know what I do, eh?" Thomas agreed, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Did Grace tell you?" Thomas questioned, a slight glint in his eyes as he studied you intently. His gaze was unwavering, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of discomfort at his scrutiny. However, you refused to let him intimidate you, meeting his gaze head-on.

"Oh god no. My stepmother would not discuss matters like this, not with me anyway. She very much dislikes me," you told Tommy as he lid himself a cigarette, his gaze never wavering. "But I know more about my family's business interests than one might think," you admitted, reluctant to speak ill of Grace.

Tommy's lips quirked upwards before he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "That doesn't surprise me, Love. A little birdie has told me that you had some run ins with the law recently, which is why you are here now, in fucking Birmingham of all places,"  Thomas said, his tone laced with an underlying hint of mischief.

He leaned back against the leather armchair, his eyes never leaving yours as he took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Well, it's safe to say that I had made some mistakes in the past," you admitted, holding his gaze firmly. "But I had my reasons for doing what I did," you explained, and  Thomas chuckled at your response, finding your confidence endearing. He had always admired a strong-willed woman - and you were undoubtedly that.

"We all have our reasons, Love,"  Tommy agreed, his tone softening.

You took another sip of your whiskey, the fire in your throat becoming increasingly comforting, and you let out a sigh. The truth was that you had always been impulsive, driven by emotion rather than reason.

You took a moment to gather your thoughts before speaking. "I suppose you're right," you admitted, swirling the amber liquid around your glass before raising from your seat.

"It's getting late and I should probably get some sleep," you said before thanking Tommy for the drink.

Your gaze lingered on him for a moment, studying his features as he did the same with you. There was a spark of curiosity between the two of you, but you quickly tried to push your intrusive thoughts away. 

"Good night, Y/N,"  Thomas murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting moment before you turned around and walked towards the door, hiding your body's reaction to his intense gaze.

"Goodnight," you replied softly, taking one last look at the library before stepping out and closing the door behind you.

You couldn't shake off the feeling of uneasiness that clung to you like a second skin. You shook your head slightly as if to clear the thoughts away, telling yourself that you were only imagining things.

But the way he had looked at you, the slight hint of something deeply sensual in his gaze, lingered and left you with a curious sensation.

You made your way to your guest room, undressing slowly before slipping between the smooth sheets. Emma was already fast asleep, her gentle snores barely audible as you switched off the bedside lamp. The room plunged into darkness, leaving only the faintest gleam of moonlight to cut through the curtains and cast thin stripes of silver upon the walls.

You stared up at the ceiling, the alcohol swimming lazily in your veins and causing your thoughts to swirl with unclear notions.

As much as you tried to fight against the growing allure, Thomas Shelby had intrigued you. There was no denying it. He possessed an air of mystery and darkness that called out to that impulsive part of you like a siren's song which was a part of you which you knew you had to suppress. 

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[k9wa]

𑣲 PREPARED. ft. BLADE

⠀ — he will not be overcome. blade prepared for this day

⠀ OR

⠀ — you’re only human and blade isn’t as ready for your death as he thought.

⚠︎ angst, some gore (?) character death, gn reader, this is kind of old

blade prepared for this day.

he reminded himself of all whom he’d seen fall in his years of existence with every breath he took.

blade prepared for this day.

the stellaron hunter had become well acquainted with his own immortality and the grief that without fail would follow him for all eternity.

blade prepared for this day.

he knew it was best to keep his distance from others, especially from humans. friendships or relationships of any kind were feeble and short-lived for a man like him. if you could even call him a man.

blade prepared for this day.

…so why was he speechless?

why had his breath betrayed him?

why did his legs grow weak, how was he brought to his knees with such ease, skin scraping harshly against the concrete beneath him?

blade prepared for this day… hadn’t he?

well, perhaps he’s slipped up a few times. but he was allowed that much, no?

maybe he shouldn’t have indulged you in so many stories of his travels, or the kinds of people he’d met along the way. but it was only because you were always so eager to hear about them, and the dejected look on your face when he’d say no was irritating.

and sure, he probably could have done without the gentle touches and almost domestic intimacy, but that couldn’t have done too big of a number on him. the emotions blade felt ranged from numb to violent, and had not stretched farther than the between for the last hundred years at least. a kiss to your cheek or your arms wrapped around him from behind couldn’t have really changed that.

no. it couldn’t have.

because blade prepared for this day.

he repeats it in his head like a mantra as he cradles you to his chest, your blood staining his bandaged and scarred hands as it drips to the stone floor. there's a sea of bodies surrounding you, a sign of blade’s inevitable victory alongside your inevitable demise.

all blade could do was watch as the spear pierced through your flesh and bones like they were butter, time almost slowing down as he bolted to your side as fast as he could once he noticed the pointed steel hurling towards you.

he was too late, only arriving in time to catch you as your knees buckled before you could tumble to the ground.

it was clean shot through your heart and left lung, tip of the spear poking out of your chest and staring him menacingly in the eye.

blade prepared for this day.

he knew you would not survive.

humans were fragile. a piercing shot through some vital organs was more than enough to take your life.

he pulled it out as quickly as he realised the tragic truth, hoping to make you more comfortable. he whispers small, rushed apologies into your ear as you cry out from the steel ripping through you again, this time the opposite way.

ren fought to keep his hands steady as he held you tightly against him. he would not panic in your final hours, he would not be an addition to the turmoil of your unfair death.

blade prepared for this day.

he sucks down the urge to scream out and curse the aeons for doing this to him again. he swallows the desire to pierce himself with the very weapon that would take you from him as punishment to himself for thinking this time will be different.

a calloused hand is held to your cheek as your body clings to its life, small choked gasps leaving your lips as if your lungs could even hold the air.

ren rests his forehead against yours, swirls of tangerine and crimson and pale skin shining through your cloudy vision. your efforts to speak are in vain, he just shushes you quietly.

“just look at me.” his voice is quiet, eerily calm and surprisingly comforting.

his thumb rubs small circles on your cheek, he can feel the puddle of blood on his pants growing. you comply, gazing up into his hardened eyes as you swear you see grief shining behind them. perhaps it's just the blood loss.

“you’re okay.” ren’s voice is like silk, despite its natural rasp. he tries to will himself to crack the slightest of smiles for your comfort. he cannot.

blade prepared for this day.

your hand shakily raised up to try and hold his, and all you can do is weakly grab onto his wrist. yet you’re smiling. you turn your head slightly to the left and kiss his palm, and blade does not see fear nor anguish in your eyes. he sees a sea of peace, two lakes of adoration staring back at him.

“you’re okay.” he repeats, lips meeting your forehead softly. “i’ve got you.”

it proves harder and harder to keep his hands steady as your eyes grow heavier, fluttering shut. he pulls you closer to him, squeezing his own eyes shut as if just seeing your face was pushing him over the edge.

blade prepared for this day.

he can feel your breaths shortening, becoming more shallow. he sucks in a breath.

blade prepared for this day.

“i’ll find you.” he wouldn’t. the place your mind and soul would travel to was the only place in the galaxy he traversed across that he could not reach despite his endless and verying attempts. whether the empty pledge is a futile attempt at a comfort to you or him will remain unknown.

blade prepared for this day.

whether the words reached you or not also remains up in the air. ren watches as your chest stops attempting to rise. if you were anyone else, he would be jealous.

blade thought he prepared for this day.

but realistically, nothing could ever truly prepare him again and again for the feeling he knew all too well; loss.

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[temporarywelcome]

Jezebel - James Patrick March

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: Being in an arranged marriage with James March, but he's already completely smitten with his new wife, despite the fact he knows she plans on killing him. Hey, it's kind of hot.

WARNINGS: some swearing, some violence, death, sexual implications but no smut

A/N: they're so Gomez and Morticia. They match each other's freak. Yes, I used the vows from the Corpse Bride.

___________

James March was a very interesting man.

The way he carried himself as if he had no care in the world was enticing. He radiated confidence and grace, and was, well, an overall attractive man. 

And he was to be her husband. A fiance she never even met till tonight. 

It was 1923, a time where this “dating” thing was becoming popular, yet here the two of them were, meeting three weeks before their planned wedding. March was slowly becoming wealthier and wealthier, but his mother demanded he be wed, with a woman to take care of his estate while he did his business. Someone to care for him when she would eventually meet her own unfortunate demise. 

And so his mother found Y/N L/N, a pure beauty that many men oggled over obsessively. She was young, single, and his mother just could sense the compatibility when she saw Y/N’s lovely picture. Her son would love this girl. 

Except there was more to Y/N than meets the eye. 

Sitting at the dinner table, James eyed her in curiosity. “Did you come here from a funeral, darling?” he asked cheekily, his usual charming grin etched onto his face.

She looked up from her plate, raising a perfectly penciled in brow, “Why yes, actually,” 

He scratched the back of his neck, not expecting that answer. He had just meant to make a light-hearted joke about her attire: the long, ruffled black dress and hat to match in color, adorned with black and burgundy feathers. To accompany the clothing were sleek black gloves, lace along the wrist area. “Oh dear, my apologies. I hope I have not offended you.”

“No no,” she waved a hand dismissively, “It was not for anyone I knew,”

“Oh?” Now he was intrigued, taking a sip of his wine, the same color of her plump lips, “Then why would you attend such an event?”

“Death excites me,” she replied, and he was sure he had fallen in love right then and there, “As well as I find grief interesting to no end,”

“Interesting?” the man asked, smitten beyond compare, “What is so interesting about grief, my dear?”

Her lips curled into a devious smile, “How everyone grieves differently. Some cry, others laugh, some don’t give a damn. What I find the most hilarious is people establishing relationships. At a funeral of all places!”

“Horrid indeed isn’t it?” he asked with a chuckle. 

“It is! A splendid horror!” Y/N nodded in agreement. 

March watched as she expertly cracked open a crab leg, impressed in her abilities to do so without juices exploding everywhere. “You’re a stunning woman, you know?”

She looked at him from her meal and that devious smirk appeared once again, “And you’re a very handsome man, Mr. March,”

“Tell me, dearest, how old are you? Have you ever wed before?”

It looked like she had to think about it, which March thought nothing of at the time, already completely smitten. “Twenty-eight,” she replied, “And yes, I have,” 

“You have? And what had become of that marriage?”

“All three were tragedies,” she replied, bringing a piece of crab to her mouth with a fork. Three?! “I’ve sadly been widowed three times. A black widow, you might call me.” 

Three marriages that ended in the death of her spouse? March doubted this was any bit coincidental. “What an unfortunate event! On all three accounts! How did these poor souls die?” 

“Ah, all different ways. My first had a heart attack. The second, I still think to be my true love, committed suicide. Not because of me, of course, as he explained why in his letter. The third, he… he was tragically murdered one night,” 

Oh how intriguing of a woman she was! March asked, “Murdered! In what way?” 

“His throat was slashed,” she answered, “And he was drained of his blood.” Y/N then took a sip of her wine, not at all bothered by the fact. 

James March smirked, placing his chin on his palm as he stared at her. Oh, how infatuated he was. He was sure those death were not as she said they were. He was sure she had something to do with it. 

And he was sure as hell that if he married her, he would be her next target.

Oh, what a lovely woman he was so willing to marry!

________

The next three weeks went by in a blur. 

Y/N would wake up to endless gifts being left at her door: trinkets, jewels, flowers, heels, silk gloves, anything a woman could dream of. He would call her on the telephone at five p.m. every day just before dinner, and for those three Fridays he would take her on lavish dinners and dates. 

He went above and beyond for the woman he knew surely wanted to kill him. 

It was now the morning of the wedding, and Y/N’s telephone rang. She curiously went to it, grabbing the device and bringing it to her ear. Grabbing the other part in her unoccupied hand, she spoke into it: “Hello?”

“Hello, my dearest, I am thrilled to hear your beautiful voice this morning. It reminds me of sweet honey: smooth and-”

“James?” she interrupted him, “Why are you calling this early?”

James laughed lightly, “Because today is our wedding day, my love. I cannot call you at five p.m. because at five p.m. you will be in my welcoming arms! Are you excited?”

“I’m trembling in desire, darling,” she replied, “I must attend to my wedding preparations,”

“You will look absolutely ravishing, my sweet. Oh, how I adore you. I will leave you to your duties, anxiously waiting to wed my beautiful bride.” 

“I will see you very soon, my handsome king,” Y/N said, “Goodbye,” She hung up the two parts of the telephone and set it back down, preparing herself for her big day.

Her fourth big day. 

The stylists got to work, putting her hair in rollers, painting her nails a shiny jet black, carefully applying her dramatic makeup. She went for walks all done out, she wasn’t going to be caught slacking on her on wedding.

Fourth wedding. 

That James March knew of.

“How long do you plan on keeping this one for?” her loyal servant, Ms. Barnes, asked, blowing on the nail polish adorning Y/N’s fingernails. “He’s a handsome one.” 

Y/N thought for a moment, “I’m unsure. He is actually… sweet.” 

“And rich,” said another servant, Ms. Michaels, busying herself with Y/N’s hair. 

“So was her second,” Ms. Barnes pointed out, “And he lasted three months.”

“His riches are not of importance to me,” Y/N told her servants, “I do not need a man’s riches when I have my own,”

“How true, Ms. L/N,” Ms. Barned nodded in agreement, “There is no point in having men if it isn’t for one’s own entertainment.”

_________

This was marked the best day of James Patrick March’s short life. 

He stood at the alter adjusting his bow tie with the biggest grin a man could have as he waited for his beautiful bride to grace the audience with her presence. Practically the entirety of Chicago came to the celebration of their love, rows upon rows of guests laid out before him as he anxiously waited.

And then she came down the aisle, the orchestra expertly playing the familiar tune of Here Comes the Bride as she took each step. She didn’t just want an organ player, she wanted the whole deal. The organ, violins, a beautiful symphony as she had her big moment. And of course, James was quick to make the arrangement for his beloved. 

She was an absolute beauty, in a large dress that took up most of the aisle’s width. Black and lacey, with tiered ruffles, off the shoulder to show off her soft shoulders. Her veil was also black lace, partially covering her face, the back half dozens of feet long. His fiance was a maximalist, and he made sure she was about to get an equally maximalist wedding. 

The wedding went as planned. When it was James’ turn to do his vows, he raised his hand as previously instructed during the practice, “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.” he raised his chalice, “Your cup will never be empty, for I will be your wine,” he poured the red wine into the glass. Red as her lips. Her signature color. He placed down the chalice, grabbing a lighter for the candle that was in front of him, “With this candle, I will light your way in darkness,” Finally, he grabbed her ring, the blood ruby shining in the light of the candle, “With this ring, I ask you to be mine,” he slid it onto her slender finger before pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. 

Y/N perfectly recited the vows as well, slipping the ring onto his finger. They then took their glasses and took a sip of the sweet wine, before finally, sharing a kiss to seal the deal. James carefully moved her veil, revealing the face of the seductress that had his heart. His arms went around her as he leaned in, kissing her with all of the passion in him.

They were now wed. 

