#I almost had her in the woods but no she’s doing this from her luxury penthouse as she should

[wigglebox]

For the art ask...Rowena with 1 or Bobby with 8 🥺

I got my red dress on tonight

Dancin' in the dark, in the pale moonlight

[lowkeyerror]

Guidance

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Notes: Near death experience, pre-cannon, I think it’s mostly spoiler free be wary,

Summary: You are thought to be the weakest member of your coven. After hearing it so often you begin to believe it. It’s not until you encounter a mysterious woman in the woods, that you get a glimpse of you true power.

An: 2 parter & part 2 should be up in a matter of minutes 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️. Hope you like this one. I'm really just free writing these as they come up in my head

Part 2 | Masterlist

You were the weakest in your coven. The others were miles ahead of you when it came to actually using magic. However no one knew as much about it as you did.

You spent your time reading hoping to come across something that would wake your full potential but you found nothing.

Your coven bullied you relentlessly for your shortcomings. You heard their harsh words every time you failed a task. You heard it when you were left to clean up after them. You heard it when they would ditch you in the woods claiming it would build merit.

“This isn’t funny you guys, it’s dark please,” you call through the trees.

No one answers, not that you expect them to. You try to cast a light spell just enough to hold it in your hand, but you fail.

You start to hear noises in the woods surrounding you. Quickly you turn your back and take a defensive stance. You feel the hairs stand up against the back of your neck, and a light sweat begin to coat your forehead.

“I- I am armed,” you lie trying to reason with the darkness

When a figure steps out, you feel yourself start to shake. It was hard to see, but the hooded figure was illuminated by the soft light of the moon.

She was beautiful, something unnatural like you’ve never seen before. The warmth in her face, the faint rosy tones of her cheeks, the deep luxury of expensive leather in her eyes. She has stunned you into silence.

“You’re freezing,” is the only thing she says to you.

In your fear you hadn’t noticed the cold bite of the night. However as the stranger points it out you can feel a numbness start to take a place in your body.

“My coven… they like to play tricks on me like this,” you cast your gaze down, afraid to look into her eyes.

“That’s not very funny,” she speaks gently.

You raise your gaze to look at her, “It’s because I’m the weakest member. I can’t even cast a simple spell to light a path.”

The mystery woman shakes her head , “I don't think that’s true.”

She removes her cloak and drapes it over your shoulder.

“You’ll freeze miss,” you try to reason with her, but she just chuckles.

“Give me your hand,” she commands.

You hesitate but place your hand in hers. She lays your palm up flat.

“What are you do-”

“Think of something warm, like a blanket or a coat,” she guides you.

“Ok,” you mumble following her directions.

She praises you, “Very good, now move from warm to hot. Think of the blistering sun or an oven or… fire.”

When she says fire she can already see the ball growing in your hand. She looks over to see if you’re witnessing your power, but your eyes are closed.

“Now what? Hello?”

You open your eyes and the woman had vanished. Your eyes lock on the ball of fire illuminating from your hand. You had never been able to do something like this before.

With the stranger’s cloak around you and the ball of fire in your hand you were able to find your way back to the coven. You snuffed out the fireball before getting too close to the cabins.

“That’s a new record Y/n, we almost didn’t think you’d make it back,” one of the bullies snickers.

Instead of entertaining them with a stutter filled response like you usually do, you just walk past them. The woman from the woods still in your mind. You look at your hand that held the fire ball. Was she responsible for it, or could you do it on your own.

You do just like she instructed. Thinking of something warm and then hot. This time watching as your fingertips began to glow and fire danced in your palm.

Maybe you had been letting the words of the others get to you. Perhaps you had power just like theirs hidden somewhere underneath all of that doubt.

You decided that you would press the limits of your powers until your knowledge matched your ability. As soon as you began believing in yourself, the power seemed to surge through you.

You kept the woman’s cloak as you trained your powers. Often sneaking off in the night to teach yourself as your coven still believed you to be a weakling.

It’s a few months later, when your powers are much more refined that you grow tired of the teasing. You’re certain that you are more powerful than the other members of the coven.

“Hey Y/ln,” you turn at the sound of your last name.

A ball of mud thuds against your face and the sound of laughter rings in your ears. You try to calm yourself down as your anger begins to rise.

“Look she’s going to cry.”

“Chin up Y/n, you’re too old for tears.”

“I’m sure there’s a spell you can’t use that would be helpful right now.”

You felt hot all over. Like the rage was boiling your blood. Your fists were clenched together at your side. You felt the mud harden over your face before cracking off like it was a rock.

“Who threw it?” Your voice is low.

The laughter has stopped. They all look at you paralyzed with fear. You were on fire from your head to your toes. Pupils engulfed in flames.

“WHO THREW IT?” You repeat louder.

“We were just teasing Y/n, restrain yourself.”

You take a deep breath, and for a moment the flames die down.

“Freak,” someone mumbles.

That’s all it takes for you to shoot the fire out of your hand towards your coven members. Most of them moved out of the way.

The one’s who were too slow, did not have the time to scream. They were piles of ashes almost instantly. The others yell in their place, tears streaming down.

Their cries do something to pull you from your rage. You begin blinking rapidly. Your body feels empty on the inside, warmth was no longer there replaced by a bone chilling cold.

You pass out. When your coven sisters were aware that weren’t getting up again, they ran. They ran all the way to the mother of your coven to tell her what you did. They decided you would die for your actions.

When you gained consciousness you found yourself in a large glass. On the opposite side of the glass were your peers. You tried talking to them but none of them responded.

You weren’t truly panicking until the water started to flood into the sides of the glass. You began to bang on the glass, it did not relent. The water was ice cold as it started to climb up your legs.

“Please, please,” you beg them, tears streaming down your face.

“You never belonged in this coven, even with power, you are still a weakling,” the mother of the coven spat at you.

You felt your insides begin to burn again, but the cold water feels like it's putting out the fire. The water begins to rise. The higher it rises the more you fight against the execution.

Water begins to fill your lungs and you cough. It only makes more water enter your body. You begin to loose consciousness this time noting you won’t be waking again.

Your eyes flutter and before they close, you see a large flash of purple. You hear the glass tank you’re in begin to crack. You’re back is against the ground and your eyes are wide open.

“Is she breathing?”

“Do CPR.”

“Rio, I don't even know this gi-"

“DO THE CPR, AGATHA.”

Soon Agatha begins doing chest compressions on you. She hears a very feint heart beat. She moves to mouth to mouth. She tries to blow air into your lungs 2 or 3 times.

Eventually you start coughing, and she gains some distance.

“Are you alright bunny?”

You shake your head trying to clear the ringing.

“How did you?”

Your eyes begin to focus. You see the lifeless bodies of your coven members behind her. It makes you scramble back away from the woman.

“Hey, hey take it easy. They were trying to kill you, I did the right thing,” the woman tries to rationalize with you.

“What's your name?” You attempt to scramble to your feet.

“ Agatha Harkness. I’m not going to hurt you,” she stays in place eyes boring into yours.

Your eyes shift to the bodies once more, “How can I be sure?”

“She’s not going to hurt you, Y/n,” that voice was familiar to you.

You look behind you to see the woman you had come across in the forest. Seeing her in the daylight brings a brighter hue to your already flush cheeks. You begin to cough again.

“You- you put the fire in my hand,” you sputter.

She shakes her head, “That fire was inside of you, long before we crossed paths my sweet.”

“How did you find me?”

Agatha laughs, “Tell her how you found her Rio. Who you really are?”

Rio glares at Agatha, “Shut up, Agatha.”

“Who are you?” You whisper.

“I am Death,” she states.

You look at her waiting for her to say sike. To admit that this was some cruel joke, but she doesn't. Instead she just looks at you with her doe eyes.

“Let’s get you dry, bunny” Agatha says and with a flick of her hand, your clothes are dry.

“You wear my cloak.”

You pull it closer to your body, “ Keeps me warm.”

“I have been… drawn to you for some reason Y/n. You could've easily froze to death that night we met. You were so close, but then I interfered. It wasn’t your time yet. So I decided to offer you warmth.”

You stare up at her, “You must be mistaken. I am not… there’s nothing special about me. Especially nothing good enough to have Death save my life.”

“What did you do too have your whole coven turn against you?”

You stutter, “I- I got upset.”

Rio pushes you to further explain, “And what happened when you got upset?”

Your jaw twitches, “I started to feel hot on the inside.”

“And then what, bunny?”

You feel the fire roaring numbly inside of you, “I was covered it in fire. I shot it at them for teasing me. Some… some of them didn't move quick enough. ”

You begin to hyperventilate as the reality of your actions set in. You had killed people, their blood on your hands. Technically your entire coven was dead because of you.

“Deep breaths,” Agatha sits in front of you guiding you through the breaths. “Don’t feel ashamed for doing what you had to do for survival. It's not always about who is the strongest or even who is the smartest, it’s about who survives.”

“But for the record you were more powerful and smarter than all of them, “ Rio shares.

“I don't understand,” you look between the two women.

“Y/n, you are an elemental witch. It’s like a green witch on steroids,” Agatha explains.

You scoff, “Just because I made a fireball, anybody can do that.”

“You just said you were engulfed in flames,” Rio counters.

“Well that's just fire there are other elements,” you say, sure of your words.

Agatha nods, “Indeed there are, but you’ve only tried to play with fire. Give me your hand.”

Just like you had done months ago with Rio, you give Agatha your hand. She holds it face up with her own under yours.

“Now what?”

“Think of a flower. Any kind of flower. Be sure in the details. How long is the stem, does it have leaves on it? How big is the flower, is it multicolored?”

You follow Agatha’s instructions and easily enough a flower is sprouting out of your hand.

“How curious?” Rio glances at the flower you’ve made.

“What?” You ask gently pulling the flower from your palm.

“You made a Rio Dipladenia,” Agatha speaks breathless for a moment.

You furrow your brows, “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, it’s not. That flower, I created it for Agatha, so it’s quite the coincidence that you would think to make it,” Rio informs you.

A blush spreads across your face, “Oh, would you… do you want the flower, Agatha?”