The wedding activities soon began, the newly weds beginning their first dance. James brought an arm around her waist, pulling her close as they began to dance, “You look absolutely stunning, darling, you have impeccable taste of fashion,”

“Hm,” she replied with a smirk, “I think I have upset quite a few with the color of my dress,”

“To hell with them. All of them, jealous of your immense beauty,” said March, pressing a kiss to her jaw, “I just might be the luckiest man in this room. Such a dazzling woman I have in my embrace,” with a smirk, he whispered in her ear, “I could just die from excitement,” 

_________

The next few months went by in a blur.

James March made sure to treat Y/N like a queen, spoiling her beyond compare. He knew she wanted to kill him, but did not say a word. She knew about his special new hobby. She didn’t say anything either. 

Once the fifth month passed, Ms. Barnes, who was diligently doing Y/N’s hair, said: “I think we have ourselve’s a record. Five months, the longest you have kept a husband.” 

She hummed in response, lighting a cigarette, “Correct. The longest. I have not become bored of him just yet.”

“Well, he’s not a boring man, Mrs. March,” Ms. Michaels mused, “He treats you like gold,”

“That he does,” Y/N said in agreement, a satisfied look on her face, “I don’t think any of my ex-husbands have treated me this well. It is quite… refreshing,”

“You don’t have to kill him, you know?” Ms. Barnes told her, “You’re allowed to find happiness,” 

“But, Ms. Barnes, that is what gives me happiness,” she shrugged, taking a long puff of her cig, “There is just something so wonderful about…. Watching the life… leave their eyes,” she smiled sweetly, sighing in joy at the thought, “However, I quite like James alive. Perhaps I would need a new fix.” 

Over the past few years (124, to be exact), Y/N had a cycle. She would tease herself, almost edge herself by only drinking the blood of animals to quench her thirsts, marry a man, and once she couldn’t handle it anymore, kill him. Usually in some fun, intricate way. Then she would feast on his blood until he was completely dry.

It was a fun game that has kept her satisfied for decades already.

Until now.

The thought of killing James March didn’t sound right to her anymore.

“We have a ball today,” she told her servants, “I’m sure I will find someone of use for the night,” 

James had vowed to make two days of October the biggest spectacle of Chicago. October 30th, his birthday, which he named Devil’s Night, because he was dramatic like that. The day that came after was Y/N’s birthday, October 31st, Halloween, which very much fit her. 

So not only was Devil’s Night a huge celebration, but so was Halloween, the night of James March’s beloved. 

There was a soft knock on the door, and James entered the room, “My love! You look ravishing,” he practically pushed through the two servants, placing his hands on her shoulders, placing a few kisses along her neck, “Absoutely stunning, dear,” he then pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“James! You’ll mess up my makeup!”

“No matter, just reapply it. I’ll always buy you more,” James replied smugly, kissing her cheek again, “My beautiful wife. Happy birthday again. I feel my present for you would look lovely with your dress,” He glanced at Ms. Barnes and Ms. Michaels, “Shoo shoo,” he waved them off.

“Behave,” Y/N deadpanned. 

“My apologies, dearest,” he said, though he obviously didn’t give a damn, “I just can’t wait to get you alone,” he nipped at her neck. Noticing the warning look in her eyes, he laughed, pulling away, “Fine fine, evil woman. Close your eyes while I give you your gift!”

Y/N smirked lightly, closing her eyes as her husband took out her gift. Obviously a necklace, feeling him place it along her neck, the large jewels cascading down her chest. He fastened the clasp, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, “Open your eyes, darling,” 

Her eyes opened, and she smiled in pleasant surprise. Of course, the necklace was adorned in huge diamonds, he was never cheap when it came to his beloved. “Oh, James, it’s wonderful!” she said, meeting his gaze through the mirror, “Thank you,”

“Ah, anything for you, my dear,” James smirked, squeezing her shoulders from behind, “My beautiful wife.” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear fondly, “We could always be late to the party,” he said suggestively.

“Late? To my own party? I think not,” Y/N stood up, laughing at the pout on her husband’s lips, “Don’t fret, dear, I will be all yours when the night ends.” she promised, arms going around his neck as she stared into his dark, dark eyes, “But for now you must wait,” she stuck out her tongue, teasingly grazing his earlobe.

“You naughty girl,” James said in excitement, gripping her hips, ‘You Jezebel you,” 

She giggled seductively, “All for you, my dear,” 

Oh, she did not want to kill him. Not at all. 

And so they left the room and made way to the grand spiral staircase. The couple stopped at the top, James releasing her hand, “Stay here, darling, let me introduce the star of the night!” he made the descent down each step until he stood at the bottom gathering the attention of the guests scattered all throughout their grand home. He introduced his wife, holding out a hand to her as she made her way down the steps.

Each step was careful and precise (like usual, her dress was huge), radiating confidence as she greeted her guests. Y/N took her husband’s hand, allowing him to bring her close.

The night festivities went as planned, Y/N certainly enjoying the effort her husband took into making sure her birthday went perfectly. He always went above and beyond for her, always seeking her approval. He was completely devoted.

After a while, Y/N purposely got separated from him in search of someone. A victim. If she wasn’t going to kill her husband, she had to kill someone else. She was tired of teasing herself.

It didn’t take her long to find some stupid man, some lawyer named George. He was quick to get handsy with her, so she led him off to one of the many guest rooms. He was desperately ripping at her dress, which she loosened up with an eye roll. 

God she wasn’t in the mood for this. 

She pinned him down to the bed, glaring at him darkly, tongue darting out to lick her lips. He was annoying. He didn’t have that sexy drawl like her husband. Those dark but comforting brown eyes. Those hands fit perfectly on her hips.

It wouldn’t matter to her if this man died. 

And with a smirk, she raised a hand, each finger covered by a claw-like ornament, a gift from her loving husband, of course. He said it “fit her style”.

He was so right.

She let her index finger run along his chest, then slowly his throat, leaving goosebumps along the trembling skin, until with a swift motion, she swiped her finger, swiped the claw, and his throat was slit. Buying her face into his neck, she lapped up the sweet flavor of his blood. 

Finally, she needed this.

As she hungrily drank, the door opened. 

“Oh, dearest, whatever are you doing?”

Y/N shot up, head snapping in the direction of James March. Her husband. However, he didn’t seem terrified. Or pissed. 

He simply laughed, arms going around her from behind, “My love is either a lunatic or a vampire. Or both.” he gripped the ribbons of her dress, tightening her corset to fix it, “I must say… It’s rather sexy.”

And so began a new dynamic.

James took it upon himself to do the dirty work. His wife should never get those soft hands dirty. 

And so he did the killing, and she would watch, with a look of approval on her face. He would then take her hand and help her out of her chair and towards the body, admiring how she looked as she drank the man dry. 

“That was supposed to be me, wasn't it?” He asked during one of their little “sessions”. “You wanted to drain me of my blood.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand and she glanced up at him, “possibly.”

“It's alright, my dear, I take no offense,” he laughed, grabbing a cloth to clean off his knife. “I must have earned the right to live, huh?”

She smirked up at him, “not many would do this for their wives,”

And their dynamics continued. He killed, she ate, they had hot sex after.

And it worked well. 

James ended up building a grand hotel, all of Chicago raving over it. The Hotel Cortez. He originally wanted to name it after Y/N, his beloved, but she herself told him that was a stupid idea. 

They spent a lot of time there, whether it was to aid guests, host events, pass time, or even pick off a few victims. 

After a while, they even began to discuss the possibility of children. James was dead set on two: a boy (named James March JR, of course), and a girl (named after you, of course).

Y/N made it clear she found that to be extremely boring. Just naming the children after themselves? How cliche.

Pretty much every night after basically rearranging her organs, he would lay with her and yap and yap and yap about how it's important for them to continue their legacies, and then he yaps some more about if the baby inherits her thirst for blood if it would be immortal and all these different questions.

They were planning for the future, until disaster struck.

A peaceful day in the hotel, James having his lovely wife in his embrace as he spoke to patrons. She went off on her own duties after a while, until meeting with James again in one of the rooms.

Something was wrong.

Once he saw her, he rushed to her and gave her a rough kiss, cupping her cheeks with such urgency, “My love….” He whispered, “someone ratted me out. Someone knew.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she whispered, hands going to his wrists as she looked up at him, “You mean…?”

“Yes, our little hobby,” March brought her against his chest, an arm around her waist, a hand raking through her hair, “Oh how I hope it wasn’t you who told. Don’t even tell me, I would be devastated,” he sighed, resting his chin on the top of her head. 

“No, James,” she replied in a quiet tone, “I did not tell anyone. You know I love you.” She pulled away slightly to look up at him, “If I wanted you gone, you know I would have killed you myself.”

A soft smile reached her husband's lips as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, “Always the loyal wife. I adore you, my dear.” There was a hint of genuine sadness in his tone as he held her close. “Will you be the one to finish me?”

Y/N shook her head right away, “No!” she pulled away completely, “No, I won't. You've been the only husband I've loved. I can't…. I can't kill you.”

With another sad smile, he held her again, “I understand, dearest. Just… stay with me while I do it? Please?”

This couldn't be happening. It really couldn't.

But she nodded, face buried in his chest, “Yes… I'll stay with you,”

“Thank you, my love,” he sighed, kissing the top of her head. He held her for a moment before pulling away and taking her hand, sitting down. There was a knife on the table and he shakily grabbed it. “This won't be the first throat I slash,” he tried to joke, but it came out flat. James squeezed her hand as he brought the knife to his throat, but his wife speedily stopped him.

“I'll…. I'll do it,” she gulped out, trembling hand taking the knife from him and placing it back on the table.

“Are you sure? You don't have to, my love, I can do it myself.”

“No, no, I-I'll do it,” she repeated. Y/N seated herself on her lover's lap, arms going around his neck as she captured his lips in a desperate kiss. She could feel tears forming as she realized this would be their last kiss.

Her last kiss with the first husband she's ever loved. 

Maybe this was her punishment for all of her terrible deeds. The universe taking away the one man she ever truly loved. 

As they continued to kiss, she brought her clawed index finger to his throat, fingers trembling the closer she got. She pulled away from the kiss, “R-Ready?”

Despite everything, he smiled. “I'm ready, darling.” he pressed his forehead against hers, “I will always be with you,” 

And with that, she slashed his throat.

Y/N let out a soft cry watching the life quickly leave his eyes, the one man she wanted to stay alive. “Oh, James…” she cupped his cheeks, kissing his lifeless lips. “I love you I love you I love you,”

She could hear loud footsteps coming up the stairs, and she knew it was time to go. She grabbed the knife, bringing it to his bloodied neck before placing it into her lover's hand.

And with that, she climbed out the window.

“I will always be with you,” the words hung in her mind as she went down the fire escape.

She didn't know he was going to keep his word, even in death. 

---------

Yall i love him. inbox is open btw

[bumblesimagines]

When Fire Meets Fate

Part 13

Request: Yes or No

Summary: With war comes the death of innocents, and Luke was merely the first of many. Upon learning of Prince Jaehaerys demise, (Y/N) and Rhaenyra are forced to confront the man behind it.

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, spoilers for S2, mentions of the death of Jaehaerys,

Had to deal with a hurricane, power outages, the ongoing process of moving, no wifi, and a sore knee before I could finish this part😭 the universe really said hold your horses but you know what? i thank it for making me wait cause i just got the book from libby this morning

~~~

The waves crashed against the rocky cliffs, droplets of salty water rising and falling with each continuous crash that filled the air with the comforting smell of the ocean. He listened to it, the heartbeat of the ocean, and felt his beat along with the rhythm as he swirled his ring around his finger. His thoughts refused to stop, refused to ease into something comprehensible. The Realm had been at peace for many decades under the rule of the Old King and King Viserys, flourishing and blissful; now like his mind, it was broken. War... such a frightening word. The very thought of it made his insides twist and his throat tighten. 

"My Lord," (Y/N) tore his eyes away from the dark water and pushed himself away from the balcony to face the troubled Ser Erryk. "The Small Council has called an urgent meeting with news from King's Landing." 

A multitude of things raced through his mind as he strode through the halls of the Stone Drum, his unease and confusion heightening when he noticed the grim looks on a few of the lords' faces. Rhaenyra appeared as puzzled as him, her eyes flickering to him questioningly, but she found no answer in his features. She watched him take his seat beside Rhaenys before she turned to Maester Gerardys, giving him a small nod to speak his piece. 

"Tragic news from King's Landing, Your Grace, My Lord," Maester Gerardys began shakily, his lips forming a grim line. "There was a funeral procession this morrow for the son of Aegon and Helaena Targaryen who was slain in the middle of the night. It is yet unclear how the Keep itself was breached. The boy's head was severed from his body. Thousands witnessed the procession."

(Y/N) felt the world still for a moment. The crashing of the waves ceased and the crackling of the fire grew muffled as the information settled into his bones. He inhaled deeply through his nose and held it, his eyes bouncing around the designs carved into the table. Helaena... sweet little Helaena, the very definition of innocence and curiosity. He bit his inner cheek when Alicent slipped into his mind and a dull ache in his stomach awakened. 

Rhaenyra stared forward, completely aghast by the revelation, by the underlying tone and unspoken words reinforced by the suspicion and accusatory glances around the table. "And.. they are accusing me of having a hand in this?"

Maester Gerardys's brows pulled into a sympathetic furrow. "It appears so." He confirmed softly, and (Y/N) resisted the urge to slump back into his seat, his mind still working on who would even think of bringing such harm to gentle Helaena, much less to a boy as young as her son. "There have been messages sent to that effect throughout the Realm."

"We must send our own messages, denying this vile allegation," Rhaenyra ordered swiftly as she stepped out from behind her chair to stand before it, her fingertips pressing into the Painted Table. There was a flicker in her eyes, one filled with worry, likely for the lives of their own young children.

"I will do so at once, but I am not sure they will be received in good faith." 

"And we must double our guard, here and in Driftmark," Rhaenyra added, smoothing out the back of her dress as she lowered herself down into her seat, prompting the rest of the lords to follow suit. She swallowed and lifted her head, sparing her husband a glance before observing her lords. "There will be swift retribution in one form or another-"

"I have seen to it, Your Grace." Lord Celtigar interrupted, drawing (Y/N)'s gaze away from his wife and onto the older man with a stern glare. The older man pointedly avoided looking in his direction as Jace strode into the room and stood at the end of the table, sharing an encouraging glance with Lord Celtigar.

"Let me fly out on Vermax." Jace offered and both of his parents snapped their heads toward him. Lucerys faint laughter echoed in his father's ears, the image of his eyes that so often reminded (Y/N) of Gwayne's flashed in his mind. The shaky breath Rhaenyra released was subtle but he picked it up nonetheless. "Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet and I can watch for moves from King's Landing."

The answer lacked hesitation: "No."

Lord Celtigar inhaled deeply and turned back the Rhaenyra, clearing his throat lightly to garner her attention once more. "It must be said that the damage to our position is immeasurable, at a time when we most need loyalty to our cause." He spoke carefully, clasping his hands behind his back with the accusation in his tone evident. 

"But it is a lie." Rhaenyra scoffed, her eyes wide as she looked amongst her council when none of the lords bothered to raise their disagreement of Lord Celtigar. "Having lost my own son, that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people. An innocent."

A moment of solemn silence passed over the room and (Y/N) pushed himself back further into his seat with a quiet sigh. His thumb pressed and rubbed against the ring of his index finger, tilting his head to look toward Jace once more only to notice the withering stare Rhaenys sent across the table toward the Targaryen sat opposite of him. He turned to the prince and felt his heart skip a beat at the look in Daemon's eyes. 

Seven fucking Hells.

Ser Alfred cleared his throat next, his eyes lingering on Lord Celtigar before sliding over to Rhaenyra. "The death of Prince Lucerys Velaryon was a shock and an insult. A mother so aggrieved might, naturally, seek relief in retribution-"

"Are you suggesting, Ser Alfred-" Rhaenyra shot up from her seat, the lilac of her eyes bright with offense and voice heavy with anger. "-that my grief drove me to order the decapitation of a child?" 

"I merely thought, perhaps, an action taken in haste-"

"Mind yourself," Rhaenys steely voice cut through the air for once, and the tone of the older princess proved enough to silence the men at the table.

With a quiet scoff and light shake of her head, Rhaenyra sat back down in her seat as (Y/N) rose from his. He met her eyes and she managed a smile, one that he could not return when he flickered his eyes between her and Daemon. Her brows furrowed and she turned to look at her uncle, studying his features until slowly but surely, the horror and realization dawned on her. Her brows softened then and her eyes widened, lips parting with a quiet inhale. 

"Let it be known that Her Grace nor I ordered the sickening murder of a child." (Y/N) began icily, his hands folding before him and vexed stare lingering on Daemon before it moved onto Ser Alfred and then Lord Celtigar. "Helaena is a gentle soul and she has never spoken ill of any of us despite whatever poison she has been fed throughout the years. To imply that Her Grace would purposefully bring harm upon her sister and nephew, that she would stoop as low as Aemond did, is a great offense and insult. It certainly says a lot of the men you are as well, to not only believe such a thing but to regardless defend it. I should not be standing here like a disappointed parent lecturing their children when many of you are men old enough to be my father. We expect better from the men of this council." 

When Rhaenyra rose from her seat once more, her steely gaze still locked on Daemon, the rest of the council did as well. (Y/N) offered her his arm and she took it, a quiet and tired sigh escaping her. "If that is all the news to be discussed this afternoon then this meeting is over. Thank you, Maester Gerardys, for informing us as soon as possible." The lords dipped their heads and bowed in return, waiting for the couple to leave before they returned to their previous tasks. 

Rhaenyra and (Y/N) strolled to their bedchambers, only stopping to have a servant summon Daemon and locate Baela. He arrived moments later, his attention on the floor until he found a seat and slumped down in it as if it were all a mere inconvenience. (Y/N) sighed heavily and placed his arms atop the nearest chair, his teeth grinding slightly as irritation swirled in his stomach like a storm waiting to reach land.

"Tell me it is not true." Rhaenyra stared at her uncle as her calm demeanor chipped away when he simply poured himself a cup of wine and took a sip from it. "Did you truly send assassins to murder children in their beds?"

"I sent the queen's vengeance for her son." He answered quietly, swirling the cup around as if it hadn't just admitted to being partial to the death of a child. (Y/N) rubbed his palm over his face in exasperation as Rhaenyra walked forward toward her uncle with purpose.

"What did you tell this vengeance? What did you say to him, Daemon, that a boy lies dead and I am accused of killing him?" Rhaenyra's hands slammed down against the table, her shoulders heaving and necklace jingling with her movements. (Y/N) studied her but remained silent. He'd be a fool to intervene between two dragons, even more so when they were Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen; perhaps the most stubborn and fiery of the family.

"Mysaria provided me with names and a subterfuge." Daemon started and raised the cup to his lips again, his adams apple bobbing with each swallow and lips growing tainted in a subtle red tint. (Y/N)'s memory flickered back to Ser Erryk and the stowaway, and his eyes fluttered shut. "I was clear in my instructions: Aemond, the brother of Aegon the Usurper. I cannot be responsible for a mista-"

"Cannot be responsible?!" Rhaenyra glowered, the disbelief and annoyance in her tone finally prompting Daemon to meet her eyes. She leaned back, wetting her lips and taking slow steps closer to the man before bracing her hand against the table once more and leaning toward him with barely contained anger. "If Aemond was not to be found, what were your instructions then?"

"They did not concern, in any way, that of a little child."

"You said that it was your aim to spill Hightower blood, and if not Aemond, then anyone would do."

"No."

"You have wounded me!" Rhaenyra exhaled weakly, leaning back with softened, near-watery eyes. "Weakened my claim to the throne, my ability to raise an army, my standing among my own council!"

"I said no." Daemon asserted more quietly, his own eyes softening ever so slightly at the emotion in her eyes before hardening again when she scoffed under her breath and leaned back. Rhaenyra stared at him, her fingers curling into fists before uncurling again, the loose strands of her hair swaying when she shook her head.

"I don't believe you." She told him, stalking away from him with a chest rapidly rising and falling. Rhaenyra's brows moved into a fixed furrow, her lips pulled down into a deep, disappointed frown. She returned to her husband's side, her lips parting to release the quickened breaths and eyes fluttering shut to calm herself. (Y/N)'s hand grazed hers and she took it, rubbing her thumb over his skin as if to soothe herself. 

With an inhale, she looked at Daemon. "And so we come to it, at long last." Her words came out quiet and hurt, the implication blatant enough for Daemon to lean back in his seat with narrowed eyes. "Cannot trust you, Daemon. I've never trusted you, wholly, much though I wished to, willed myself to. But now I have seen that your heart belongs only to you. And when I was a child, I took this as a challenge to prove myself worthy of being your equal. But I am older now. I have challenges enough." The more she spoke, the louder she got, the hold on (Y/N)'s hand growing tighter and tighter until she released him to begin pacing. 

"I have served you faithfully." Daemon managed out through gritted teeth, his fingers drumming along the armrest of his chair. 

"Have you?" Rhaenyra snapped. "Or have you used me as a tool with which to try and grasp at your stolen inheritance?"

Her words seemingly struck a nerve within the older prince; shooting up from his chair and smacking away his cup and pitcher. The items flew across the room, clattering against a candle holder and then onto the floor where wine and wax mixed. Rhaenyra flinched and staggered background, her movements combined with Daemon's outburst instinctively prompting (Y/N) into slotting himself between the two before the ill-tempered prince could reach his wife.

Daemon stopped before him, his nostrils flaring with each deep inhale he took and wild violet eyes piercing right into him. (Y/N)'s heart rammed in his ribcage and every nerve in his body demanded he get away from the prince but he remained rooted in his spot, shoulders squared and ears picking up each ragged breath from his wife behind him. His eyes flickered away when Daemon raised his hand and the prince hesitated, his features contorting as different emotions flickered through his eyes before he reached forward, his calloused hands pressing into (Y/N)'s cheeks and thumbs roughly rubbing over his cheekbones.

"It was I you entrusted with dealing with Vaemond Velaryon; it was I who drank and feasted with you all these years in Dragonstone; it was I who encouraged Rhaenyra time and time again to pursue her desire for you. I am not your enemy." Daemon spoke lowly and his head lifted to address Rhaenyra. "When Ser Erryk brought you the crown, did I not hand it to your husband so that he may place it upon your brow?"

"Yes," Rhaenyra breathed. "But before that, you sought to lead a council of war while I labored in my bedchamber without you once making an attempt to ensure my health and safety. And afterward, when I thought it meet to consider the terms our foes put before us-"

"A folly!" Daemon spat, releasing (Y/N) to whirl around and stalk away from them. Rhaenyra placed her hand on her husband's arm and swiftly checked his face for bruising before following after her uncle as he crossed the room. (Y/N) rubbed his tender flesh, feeling it tingle lightly under his fingertips. "A folly to give up my brother's throne to the traitorous lies of Otto Hightower!" 

"My throne, Daemon, mine!" Rhaenyra shouted and Daemon slowed down, his jaw visibly clenched as he turned to look at her. Rhaenyra's shoulders slumped, soft panting leaving her. "I think you used my words as an excuse to take your own revenge, to indulge the darkness you keep sheathed within you like a blade."

Daemon sneered, brushing past her to rest his arms across the chair behind her. "You think me some kind of monster-"

"I don't know what to think of you," Rhaenyra admitted. "I don't know what you are, or who it is you serve-"

Daemon laughed then in disbelief. "Am I not on my way, even now, to Harrenhal to raise an army in your name, Rhaenyra?! Yours!"

Rhaenyra shook her head again, more lightly, and tears glittered in her eyes, her body turning to take some steps away from him. Her shoulders trembled with an inhale and she faced him, the tears threatening to fall from her lashes. "Do you..." She began softly, quietly. (Y/N) pressed his lips together and retrieved the pitcher and cup Daemon knocked from the ground, setting them on the table and meeting the prince's eyes. "...accept me as your queen and ruler? Or do you cling, even now, to what you think you lost?" 

Daemon's gaze slowly drew away from the lord to look at her. "What I think I lost?" He echoed just as softly.

"You did not lose it." Rhaenyra chuckled despite her quivering lips, her dress kicking up the dust along the floor when it dragged as she walked toward them. "You gave it away because you thought ever and only of your own glory, and not of my father in his grief who needed you!"

"Your father was a coward who knew I was the stronger son, that I was the leader of men, and he was afraid to be seen in my shadow. Do you believe he made you heir because of your great wisdom? Because of your virtue?" Rhaenyra's lips rolled into her mouth and her arms raised, smacking against her sides and body twisting away from them again. "Or did he merely use you as a tool to put me in my place because he was afraid of me?"

"You were disinherited because you could not help yourself, Daemon." (Y/N) leaned forward slightly, bringing the attention of the two Targaryens onto him. Daemon's eyes narrowed again and he straightened up, his grip on the chair turning his knuckles pure white. "Your inability to keep your mouth shut disinherited you, Daemon. What do you think would have happened if King Viserys allowed you time and time again to get away with insulting the King of Westeros? A brotherly spat behind doors is one thing but to mock his dead child and by extension his dead wife before the smallfolk? They would think him weak, Daemon. You gave him no choice and proceeded to prove it as the right decision by throwing a tantrum like a child!" 

"You-"

"And more so, it is not an achievement to believe your own kin was afraid of you. The downfall of any house, of any family, begins when kin turns against kin. It has been said time and time again, why do you think Rhaenyra desires peace? If dragons dance, dragons will fall, and with them their riders; who will that leave if not ashes and bones? Parentless children? The Realm ripped apart and struggling? By slaughtering a child, you are no better than Aemond."

Daemon stared at him unblinking. "It was a mistake." He hissed lowly. 

"A mistake is making the wrong move during training... spilling the blood of an innocent is a choice; one that I, and everyone else who has come to meet you, knows you capable of making. You... you relish in fear and bloodshed... and that is how you will die if you do not accept change within yourself. How can we keep you close when we cannot be sure what you will do next?" (Y/N) watched him, exhaustion clinging to his body and seeping into his voice. 

Daemon peeled himself away from the chair and stormed past Rhaenyra, slamming the door leading into their bedchambers shut. Rhaenyra staggered forward and slumped down in the chair, bracing her arms on the table and resting her head on her hands. She sniffled quietly and sighed shakily, her head lifting when (Y/N) moved closer and ran his fingertips through her hair. 

"Daemon is... complicated." (Y/N) reminded her softly, lowering himself down to sit beside her. "But he may yet prove himself in Harrenhal, Rhaenyra." 

"One can only dream of such a thing." Rhaenyra sighed, her hand finding his and bringing it to her lips so she could press a soft kiss to the back of his hand. Despite the conversation sucking much energy and emotion of out them, he gave her a gentle smile."But for our sake... I hope you are right."

The doors creaked when they opened and Baela strolled inside, clasping her hands before her and dipping her head. "You wish to see me, Your Grace, My Lord?" Baela questioned softly, stepping further into the room. The splatter of wine and a candle Daemon knocked over in his outburst drawing her attention to the floor momentarily. She grimaced. 

Rhaenyra rose, offering her an exhausted smile. "When morning comes, take Moondancer and keep a watch on King's Landing. I need to know which course they take next. We depend on you, Baela. Stay high and keep your distance." She ordered gently, her hand still clinging to (Y/N)'s. Baela straightened up at her words, a familiar twinkle passing over her eyes that brought a small smile to (Y/N)'s face. "We can afford no further mistakes."