Agatha’s eyes snap to Rio before settling on you, “You’re adorable, doll.”

“I agree, too adorable to be wandering the forest alone and untrained. Come with us Y/n, we will help you reach your full potential,” Rio insists.

You look between the two for a moment, contemplating. You had nothing. Your coven was dead, your powers were unpredictable at best, and you couldn’t stand the thought of being alone.

You slowly nod, “Ok.”

“Good choice, bunny.”

[neptuneiris]

Cruel Summer (02/10)

Paradise Beach

pairing: modern!aemond × fem!reader

summary: after a bad day at work, you head to the beach of your dreams, where an unexpected encounter occurs with a person who is too well known in the city and very rich.

words: 7.7k

previous part • next chapter • series masterlist

omg i can't believe how much you guys liked the first part! i really thought the story wouldn't get so much support (especially since i haven't finished CYPTBIL👀) but you guys again surprised me🤗 i'm very inspired with this story so i'm very happy for all the support, so enjoy this new chapter and look forward to the others!🙌🏻

thank you for reading!

warnings: none in this chapter.

You hate to see the beach dirty.

You've always had a problem with people who leave all their trash on the beach without any remorse and in full view of everyone. Many people will be embarrassed to confront them and create a fuss, but you... you defend the beach.

The first community program you see that brings people together to clean up the beach to better help the ecosystem, you're the first to sign up.

And that's the bad thing about living in Black Waves.

The beaches are not the best kept. There is dirt everywhere, the smell is horrible and really very few people make an effort to keep the beaches on this side clean.

The complete opposite on the beaches of Crown's.

This is mainly why you want to make a difference, to have clean and beautiful beaches despite the 'status' that the rich label you in the worst way.

You've seen their beaches and they are very well kept, that's true. It was clear to you when you went to that party last night and saw the white sand.

Obviously the rich people pay people for maintenance, whether they are poor people or whatever, but your people can't afford that, so they either clean it themselves or they just don't do it.

Pretty much the same goes for restaurants and venues of any kind.

Certainly the restaurant you work for is on a beachfront terrace in a luxurious and exclusive part of Crown's, the same goes for most of the restaurants in this area.

But in Black Waves the restaurants are less sophisticated, the food is fast, some are wood-framed, and there are no more than four people working there.

The places to buy clothes or basic necessities are the same, even a grocery store is inside the same house of the owners, while the rich have a huge shopping mall with brand name clothing stores, accessories, libraries, coffee shops and more refined restaurants.

They also have on their side of town large supermarkets where every fruit, vegetable or meat is triple the price of what they sell it on your side of town.

The prices are also different, clearly.

In Black Waves the dishes sold in the restaurants are affordable, while here a seafood dish costs fifty dollars.

And today especially your boss is in a bad mood, like every day, but today more so.

"Hey."

Alysanne whispers to you from the other side of the bar as you finish cleaning one of the tables and watch her almost instantly, where she takes care that your boss doesn't see you both talking.

"Daniel has texted me, he says Cregan is taking us to another one of his parties tonight," she lets you know with the clear excitement all over her contained face, "They say it's going to be great and maybe Cregan can take us up on his parents' yacht."

You let out a sigh and like her, you check to make sure Mr. Frey doesn't catch you talking in mid-shift.

"Tonight?"

"Yes," she says without removing her excitement.

"We're working double shifts today, Anne," you tell her without encouragement.

"Oh come on. We can't miss the opportunity to spend the party on a fucking yacht," she whispers excitedly to you.

"My feet are already hurting and it's not even four in the afternoon," you point out to her.

She gives you a bad look.

"Y/N," she tells you reproachfully.

"Depends on how the day goes."

"Are you serious? We must—

"You two!"

Mr. Frey's voice immediately catches your attention and Alysanne's, where you notice him already watching you both with a scowl on his face and clearly furious.

"Did I pay you to chat or to work!?"

The two of you exchange a glance and immediately turn away from each other, each returning to their respective tasks. But of course, it not only draws the attention of the two of you, but also that of some customers, and the two of you endure the humiliation of being scolded in public.

"You'd better move and I'd better not see you two chatting again or I'll pay you exactly what you deserve or send you back to your side of town."

You almost want to laugh in his face, but like any educated woman and again out of necessity, you keep quiet, as does Alysanne, but the looks you both exchange say it all.

You would like to tell him that because of the mistreatment and this kind of humiliation in public, the two of you and the other workers should be paid more, especially because you have to deal with a boss like him, but neither you nor anyone else says anything and continue working.

And precisely because you were talking to Alysanne for only a brief moment, Mr. Frey takes advantage and overloads you both with too much work for the remainder of the shift.

And that's why you definitely decide not to go to any party.

Your feet hurt, you are urged to take a bath, eat and lie in your bed, however, you are surprised to see how Alysanne has way too much energy for the hell you both had to go through and as she talk to the guys by text, the more excited she gets about going to Cregan's party.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?"

Alysanne asks you as she finishes getting ready, looking at you through the full-length mirror.

"Honestly I'd rather go to the beach to relax instead of being surrounded with music, the smell of beer, weed and teenagers getting drunk."

She gives you an amused look.

"And why don't you do that?"

"I don't have a ride and it's too late to walk."

"Cregan is coming to pick me up in his car along with the others, I'm sure he can give you a ride if you ask him."

You give her a curious and unsure look.

"Do you think he'll accept?"

"We're going to the same side of town, he'll be passing through," she nods with a nonchalant gesture.

At least you don't have to get too dressed up and you won't get tired, so you trust Alysanne and start getting ready too. Not too much like her but to look presentable.

As time goes by Cregan finally arrives with the boys making a huge fuss, excited about the party tonight. Alysanne tells them to shut up and they are lucky that your uncle and aunt haven't complained about them yet.

You give Cregan directions after asking him to please give you a ride and pretty soon everyone is inside of Crown's.

"Wait, you're not coming with us?" Sam asks you confused.

You shake your head.

"Why not?"

"I'm too tired for a party."

Chase gives you a knowing look.

"I can't believe in all this time you haven't been caught."

"It's not like I'm doing anything wrong either," you shrug.

"But the rich hate us and I bet you they'll make a huge fuss if they catch you."

"Yeah, who knows, maybe a trespass sue," Daniel agrees.

"Even knowing you don't have the money to pay for it," Chase tells you.

"Trespassing?" you repeat between amused and incredulous, "Going to sit on the edge of the beach is trespassing? Do you even know what trespassing is?"

"In any case, the rich won't like it if you get caught," Sam says making a nonchalant gesture.

You decide not to take it any further and finally arrive at your destination point, where you get out and walk over to the side of the pilot's window to see Cregan.

"Thanks for the ride."

"No problem," he smiles at you, "But the guys are right. If the owners find out about you, you can get in big trouble."

"I've been doing this for almost a year," you let him know, "I'm very sneaky."

He shakes his head with an amused smile.

"Just be careful. We'll come get you when you tell us."

"Okay," you nod, "Thanks, Cregan."

"Take care," Alysanne says to you from the passenger seat.

"Sure."

"And if the rich see you, get in the ocean and swim to the party, we'll help you there," Daniel tells you too.

You give him a look and and a not entirely convinced smile.

"Yeah, sure, very helpful."

You finally start to walk away from them as they continue to yell at you to take care of yourself, to call them in case of anything and so on, until Cregan starts up and his car begins to disappear into the distance.

And then you take action.

You look around, quickly assessing the area, making sure there are no people nearby to see you, but surprisingly this whole luxurious area of Crown's is quiet.

The only movement you notice is several cars passing by, but other than that, there are no monkeys on the shore.

There is a wall in front of you that marks the line between this private neighborhood and the houses in the same neighborhood that are even more private, since they have a huge front yard and a huge part of the beach exclusively for them.

The wall is not high, fortunately, you think it should be, but this is compensated by security guards who patrol this area and the beach from time to time.

So stealthily and in a calculated manner, once you make sure that there are no people nearby, you hide among the bushes and trees that are planted in the corner of the sidewalk to put your foot on a specific crack that you know of the wall and push yourself upward taking the edge of the wall with both hands to be able to observe the other side.

You quickly scan the entire area, making sure there are no guards patrolling nearby nor any of the people who live in the houses before jumping.

The meters of distance are considerable between the huge houses or rather mansions. There is pavement between the divisions and those divisions are exactly the way to the beach.

You put on the cap of the sweatshirt you are wearing to cover your hair and your face, since you know that all the houses must have security cameras outside, so this way you protect yourself in case of anything.

And once you make sure that there is no one outside or nearby, you gain impulse again with more strength and as fast as your feet allow you but still being careful, you place your hands on the rough edge of the wall and start to climb.

You adjust your grip more firmly on the edge and in one agile motion, you propel yourself upwards, where you feel the effort as you pull your own weight and more as you try to be fast.

Luckily you've done this many times before and when you reach the top, wasting no time and making sure no one is watching you, you quickly slide down the other side and you fall on your feet with a dry sound.

You don't take the time to rest and looking around, with adrenaline running through your veins and your heart beating too fast, you quickly advance towards the beach.

And once you are far enough away from where you managed to cross and indeed you confirm that no one saw you and everything is fine, again, you can relax.

You remove the cap from your head and let your hair free again, slowly feeling how the breeze and the wind with the salty air envelop you completely as you approach the seashore.

Easily anyone who lives here if they see you could tell that you live here too, besides the night also helps you because without so much light they can't recognize you right away.

And it is as if you are also a rich person, daughter of rich parents, being inside a private section of the beach in Crown's most exclusive area.

And as you go along, this is precisely why you take the risk of coming to this place when it is forbidden to you; the place and the view.

The sand here is perfect, clean as if no one had ever walked on it, the air is salty with no smell of anything unpleasant in specific, there are no people that could be dangerous around you and the surroundings are absolutely beautiful and clean.

Also this section has a cliff a bit secluded from all the houses, where its huge rocky wall looks absolutely beautiful and ethereal when illuminated by the night light.

You have come here many, many times and you always head to the same place, that specific pier.