"I will be vigilant." The young girl assured, glancing toward the floor again. Her lips formed a few words, seemingly attempting to find the right ones to say before she cleared her throat and tilted her head slightly. "My father?" She pushed gently, her brows knitting together slightly and a flicker of concern passing over her face.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips firmly together, her shoulders lowering with a heavy exhale. "He must follow his own path." She said simply, and Baela's face fell with a harsh swallow and nod. 

"Baela," (Y/N) called softly when she turned and began making her way toward the door again. She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him questioningly. "You remind me of your mother more and more with each passing day. She'd be proud of you." Baela inhaled sharply, her eyes and features softening at his words. She gave him a thankful smile and turned away to leave the room. 

Once the door closed again, (Y/N) leaned back in the chair and gazed at their hands, watching the glimmer of her rings in the sunlight pouring through the window. "The woman he spoke of... Mysaria, the White Worm, was a stowaway onboard one of our ships. Ser Erryk claimed she wished to speak with me when she was taken but I allowed Daemon to see to her. She may have information for us, about King's Landing or possibly Daemon. But we mustn't hold her prisoner without knowing her intentions and what she may desire, Nyra." 

"I see." Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes downcast and tired. She brought a hand to her stomach, massaging her palm into the clothed flesh that still ached from the painful labor. "Let us speak to her, then, as soon as possible." 

(Y/N) studied her, taking in the watery glaze in her eyes and the tightness of her furrow. A semblance of guilt, perhaps? He couldn't be too sure. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze to draw her attention toward him and tilted his head questioningly. His wife exhaled shakily and released his hand, her back turned away from him and palms running over the skirt of her red dress. 

"I... I cannot help but be... relieved." Rhaenyra admitted quietly. "If Aegon were to die, the Greens would have turned to his child, to the boy. They would have rallied behind him, raised him up against me. My hand would have been forced, eventually, (Y/N). Just as it is now being forced."

"You cannot allow anyone else to hear those words, Rhaenyra. You have spoken of peace time and time again-"

"Yes, yes, I know," She exhaled shakily, her fingertips pushing back a strand of hair. "I... I do not want to be named a kinslayer. I do not wish to follow in the footsteps of Maegor the Cruel. Tales say he was cursed by the gods for slaying his nephew and bled on the throne for all to see. I cannot risk it. No one will follow a kinslaying Targaryen again."

(Y/N) set his hand upon her back and drew her into his chest, hooking his chin over her shoulder and feeling her sink back into him. Rhaenyra's eyes fluttered shut, her head tilting to lean her head against his. "It is admirable to search for peace when many believe bloodshed will solve all problems. A good ruler seeks what is best for their people. The Greens are led by those chasing after their own desires." He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck and leaned back. 

"Let us speak with this White Worm."

"You barely touched your supper, Rhaenyra," 

In all the haste and preparations, (Y/N) had nearly forgotten what the scent of an old book smelled like, eager to be read after many ages. The gallery itself was ancient and filled with books and scrolls primarily used in teachings by maesters and septas but now they found use in providing ancient advice to Rhaenyra. Her ancestors, she reminded him, were no strangers to war and infighting. She sought out their knowledge and strategies with no older relative apart from Rhaenys to provide it. 

"I was not hungry," Rhaenyra responded, clutching a book to her chest and approaching the table covered in scrolls and candles. She set it down and flipped it open, sorting through the pages written in Valyrian and running her fingertips over the illustrations of ancestors long dead. She pursed her lips when he stuck a plate of sweets in her face, blocking her vision with sights of honey-covered biscuits. He lifted his brows and she rolled her eyes, lips threatening to tug up into a smile. Plucking one sweet from the plate, she stuffed it in her mouth and pushed aside the plate to resume her reading. 

 The clanking of metal brought their attention to the entryway where Ser Steffon entered with a woman following. He dipped his head in greeting before motioning to the woman. "The Lady Mysaria, Your Grace, My Lord." (Y/N) had expected an older woman deep into her later years but Mysaria seemed youthful in appearance. She was skinny, her cheekbones prominent against her tan skin, and her long dark hair was messy and falling over her shoulders. A former lover of Daemon, no doubt, given her history in Flea Bottom.

"Thank you, Ser Steffon." (Y/N) dismissed the knight and leaned back against the table, folding his arms over his stomach as he took in the White Worm. She shifted from foot to foot, uncertainty in her posture, even when she bowed her head. She hardly seemed like much of a threat, though most succumbed to nerves when presented to a Targaryen, he supposed.

Taking a seat at the table, Rhaenyra rested her arms upon the table, her fingers lacing together as she raked her eyes over the woman. "You're aware of yesterday's events in King's Landing? Tell me what part you played in their unfolding."

Mysaria glanced between the two of them, her brows slowly furrowing. "I had nothing to do with it." She answered quietly, voice heavy with an accent known to those with YiTish heritage.

At her response, Rhaenyra scoffed. "I know you are entwined with the usurpers, that you aided them in denying me my birthright."

"I took profits from an inevitability," Mysaria admitted with a slow nod, her dark eyes jumping away from them and cracked lips pursing. "I regret it now."

"I'm sure you do," Rhaenyra muttered, staring at her for a moment longer before rising from the chair. "Who are you?"

"A prisoner," Mysaria answered, eyes jumping toward (Y/N) when Rhaenyra drew closer with a widened plea. "I gave Daemon two names. That is the extent of it. And I did not wish to do that much. He said it was the price of my freedom." She seemed to grow unsettled when Rhaenyra remained silent and began circling her, visibly swallowing. "Does.. he say otherwise?"

"Daemon has left, Lady Mysaria. For Harrenhal, we presume, and we cannot say when he will be back." (Y/N) piped up, watching her face fall for the briefest of moments before she mustered a blank face, her jaw clenching. Rhaenyra stopped at her side and stared at her, eyes soaking up her features and brows slightly raising. 

"You remember me now," Mysaria mused with a hint of amusement, subtle enough to almost dismiss as nothing. Her head tilted toward the silver-haired queen, shoulders sagging slightly in some relief.

"He said he would marry you," Rhaenyra recalled with semi-widened eyes. "He said you carried his child-"

"Not everyone found the jest funny." Mysaria looked away with a scoff, her eyes rolling at the mention of Daemon's past doings. Ah, (Y/N) remembered then, the old memory of Rhaenyra having to fly out to fetch the egg Daemon had taken that'd once belonged to little Baelon. There'd been mentions of a woman but he hadn't been all too interested in the details. "And now it seems he's done it again, made a promise and then slipped away." 

"Is that why you desired to speak to me when you were found hidden within one of the ships?" (Y/N) piped up with a question, his eyes following Rhaenyra as she returned to his side and leaned against him. 

Mysaria nodded. "I heard of how the King Consort was... kinder than his kin. I had hoped you would listen to my pleas for freedom, my desire to escape from Flea Bottom and any chains Daemon Targaryen could wrap around me. Perhaps I should have refused him, lied, and pretended to know little, but you know how he can be. I can do nothing now to reverse what he has done... I can only ask you to honor his promise in his absence." Mysaria pleaded softly, her voice soaked in genuine exhaustion. 

"You trade in the secrets of the Red Keep. Your web runs unseen through King's Landing." Rhaenyra frowned. "It would not serve me to set you free. At best, I lose an asset to my cause. At worse, you betray me in some foul way." 

"I have no interest in betraying you, Your Grace. I was brought to Westeros with nothing. I toiled in service, I stole. I sold my own body for coin or bread. And I listened. I collected confidences. I made myself valuable to powerful men. Bit by bit, I made my living. A house, a household, a home... then, they set it all aflame." 

"Who did?" 

Her eyes flickered toward (Y/N). "The Hightowers, I assume. The Hand.. did not like it when I showed my teeth. But I thank him for it. For too long, I made it my aim to be of consequence. But now, I see that was the wish of a child. Daemon.. Otto Hightower. Makes no difference. They will never accept me." She gave a dry chuckle. "I may as well have remained a whore." 

The Hightowers had always been a noble family, but all noble families kept their statuses through secrets and skeletons hidden within the foundations of their homes. Quiet orders, spies, assassins, betrayals, bloodshed. He knew well the capabilities of nobles; he'd grown up listening to the drunken tales shared with laughter and smirks that most would consider to be horrid. His father ordering a flame be put out for threatening to grow brighter than him? He believed it, wholeheartedly. 

"You've given us much to think about, Lady Mysaria." (Y/N) told her. "You will hear of our decision soon."

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

8: HOMECOMING

Chapter 7 <MASTERLIST > Chapter 9

SUMMARY: To your surprise, the Winter Soldier finds you in your home.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warning: SMUT: Breeding kink, penetrative sex, possessiveness — If there is any more you find not listed here please be sure to let me know so I can add it.

As you waited with bated breath for Soldat to emerge from the stasis chamber once more, you seized the opportunity to delve deeper into the mysterious man's past. Eager to uncover the truth behind the silent, deadly assassin you had grown so inexplicably attached to, you set out to meticulously comb through the vast trove of Hydra's classified files. What you uncovered left you utterly stunned - the man you knew as Soldat was in fact none other than James Buchanan Barnes, the revered and loyal best friend and comrade-in-arms of the legendary Captain America himself. 

Falling down the rabbit hole of research, you became enthralled as you pieced together the story of Bucky Barnes' history. Articles and military records painted a vivid picture of the brave young man who had fought side-by-side with Captain America during the war, his steadfast dedication and skilled marksmanship making him a formidable asset on the battlefield. By all accounts, Bucky had been a faithful and unwavering companion to Steve Rogers, providing moral support and watching his friend's back through even the most harrowing of missions. The two were spoken of as an unbreakable duo, their bond of friendship forged in the crucible of combat. 

As the weeks passed in a blur, you found yourself consumed by your investigation, devouring every scrap of information you could uncover about this legendary figure. The more you learned, the more your respect and admiration for Bucky Barnes grew. He was a true hero, a man of honor and courage who had sacrificed everything in service of his country and his best friend. And now, that very same man lay frozen in Hydra's grasp, his true identity and heroic past obscured by the dark mantle of the Winter Soldier. Your heart ached at the thought, spurring you on in your quest to uncover the full truth and, perhaps, find a way to restore Bucky Barnes to his former self.

As you delved deeper into your research, you finally came across the most tragic event in Bucky's history - his apparent demise during World War II. According to the historical records you uncovered, Bucky had been on a crucial mission with Captain America to stop the nefarious plans of HYDRA when disaster struck. Amidst the chaos of battle, Bucky fell from a speeding train, plunging hundreds of feet to what was presumed to be his untimely death. This devastating event had been a crushing blow to Captain America, who was left to mourn his closest friend and most trusted ally. Bucky Barnes was mourned as a fallen war hero, a true patriot who had given his life in service of his country. 

Your research allowed you to meticulously record every tidbit of information you could find about this enigmatic figure. You documented his impressive background, learning that Bucky had been an exceptionally skilled marksman and hand-to-hand combatant, honing his abilities through rigorous military training. His physique was described in vivid detail across various accounts - tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that often fell across his piercing, steely eyes. These eyes concealed a complex duality, for while they could be cold and distant when Bucky donned the mantle of the Winter Soldier, you had also witnessed them spark with warmth and raw emotion, a testament to the man he had been before his apparent demise.

Beyond the cold, hard facts, you also recorded your own personal thoughts and feelings about Bucky Barnes. His brusque exterior and guarded nature initially made him seem unapproachable, but you had glimpsed the depth of his loyalty and the fire that burned within him. He was a man who had sacrificed everything, even his own life, to protect those he cared about, and the tragedy of his loss continued to weigh heavily on your heart as you delved deeper into uncovering the truth behind his fate.

As you packed up your belongings and prepared to leave the facility for the night, a sense of melancholy washed over you as you thought about Soldat, or rather, Bucky. You knew he had been dispatched on a crucial mission, one that would likely keep him away for several days. With a pang of disappointment, you resigned yourself to the reality that it would be some time before you would see him again. The sudden, abrupt nature of his departure had left you little opportunity for any meaningful goodbyes or parting words. All you could do now was wait anxiously for his safe return.  

Bidding a somber farewell to your colleagues, you stepped out into the cold, dark night, the chill in the air matching the emptiness you felt within. As you made your way home, the rich, earthy aroma of borscht suddenly filled the air, enveloping you in a comforting blanket of familiarity. Despite your lack of appetite, you found yourself drawn to the hearty soup, serving yourself a small portion and savoring the way it warmed you from the inside out as you settled into the quiet sanctuary of your own apartment. 

Cradling the steaming bowl in your hands, you allowed yourself a rare moment of relaxation, the soft sound of your own breathing the only thing interrupting the stillness. Your eyes drifted to the battered notebook resting on the table beside you, filled with meticulous notes and observations about Bucky, your most precious possession. Tracing your fingers over the familiar lines of your writing, your thoughts inevitably wandered back to the last time you had seen him, the memory of his abrupt departure still lingering painfully. With a heavy sigh, you steeled yourself to wait patiently for his return, your heart aching with the knowledge that it may still be some time before you would lay eyes on him again.

The emptiness in your chest felt like a physical ache, a hollowness that seemed to reverberate through your entire being. As hard as you tried to ignore it, Soldat’s absence felt like a constant, gnawing sensation, a void that no amount of distraction could fill. In quiet moments, when your mind was allowed to wander, the memory of his unexpected tenderness would loom largest, playing on a bittersweet refrain.

Despite the taciturn exterior and the ever-present aura of stoicism that surrounded him, you had been privy to those rare, fleeting instances when the icy walls he had so meticulously constructed would crumble, revealing a softness and vulnerability that had touched you to the core. The gentle brush of his calloused fingers against your skin, the comforting press of his solid frame against yours - these moments of intimate connection had left an indelible mark, awakening a deep, primal yearning within you. You found yourself constantly chasing the elusive high of those tender interludes, craving the warmth and security they provided in contrast to his usual aloof demeanor.

Try as you might to tamp down these feelings, to convince yourself it was foolish to long for more, the memory of Soldat's unexpected displays of affection refused to be extinguished. They had wormed their way into the fabric of your being, becoming a source of both comfort and torment as you ached to experience that vulnerable intimacy once again. The emptiness in your chest was a constant, nagging reminder of what you had tasted but could no longer freely indulge in, fueling an insatiable desire to reconnect with the man who had so thoroughly captured your heart.

The sudden, soft clicking sound that shattered the quiet of your apartment sent a jolt of fear through your body, instantly snapping you out of your thoughts and putting you on high alert. Your muscles tensed as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, your senses heightening as you turned to pinpoint the source of the unexpected noise. A surge of trepidation washed over you, your heart pounding rapidly in your chest as you scanned the dimly lit room, searching for any sign of an intruder or potential threat.

With a quick, practiced motion, you reached for the gun you kept stored nearby, your fingers wrapping firmly around the cool metal as you raised the weapon, taking up a defensive stance and aiming it squarely at the door. The adrenaline was coursing through your veins, heightening your awareness and priming your body for action. Every nerve was on edge, your breathing steady and controlled despite the palpable tension in the air. You were poised and ready, waiting with bated breath for the slightest hint of movement, prepared to neutralize any danger that dared to cross the threshold.

Then, suddenly, a familiar gruff voice called out from the kitchen, shattering the silence. "Kotyonok?" The sound of Soldat's voice caused your heart to leap in your chest, a surge of equal parts shock and relief washing over you as you turned to face him, your revolver still raised. In that moment, the hormone-fueled fear and apprehension melted away, replaced by the comforting realization that the source of the noise was not a threat, but rather your trusted companion.

For a moment, you stood frozen, the gun trembling in your hands. Your mind was a chaotic jumble of emotions - surprise, fear, relief… and maybe a hint of elation at his sudden appearance in your home.

How was it that Soldat stood in the shadows of your kitchen? His figure barely illuminated by the scant light filtering in from the other rooms. He was a ghost-like presence, a silhouette against the darkness, his features concealed under the cover of shadow.

You could just make out the vague outline of his toned physique, the breadth of his shoulders and the glint of titanium from his left arm. His eyes were like dark pools, their depths unfathomable in the dimness of the room.

“You don't need that.”

His voice was low and calm, the edge of a command beneath his words as he motioned to your revolver. You could feel a slight wariness settle over you as the situation sunk in. This was unprecedented. He was standing in your home, in your safe space, and you had no idea how he had come to be there. Why was he there? Were you in danger?

As you pondered these questions, a new thought popped into your mind. Did he know your name? You had always been ‘Kotyonok’ to him, never anything more. It felt strange, almost unsettling, contemplating how much he truly knew about you.

"You're safe.”

His words hung in the air between you, a statement of reassurance that sent a wave of peacefulness through you. You felt your heart rate beginning to slow, the initial rush of catecholamines slowly ebbing as his voice repeated: "You're safe."

It was strange, hearing those words from him, the Winter Soldier with his gruff exterior and his deadly past. But in this moment, standing before you in your own home, it felt true. For reasons you couldn't explain, you felt safe in his presence. Here he wasn't Soldat, he was Bucky.

You cast a quick, furtive glance towards the dining table, your gaze settling on the open notebook and the half-finished bowl of borscht beside it. A wave of embarrassment washed over you as you realized that your research and the meager supper you had hastily prepared were all out in the open. You wondered if he had noticed them, if he had seen the myriad of notes and tidbits about him that you had recorded in that notebook.

You felt a strange mix of anxiety and excitement as you stood there, rooted in place by the weight of the moment. You wanted to do so many things - show him the information you had gathered, offer him a seat and a warm meal. But somehow, the words wouldn't come. You were frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, unable to make a single move as his gaze bore into you from the shadows of the kitchen.

As you stood there frozen, an unfamiliar feeling took root deep inside you - a nagging, gnawing fear of losing him. The very idea that this enigmatic, complex man standing in the shadows of your kitchen might slip through your fingers if he discovered his past terrified you in ways you couldn't yet fully comprehend. The thought of him seeking out that lost piece of himself and abandoning you was more than you could bear in that moment, even if you couldn't fully understand why.

Soldat stepped out of the shadows, his muscular frame coming into view as he moved closer to where you were standing. Without the mask concealing his face, you could see his angular jawline, the sharp planes of his cheekbones, and the intense blue eyes that pierced through you like twin blades. He looked utterly exhausted, the weight of whatever mission he had been on etched across his features.

Your mind raced with questions as he stood before you, his unexpected presence in your home both startling and intriguing. "Why're you here?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could fully process the gravity of the situation. His arrival was shrouded in mystery, and you couldn't help but wonder what had compelled him to seek you out, risking exposure and potentially putting you both in harm's way.

He paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on yours, his expression unreadable. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes, something like hesitation, before he spoke. You could sense the weight of his words, the vulnerability seeping into his gravelly, low voice as he uttered the simple phrase, "Needed to see you." The admission hung in the air, a silent plea for understanding, for acceptance, for the comfort and solace that only your presence could provide.

Your mind whirled with a torrent of questions - how had he found you? Was he in danger by being here? What would happen if the ruthless organization he was a part of, Hydra, discovered his unauthorized visit, his defiance of their control? The implications were staggering, and you struggled to articulate your thoughts, your eyes never leaving his, the mixture of confusion and concern etched across your features.

“But-” You started.

Before you could get another word out, his lips were on yours, cutting off any line of questioning with a swift, unexpected kiss. His mouth was rough against yours, his lips slightly chapped but warm and firm, as he held you tightly against him, his arms encircling you in a desperate embrace. He drank you in like a man starved for water in the desert, the kiss conveying a depth of emotion that words could not capture.

"Just need you," he murmured, his voice thick with vulnerability and longing, a silent plea for the comfort and solace that only you could provide in this moment of uncertainty and danger.

His words, simple yet laced with a rawness that sent a shiver down your spine. There was a note of desperation in his voice, a need that went beyond mere physical attraction. He pushed you firmly against the nearby wall, his body pressing against yours as he continued to speak, his lips hovering just above yours.

“Needed to see you. Need to feel you. Can't control myself anymore.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck inhaling your scent, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispered those words in your ear. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, the barely restrained desire coursing through his veins like fire.

His hands were everywhere suddenly, fingers running along your sides and gripping your hips as if he couldn't get enough of your touch. He let out a low, guttural groan as you encircled his neck with your arms, his body pressing you even more firmly against the wall. His hands found your thighs, gripping them tightly as he lifted you up, pinning you in place between his muscular frame and the solid wall behind you. His lips trailed along your jawline, kissing and nibbling at your skin with a desperate need that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

As he pulled back slightly, his gaze hungrily roamed over your body, taking in every detail of your casual, comfortable appearance. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if he were seeing you anew, a fresh perspective that seemed to stir something deep within him. His hands slid along your sides, caressing the gentle curves of your figure as he spoke again, his voice rough with a raw, primal want tinged with something even more profound.

"You look... different." 

His eyes raked over you, drinking in the sight of your plaid pajama bottoms, the snug, soft tank top that hugged your frame, and the cozy boyfriend cardigan that enveloped you in its comforting embrace. Your freshly-washed hair framed your face in soft, alluring waves, the silky strands tantalizingly close and smelling of your favorite lily & amaranth shampoo. His gaze flicked from your hair to your outfit and back again, his eyes darkening with each passing moment as he took in every inch of you. There was something in his expression - a mixture of ravenous hunger and almost disbelieving awe at your appearance - that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

"Different how?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He was silent for a moment, his eyes roaming over your form as if he were trying to find the precise words to capture the shift he was witnessing. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with a tangle of emotions.

"You... you look warm. Soft. Safe." His fingers traced along the edge of your tank top, just grazing the bare skin underneath as his eyes met yours, burning with an intensity that stole your breath away. "You look like... home."

He gazed at you intently, his eyes roved over your face as if he were committing every detail to memory - the curve of your cheek, the delicate sweep of your lashes, the soft fullness of your lips. There was a flicker of something tender and almost reverent in his eyes as he repeated the word again, almost to himself: "Home."

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing along the gentle line of your jaw as he held your captivated gaze. He repeated the word once more, a soft, reverent whisper that seemed to have been torn from the very depths of his soul, resonating with a profound longing and a sense of profound belonging.

"So beautiful.”

His hands explored your body with a fervent, almost desperate intensity. Every touch was charged with a raw, primal hunger that made your breath catch in your throat. His fingers traced the delicate curves of your breasts, caressing the soft, supple skin with a reverence that bordered on worship. As they drifted lower, tracing the gentle slopes of your stomach, you could feel the tension thrumming through him, a coiled spring of restrained desire. It was as if he was fighting a losing battle to maintain his composure, his control hanging by a thread as he struggled to keep his touch gentle and measured. His eyes, dark and smoldering, locked onto yours, and in their depths you glimpsed a storm of emotion - lust, need, a hint of vulnerability. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse, ragged whisper that sent shivers racing down your spine.

"Don't think I can control myself anymore." The words were laced with a raw, primal hunger that made your heart race. 

"Is that all you want from me?"

Your own question, spoken in a moment of sudden clarity, hung in the air between you  and you watched as something flickered in his expression, a chord struck deep within him. He pulled back slightly, giving you a brief respite even as he continued to pin you in place, his body a tantalizing, unyielding presence. For a heartbeat, his features softened, the fierce desire tempered by something else - a tenderness, a need that went beyond the physical.

And then, with a single word, he laid bare the truth. "No."

His hands moved to your sides, holding you gently now, a stark contrast to the desperate, gripping way they had clung to you just moments before. 

"Then why? Why me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you searched his face, seeking answers to the questions that burned within you. 

He paused again, that familiar stoicism faltering as he struggled to find the words to express the tumultuous thoughts and feelings swirling inside him. This man, so often in complete control, now appeared almost lost, grasping for the right way to articulate the intensity of what was unfolding between you. 

"Because I..." he began, only to shake his head, the words failing him as he moved closer, his body pressing against yours, his hands wrapping around your waist as he finally spoke. "Because it's always been you.”

The weight of his declaration hung in the air, leaving you stunned.

"You don't even know me,” you countered, unwilling to accept the notion that this man, this virtual stranger, could feel such a profound connection.

Yet, the soft, dry chuckle that escaped his lips held a world of meaning, as if he was privy to a secret that you had yet to uncover.

"Don't I?" he asked, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across your skin, his eyes drinking in every detail of your face, as if committing it to memory. "I know you better than you think, Kotyonok.”

Instead of voicing his thought, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your neck in a feather-light kiss, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. He pulled back again, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes a deep, tumultuous sea of blue and gray.

"And I know-”

He cut you off before you could continue, his hand coming up to rest against your lips, shushing you gently. He didn't need to hear the rest of your sentence. He knew what you were going to say. Or rather, he knew what you thought you knew.

"That's where you're wrong. You think you know, but you don't.”

His words were spoken with a raw honesty that seemed to surprise even himself, and they hung in the air, pregnant with unspoken truths. When he took your chin in his fingers, gently tilting your face up to meet his gaze, you were struck by the complex emotions swirling within his eyes, a blend of hardness and gentleness, a lifetime of experiences and revelations etched into their depths. You frowned but he kept on. 

"I want it all. Everything. With you.”

In that moment, it became clear that his understanding of you ran far deeper than you had ever imagined, and that he harbored feelings and desires that he had kept carefully guarded, until now.

“With me?”

He shifted you in his arms, adjusting his grip on you so he could press you closer against him. His fingers moved to your hair, combing through the soft strands as he spoke again, his voice deep and rough with emotion.

“Yes. With you. Always with you.”

You wanted to tell him what you had found but he moved with a controlled precision, his strong arms lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, the action feeling both natural and yet incredibly intimate as he carried you across the room. Without a single thought of consequence, he pushed everything off the dining table. Your half eaten soup and your precious notebook sent clattering to the floor. But with him between your legs, you couldn’t find it within you to protest his actions.

He lowered you gently onto the table, the soft thump of your body against the hard surface sending a jolt through your core. He stayed standing, his eyes roaming over you hungrily as he loomed above you, the intensity in his gaze making it clear that he wasn't done yet. 

"Every part.”

He took his time, slowly removing your pajama bottoms, his hands trailing over your skin as if he were mapping every inch of you. His touch was both gentle and possessive as he pulled the fabric down your legs, leaving you exposed to his gaze.

“Every piece.”

He began stroking your thighs, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles along your sensitive skin. His eyes never left your face, watching your expressions intently as he continued his slow exploration of your body.

“All of you.”

He continued to touch you, his hands roaming over your bare skin in slow, deliberate movements. There was an intensity in his gaze, a raw need that went beyond mere desire. A need to not just take from you, but to give, to share, to make you his completely and utterly. But not just physically. He also craved something deeper, something that went beyond the physical. He yearned for your trust, your everything.

He shed his pants with practiced ease, the fabric hitting the ground in a heap. As he stepped closer to you, you could feel his body heat radiating against your skin. Shirtless, you could see his scars and the muscles of his chest on full display, the shadows cast by the dim light making him look even more formidable than usual. His hands came to rest on either side of you, his arms caging you in, his body pressing against yours. He was so close you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and rough and ragged as he watched your expression, his eyes drinking in every reaction.

"You're perfect," he crooned, his hands not completely idle, gently stroking himself as he held your gaze. "I need you."

There was no mistaking the longing in his words, the sheer desperation that seemed to emanate from every syllable. It was as if he were a man starving, and you the only thing capable of satisfying his hunger. He gripped your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the table. His strength was evident in the way he moved you, his hands holding you effortlessly in place as he positioned himself between your thighs.

His eyes met yours again, their intensity almost scorching in their heat. "Can't wait any longer.”

But he took his time, sinking into you slowly, inch by inch. His eyes never left yours, watching your expression as he entered you. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched as he fought to maintain his control.

“Feels so good inside you, Kotyonok. Look at you, look how you take me so well. Looking so pretty with my cock in you.”

The words escaped him in a broken litany, a mix of adoration and raw desire, his voice thick with the effort it took to keep himself reigned in.

The way he uttered that single word, ‘Kotyonok’, sent shivers down your spine. His deep, velvety voice caressed the syllables, imbuing them with an almost affectionate, intimate quality that made your heart race. As his piercing gaze locked onto yours, you felt utterly captivated, your breath catching in your throat. The intensity of his stare and the weighted meaning behind his words left you trembling, your mind whirling as you struggled to process what was happening.

When he lavished praise upon your appearance, calling you beautiful, it only heightened the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. And then came the shocking question, a bold proposition that struck you like a bolt of lightning.

"You look so beautiful. Just like this. Want to be a mommy? Hmm, Kotyonok? Have my babies? Is that what you want?”

The very idea sent your pulse skyrocketing, your head spinning as you grappled with how to respond. His words echoed in your ears, resonating deeply within you in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling. As he continued his advance, his touch igniting sparks of sensation across your skin, you found it increasingly difficult to think clearly. The sheer intensity of his presence, the unwavering determination in his gaze, and the relentless press of his body against yours threatened to drown out all coherent thought. 

"Relax Kotyonok, you're so tight. Let me in,” he murmured, his movements slow yet utterly unstoppable as he filled you completely. The strange, alien nature of his words only heightened the potent sincerity with which he spoke them, as if unveiling long-buried truths. And through it all, his metal palm kneaded your breast, a tactile reminder of the primal, unyielding nature of his desires.

“Wanna see these tits all full, gonna milk them dry.”

His eyes took on a feral gleam as he watched your reaction. Each thrust eliciting a new reaction for him to revel in. He was taking in every shiver, every gasp, every expression that passed over your face. He was reading you like a book, studying in every nuance. Yet there was a paradoxical safety in his presence, an almost primal protection that belied his predatory demeanor. 

“Gonna look beautiful, carrying my baby in that pretty belly. So big and round and gorgeous. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Kotyonok?”

His words, so raw, sent a shiver through your entire body, his voice and touch setting your skin alight with desire. There was a part of you that felt exposed, vulnerable, yet at the same time you felt strangely safe in his presence.

"Yes, yes I would." The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, a breathless affirmation of his desires.

"Yes, you would.” The rough, rumbling chuckle that reverberated from his throat sent fresh tremors of desire coursing through your entire body. He was enjoying this, enjoying the effect he was having on you, the way his words and touch were driving you wild. His hands were roaming over your body again, mapping out every inch of you with a possessiveness that felt almost like a claim.