The pier stretches out in front of you like a polished wooden path, leading into the deep waters of the night ocean.

Discreetly placed lights along the pier illuminate it with a soft golden glow, creating a contrast to the darkness surrounding the horizon.

The reflection of the small lamps trembles on the surface of the water, giving the place a magical and mysterious air.

The structure is impeccable, made of dark, sturdy wood, maintained with a care that only the rich can afford. There is not a single splinter out of place, not even an ill-fitting clove.

Every detail is taken care of, right down to the polished wooden benches at the end of the pier, ideal for sitting and admiring the sea in silence.

As you approach, the wooden planks creak softly under your feet, but the sound mixes with the gentle murmur of the waves, making it almost imperceptible.

And when you reach the end, you can see a large yacht moored at the side of the dock, with it's deluxe cover and it's name painted in gold and silver lettering.

You have no idea which rich family it might belong to, but you know this is just one of many they must have. It wasn't here the last time you came here and fortunately it doesn't obstruct the view.

You take a seat on the wooden bench and letting out a big breath, you watch as the full moon reflects off the ocean, it's silvery sparkles dancing on the water in hypnotic movements.

This is why you love coming here, even in this way, because the fresh, salty night air fills your lungs with every inhalation.

And just for an instant, you feel freer than ever in this space that is not supposed to belong to you.

Besides you not only enjoy seeing the moon, but also the stars, shining brightly and adorning the entire night sky. And you can rest easy, because there is no danger on this side of town.

You've been enduring a lot at work lately, taking a lot of strain on your shoulders from double shifts and stressing over the slightest thing, but coming here and being here gives you that much needed quiet time.

And only this place can offer you that; peace and tranquility.

You don't know exactly how much time passes but you find yourself in the same position, not getting bored and enjoying the view, wishing time would freeze so you could continue to enjoy this without worries.

You think that Alysanne and the guys must be having fun too, but for tonight this is all the fun you need.

Suddenly your phone vibrates next to you and the screen lights up as a new notification comes in. You casually pick it up and see a new message, and it's from Alysanne.

It's a selfie of her with the guys, all happy, laughing, smiling, beer bottles in hand and with the sea and yachts in the background completing the scene.

You let out a small laugh as you see Sam's euphoric face, Daniel and Chase's funny faces, and Cregan and Alysanne's smiling faces.

"Excuse me?"

Your whole body reacts and jumps instantly from shock and you look quickly and sharply behind you with all the panic on your face, definitely not expecting what you see.

Aemond Targaryen.

Shit.

It's the first thing that comes to your mind as you quickly jump to your feet, your heart beating too fast and your hands starting to shake.

That's when you know that the moment has finally come where you're caught and you're in big trouble.

Aemond watches you with a serious and attentive face, analyzing you completely. And you feel completely small when his eyes look at you with confusion and distrust, but challenging.

He clearly has no idea what are you doing here and maintains a defensive posture.

And you definitely feel like a thief who's just been caught in the act.

"What are you doing here?"

Oh God.

You think in terror.

How come you didn't hear him coming? The boards creak with the weight when someone walks and you couldn't hear anything?

You think that you should have been more attentive, that you shouldn't have let your guard down, because it's not possible that you really were so distracted and in your own world that you didn't hear him coming. 

But with him already here, watching you in a bad way, looking cold and suspicious, that you don't have time to scold yourself or think about it.

"I-I..." you stammer, in a shaky voice, not having the slightest idea what to say, very nervous and scared.

All you can feel is a lump in your throat, an irregular throbbing in your chest and the overwhelming weight of his gaze on you.

He doesn't look away and his serious face doesn't change, clearly waiting for an answer.

As you watch him examine you, you watch as he runs his gaze up and down you, trying to decipher who you are. And it doesn't take him long to come to an obvious conclusion, because he instantly knows that you are not like him.  

By your clothes and your old sandals, everything about you gives away that you don't belong here. Besides, he doesn't recognize you from among the other Crown's families to be able to say that you belong to one of them.

He knows you're not from around here.

"I asked you a question," he demands you in a bad way and with a harsher tone, walking towards you, "What are you doing here?"

You feel a shiver run down your back as you swallow hard, but the words just won't come out.

You're paralyzed, terrified, stuck, because you have no idea what to say and you're still processing that this is really happening. 

You know you don't have any good excuses and he's impatient, waiting for an answer that really won't be convincing to be the truth.

"I will call security for invasion of private property," he warns you firmly, clearly beginning to lose patience.

The danger in his words makes the fear hit you even harder and you finally react in panic.       

"No, no, please," you finally manage to say, worried and raising one of your hands to him in supplication, "I-I… I'm not doing anything wrong, I swear," you raise both hands in surrender, trembling.

He inspects you more closely with a piercing gaze, trying to find something, anything, to tell him what you are really doing here or what you are trying to do, watching between you and his family's yacht anchored to the dock.

His posture remains tense, ready to act if he finds anything out of place. 

He thinks that maybe you are doing something with the yacht, but he sees it in perfect condition, with nothing strange and nothing out of the ordinary, as the rope that ties it to the dock is without problems.

But he still continues to watch you seriously, defensively and suspiciously.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath, lowering your gaze, embarrassed and terrified, "This has never happened before," you say, reproaching yourself for the mess you've gotten yourself into.

But he hears you perfectly, and his frown deepens.

"Before?" he queries you.      

You close your eyes tightly, cursing yourself internally for having said that, to again look at him pleadingly and in desperation wanting to prove to him that you really aren't doing anything wrong.

"I swear I—

"Hello!?"

The unexpected voice makes you jump again from surprise and you watch with your eyes wide open behind Aemond as one of the security guards enters the dock, his flashlight illuminating the way.

Your heart beats with such force that it seems to thunder in your ears, as panic engulfs you completely. 

And without thinking too much, you move quickly, hiding behind a huge wooden box, taking advantage of the pole supporting the roof at the end of the pier and some scattered chairs. 

You crouch down, trying to make yourself as small as possible, but desperation gives you away with every move.

This definitely ends up completely confusing Aemond, not expecting that reaction and movement from you at all.      

And you watch him from your hiding place with all the pleading and forgiveness in your eyes, silently begging him not to say anything, not to give you away.

But he turns his gaze to the guard who ends up coming closer.

"Are you all right son?"

Your heart stops momentarily and you watch him in terrified silence, simply waiting for the worst. 

But even to have his whole look serious and not showing much reaction, you watch as hesitation appears for a moment and he falters in his words, as if he doesn't know exactly what to say, until he does.

"Yes," he finally says, "I'm all right."

The guard, seemingly satisfied with the answer, nods, but doesn't leave.     

"The Baratheon's reported a break-in in their backyard a few days ago," he says and you listen carefully, still waiting for the moment with fear and concern, "Nothing serious, apparently just clothes and some decorations. I'm just patrolling to make sure everything is in order."

Your breathing quickens as you listen to every word and Aemond continues to watch the guard, when suddenly he shoots you a quick glance, his eyes reflecting a mixture of seriousness and indecision. 

"Yes, so I hear," he says.

"Are you alone, son? I thought I saw someone else here."

Fuck.

Your stomach sinks and you close your eyes tightly, then watch in terror for the moment when Aemond will finally speak and give you away.

But you see the hesitation in his gaze again, you also watch intently as he opens and closes his mouth a few times, failing to say anything.    

When suddenly you see him let out a long breath and slyly give you a look with his serious face, then lick his lips and press them together in resignation.

"Yes, I'm alone."

As soon as Aemond utters those words, a wave of relief sweeps through your body. But almost instantly you stare at him in complete shock, unable to believe it. 

He really just covered you in front of the guard. He didn't really give you away even when he had every reason to do so.

Your hands are still shaking, but you slowly feel the adrenaline and anguish start to subside. 

"Well, we'll be around if you need anything. Good night, son." 

Aemond nods in his direction.

"Yes, thank you. Good night."  

You stand still for a few more moments, listening to his footsteps fade into the distance until finally there is no more noise. Just the sound of the water against the dock and the night wind on the waves.

You take a deep breath and slowly, you sit up, emerging from your hiding place with your hands still shaking. 

Your eyes meet those of Aemond, who is still standing, watching you with that penetrating gaze that seems to be able to read all your deepest thoughts. 

You don't know exactly what to say to him, you're still surprised and don't understand why he saved you, but the words come out on their own, grateful and fearful.

"Thank you," you murmur apologetically but with all the sincerity in your gaze, "Thank you for not saying anything."

He doesn't say anything to you, which confuses you even more, he just keeps standing there watching you, with his usual hard-to-read expression.     

“I-I..." you stammer, biting your lips and lowering your gaze for a moment, still feeling nervous, "I really wasn't doing anything wrong. I wasn't stealing or harming or anything like that, truly," you tell him honestly.

Again, he says nothing. He doesn't move either. He just stands there, with both hands tucked inside his front pockets of his shorts and still watching you with utmost attention that makes you feel incredibly nervous, even more so due to the circumstances.

You are also surprised that he is not kicking you out and threatening not to come back here. 

You honestly don't understand his behavior and the fact that he saved you from the guard, but for whatever reason, you thank him or you would have been in big trouble.

So cautiously, you take a step towards the entrance and exit of the pier.        

"And I'm sorry. You won't see me around here again. I really don't want to cause trouble," you add, watching him warily and wanting to make clear the promise in your words, "I'll leave now," you say quietly.

And having nothing more to say, you turn around, ready to run away if necessary, but you barely take two steps when surprisingly his voice stops you.

"What were you doing here?" he asks for the fifth time all night, his tone just as accusing but now with a curious tone. 

You stand still, not knowing exactly how to respond. 

But you know you have two choices: lie or tell the truth. And for some reason, you feel you can't lie to him; Aemond Targaryen.

Aside from belonging to the wealthiest, most prestigious and powerful family in Sunset's and the entire country, with his father being Viserys Targaryen himself and being one of the heirs to his entire fortune, he seems to be someone who seems to have the innate ability to detect falsehood.

That's why you don't understand why he saved you, a poor girl who doesn't belong to his world and probably never will, but still, you decide to be honest.       