“You like that, Kotyonok? You like that I want to knock you up?” His voice was a low, rumbling purr, dripping with a carnal need that set your nerves alight. “You'd be so pretty carrying my kids. I'm going to put one in this precious pussy. Right now, I'm going to cum. Legs up, just to make sure.” The words were a promise, a declaration of his intent to claim you, to fill you with his seed and make you his in the most primal of ways.

Your mind was still reeling, unable to fully process the onslaught of sensations and emotions washing over you. It was like being caught in a storm of desire, the intensity and passion between you both threatening to drown you completely.

“Please. I need to feel you cum inside me,” you begged, your voice thick with need. And as he buried his throbbing cock deep within your welcoming heat, waves of pleasure crashed over you, your body clenching around him repeatedly in the throes of ecstasy.

“Oh Kotyonok, look at you, milking my cock so fucking good,” he growled, his voice low and rough with need. The sensation of him filling you, stretching you to your limits, was almost too much to bear. You teetered on the edge, balancing precariously as the coil of pleasure wound tighter and tighter inside you. “Want me to fill you up? Want me to stuff you, til you're so fucking full that you can't hold it in?”

His words were a siren's call, luring you deeper into the depths of ecstasy. You could feel yourself unraveling, your thoughts swirling like a hurricane as the pleasure threatened to consume you.

“Take it for me, I know you can,” he urged, his hips snapping against yours with a bruising force. 

Your body was a maelstrom of sensation, every nerve ending firing at once as he continued to move against you, his touch became too painful to endure. The world narrowed to nothing but the two of you, locked in a dance of passion and desire. He could sense the moment when you reached your limit, the moment when the sensations became too much to bear. His movements slowed as he watched your expression, his hands moving to your hips as he stilled inside you.

"Are you alright, Kotyonok?" he asked, voice laced with concern, though the hunger in his gaze betrayed his true desire.

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving steadied himself. He was still inside you, still pressed flush against you. He watched you for a moment, his eyes roving over your face, searching for any sign of discomfort or distress. A flicker of relief washed over him as you uttered those reassuring words - “Felt good, Soldat.”

He allowed the hint of a satisfied smirk to tug at the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of desire and the knowledge that he had pleased you. With a gentler tone, he reaffirmed his intent, his voice still carrying a gruff edge but now tinged with a newfound softness. “Good. I want you to feel good. Just a little more. You can take it.”

As he spoke, he shifted his hips, testing the boundaries, gauging your limits, before beginning to move again, his pace slow and purposeful at first, building gradually as he watched intently, drinking in every gasp and shiver that escaped your trembling form beneath him.

With a deep, guttural growl, he repeated the words, "just a little more," his voice growing increasingly hoarse and strained as his primal need and desire consumed him.

He was pushing you again, testing your limits once more, his need and desire overriding his restraint. The feeling of you clenching around him was enough to send him over the edge, his body shuddering as he came, a low growl escaping his lips as he buried his face in your shoulder. He held onto you tightly, his arms encircling you, as if trying to keep you as close to him as possible. He was quivering, his chest heaving with each labored breath as he tried to catch his own breath.

“Tell me what you are.” He growled the words, his voice deep and guttural, a demand more than a question. There was no mistaking the authority in his tone, the possessiveness in his eyes as he looked at you.

“Yours.”

"That's right, mine," he whispered harshly, the words spoken with an animalistic ferocity. "Mine to touch, mine to take, mine to claim.”

In the aftermath, he moved with a deft, practiced efficiency, dressing himself with the same dexterity one might expect from a seasoned military veteran. But when he turned back to you, his eyes skimmed over your still-naked form, and for a moment, the harsh, unyielding facade softened. It was not a leering, lustful gaze, but rather one of genuine appreciation, as if he were admiring a work of art. And then, with a surprising tenderness, he reached for your discarded cardigan and carefully draped it over your shoulders, shielding your exposed skin from the chill.

As the washcloth made contact with your skin, a wave of relief washed over you. The soft, moist fabric was delightfully cool against the heated, sensitive areas he was so tenderly tending to. His touch was feather-light, his movements measured and deliberate, as if he were handling the most precious of treasures. There was a look of intense focus etched across his features, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously cleaned you up. Yet despite the intensity of his gaze, his fingers remained remarkably gentle, caressing your skin with a care and reverence that bordered on reverent. 

When he finished, he lifted you effortlessly into his strong, steady arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed no more than a feather. His grip was firm yet tender, his muscles flexing subtly beneath your weight. As he carried you the short distance to the bed, you couldn't help but marvel at the sheer power contained within his frame, and the remarkable control he exerted to temper that strength into something so delicate and soothing. 

Laying you down upon the mattress, he handled you with the same delicate precision, as if you might shatter at the slightest misstep. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he noted your expression, his hand slipping beneath your hips to gently position the pillow, the action almost casual in its familiarity. Yet there was an undeniable possessiveness to the gesture, a silent claim of ownership that sent a thrill racing down your spine. In that moment, you knew with absolute certainty that you were his, and his alone, a precious treasure to be guarded and cared for with the utmost devotion.

“Just to be sure.” He murmured the words softly, his deep voice rumbling with a hint of satisfaction. A small, self-assured smile played on his lips as he gently caressed your stomach, his calloused fingers skimming over your soft skin. He seemed pleased with himself, clearly enjoying the idea that he had left some kind of permanent mark on you, a tangible reminder of your intimate encounter. Of course, he was blissfully unaware that your IUD made the prospect of conception impossible, no matter how ardently he may have wished to impregnate you.

His hand trailed higher, stopping just above the pillow he had thoughtfully placed beneath your hips. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he was envisioning a very different scene playing out in his mind, one where his seed had taken root and begun to grow within you. The notion seemed to captivate him, his gaze growing distant and pensive as he contemplated the possibility.

Oblivious to his musings, you drifted off into a peaceful sleep, your body sated and satisfied from the ardent love making that had come before. Soldat watched you slumber, his keen eyes tracing the delicate contours of your face, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed. He was acutely aware of you, his senses attuned to even the slightest movement or change in your demeanor. It was as if he was standing guard over you, even in sleep, his protective instincts firmly in place. A silent sentinel, vigilantly ensuring your safety and well-being, even in the most intimate of moments.

As the blaring alarm shattered the stillness of the morning, your eyes fluttered open, momentarily disoriented as the haze of sleep slowly lifted.  For a fleeting instant, you found yourself dislocated from reality, the events of the night before a distant, dreamlike memory.

You rolled over in the bed, expecting to find Soldat still lying beside you. Instead, you were met with an empty space where he had been. You sat up, disoriented and a little lost. There was a brief moment of confusion, a pang of disappointment at the realization that he was gone, the sheets were cold where he had vacated them. It was as if he had vanished in the night, leaving no trace of his presence behind.

The emptiness in your heart was palpable, a sense of loss and longing settling in your chest. The thought crossed your mind that it had all been a dream, a vivid and realistic illusion. But the lingering feeling of his touch and the soreness between your thighs reminded you otherwise.

Chapter 7 <MASTERLIST > Chapter 9

[cressidagrey]

Recipe for Love - Peach Cobbler

Summary:

Azriel finds a bakery and creates his very own reward system.

Warnings:

Kinda Rhys Bashing, but when don't I do that?

A/N:

thanks to @k-godling for listening to me rambling on about this and finding the perfect name for that Bakery! This will eventually be a series consisting out of One-Shots, so if you have an idea, shoot it my way! (Also, if anybody actually tries out that recipe, let me know lol)

Peach Cobbler Filling 2 ½ cups sliced canned peaches ¾ cup canned peach syrup ¼ cup brown sugar (packed) 1 ½ tablespoons cornstarch Few grains salt Dough 1 tablespoon granulated sugar ⅛ teaspoon baking soda 1 cup prepared biscuit mix (or your own biscuit recipe) ⅓ cup cultured sour cream 2 to 3 tablespoons milk (if needed)  Sweet or sour cream for topping

Place peaches in bottom of casserole. Mix peach syrup, brown sugar, cornstarch and salt. Pour over peaches. Set casserole in hot oven, while mixing dough. Stir sugar and soda into biscuit mix. Add cream and milk to make soft dough; mix lightly. Place by spoonfuls on top of hot peaches. Bake 30 to 35 minutes until well browned. Serve warm with sweet or sour cream. 

The Spymaster of the Night Court was contemplating killing his High Lord. 

Or maybe it was Azriel contemplating killing his brother. 

Maybe it was both. 

Whatever it was, Azriel was definitely mentally planning Rhys’ tragic demise as he trudged his way through Velaris. 

It wasn’t the first time he had done it. Wouldn’t be the last time either. 

He would never actually go through with it. 

(Probably.)

Regardless of how annoying Rhys was… regardless of how the words of last Winter Solstice were still echoing in his head. 

Alone the thought of a pleasure hall made him want to throw up these days, after all.  

He didn’t. Azriel knew better than that. 

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. 

It was his own fault for allowing himself to fall in love with a mated female. It was his own fault for thinking that maybe he had a chance…for thinking that maybe…

He had never had a chance. Pretending otherwise wasn’t going to help him. 

Rhys had made himself clear months ago and then had done the same again today…today when Lucien had asked Elain to dinner and she had agreed. 

Of course, she had agreed. Azriel had taken himself out of the running months ago. 

Azriel had followed his High Lord’s order to the letter. 

Azriel had done everything that was asked of him, even when it had broken his fucking heart and left him…desolate. 

And as a thank you, he got Rhys’ crooning in his mind that See, Az? They worked things out. 

They had. Good for them. 

The food had tasted like ash in his mouth and he hadn’t managed to get down more than half a plate. Not more before he had excused himself, citing unrest in Spring…and had walked out of the River House without even properly seeing where he was going. 

Away. Far, far away. 

He had half a mind to let the shadows take him away. Maybe somewhere deep in the Illyrian Steppes, where there was no being anywhere near him. Where he could throw his magic at a mountain and destroy some rocks with the fury that embered deep within him…

You should get a treat! The shadows told him brightly at that moment, nearly making him stumble. 

What?

Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him. 

The more forlorn he got, the more depressed…the more optimistic they became. The more they tried to get him to smile…the more they fed him with petty gossip included in their intelligence gathering… the more they did everything to make his life easier for him. 

They were trying. 

It was sweet.

I am not a dog, he grumbled back to them. He wasn’t. 

And besides…he didn’t deserve a treat anyway. For what? Doing his job? Surviving another week? Not killing Rhys during lunch that day? Not wringing Lucien’s neck for politely asking Elain to dinner? Not scratching out somebody’s eyes like a rabid…

Of course not, Master, the shadows agreed easily. You should still get a treat. Something nice, just for yourself. 

Something nice, just for yourself, he turned these words around in his head. 

He did have a lack of that in his life, but then he always had. He had never really had started to amass anything…collect anything…no little things to litter his rooms with…not even as much as a hobby, unless one called insomnia and stabbing the practice puppets in the House of Wind until they were reduced to rubble that. 

All of it was just…his job was his life and that was it. 

And it wasn’t like he deserved it anyway. 

Just like he didn’t deserve a mate, didn’t deserve Mor and didn’t deserve Elain…He didn’t deserve a fucking treat either. 

He clearly didn’t deserve anything that made his life easier. 

There’s this little bakery, the shadows proposed quietly. You could buy yourself a slice of cake! 

A slice of cake. A slice of cake before flying back to the House of Wind, barricading himself into his room and writing another report. 

A slice of cake before he would let the loneliness take over completely…before he would never even allow himself to look at any female ever again because he was not going to go through this pain again. 

Being a little bit overdramatic, Master? the shadows asked him with a sigh and he wanted to growl. 

No. No, actually, not really. 

Why shouldn’t he be overdramatic? 

At least in his own damn mind. It wasn’t like he was throwing that into anybody’s faces. Even when he had wanted to. He had wanted to scratch that smug little smile off Rhys’ face with his bare hand and…

You don’t, Master, the shadows sighed. You didn’t even want us to steal his favourite jacket. 

They had offered. They had offered to make Rhys’ life filled with annoying inconveniences. Azriel had said no after that Winter Solstice. Now he was reconsidering it. 

The problem was just that it wasn’t going to make him happy. 

The shades would be petty and that would be it, but he wouldn’t…it wouldn’t make him feel better. 

He would still feel unfairly treated…he would still feel always pushed to the edges of his family…the one whose emotions didn’t really matter…who’s happiness wasn’t a priority, not even a footnote, set firmly behind whatever was good for the court and that was that. 

He was the one send to do the dirty work, the one expected to deal with it, because clearly it didn’t bother him… which was a lie. Of course, it bothered him. But his skillset made him the obvious choice so…

Mor and whatever these 5 centuries had been…Mor who could have outright turned him down when he had yearned for her and had never bothered to do so. He was still waiting for her to do it. Even now. 

His hands clenched slowly, the scars feeling tighter. Autumn was coming…as soon as the leaves began to turn, the joints started to hurt him. 

They have double chocolate chip cookies, the shadows whispered like it was a state secret. He couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. 

Sugar was his one weakness. 

The shadows knew that. 

It would just be a few copper coins…maybe a silver one or two…his steps faltered.

One slice of cake? As a treat? Just a few minutes sat in one quiet corner of a bakery…alone. With just his shadows…that did sound…nice. 

As a treat for not killing Rhys, Azriel proposed. and for not doing anything, saying anything…for keeping his temper in check. 

He could work with that, right? 

It could be his very own reward system. One slice of cake for…for surviving another week. For not faltering. For not scratching anybody’s eyes out…for not loosing his temper and go into the illyrian Steppes and destroy a small mountain in a fit of rage. 

Huh. 

Maybe the shadows were onto something.

One shadows wrapped himself around his wrist and started tugging him along and Azriel followed. 

Down the bustling streets of Velaris, towards the outskirts of the Rainbow. 

There, Beehive Bakery took up the ground floor of a brownstone Townhouse…a yellow and white striped awning stretching over the length of it. It’s name was screamed from it’s sign above the door that was pushed open, quiet but lively conversation reaching his ears from within. There were three tables outside, filled with people, but as he walked into the shop, careful to tuck his wings into his body…there were still one or two tables left. Even one right there in one corner. 

It smelled heavenly in there…like vanilla and almond, wafting out of the oven thet must be in the backroom…a young High Fae was manning the till. She looked young. More a teen than anything, dark curly hair covering her head…Her limbs hadn’t yet lost all their coltish length. 

“Welcome to Beehive Bakery, what can I get you?” she asked him with more enthusiasm than  he had seen in a long, long time. 

For a moment, he came up short, eyes roving over the baked goods laid out behind the glass of the counter…and then finally snagging on the first cake in front of him…Peach Cobbler. It looked…great with a golden brown crust…there was one slice missing so he could see the perfect orange of carefully sliced peaches peeking out. 

“One Slice of Peach Cobbler, please,” he requested. 

“Coming right up,” she chirped brightly. “Some tea as well?” 

Azriel answered in the affirmative, quietly charmed by her sheer enthusiasm…A few moments later he exchanged a couple of silver coins for a plate holding a slice of peach cobbler, topped with a dollop of cream and a delicate teacup. 

He took both to the table he had sussed from the beginning. Clearly the worst place in the whole shop…but for his usage, it was perfect.

 The darkest corner, right in the back…covered in shadows…nobody would be able to peek at anything if he did choose to read some reports…and nobody could surprise him from the back. 

It was perfect. 

Perfect was also the only word he could imagine for that Peach Cobbler. Quite frankly it was best thing he had ever eaten. Tart but Sweet…and the topping crumbling and the peaches ooey gooey…it was so good it was startling. He could just get a teeny tiny bit of cinnamon in there…

Alone that Peach Cobbler had been worth every single coin. 

By the first forkful, he felt likes osmehting in his chest was easing. By the time he was left with only a third of it he was already dreading to finish the whole piece, because then it would be gone. 

And that just didn’t seem fair. 

He watched the people entering and then leaving again, some just coming for a single loaf of bread, some of them buying pastries or slices of cake to go…some sat down with a friend and conversed with them…The Beehive Bakery seemd to be a quietly buzzing hub of Velaris. 

The young girl behind the counter was busy fulfilling orders and smiling at every customer, some that called her by her name, Juniper. 