Anyway, you're already stuck here and as crazy as it sounds, you owe Aemond Targaryen one.

"I was just... looking for some peace and quiet," you confess, turning your body to once again look at him, "I had a bad day and coming here..." you look around with a wistful look, "It helps me."

Aemond tilts his head, frowning slightly and biting the inside of his cheek, inspecting you. 

"And you can't do that on the beach on your side of town?" he asks you with a tone of disbelief.

You sigh, feeling a twinge of frustration as you think about the answer. It's a reasonable question, but the answer is not so simple. 

"Not really," you reply, lowering your gaze for a moment and biting your lips in nervousness, "Surely you know it's not the same at Black Waves."

He shakes his head slightly.

"I've never been there."

You almost look at him with an obvious look, almost, but you end up nodding, since of course he's never been to your side of town when he lives here.   

"The smell of the beach there is not so nice. They are not as clean as these, there is dirt and being there alone in the middle of the night is dangerous," you explain.

And everything you say is true, which is why you decide to come here.

And he looks at you, clearly digesting your words, saying nothing for a few moments, as is becoming usual between the two of you.

You think that maybe for him, someone who has lived surrounded by luxury all his life, it is somewhat difficult to imagine such a different reality. But it is also no secret how the people of Black Waves live.

So you don't understand his silence or even his behavior, but what you do see in him, surprisingly... is that he doesn't judge you.

You would have expected the face of disgust instantly like any spoiled child of rich parents and also that he would tell you to leave now with that posture and superficial look.

But nothing.       

Aemond Targaryen doesn't really reflect anything with his eyes. Unless he's judging you and giving you those looks of disgust in his mind.

But, strangely, he doesn't make you feel any less.

"And coming here... it's like my paradise, for the peace and quiet," you conclude in a low murmur.

Again... he doesn't say anything.

And that begins to frustrate you.

He just watches you, as if he's evaluating every word, every gesture and every detail in you. 

And you silently think to yourself that he probably doesn't say anything because he really wants you to leave, to leave him alone and never come back here.

So you try to leave again, because you've caused enough trouble and you can't risk staying.   

However, just as you prepare to say goodbye and apologize, again, he interrupts you.

"Since when do you come here?" he asks with a tone that reveals a mild interest you weren't expecting.

Inevitably your nerves run through you again and you swallow hard, having no idea whether this interrogation is good or bad, but you still decide to be honest to avoid as much trouble as you can.

"Last year," you confess apologetically.

He raises his eyebrows slightly.

"And no one had caught you until now?"

"It's just that I don't come here much, I promise," you say instantly, sincere, "Like I told you I only come when I really need to... when I want peace and quiet. And I don't do anything but sit around and watch the ocean, that's all."

He nods slowly, again processing your words. 

And you don't know it but to Aemond... there seems to be something about you, something about the way you talk or maybe that you're a Black Waves girl, that keeps him interested.

His blue eyes, cold but curious, fix on yours, as if he wants to see beyond the words, as if he's looking for some kind of hidden truth.    

The silence that follows feels interminable and finally, he with his relaxed but dominant posture, takes his hands out of his pockets and turns around, resting his arms on one of the railings of the pier. 

He stares off into the horizon with that serious look that tells you nothing and you just stand there, wondering if you should still leave or what you should do, since you don't understand anything.

"You can stay," he says suddenly, his voice low but firm.

You frown and stare at him completely confused, having no idea if you heard right or not.

"What?"

"You can stay," he repeats, not watching you.

You blink, watching him in shock, now being the one processing his words, not really understanding anything but feeling completely surprised by his offer.      

You didn't expect this. Not at all.

And at that moment comes the distrust in you, as it can't be too good to be real.

"Are you sure? I mean..." you watch him uncertainly, "Maybe you want to be alone," you shrug.

You watch as he sits up and starts pulling something out of his pockets, which ends up being a lighter and a pack of cigarettes.

And without looking at you, he shakes his head.

"I'm fine," he tells you carelessly, taking a cigarette and starting to light it.

You watch him curiously, not understanding why he's being this way with you... so strangely kind. And that without knowing where it comes from, you begin to like him.

"And you're really not going to give me away? This isn't... I don't know," you shrug, "Like some kind of trap?"    

You watch as he takes a drag and blows out the smoke, putting the lighter and the pack back in his pocket.

"No," he says serious and almost annoyed, so you decide not to question him anymore, as strange as this is, "If you want to stay that's fine, if not you can leave too. Just do what you want, if I wanted to give you away, I would have done it already."

You remain silent, processing his words. You frown and watch him as he takes another drag and then the smoke rising to dissipate in the cool night air.

There is something about his posture, the casual way he holds his cigarette, that disconcerts you and catches your attention.

He doesn't seem like the kind of person who would let someone like you just hang around, much less in a place that is clearly his, or at least his family's.

So you feel unsure how to interpret all of this.

So you continue to stand, still waiting for some sign that you should leave, but he gives you none. Instead, he just looks off into the horizon, where the water meets the dark sky, lit only by the moon and stars.

And the truth is, you don't know what to do.

The prospect of staying there, with him, someone you barely really know and who could give you away at any moment, still makes you nervous.

However, you are also intrigued by this strange friendliness he is showing.

So you decide to stay, so you again take a seat on the edge of the wood with carefree movements, your feet dipping into the shimmering water beyond.

You give him a brief glance, unsure if he'll sit down too or if he'll just leave. But to your surprise, he stands beside you, silently smoking and not watching you.

It's not warm or comforting company, but somehow, the stillness you both share is more soothing than uncomfortable.

And so the minutes pass and the sound of the water, soft and rhythmic, begins to soothe you again. The cool night air makes the anxiety in your chest slowly dissipate, as does the tension in your shoulders.

And with each passing of time, you realize that nothing bad will really happen by being here with him. And you also realize that Aemond Targaryen is maybe not arrogant and shallow like the others.

He hasn't even been mean to you and hasn't judged you, so that's why you decide to start a conversation.

"Why are you here?" you decide to ask, without looking him and simply moving the waters gently with your feet, focusing on that.

The question floats in the air between you, and for a moment, you think he won't answer you, since maybe he told you that you can stay but it doesn't mean you should talk to him.

But then you hear him move, his weight making a slight creak in the wood.

"Same as you," he finally replies, though his tone is less curt this time, "Looking for peace and quiet."

You're instantly taken aback by his honesty and also by his response, definitely not expecting that, so you frown and look at him confused.

"Really?"

He watches you and his gaze instantly paralyzes you, watching as he watches you just as confused but this time defensively at your reaction.

"Why is that so incredible to believe?"

You bite your lips and avert your gaze, thinking very hard about your next words, as you shrug and watch him again.

"Well... I'm just thinking why a person who has everything and certainly lacks nothing would come here... looking for peace and quiet," you explain with genuine curiosity.

He lets out a snort, with a bitter look on his face as he brings the cigarette back to his lips.

"Neither you nor anyone else knows everything about me and my family," he says with an unexpected harshness in his tone.

You remain silent, surprised by the frankness of his response and avert your gaze to the horizon.

You feel a slight discomfort that you didn't expect and it's not because of what he said, but how he said it, so serious and distant.

But maybe he's right.

All families at Crown's are characterized by more than just money, power and status, and that's appearance.

The rich probably think they know everything among themselves, but your people see a little more reality and you know that behind that perfect facade there are secrets, tensions and burdens.

And the Targaryen's are no exception. Even Cregan has hinted at it many times, with his wry, half-joking comments about the lives of wealthy families.

The moment between the two and the conversation seems on the verge of becoming awkward again.

And just when you think the talk is over, Aemond takes another drag and, surprising you, looks sideways at you with a cool but questioning expression.

"And what happened to you?" he asks you suddenly, changing the subject.

"Hm?" you observe him attentively and confused.

"Why did you have a bad day?" he repeats just as calmly, but this time, with a casual, carefree tone.

"Oh," you murmur, turning your eyes back to the horizon.

You didn't expect him to be interested in something so personal. But since he asked, you decide to be honest.

"Well, apparently my boss hates me and made me work double shifts today," you explain, letting out a sigh. "It's stressful enough to put up with his bad treatment and workload, but I also had to deal with a lot of rude customers."

His gaze remains fixed on you, as if processing what you just said. Then he goes back to staring at the horizon with a disinterested look and takes another drag on his cigarette.

"Sounds like shit," he finally says, his tone dry but without a hint of empathy.

"Yeah, it is," you reply, letting out a bitter little laugh, "But it is what it is."

He nods slightly and suddenly, the distance you felt between the two of you seems to diminish a bit.

Aemond isn't as unapproachable as you thought, and though you still don't quite understand why he's acting this way, you begin to see that maybe, just maybe, there's more to him than meets the eye.

You stare out at the water in silence, the sound of the waves lapping gently against the pier pilings filling the air.

And you are surprised by how normal this situation is.

You mean, who would have thought? You, a poor girl from Black Waves and him, the heir to one of the most powerful families in the region, sharing a night on the dock as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

You don't understand anything but... you like him.

"I've never seen you before," he murmurs after a while, his eyes focused on the horizon, "Nor do I know your name."

You stare at him incredulously and let out a small chuckle under your breath.

"I think we both know why," you say knowingly, "It's not like our paths cross very often. And my name is Y/N, Y/N Blackwood," you introduce yourself in a soft tone.

He falls silent, seemingly memorizing your name and within a few seconds, however, he doesn't seem convinced of the other.

"I don't know. I know everyone in town, even if not directly."

You frown slightly.

"That sounds... exhausting."

"It's part of the family, knowing everyone. Knowing who's around you, even if you don't deal with them," he explains, "But I had never seen you."

"Well... I've lived at Sunset's for a year now with my aunt, uncle and my cousin," you explain, relaxing a little more as you see the conversation flowing smoothly, "And before the summer started, I started working at Mr. Frey's restaurant to save up for college in a few more months."

He turns his whole body toward you, still standing and leaning against the pole holding up the roof at the end of the pier, glancing at you from time to time but keeping more of his focus on the horizon.

"Your aunt and uncle?" he asks, "Why don't you live with your parents?"

That question takes you by surprise, and for a moment you don't know what to say. It's obviously a personal question and you weren't expecting it at all.

Then you look at him, where his eyes are serious and inquisitive towards you, although you don't perceive any bad intentions, just a curiosity.

"I guess I don't know if I should tell you that," you say with a small smile and amused tone, trying to downplay it and not make the moment awkward, "You know... trusting one of your kind."

He lets out a slight chuckle, making you smile a little wider.

"My kind?"

You shrug.

"Yeah, you know... a rich one."

"And what makes you think you can't trust me? I didn't give you away a while ago, did I?"

"And why did you?" you ask, unable to contain your curiosity seizing on the comment, "Why didn't you give me away?"

He lets out a long breath and takes another drag before answering, his voice low but steady.

"I don't know, maybe because you were honest."

"But you're not like that, no one in your class is empathetic and forgiving."

"Do you really think you know everything about me and my family?" he questions you again.

You look at him obviously and incredulously.

"Please, everyone in this place knows everything about you and your family. Even the poor people. You're like the royalty of the city, after all."

You see the slight annoyance on his face, making it clear that he's in total disagreement with you, and you make up your mind to prove your point.

"I mean..." you sigh, "You are known as your father's son who has a perfect life just like your siblings, heirs to a wealthy and powerful family. The Targaryen's are known for that, work, money, power and status... or am I wrong?"

He doesn't respond right away, just watches you with an intensity that makes you feel a little vulnerable.

And just when you think he'll finally let his true self out and he's exactly like the other rich kids, he surprisingly lets out a sigh and looks down at the water, with an almost resigned look on his face.

"Yeah, but it's not all as simple and wonderful as it seems. It's not the whole truth either."

Those words leave you thinking. And they also leave you watching... him.

At the previous party, you couldn't see much of him from afar, let alone being on the second floor of a huge yacht. But he is... captivating.

You trace the shape of his nose and the structures of his cheeks with your gaze, watching as if it were a slow-motion movie as he lifts his cigarette to his lips and raises his gaze to the sky to expel the smoke, marking the bone in his neck.

His silver hair shimmers slightly in the moonlight and makes him look like some sort of ancient Greek God, where you silently admire the handsome features of his face.

You can't see his eyes in detail because of the light, but you know they are blue, characteristic of the Targaryen along with the platinum hair.

And then you wonder, what else is behind that facade his family has so meticulously constructed for him?

Who is Aemond Targaryen truly?

The night continues as the two of you stand there, sharing the space, the air, the silence. There is no need for more words for now, it's just enjoying the little shelter in this corner with him.

And after a while, you decide that maybe it's time to leave.

"Well... I guess I should be going," you mutter, starting to get up, then looking around the perimeter one last time, etching the image in your memory, "I'm going to miss this place."

He turns with slow, nonchalant movements toward you, dropping what little is left of the cigarette to crush it with the sole of his tennis shoe.

"What do you mean?" he asks, with that calmness that always seems to surround him.

You look at him in confusion, then shrug, letting out a small, resigned laugh.

"Obviously I can't come back here now that you've caught me," you tell him with a sad little smile, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear from the wind, turning around, "Oh and..." you look back at him, "Thanks for not give me away, truly."

You give him a look and a small grateful smile, as he keeps his expression hard to read, as usual, but totally focused on you.

Neither of you say anything else and assuming this is the final goodbye, you start walking towards the dock exit. But then you hear his voice behind you.

"Wait."

And that's what you do.

Confused, you turn to watch him again, watching as he takes a step forward.

"You can come back if you want," he says to you suddenly, in a tone of voice that is soft, but also mixes indifference and something else that you don't quite manage to identify, "Just... make sure no one else catches you."

That definitely takes you by surprise, since you weren't expecting it. And you watch him silently for a moment, trying to read his expression, but he remains as enigmatic as ever.

However, there is an unexpected sincerity in his words that makes you smile, this time with more warmth.

"Really?" you ask, unable to hide the disbelief and excitement in your voice.

He nods, folding his arms, saying nothing.

"Thank you," you reply, and this time you say it more firmly and with happiness in your eyes.

You lower your gaze and resist the urge to smile big, feeling a strange sensation in your stomach, to again watch him.

"Bye, Aemond."

You take a step back and turn around, when again he stops you as he speaks.

"You're going home alone?" he asks, this time with a little more interest in his voice.

You laugh softly, surprised that he cares, not really understanding anything but liking it.

"You know? We poor people have a good thing after all... survival style."

He doesn't say anything to you, just watches you with his piercing colored eyes as he licks his lips and then simply gives you a small nod.

You don't say anything else either and finally turn to leave, beginning to leave the tranquility of the dock and him behind, under the dim lights of the night.

And as you walk away, you feel the sea breeze on your face and wonder how a night that began with tension and fear ended with something as unexpected as a truce with Aemond Targaryen.

series taglist:

@zenka69 @strangersunghoon @deliaseastar @thefireblaze @kythefangirl25 @p45510n4f4shi0n @saturnssrings @bellaisasleep @primroseluna @tinykryptonitewerewolf @barnes70stark @tssf-imagines

[mintmatcha]

tw: implied abuse, no curses au

"Can I ask a question?" Yuuji digs his heel into the wood chips as he swings, digging a growing trench behind him. "You don't have to answer."

Ash falls from the end of Choso's cigarette. He leans against the anchor of the swing set, cheek against cold metal, and sighs. Twilight has passed and the streetlights have turned on, giving the playground a hazy, barely lit glow. Yuuji's guardian will start calling soon, but Choso decides the extra time together is worth the future ire.

"I already told you that I'm not giving you a tattoo."

"Aw, damn-" Yuuji clicks his tongue against his teeth. Ever since they met, he's been dying for a tattoo of his own, throwing out wild new ideas almost every day. One day, when he's eighteen and likes an idea for more than a month, Choso will bring him to his studio and comply.

But, not yet.

"That wasn't my question though," Yuuji says.

"Then go for it."

The younger boy takes a deep breath, then lets it out even slower, pulling the tension longer and longer until it snaps.

"Why weren't you... around? Like, when I was a kid and stuff."

Choso takes his own breath.

"Your mom-- our mom." The taste of that sits bitter on his tongue. He never called her mom, even back then. "She was different for me."

And for our other brothers, he adds silently. Yuuji doesn't need to carry that weight yet, the knowledge that he was the exception to it all.

"Why?" Yuuji pumps his legs a little softer, the back and forth motion of the swing slowly dying out.

"I dunno." Choso wishes he had the answer to that. "She was sixteen, did bad things. Don't worry about it."

Finding out about Yuuji wasn't a shock, somehow. Years after Ken had surrendered her children to the state, Choso had received noticed that she had died. The news felt overdue. No tears were shed, no love lost; the group chat of siblings had all agreed not to go to any service, but the day of, Choso had changed his mind.

He had put on his nicest outfit -some thrift store pants that didn't fit and a shirt he stole from foster dad three- and went expecting to be the only one there, the only one willing to say goodbye.

Choso hadn't known about her new family. They hadn't known about him either. It was typical of Ken to leave a mess in her wake.

Turns out, through a series of lucky breaks, the woman had clawed her way out of poverty and into the arms of a rich, but nice man. Her life was easy and sweet, filled with luxuries and love, including a son ten years younger than her eldest.

No one knows why Yuuji was different than the others, why she decided to be good to him and no one else. Mental illness is strange like that, picking and choosing how it pleases.

Yuuji huffs, gripping the metal chains tighter. "But-"

"Yuuji." Choso drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot. Then, he thinks about the child that will play there tomorrow, shoveling wood chips into their mouths like idiots, and decides to pick it up. He jams it into his pocket. "You have good memories of her. Don't ruin that."

He used to resent how much Yuuji loved her. He was eight when she died, the same age Choso was when he first had to dial 911 for her. That anger had long faded, replaced with a strange amount of pity.

"But I want to know. What she did and stuff." Yuuji's voice jumps high with emotion. "I'm basically an adult, I can handle it."

"You're sixteen."

"Well, mom was doing this stuff at sixteen, so-" Yuuji is seething suddenly, brow furrowed and teeth grit.

"So?"

"So, she was old enough to be doing bad things and I'm not old enough to know about it?" He stands and the swing clatters behind him. He's stocky, yet tall, bunched with muscles that he's built from baseball. On one side of his cheek, there's a bit of chocolate stuck there, a remnant from the ice cream Choso bought him. Below it, there's a rosy hickey on his neck, a remnant of the boyfriend he hasn't told Nanami about yet. He thinks they're having sex, maybe, but doesn't know how to broach the topic without scaring his brother into never talking about it again.

"And you had tattoos at my age, by the way!"

Choso lets him stew in it, huffing and puffing. The blown out edges of first tattoo peek from under his sleeve, the image barely legible now. An older woman gave it to him at fifteen, in the basement of her house. It became so insanely infected that he ended up in the ER a couple days later.

"I'm not a kid. I can handle it." Yuuji states, calm and clear. "I'm not a kid."

A car passes, it's headlights stretching and pulling the shadows across the park. In the changes, Choso can see his mother in his brother, those soft eyes and thin lips and the same slightly crooked nose that Choso has himself. He thinks, maybe, if time was kinder and his father was better, they'd look more alike each other, but then the moment is gone and they no longer even look like siblings.

"Okay."

Yuuji untenses a bit. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Like, okay, this conversation is done, or okay, I'll tell you?"

"I'll tell you," Choso says, jamming his hands in his pocket. The cigarette butt is there, mushed and still warm against his knuckles. "But not tonight."

"What?!"

"Next time, I promise."

Choso doesn't understand why Yuuji insists on rushing away from innocence, but he knows that he can't stop him. Yuuji will find out about the abuse, the neglect, the other brothers, and the other horrors in some way or another and then things will never be the same.

"Stay a kid just a little longer." Choso resists the urge to ruffle his hair. "For me?"

"Yeah, sure," Yuuji sighs. "One more day."