Halfway through the afternoon, a new female joined her behind the yonder. This one older, much tinier, her body filled out with lush curves…Blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, held back by a handkerchief. 

“Done for the day?” she asked Juniper, and Azriel watched silently how she nearly absentmindedly fluttered around the space, replacing empty displays and generally making sure everything was in order. 

“I can stay if you need me, B,” Juniper said quickly but the blonde female waved her off, handing her a envelope from one of the pockets in her frilly pink apron. It had strawberries all over it, Azriel realised with some amusement. Juniper took the envelope, opened it to sneak a peek and then stared at her again. 

“That’s too much,” Juniper complained, clearly longsufferingly but B just laughed. 

“No, it isn’t. It’s just enough,” she promised and Juniper hugged her in thanks. 

“Thanks, B,” Juniper mumbled, before hanging up her apron and disappearing. Leaving B or whatever her name actually was, clearly in charge. 

In the meantime, Azriel had the shadows find him some of the reports he needed to read that were enchanted for secret keeping, only been able to be read by his eyes and his eyes only. 

B knew seemingly everybody that came into the bakery, knew the names of every customer, knew their order…and so Azriel settled in at that table and spend the rest of the afternoon, reading his report and draining his tea until only dark dregs remained. 

He listened to the cadence of her voice as she talked and relaxed in that little corner, where nobody paid him any mind. Nobody flinched away from him. 

Nobody cared. 

It wouldn’t stay his only visit. It would become a weekly tradition, a habit that he shouldn’t have but still had. 

Because he wanted to go to the Beehive Bakery. 

It was the one thing he wanted. 

What Azriel wanted had never mattered. 

Not really. 

Unless it was right here. Unless it was him buying himself Peach Cobbler and cream.

Unless it was him sitting in the darkest corner and just watching. 

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Won't go Home without You 🫂

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

RER2!Leon S. Kennedy x reader

♤

This.... this is very sad. I think. Maybe??

《Content》: Canon typical violence, Ex-boyfriend!Leon, neutral ending?? Idk it's tragic, but I don't know if I, personally, would classify it as a sad ending.

The order is here -> 🎂

Even after he'd broken your heart, you go after your ex-lover and unknowingly stumble right into your shared demise.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

"Shit, shit, shit!" You cursed frantically, running through the dark and messy halls of the Raccoon City Police Department, adrenaline pumping in your veins.

The fear that struck you right in the middle of your chest was enough to make your legs move like they've never moved before.

You thought the horrors outside in the streets were straight from a nightmare, but no one talks about how terrifying hordes of undead are when you're trapped with them with no way out.

The puddles of blood stemming from slaughtered police officers and other personnel almost made you slip more than once on the smooth floors. You had to push down the urge to empty the contents of your stomach so you wouldn't end up like the poor victims that lined the halls.

Rattling the handle of every door you came across you almost cried in relief when one finally opened.

You could hear the moans and groans of the moving dead as you barricaded yourself in the tiny office.

You locked the door, pulled down the blinds and pushed the heavy desk in front of it. There was a second door, one that would connect the room you were currently in to the one next to it.

Considering the other office's door was locked, you only used a sturdy chair to hopefully keep any unwanted visitors out.

With a heaving chest and the adrenaline buzzing in your blood you moved to the furthest corner and slowly sunk down the wall.

You managed to get in a couple of breaths, feeling how your lungs and ribcage expanded before the reality of it all clicked in your brain and the tears started flowing down your cheeks.

You wanted to wail and scream, maybe even hurl your guts out at how nauseating this whole situation was, but you could only manage quiet and pathetic whimpers with your hand firmly pressed against your mouth.

And to think you only got yourself into this whole mess because you were cursed with a heart too big for your body and you still cared about him. He was the entire reason you even stepped foot into this hellhole of a city.

At the thought of him you couldn't quite decipher what you wanted to feel first; did you want to scream at him and curse him to the high heavens for doing this to you or was the last thing you wanted from him to hold you, embrace you and never let go when you'd inevitably die tonight, as pathetic as it sounded.

You didn't know what you'd weep over first, your doom or the shattered pieces of your heart contained within your ribcage that cut into your insides.

Leon had broken your heart, maybe a week ago, just to leave you behind and follow his dream. The fact that you weren't in his dream was enough to sting like disinfectant on a paper cut. Everything the pair of you had built or were planning on building, or so you thought, was ruined by his stupid sense of justice that never really did him any justice at all.

The punch in the gut that you felt when you woke up one morning to all his things gone and his key to your apartment laying on your kitchen counter while he sipped his morning cup of coffee with not a care in the world, was enough to knock the air from your lungs and any words from your throat.

He'd tried to explain it to you; that it'd be better this way, for both of you, and that he was sorry. His reasons were shit, to say the least. It would've hurt less if he'd just said he couldn't stand to look at you anymore.

Leon said he couldn't do long distance, that he needed his partner there with him and that, as a rookie, he wouldn't have time to call you anyway.

But all attempts at bargaining, that you'd literally follow him to the end of the world, were shut down immediately. He left you, stepping on the broken pieces of your heart as he walked out the door.

And he had the nerve to pull you into one last hug and press a gentle kiss to your forehead as if that would, in any way, fix the gaping hole that he'd left in your chest.

The crying burned all of your energy, you couldn't even find it in yourself to flinch when the infected right outside your door were stumbling over each other and torn of limbs like a newborn foal. As your hysteria subsided, the depressing outcome of your fate set in.

You would die tonight. Alone, heartbroken, in a trashed police station that, coincidentally, was the whole reason your lover had broken up with you in the first place.

Never to be found and rotting away until you fell onto the menu of the undead.

Your limbs felt like lead, your head was pounding and any little spark of hope or perseverance was snuffed out. You stood no chance.

Because, unfortunately, the media and every zombie movie ever had lied to you and the undead, were, in fact, not slow and dumb.

They were bloodthirsty, brutal and they would go after what they wanted. You had nothing to defend yourself. There was no way you could outrun them forever.

"Why zombies... why did it have to be zombies?!" You shouted at the sky, cursing whoever sat up there and got a blast out of making your life miserable.

You tugged at your hair as the tears started spilling again. What else as there to do?

You might as well write 'dinner' on your forehead and step out into the halls.

And then, from the corner of your blurred vision, you could see a light. A light that flitted around almost like... a flashlight? You wanted to hit yourself when you felt that faint feeling of hope bubbling up in your chest.

But, unless the infected had learned to use human devices (it wasn't too far off considering most of them were human themselves only a few hours ago), there was someone else out there.

The light was followed by gunshots and finally a door unlocking.

Your breath hitched in your throat and you scrambled off the floor, putting a good distance between you and the connecting door. The light was gone now, you figured its owner had done the same thing you did and barricaded themselves in the room.

But there was clear shuffling to be heard, and you could even make out a faint voice. Your whole body tensed in horror when the handle of the connecting door rattled.

You could've sworn you heard frustrated grumbling from the other side, but you didn't really give a shit when the whole door started shaking and the chair you'd lodged in front of it started to bend. With the limited vision you had, you quickly looked around for anything you could use to defend yourself.

You were about 93% sure that there was an actual person in the next room over but who knows what they're up to. Your gaze landed on a small potted plant.

Not ideal, but you figured a porcelain pot to the face could do a decent amount of damage. Maybe throw some soil in their eyes.

You raised the plant and kept your eyes trained on the door. The chair was cracking and the person seemed to throw their entire weight against the door, accompanied by laboured grunts.

The chair eventually gave out, as did the door, and the person stumbled in. You couldn't see anything, the flashlight that ignited your spark of hope just a few moments ago now burning away your retinas. You squinted, keeping a tight grip on the pot.

"Buttercup?"

Oh, fuck. You knew that voice. You knew that voice better than anything else in the world. This had to be a cruel joke.

"Leon?" You breathed, lowering the plant.

He quickly attached his flashlight to his belt and lowered his gun, making his way over to you in a few long strides.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Leon asked panicked, placing his hands on your arms.

You were frozen, not a single word left your mouth, the pot still in your hands.

You could only watch dumbly as his eyes searched for an answer within yours, a worried crease between his brows.

God, you'd missed him. You'd missed him so much. You could feel your heart, or what was left of it, twisting in your chest.

"I..." you forced out, eyes glistening with tears again. It was all you could muster.

"Why are you here?" He asked again, shaking you slightly. You could see the distress on his face.

".. You." You swallowed.

"Me? What do you mean?" His grip on you tightened, subconsciously you would assume. Your lower lip started trembling and you could feel another stream of hot tears spring from your lashline.

"I was worried.." You admitted with a shaking voice.

"I heard about the Outbreak, and I just wanted to know that you're okay." You cried, sobs racking through your chest.

"I didn't know there'd be fucking zombies!"

Leon was stunned and, suddenly, he regretted every decision he's ever made. He broke up with you, shattered your heart and you came here to check up on him? He could feel bile rising in his throat and his stomach churned.

He left you to keep you safe, to spare you any pain when he'd start his work on the force, and here you were, weeping your heart out, having doomed yourself for him.

"You... You came here because of.. me?" He asked, his own voice trembling.

You only managed to nod.

You must've been a sight. Crying over your ex after having stumbled into Armageddon with a fucking potted plant in your hands.

Leon swallowed thickly, his eyes watering as he took the porcelain pot out of your shaking hands and set it down on the desk you'd previously moved in front of the door.

"Buttercup..." the strained petname tugged uncomfortably on his vocal chords.

You looked up at him, met his eye, and his heart dropped to his stomach.

"Why did you leave me?" You wailed, wiping at your seemingly endless flood of tears.

Leon's jaw clenched and he took in a shuddering breath, trying to stop himself from breaking down.

"To keep you safe. All I wanted... was to keep you safe." He replied, the words getting stuck in his throat.

"This is the shit I wanted to keep from happening! You were supposed to be as far away as possible from all of this. I didn't exactly calculate for walking corpses, but I didn't want you to be in danger because of me. Why would come here?!" He hissed, frustrated.

He was so annoyed. Annoyed at you for being too sweet and kind to leave things as they are and annoyed at himself for not protecting you better.

You were taken aback by his response, wide eyed and speechless. But you could see the clear panic and fear in the ocean of tears in his blue eyes.

"Because I love you, you fucking idiot!" You snapped, your distress being replaced by a raging fire of anger.

The confession stopped him in his tracks and all he could do was stare at you.

"I thought I was gonna marry you! Move into a house with a white picket fence and a big yard. Maybe have a couple of kids along the way and some pets -at least one dog and a fluffy cat- and then you decided to walk out on me to keep me safe?! Do you even hear yourself?"

Everything bubbled over. All of the anger, the heartbreak, the sadness, the distress. And you let it. You didn't care anymore if he got burned.

"Doesn't even fucking matter anymore because I'm gonna die here anyway." You sniffled, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

That seemed to snap him out of whatever trance he was in.

"Don't... don't say shit like that." He heaved, harshly pointing a finger your way before burying a hand in his hair and tugging at the sandy locks.

"Fuck." He cursed under his breath.

"I thought I was doing the right thing. To keep you away from all the bullshit that comes with being a cop..." he muttered, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes.

"And for the record... leaving you was the hardest thing I ever had to do. And I regret every second of it. I love you more than life itself, and you weren't just in my future. You were my future. And I ruined it." He sounded hurt and vulnerable as he laid out his heart in front of you.

"Give me chance to make it right. Please." He croaked out, a pleading look in his glistening eyes.

"Leon.."

the tears you'd tried so hard to stop came back in a flood, staining your cheeks. You gently cupped his face, stroking your thumb over his cheekbone before pulling him into a tight hug.

He wasted no time wrapping his arms around you and holding you as if you could vanish any second.

"Don't leave me again.." you begged quietly.

"I'm so sorry. I love you so much." He cried into your shoulder, mumbling apologies and 'I love you's into the fabric of your sweater.

You held each other in that embrace for a while, soaking in your lover while everything else started to fade away.

Leon pulled his face from your shoulder and took your cheeks in his hands, wiping at your tears.

"I'll marry you when all of this is over, I swear it." He sniffled, watching as a sad smile followed by a wet giggle spread across your face.

"I love you." You whispered, sighing when he connected your lips in a passionate kiss.

The desperation Leon poured into the kiss was unlike anything you've ever felt before, and you didn't want it to end.

"I love you more, Buttercup." He pressed his forehead to yours in an intimate manner.

For a minute, it felt like just the two of you in the entire world, ignoring how you managed to mend your relationship in a trashed police office whole outside the gates the world was ending.

"We need to get out of here." He said quietly.

A dreading feeling settled in your stomach, but before you had a chance to respond, the TV mounted in the corner of the room crackled to life.

The room lit up, and you turned your focus to the corner and watched as the broadcast ran over the screen. Your eyes widened as you took in the words.

"They're gonna nuke the city..." you breathed out, swallowing thickly.

"What?" Leon exclaimed, panicked. Without a second thought he tightly grasped your hand and dragged you towards the door.

"We need to go." He said quickly.

"No, Leon, wait." You stopped him from moving the desk out of the way with a hand on his arm.

"Are you insane? We'll get turned to dust if we don't leave now." He urged.

"I... there's no way I'll make it through the night. You need to go without me."

Leon looked at you as if you'd lost your mind, and maybe you had, but it was either just you that died or the both of you.

He still had a chance.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" He hissed, grabbing your arm.

"Listen to me. You still have a chance to get out. I'd just slow you down." You explained, hoping, praying he'd understand.

"No, absolutely not. It's not over tonight. I-I won't go home without you- there is no home without you."

You bit your lip in order to hold back tears.

"Please, Leon. You can still make it." He shook his head, whether to say no to you or the option of leaving you behind again, you didn't know.

"I said I won't leave you again." He stated firmly, grabbing your wrist and tugging you into the corner of the room.

He sunk down onto the floor and pulled you into his arms, intending to never let go. You pushed yourself away from his chest and looked at him.

"What are you doing?" You asked frantically.

"I'm staying." Was all he answered, gently guiding your head back into the crook of his neck.

"It's gonna be alright." He whispered against your temple.

A lie, both of you knew it, but what else could you do. You melted into his embrace and braced yourself for what was to come.

One minute, it was just you in Leon's arms, holding each other lovingly, and the next, there was nothing.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

This was my first time writing for RE2!Leon specifically, so this might be a little ooc!

I give out free hugs and tissues if you need one 🫂🩷

《Leon taglist》: @k-fallingstar @vampkennedy @dmitriene @argreion @allysunny @leonslittlekennedy @angelstargel @entr4p3

Lmk if you wanna be added/removed 😚

More Leon and other works -> 💫

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

[glitterclan]

discussing the writing of falconshine's death

@ladyoftheoceans hi, i'm actually glad you brought this up because i've been wanting to talk about it! admittedly, i had falconshine's death planned very early on. it's very hard to come up with a plot out of vague, randomly generated events, so after establishing a rough idea of falconshine's backstory from the events and right after them getting pregnant, i started planning for their early death.

THE REASON i wanted falconshine to die so early on was because of their vengeful personality -- unfortunately the murder chances in the game are extremely high and i did not want them to go around murdering cats because i wanted them to be a heroic character with a tragic backstory. i didn't want them to end up in the dark forest!

originally i had wanted falconshine to die during the birth of their litter with heatherstar. but this didn't happen, obviously (damn briarfeather and mistswirl for being such good healers). i had already established the colony as a sort of broad antagonistic force, so i turned to this idea instead as a way to kickstart that part of the plot. i kept putting falconshine on border patrols in hopes of them getting killed by a rogue, but this never happened either. this is when i dropped the starclan message from frozenkit to sort of vaguely allude to falconshine's future demise. eventually, sootface had the encounter with a rogue at the border in moon 18. i checked the rogue's profile, and was absolutely taken aback by the sheer size of this cat:

he's basically a tigerstar clone. so, obviously, i had to make him the leader of the colony. (fun fact...his original name was zeraora. like...the pokemon. i changed it to zephyr so it was kind of similar) with a leader of this group now established, i was now ready to properly kickstart the colony plotline. originally, i had only planned for falconshine to die. buuuut sootface kind of weaseled his way in there as well by provoking the leader of the colony in that event.

just for clarification, i hate going against the game, and i try to work ONLY with what the game gives me. but for falconshine and sootface's deaths, i manufactured them myself to get the plot rolling. in the end i think it worked pretty well!

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: Wally hadn't been able to make sense of what you'd said. How had it been possible that he and the others had been trapped for so long without knowing it? With that truth out for him to examine, Wally hadn't been sure he'd wanted to look any closer. He'd felt violated. Betrayed. Lost. What other lies had he been unwittingly a part of?

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.14

The world fell away as your words penetrated. Wally stilled, didn't breathe, didn't blink, didn't make a sound. As if he could delay the impact of that truth if he shut down critical functions.

Weakly, "What do you...mean?" Wally croaked, but something deep within himself had always known.

Known it like common sense; the feeling like looking at a green sky and knowing it was supposed to be blue. Like being sick since birth yet knowing that that wasn't what healthy felt like. He'd known and yet never questioned it because he and the others had had no way to be sure their situation was terribly, tragically wrong.

In the earliest days succeeding his untimely demise, Wally had tried to leave the school.

Not to follow his mother home after she'd donated his trophies, helmet, and jacket to display in the stadium entrance. Not to join his friends in Rodney's basement to get stoned after his memorial service. Not to break his own heart by stalking Jenny to the motel where she and her second choice prom date, Gary fucking Reid, lost their virginities together.

Rather, to go for a walk for the sake of getting some air. Despite having been flung back to the field multiple times by then—a lesson that had drilled into him the habit of remaining perpetually vigilant of his surroundings—Wally had had this intrinsic understanding that he could roam beyond what the barrier permitted.

So much so that, one evening, he hadn't kept track of where he'd been going (partly because he'd trusted himself to veer away from the perimeter, but mostly because he'd been relaxed. Not actively chasing down a loved one). It'd been an unconscious series of actions; one foot in front of the other, listening to Eddie Money's Can't Hold Back on a Lost & Found walkman, strolling into the thin smattering of trees on the edge of the grounds, and then wham—

Back to Start.

It had happened a few times after that, too. Rhonda would cackle around her lollipop du jour, roll her eyes, and tell him to, "Get smart, Jockstrap."

When Charley had come along, he'd experienced the same thing. And then Ajay and Katelynn. Learning the lesson after the lesson had been learned. Mr. Martin had calmly and wisely informed them that it was merely the result of not having internalized being dead yet.

But that hadn't sat right with Wally, similar to having been given the excuse of roughhousing when he'd caught his parents in a compromising position one innocuous summer-break afternoon before he'd aged into double digits.

"Babe..." Wally croaked, just above a whisper, the weight of what you'd unveiled slamming into his chest and leaving him winded, "What are you saying?"

Your eyes, marbled and bright—though not outright glowing like they had in the theater—stared right into him for a moment. You were obviously calculating what it meant that Wally couldn't leave the high school, all the hows and whys flittering like dust motes between you and him.

"Unless you're a residual haunter, like Mina or Yuri, you should be able to go wherever you want. How long have you been stuck?"

Wally's throat clicked when he swallowed, "Since I died."

You pressed your forehead to his, hands slotting under his jaw, and, voice laced with grief, said, "That's not possible."

"I mean, maybe it is?" Wally tried to reason, slumping back in his seat and staring at the 5-yard line as he stitched together his own theories based on what he'd learned as an actual dead person. "It's not like ghosts wrote those books you read. Maybe whoever wrote them got it wrong."

Shaking your head, "Actually, they did. Not the physical copies, obviously, but those authors collaborated with ghosts to write those books."

Wally didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if he could answer a lot of things anymore. Did he even know what it meant to be dead?

You seemed willing wait him out as he turned everything over in his head, one hand on his shoulder, the other lifting the one he'd had on your calf so you could string his arm through your legs and cradle his hand on your belly, your thumb rubbing soothing patterns between the bones.

"What does it mean?" He asked, distant.

Wally could feel himself slipping away, the revelation frosting him from the inside and making him numb. He'd had a similar experience when he'd been fourteen and had broken his collarbone. The pain so intense that his brain had immediately severed its connection to the feeling.

Shock.

"It means that something doesn't want you to leave." You answered once he'd returned his eyes to yours. Your features creased, "Or someone."

Wally felt that statement like a nail through the chest. "How?"

You stared at him helplessly, caressing his cheek and then tilting forward to press your foreheads together again. The action worked to ground Wally, reeled him back from the edge of an existential crisis he wasn't ready to have.

Regretfully, "I don't know, Wally. But we'll figure it out, okay?"

He nodded against you. Closed his eyes and absorbed the warmth of your nearness, the solidity of your touch. Allowed those things to calm him.

"At least we can rule out Mr. A having anything to do with that, right?" Wally snorted in an attempt to lighten the mood.

You pulled back, smiled gently, and nodded, "Right. But he could've used it to his advantage. With her soul stuck here, Maddie wouldn't be able to get back into her body and then go to the police. It also means that he could've safely stashed her body anywhere, so long as he has access to life support."

"You think he dropped her at the hospital?"

"Not here." You said, "Split River isn't big enough to pull that off. He could've driven her to another state? Dropped her off at a big city hospital as a Jane Doe?"

Wally grimaced, shaking his head at the depravity, "That's messed up."

"God, her body could be in Detroit for all we know and it wouldn't get back here until someone in the hospital there made the connection. Unless Sheriff Baxter decides to widen the search."

"Couldn't you ask him? It's like you said, Xavier's your brother from another mother. Wouldn't the sheriff listen to you?"

You didn't seem convinced, reciting in a satire of an upbeat tone, "Hey Sheriff, I think my teacher knocked Maddie out of her body and took it to another state all so she wouldn't tell you about the money he's hiding in his classroom. We should totally look into that."

Wally responded in a responsible manner, "That sounds like an awful idea, let's not do that."

Curling against the back of your seat, voice slightly strangled, you uttered, "So, Maddie's stuck in an In Between 'til I can find her body and bring it back to her."

Wally sensed the granite mass of the pressure you were already putting on yourself. Choosing to steer you out from under it, he diverted the conversation, "Still haven't told me what an In Between is, by the way."

It did the trick, at least for the time being. Your lips quirked up at the corners and the wrinkle between your brows vanished as you informed him, "It's exactly what it sounds like. A plain between plains."

"Yeah, pretty thing, you're going to have to dumb it down more." Wally said, willing to sacrifice his dignity for the sake of making you smile.

Grinning, you set the stage, "Think of plains like different worlds. I'm in the living world, you're in the dead world, right?"

"Got it."

"Now, pretend there are doorways into those worlds. In Betweens are the spaces between the doors." You nibbled your bottom lip and Wally's attention immediately slipped, the urge to lick into your mouth making him twitch. Sweetly unaware, you back-tracked and tried a different avenue, "Not doors...maybe glass walls?"

"The door thing made sense. I mean, I think I get it. In Betweens are those places that anyone can access, whereas the living world is just for the living and the dead world is just for the dead. Am I close?"

"Yeah, you got it." You praised and Wally had to stifle the desire to puff out his chest and preen. "Well, not anyone can access In Betweens, but if your soul can Travel, that's where you go."

"So, when you project, you're in an In Between." Wally stated, though he was hedging for clarification.

"Exactly."

"And you said Maddie's stuck in an In Between, too, right?"

Wally saw the moment you clocked where he was going with that train of thought.

With a lamenting sigh, you said, "Unfortunately, In Betweens are complex. They're unique to all kinds of things like bloodlines and soul-ties—" Wally opened his mouth to ask, but you got there first, "—incredibly deep bonds you make in life with another person." He closed his mouth and listened as you elaborated. "So, me and my great-aunt enter the same In Between and can see each other. But Maddie..."

"Isn't blood?"

"And she and I weren't close enough to form the type of bond you'd need to Travel the same In Between. Either she'd have had to invite me into hers or I'd have had to invite her into mine. It's extremely intimate. Not something you do with someone you only hang out with in a group." You perked up and finally gave Wally a full, supernova smile. "I actually wrote you some notes."

The implication conjured an image of you scribbling notes for him under light cast from a laptop screen, kicking your feet as you lay on your bed like a schoolgirl. All so that he could understand the twisty, twiddly secrets of the universe...

He swooned, barely holding back a wistful exhale.

And then his brain ticked back a few frames to you on an unmade bed. The collar of the oversized t-shirt Wally hoped you owned bearing one shoulder, and the smooth skin of your legs on display.

He couldn't care less about the state of his deadness now, and what it meant that he couldn't leave the school grounds. Instead, he let a slow, devilish smirk slant across his mouth, emboldened by hormones and how receptive you were as he leaned into your space.

He slid his hand from yours and placed it on your thigh, "Gonna let me copy your homework, baby?"

"Gotta get those grades up before the big game." You played along, "Don't want you kicked off the team."

Without hesitation, Wally struck, halfway out of his seat, hand gripping the armrest behind you to hold himself up. He loomed over you, little thing that you were, squished into your seat and completely caged in by him. He hovered, heard your breath hitch, and watched your gaze go hazy.

"Lucky to have a girl like you on my side, then, huh?" Wally said, voice rough, tightly controlled, closing the distance between your lips in increments.

You reached up, wrapped your arms around his neck, "Damn right, big shot," and dipped in.

A throat cleared somewhere over Wally's shoulder, from behind and moderately above, and drove him back into his seat at Mach speed, his hold on you resituating to a socially acceptable place on your ankle. The interruption was accompanied by that arcing of gravity that emitted from a living body which meant Wally was once more on the outside looking in.

"Okay there, hot shot, time to get moving. Students aren't s'posed to be up here outside'a game time." The maintenance worker said, illicit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Wally noticed the man wasn't quite looking at you, and, for the first time, he had to wonder what the hell people saw when you and he were together while you were still in your body.

You pulled yourself up as fast as the angle allowed you to without injury, foot still tucked in Wally's lap. As soon as your head peeked above the back of your seat, the maintenance worker clutched a hand to his heart and plucked the cigarette from his lips.

"Jesus, girl, you can't do that to folks." He scolded you, southern accent thickening, "Lookin' like a zombie comin' out the grave or what."

"Sorry," You said and sounded as puzzled as Wally was by the man's overreaction.

"Just hurry up and get goin'." His eyes swept in a strange pattern, away from you then back then away, fixing on a point that would have been Wally's nose if he weren't invisible. "You kids these days thinking you can be wherever you wanna be, huh? Ignoring the rules, like they don't apply to you..."

God, this guy. "Can it, asshole. Give her a minute to get up." Wally snapped, bolstered by the fact that the man couldn't hear him. "Bet you're bent outta shape because all that nicotine makes your dick about as useful as a wet napkin."

He heard you choke on a laugh that you quickly masked under a cough.

The man squinted, lips pursed in aggravation. Surprisingly, he departed with no more than a gruff, "Get gone!" and stuck his half-burned cigarette back into his mouth.

Wally glared after him as the man marched up the stairs toward a ladder open beneath a curtain of cables and metal that spilled from the ceiling. Clearly, the man had been in the middle of fixing something when he'd seen you.

"Fucker." Wally grumbled. He patted your leg, pressed a kiss to your knee before he released you.

"I appreciated the support," You giggled, "Even if it doesn't do much on my side of things, it's nice to know you have my back."

"I've always got you, baby." Wally vowed as he unfolded himself and rose to his feet. He couldn't help tacking on, "Every bit of you," with a wink that made you pink up so prettily.

You wetted your lips, ducked your face into your shoulder; shy after you'd been caught in what might’ve been a very awkward position. "I'm starting to get that."

Wally let you take the lead, enjoyed how you brushed up against him as you shuffled out of the row and onto the stairs. He shot the man one last angry look as he grabbed his jacket and then turned to trail you across the field and out of the stadium.

At the top of the grandstand, feet from the ladder, the man examined his cigarette through a profoundly glum expression.

With a grunt, he dropped it to the ground and crushed it under the thick sole of his work boot, simultaneously pulling the crumpled, two-from-empty pack out of his breast pocket and whipping it into a nearby trashcan.

💀___________________________

PART THIRTEEN - PART FIFTEEN

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[themattress]

The Shitennou in the 90s anime are fantastic because each one of them is a specialist of some sort and it makes their evil operations distinct from one another, keeping things fresh.

Jadeite - The Illusionist

When it comes to Jadeite, deception is the name of the game. For his energy harvesting schemes he creates fake businesses, has his youma pose as humans, and he himself dons all sorts of disguises: radio DJ, fitness instructor, stage manager, academic professor, shrine assistant, amusement park security guard, and captain of a cruise ship. He will also utilize illusions to intimidate like when he showed a vision of Tokyo in flames, or to trick his enemies like when he had illusionary cops force the Sailor Senshi to transform so that he could learn their true identities. Unfortunately, Jadeite's pride in his capabilities means that he was stubbornly unwilling to adapt and take a more direct approach, leading to his downfall.

Nephrite - The Manipulator

Nephrite is a manipulator in all senses of the word. He manipulates people, objects, events and even the stars themselves in order to achieve his villainous goals. Using the single disguise of Masato Sanjouin, he gets close to victims, then will usually give them an item he curses to amplify their innate negative energy until it matches the energy of the star they were born under, creating a special youma in the process. He eventually singles out a key victim in Naru Osaka, who has a crush on his Sanjouin persona, and manipulates her in plans to destroy the Sailor Senshi or find the Imperium Silver Crystal, and uses a special tool of his own creation known as the Dark Star Crystal. However, his cold heart ends up warmed by Naru's innocence and devotion to love, leading him to his tragic demise defending her.

Zoisite - The Cheat

While Zoisite had aid from Kunzite in strategizing, let's not sell him short when it comes to the moment of truth - Zoisite frequently prevails because he is willing to do absolutely anything to win. No method is too dirty, cheap or cowardly for him to embrace. He'll threaten someone's loved one to coerce them into doing what he wants, he'll sucker-punch his enemies out of nowhere after having previously retreated from them, he'll physically bully whoever is smaller and weaker than him then blind them to make an escape if they prove more formidable than expected, he'll pretend to surrender and then strike, he'll sic a monster on his enemy while taking his prize and running, and when all else fails a good old-fashioned stabbing in the back will suffice. Zoisite got far on dishonesty, but success went to his head and he overreached.

Kunzite - The Trap Master

At first Kunzite was a skilled tactician, but then after Zoisite died the writers made him stupider at crafting strategies without even seeming to realize it. What he remained very consistent on, however, was his brilliant and deadly traps. He engineered a fake hostage situation leading to the Sailor Senshi getting caught in a dark, ever-compressing forcefield, he cut the power in Tokyo to obstruct the Sailor Senshi's efforts and cause Mamoru and Usagi to get stuck in an elevator, he had a great idea for a DNA scanning device to catch Sailor Moon with that his youma sadly screwed up, he held a princess seminar where the target was the overall failures save for in a frisbee-tossing challenge since it reflects Sailor Moon's tiara throwing ability, he had a giant snowy chasm created for his enemies to fall right into and be unable to climb out of, he rigged an ice skating rink temperature control device to blast an obscene amount of icy coldness down on everyone and nearly freeze them to death, he played on Sailor Venus' friendship with another person to almost obtain vital information from her, he turned the Sailor Senshi's own attempt at a trap back on them because he saw right through it, and were it not for the Silver Crystal's interference would have trapped them all in time-space limbo. Of all the Shitennou, he came closest to victory on the most occasions. Additionally, he was a powerful warrior, with his power and pride sadly being his undoing.