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Part Twelve — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Reader does what she has to for the information she wants. Talking to Azriel takes an interesting turn. Kaeda’s not doing her job, and she’s feeling a bit sorry for herself — to which Cassian isn’t very sympathetic.

Word Count: 9.6k. OOF. A long one, sorry!

Warnings: None.

You should really just go to sleep. Mind your own business.

But you find yourself waiting. Listening. For some indication that Tathaln has left.

You think it might be hours that pass. Roza has long since passed out in her bed. But there’s no chance of you sleeping, too. Not with all the thoughts that are crammed full in your head and speaking too loudly.

The most pressing of which: Why the fuck would the Lord of Fenlaros be visiting the High Lord in his private home in this private city?

No other camp lords venture here, you’re sure. Don’t even know it exists.

And yet, from that short glimpse you got of Finadar and Tathaln, there was an air of…familiarity, about them. Like it wasn’t the first time they were privately meeting.

Eventually, you grow sick of waiting, wondering. It’s no use. You’re restless and wired and churned up. You need to move, to stretch your legs, grab a drink or something.

The house is eerily still. You take your time traversing the corridors, carefully listening out to catch lowered voices and hushed tones. Even decide to take the longer route — the one that would take you past the High Lord’s study. But even as you pass by the thick wooden door, you hear nothing but the distant sounds of a hooting owl and the slicing wind amidst the mountains.

You’re almost at the kitchen when a figure abruptly rounds the corner on too-light feet. You stop short — and so does the High Lord.

You’re so stunned that you forget yourself. It takes a moment for you to remember to act accordingly. You bow your head in greeting. “My Lord.”

“Y/N.” Your name sounds funny, too familiar, on his tongue. When Rhysand had brought you here at fourteen, Finadar had merely referred to you as that girl. It seems that with age comes at least a little bit of acknowledgment. His eyes rake over you, and you’re suddenly aware of your nightgown, your unbound hair. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“A little, my Lord—”

“Just Fin, please.”

You pause. And then smile a bland smile. “A little…Fin.”

He holds up the object you hadn’t noticed clutched within his hand. A bottle. “I was just about to have a night cap. Perhaps you’d like to join me?”

On instinct, you want to decline. Having a private drink with Rhysand’s father seems…inappropriate, somehow.

But then that curious little voice in your head reminds you that this — this is the perfect opportunity to ask some questions, hopefully garner information. He’s relaxed. Open. In his own environment. What better time than now?

So that bland smile becomes a pretty one, and you dip your chin. “It would be my pleasure.”

With that charming smile of his own, the handsome male leads you to his study and holds the door open for you. Stepping inside feels like breaching somewhere firmly forbidden, and a place of such luxury that it would chew up your poor-to-do self and spit you out. All rich mahogany wood and more books than you’ve ever seen in your life. Trinkets and papers and maps and war strategy. The sight leaves you a little breathless, and for a moment, you forget you’re not alone.

But then the door shuts behind you, and the High Lord is striding past, over to his desk.

“You’ve been a friend of my son’s for a while, now, haven’t you?” He asks casually, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows.

You step closer, nodding. “I have, My Lo—Fin. Nine years, to be exact.”

“And you’re his age?”

“Yes. Twenty.”

A vague smile plays on his lips. “Old enough to drink, then, Please, do sit.”

You do exactly that, taking a seat in one of the plush, cushioned chairs and folding your hands in your lap. And for all you had planned to speak with Fin, now that you’re in front of him, you’re not quite sure what to say. You don’t know how to talk to someone of such high status.

He’s entirely at confident — even arrogant — ease, though. With a wave of a hand, a fire roars to life, breathing heat into the room and bathing it in an intimate glow. He pours two glasses of dark, smoky liquid and hands one to you before taking his own.

Instead of sitting at his desk as you half expect, he’s slumping into the armchair beside yours and tipping his head against its back.

He looks…tired, you note, as you subtly study him over the lip of your glass. Devastatingly beautiful — there’s no doubt about that. Chocolate eyes that remind you of Mor’s and short, reddish-brown hair. His generously muscled arms push through his shirt as he shifts.

And then he says, out of the blue, “I don’t sleep well, either.”

You’re not sure why he’s telling you that, of all things.

“I’m sorry.” It seems like an appropriate response. “I imagine, in being High Lord, you must have a lot on your plate.”

A wry smile graces his lips. “There’s always someone wanting something from you.” His eyes then drink you in again. “What is it you do in Windhaven? I take it you’re unwed. I don’t remember approving a marriage for you.”

“I am. Until recently, I lived with and worked for my father. But my circumstances have changed, and I don’t know what I’ll be doing next.”

“Was it your father who took your wings?”

Heat burns your cheeks. “It was.”

“Is that what you want from me? To punish him?”

You stare back at him, fighting to keep your expression neutral. “Who says I want anything from you?”

“Do you not?”

“…It was you who invited me for a drink, My Lord. I can leave if my company is bothersome to you—”

“It is not.” He lays a hand on your arm, skin far smoother than you expect from somebody so accustomed to weapons. “But there’s no reason we can’t both get something out of this.”

Your eyes fall down to that hand, and your body is so very still. Perhaps you’ve made a grave mistake in seeking him out.

But you dare ask, “What is it you want?”

A chuckle rasps out of him, and he retracts the touch. “Honesty. I get the sense that you’re of the curious sort. Why else would you have been so intently watching me greet my guest earlier this evening?”

So, he’d seen you. Silly, for you to assume that you could slip into the shadows around such a powerful being. You can almost feel that power prowling under his skin right now.

“I am interested,” you admit, “in what Tathaln Baralas was doing here.”

“You’re familiar with him.” He states — and then chuckles again. “Of course, you are. You were one of the ones who snuck off to Fenlaros for a party. I wasn’t best pleased when my son told me.” His head falls into a tilt. “But why would you be interested in Tathaln’s business here?”

“I may not be from Fenlaros, but I am Illyrian. And I imagine that a matter that warrants a meeting at the High Lord’s personal residence is one pressing enough to effect more than just a single camp.”

Full lips — Rhysand’s lips — tilt upwards. “Beautiful, curious and intelligent. Such a waste in a place like Illyria.”

“You’re too kind.”

“And you are too bashful.” A quiet intensity lies within his brown eyes. “I will reward your candour with this: Tathaln Baralas was here to suggest — request — a grand ball.”

For a split second, you falter. Try not to let it show on your face that you do.

The answer is…underwhelming. Perhaps you’re so idle in Velaris that you’re looking for drama where it doesn’t exist.

“A ball.” You repeat the word rather foolishly, like it’s your first time ever saying it. “I…I wasn’t aware that a Camp Lord would need your permission to arrange such a thing.”

“Confined to his own camp, he would not.” Fin tells you. “But the Lord of Fenlaros proposes something on a far larger scale. Something that has never before been done, and something that, I must admit, has piqued my interest.”

“Which is what?”

“Tathaln,” the High Lord stands, draining his glass and returning it to his desk, “has asked me to throw an Illyrian ball — not solely a Fenlarion ball. Meaning the best legions from all Illyrian war camps will be invited, along with their wives, mates, whatever. They will all gather in one place for this event, and interact as they never have before.”

You stare at him.

You do not mean for your indignation to shine through so freely.

He is your High Lord and not to be disrespected.

But you’re studying him, and wondering why the fuck he doesn’t look as alarmed by the suggestion as you feel.

“Why, by the Cauldron, would he want to do that?” The words fall from your mouth, formality forgotten. “There’s a reason it’s never been done before. Rival camps do not mix because Illyrians are hot-headed and driven by ego, and there would be fights and bloodshed and probably death. It’s a terrible idea. I don’t understand why Tathaln Baralas would suggest such a thing.”

A deep chortle husks out of the High Lord, and you could be wrong, but you think there might be a hint of surprise in the sound. Like he’s unused to such brazenness from his subjects — female ones, in particular.

You asked a damn good question, though.

Fin turns to you, and for a lingering moment, he simply stares. And then he says, softly, “Stand.”

You pause. Think that maybe, you’ve spoken too much, crossed a line. But you stand.

The High Lord beckons you closer.

You take one step forward. Another. Another. He lifts a hand and motions for you to stop. You do. You smooth your hands over your nightgown. Think you might be shaking a little.

You do not need a wealth of knowledge nor experience to recognise exactly how it is that he looks at you.

Deep, tawny eyes trail the length of you and seem to miss no detail. Your loose hair and pretty, open face. The sharp lines of your collarbones and the smooth skin of your decolletage. The flowing silk of your nightgown and the bareness of your legs and arms on show beneath it.

He stares at you in a way that makes you feel you’re wearing nothing at all.

And then he’s prowling closer with preternatural grace, and the heat and scent of his body seems to snuff out the heat and scent of the fire.

You can only stand, your legs wobbling a little, as he begins to circle you, peruse you, like a predator assessing its prey. You might hold your breath a little. You’re not sure what he plans to do, whether you’re to be reprimanded for your candidness. When he raises his hand, you hope you don’t flinch. You learned not to do so, not to show your fear, in the years living under your father’s thumb.

But his hand merely cups the curve of your shoulder and sweeps a few strands of your hair back.

“Give me what I want, Y/N.” He says, his voice gritty. “And I will tell you what Tathaln wants.”

This is all starting to feel like a huge oversight. A mistake. If this goes too far — if he suggests something that would disrespect Roza in any way…

You’d sooner be reprimanded, however badly.

Your eyes shutter, and you speak again, “What is it you want?”

Fin slinks round until he’s stood before you. The mild smile on his lips hides so much. “If I’m to oversee an event with all the camps under my rule,” he says, “I want to look good. I’m a victim of extreme vanity, you see. Appearances are everything. And thus, I would go before my subjects with the prettiest little piece at my side.” His eyes drink in your face, unpainted and unguarded. “You would do nicely.”

You’re not certain that your breath of relief is a silent one. The suggestion could be far worse, of course, but anxious butterflies are still all aflutter in your gut.

It would be prudent to remember who you’re talking to — who it is you’re playing games with. To remember that you are just a young female from Windhaven, with no experience outside of it. You are not a seasoned courtier, and you do not know the rules of the game — how to play them, nor how to break them.

You clear your throat, lowering your gaze. “Forgive me, My Lord. Whilst I’m undoubtedly flattered…I must admit to also being confused. Won’t Roza fulfil the role at your side?”

“Roza will attend no more public appearances for the remainder of her pregnancy — a decision we came to together. She is far too tired and must rest. And she’s fully aware that I will need to invite a special guest in her place.”

“But if you’re trying to make an impression before your Illyrian subjects…I am the last female who would bring you any glory. I am ordinary. I do not have wings—”

“You do yourself a disservice, Y/N.” His slow footsteps begin again. “The likes of your father have got into your head, I fear. What I see, looking at you now, is not these.” Warm fingers touch your ruined back, and you jerk a little. “What I see is the embodiment of classic Illyrian beauty. Just as I see in my Roza. You may not know this, but they tried to take her wings, too. Until I stopped them. It — we — would send a message, don’t you think? That your repulsive father may have taken your wings, but he did not take your spirit. Your beauty. And that spirit and beauty earned you a place at the High Lord’s side. Perhaps I’ll invite your father, and his punishment can be the night’s entertainment.”

It's…strange. Conflicting. Because the High Lord is saying things that you so often long to hear. The shattered, self-loathing part of your brain perks up and leans into the compliments like a pampered cat, waiting to hear more, to be stroked.

But then there’s an angry part of you — one that wishes to yell at him that if he truly abhorred the practice of wing clipping, he would ban it altogether instead of keeping himself in the favour of Illyrians and simultaneously bashing their views and traditions behind their backs.

So many feelings. And yet, you try to remember why you’re here.

Because something eats away at you that whatever Tathaln Baralas is up to will impact Azriel somehow. At least as long as he’s with Kaeda.  

So you lift your chin and ask, “I agree to be your special guest to the ball, and you tell me what the Lord of Fenlaros is up to? It’s that easy?”

Fin chuckles. Stops in front of you again. “It’s that easy.” He inclines his head. “As I said, I am of the vain sort — and this is merely a thing of vanity. I’d rather enjoy parading one of my son’s pretty playthings on my arm. Letting those Illyrian males know that I could have any of their females if I wanted. And the fact that I don’t particularly care for Tathaln Baralas means that I don’t particularly care to hold on too tightly to his secrets, either.”

You don’t bother correcting him about the nature of yours and Rhys’s relationship. Seems irrelevant, in the grand scheme of things. And if your only role in this is to dress up and look pretty at the High Lord’s side, you reckon you’ve gotten off pretty damn lightly.

For a moment, there, you really thought he might want…more.

“Alright.” You stand up straight. “I will gladly be your guest to the ball.”

He smiles an odd smile, like he knew you would agree all along. With his arm brushing yours as he closely passes, he makes his way back over to his desk. Refills his glass and yours. Hands it to you.

“The reason the Lord of Fenlaros wants an Illyrian ball,” he says, “is because he seeks a situation in which he can have an eye on all camps — and vet their talent.”

“Vet their…” Your brow pinches. “What?”

“Tathaln, Y/N, has a vision in mind.” Fin turns to you, perching on the edge of the desk. “One that, I have to admit, did pique my interest — if it were to work. You see, he’s of the opinion that Illyria should, eventually, do away with the individual camps entirely. He’d sooner have one huge camp — that he would be Lord of, of course, and have a team of the strongest, most powerful Illyrians working alongside him to train the most fearsome army in the entirety of the Fae realm.”

“That’s preposterous. Cramming all Illyrians into one camp under one lord would mean the eye would be taken off the ball quicker than lightning. How could an army that big be adequately trained by a small team of leaders, no matter how powerful? Even the strongest soldiers couldn’t keep command of such numbers. That is why the individual camps work. Weaknesses get smoothed out and strengths are honed.”

The fire in your tone seems to amuse the High Lord. And you wonder if Illyria isn’t unlike a dolls house to him. Figures he can pluck up and move around and pit against each other for his own entertainment.

“Tathaln would disagree with you.” He smiles. “He believes that the individual camps only create room for complacency, a lack of order. He thinks that your kind spend more time drinking and fucking and fighting amongst themselves than they do training for combat. And he thinks that if something isn’t done about it, the next war could wipe Illyria off the map.”

“And he believes himself to be a strong enough Camp Lord to somehow fix that?”

“Alone? Gods, no. He’s an arrogant brute, but not a stupid one. No,” He says again. “See, this unit he would build wouldn’t be just made up of highly-skilled warriors.”

“Then what?”

“Illyrians with further powers. Special abilities.” Fin’s eyes track over your face, waiting for the realisation to dawn. “Like a shadowsinger, for example.”

And finally, it’s like light blotting out the clueless darkness of your head. Suddenly, it all falls into place.

You don’t know why you didn’t see it before.

“Tathaln wants Azriel under his command.” The words are ash on your tongue.

“Yes.” Fin nods. “He does. And there are other males in other camps, too, with their own, unique abilities. Tathaln wants this ball to see them up close. Pick them out. If things go his way, he would have those males defecting from their current camps and making a home in Fenlaros. There, they would train — and begin bringing Tathaln’s vision to life.”

Azriel leaving Windhaven…moving to another camp and not being around to talk to, to spend mindless hours with, to face life with — the thought is like a cold, cruel stab to your heart.

Your friends are what make Windhaven bearable. Together, you’ve built a little home there, a family. And you may all be at each other’s throats right now, but you love each other. Wouldn’t want to lose each other.

The idea of no longer seeing Az makes you want to puke up the two glasses of whiskey now swimming in your stomach.

And even more sickening is the further realisation—

Kaeda is Tathaln’s daughter — his puppet on a string.

It was never a coincidence that she randomly started floating around Windhaven. Wasn’t a natural thing at all, that she’d found interest in Azriel, of all people. The only shadowsinger.

The entire thing had been carefully orchestrated.

Kaeda’s interest in Az isn’t genuine. Her father specifically sent her to Windhaven to get him on side.

You think you might actually be sick. Suddenly, the High Lord’s study seems far too small.

“Why would you allow any of this?” You manage to grit out around your growing panic. “You’re the High Lord…if you tell Tathaln no, he can’t take it any further.”

Fin shrugs a nonchalant shoulder. “As I said — his vision piqued my interest. It’s not a bad idea, provided it would be executed properly. But if it were? Imagine the glory. The power. The Night Court would boast the most steeled army in Prythian. Battle would be mere child’s play to us.”

You…no. No. You can’t sit back and act like you don’t know any of this.

Azriel needs to be told. He needs to know what games Kaeda is playing — that she’s only interested in doing her father’s bidding, pouring honeyed words into Az’s ear to coax him out of Windhaven and into their ready, waiting trap. To use him. Exploit him.

You need to tell him. Even if he goes straight back to being angry with you after, still doesn’t want to speak to you…you need to.

With shaking hands, you place your glass down. “I…I’m quite tired. I think I’ll try, again, to sleep.” There’s no chance of that. “Thank you for the drink. And the conversation.”

Fin’s head falls into a tilt. He looks…intrigued. “Thank you for the company. And I’ve no doubt I can trust you to uphold your end of our arrangement.”

You nod. Hate the words as you speak them. “I will be your guest at the ball.”

“I’ll be in touch, then. Goodnight.”

You only just manage to return the sentiment as you slip out of the room, the cold hallways making a grab for your bare skin. Fin’s words haunt you all the way back to your room. Keep you awake all through the night.  Bury themselves deep in your mind, your heart, and fill you with such an icy-cold fear, you feel you may never be warm again.

You have to tell Azriel — or you may lose him for good.

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The next morning, over tea and pastries and your rushed retelling of the night before, Roza stares at you.

Her expression is unreadable.

“You’re angry with me.” You breathe, the very words pinching at your heart. “I understand. But I needed to find out what Tathaln Baralas was up to. I just knew that—”

“Angry with you?” She cuts you off. “No, my love. With Fin? Yes. That he’s even entertaining this idea of that odious Camp Lord’s, and that his ego is so great that he would parade you on his arm like nothing more than prize cattle. That, I am angry with.” Her eyes sweep your face with concern — and a hint of something else. Something like…admiration. “You, however…you remind me exactly of myself when I was your age. Scheming, pushing back against what’s simply wrong…and in the name of love, too. I cannot possibly be angry with you for that.”

Your eyes fall to your plate. Love. That word rings in your ears like a war cry. “I need to do this. For Azriel. He’s being used, and—”

“I know.” Roza reaches over, closing a hand over yours. “Believe me, I know. And you have my full blessing and support. But you also have my concern. The games of Courts and High Lords and Camp Lords are dangerous ones. Do what you need to do for Azriel — for love — but have your wits about you. Do not, at any point, let them best you. And if Fin tries to take your agreement any further and lays a hand on you, come and tell me straight away, and I will fucking castrate him—”

Her words are cut short by a night-chilled shroud, darkness-given-form, despite the morning light that bathes the room.

Rhysand appears out of thin air. “Who will you castrate, mother dear?”

“You.” Roza says without a beat, scowling at her son. “What have I told you about just appearing like that? You’re showing off. It’s rude.”

“But I’m so good at it.” He strides closer, kissing her cheek and then yours. And steals the remainder of your pastry. “Ready to go?”

You’d sent a note a little over an hour ago, asking Rhys to come get you and fly you to Windhaven. You didn’t specify that you were going to talk to Az — and potentially break his heart with the information you’d garnered last night.

Rhys, of course, had written back that he’d be more than willing to oblige — as soon as Zakai was done sucking his cock.

Indeed, your friend looks particularly flushed and sated as he swallows your food and washes it down with a gulp of your tea.

“Rhysand.” Roza scolds. “Have some damn manners. Will you steal food from the babe, too?”

“Well, considering you’ll be breastfeeding her, mother dearest, absolutely not—”

“Her?” You blink between them. “You know it’s a girl?”

Roza smiles softly, sliding a hand over her stomach. “Not for certain. But the healer seems pretty sure. Her magic can detect these things, and she says she’s never gotten it wrong in all her years.”

“Gods, I hope so.” Rhys’s violet eyes glitter. “I’ve said from the start that I’m hoping for a sister.”

And you can see it already — Rhys throwing himself into the role of older brother. Protecting that little girl with his whole heart. She’d be the luckiest child in all of Prythian to have Rhys for a brother. And to have Cassian and Azriel protecting her, too…

That is, if Azriel doesn’t choose to go to Fenlaros.

Your stomach turns all over again at the thought. No — you need to speak with him, to warn him. He wouldn’t leave.

“Let’s go.” You stand abruptly, your breakfast feeling leaden in your stomach.

“Much obliged.” Rhys sketches a flourishing bow, to which Roza rolls her eyes. He kisses her cheek again. “Take it easy. I love you.”

Roza inclines her head. “I love you both.”

Its as you, too, dip down to kiss her cheek, that she lays a gentle hand on your arm. Concern swims in her eyes.

“Be careful, my little dove.” She pleads quietly. “Not just of the game you’re playing — but of your heart, too. Protect it.”

The words echo in your mind too loudly as Rhys takes your hand and steals you away.

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Twenty years in Windhaven should have you at least a little accustomed to the brutal temperatures, but landing your feet on the packed snow makes you wonder if even a whisper of the spring season will kiss these parts. It seems to lurk on the horizon, just out of reach.

As Rhys dusts flecks of snow from his jacket, you glance down at your pathetic, worn boots. The very boots that seemed to start this entire godsdamned situation with Az. It was these that made him scoop you into his arms and carry you to the mead hall, where you shared that first, heated kiss on one of the tables—

“What are you staring at?” Rhys hovers at your side.

“Nothing.” You straighten yourself up. Hope your blush can pass for cold-bitten skin. “Do you know where Azriel is? I’d like to speak with him.”

“Sparring rings, I’d presume.”

You nod, and you go to head off in the other direction, but Rhys’s hand is enclosing around yours. He squeezes gently. “Send word when you want me to come get you.”

The sentiment promises more than just safe transport back to Velaris. It offers support, too — in the likely scenario that this conversation doesn’t go smoothly.

Because you have to consider the possibility that the truth about Kaeda, while needing to be exposed, may not be well received.

Azriel will likely be hurt by it. And you might bear the brunt of that.

Rhysand will be there for you, whatever happens. Even if he has no clue what’s going on.

So you squeeze back, and you offer an unconvincing smile as you let go. “I love you, Rhysand.”

He scowls. “Don’t like it when you call me Rhysand.”

“Sorry, Rhysand.”

“You’re a little shit. But I love you, too.”

You smile wider. That little bit of jesting is what gives you the courage, the strength, to square your shoulders and stroll away from him, snow seeping into your boots with each step.

By the time you get to the sparring rings, you think your feet might be frozen solid. But lo and behold, Azriel is there, currently going head-to-head with another male in his unit.

The very sight is the picture of a hard-trained warrior — a dance, a performance, of flying fists and measured breaths. Az is big and muscled, but he’s lithe and swift, and he moves through each step and dodges each blow and delivers his own as though it’s easy as air. He’s flawless, and for a heartbeat, all you can do is watch, every thought eddying from your mind.

But then he’s dodging a flying fist and pivoting on his feet. His eyes catch you. He’s distracted long enough for his partner to grab the upper hand and knock Az off his feet.

The shadowsinger accepts defeat. He sprawls on his back, panting heavily, and you continue to watch as his opponent grins and offers a hand to help him up.

“Distracted by a female?” He jokes. “I thought you were better than that, shadowsinger.”

A tight smile forms and falls from Az’s lips. He hates losing. “It would seem not. Well fought.”

“I’ll leave you and your lady to it.” The other male says, and you choose to ignore the suggestion in his voice. Azriel ignores it, too. Doesn’t even acknowledge him as he strolls away, no doubt to boast to his insufferable friends that he managed to get one over on the shadowsinger.

Az looks at you in that quiet, assessing way of his. Surveys you head to toe, like he needs to reassure himself that your short stay in Velaris has brought you no harm thus far. It’s good that he still cares, you think. You hope.

“You’re back?” He asks, grabbing a towel to wipe at his face. It’s then that you notice that his lip is bleeding a little.

“Not entirely.” You shake your head. “I…need to talk to you about something. Something important.”

And whether he’s ready to talk to you yet, or not, is irrelevant — he seems to realise that as he studies you once more and nods. “We’ll go to the dorms. Nobody’s there.”

You hate this, you want to tell him. The awkwardness. The…the stagnancy of your relationship. It was never supposed to be like this between you and him. It hurts.

And it makes you realise that love isn’t always beautiful.

But you school your expression as he finally closes the gap between you. He glances down, and a soft sigh escapes him. “Those fucking boots.”

Before you can say something, anything, find some way to defend your continued wearing of those fucking boots, Azriel is grabbing your hand. The unexpected touch jolts you — as does the zip through thin air that has you landing in the kitchenette of the dorms only seconds later.

Despite possessing the ability to winnow, Azriel avoids it at all costs, if he can. Something about the practice unsettles him, and he doesn’t believe he’s ever refined it enough to use it reliably.

So, the fact that he just winnowed you to the dorms either means that he still cares enough to get you out of the cold, or he wants to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible.

Gods, you hope it’s the former.

“Stay there.” He murmurs, and he’s turning on his feet. You want to stop him and tell him it’s imperative that you speak immediately — but you can only watch as he strides in the direction of his room.

Moments later, he’s strolling back through — a pair of his own, thick socks in his hands.

You might just soften and crumble enough to forget about the conversation and throw your arms around him. Even now, he’s still looking out for you, making sure you’re taken care of.

You plead with yourself not to get choked up over a pair of socks. But you just…miss him. Miss this. And you think that shows as you hold a hand out and rasp, “Thank you.”

“Let me.” Is all Az replies. He drops to his knees before you.

Your mind goes quiet.

Gods.

The last thing you expected, from coming here, was to see Az knelt at your feet.

And it’s so fucking inappropriate, but as he begins to unlace your boots, your stupid, pathetic brain begins to lament on what a damn shame it is, that you didn’t get to behold this sight, have him on his knees, when things were still good between you. Maybe there’s something wrong with you.

“You don’t have to do that—”

“Need to make sure you’re warm.” He chucks your sodden boots aside, yanks your socks off. Dries your poor, pinkened feet. Tugs his own socks — so big on you that he has to bunch them at the ankles — onto them. And then rises to his feet. “I’ll get a fire going.”

His fussing over you has always bordered on outright hysterical.

“Azriel.” Finally, you lay a firm hand on his arm. Stop him. “I need to talk to you.”

The way he goes so very still at your touch has you realising — all this fussing is to avoid simply…looking at you. Facing you. He’s trying to busy himself in your presence.

But he does look at you. Lifts his gaze to yours. And there’s grit in his voice as says, “I know I fucked up, Y/N. I shouldn’t have reacted to you and Cassian the way I did. I had no right.”

“I’m not here about that—”

“I was angry because I was so damn jealous. And that’s irrational, and I know it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t stand the thought of him…anyone else…putting their hands—”

“It’s Kaeda, Az. She’s using you.”

Finally, you’ve won his silence. His arm tenses under your hand. His eyes burn into yours.

“I learned it from the High Lord himself.” The words are so, so sour on your tongue. You hate this. Hate the truth — for Az. “Tathaln Baralas is trying to round up the most powerful Illyrians of each camp and have them under his command in Fenlaros. Eventually, he wants there to be only one camp — that he rules over. He covets you because you’re a shadowsinger, and he sent Kaeda here to cosy up to you and do his bidding, win you over. She’s been working for him—”

He tugs away from your touch. Takes a step back. And the anger, the hurt, that you expect to find on his face just…isn’t there.

“I know all of this.” He says, simply.

“You—what?”

“I had dinner with Kaeda and her family. Tathaln laid his idea out to me and asked me to go to Fenlaros. He was completely open about it.”

You study him, waiting for some vague indication that he’s angry at Kaeda’s manipulation. But he seems entirely nonchalant.

It stings.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You hate how small your voice sounds.

“Well, you and I haven’t exactly been talking—”

“I’d think a situation like thiswould override that.”

“Kind of had other things on my mind, though, haven’t I?”

“Well did you tell Tathaln he can shove his fucking vision up his ass?”

Silence.

Silence, and then the rustle of Az’s wings as he shifts on his feet.

Loud, loud silence.

You think your heart might plummet into your stomach. Your mouth goes dry. You stare at him, every inch of him, desperate for some sort of sign that his silence isn’t saying what you fear it’s saying.

But gods, it’s so very telling.

“Please tell me you’re not considering it,” you breathe.

He doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at his feet and shifts on the spot and takes his time answering like your heart isn’t thundering in anticipation.

And then he says, quietly, “I told Kaeda I would consider it.”

The words steal the air from your lungs. The picture of a Windhaven without Azriel’s presence suddenly doesn’t seem like a blurred, unlikely one. Feels like it’s being dangled in front of your face.

“What?” Your voice is weak.

“I just…told her I’d think about it.”

“Why?”

“The idea isn’t a bad one—I could hone my skills, put them to use—”

“You could also kiss goodbye to any ties you have to this place! To your family, to—to me!”

Cauldron fucking damn your voice for cracking the way it does. You’re going to break in front of him, and it’s going to be bad. You can feel your chest tightening, the idea of losing Azriel for good making you breathless and panicked and like you don’t know what to do with yourself, your hands, your entire body.

“Y/N.” Az says softly. “I haven’t given a definitive answer.”

“But you’re thinking about it.” You choke. “You’re considering it—leaving. Do the others know about this? Rhys and Cassian?”

“No. Haven’t really been speaking to them, either.”

“Is that all part of it? Distancing yourself from us until you sever your ties completely? Are you truly so angry with me that you’d choose this? To not see me anymore?”

You know immediately what you’ve said.

To not see me. Rhys and Cassian not included.

Azriel catches it, too. He purses his lips, and he stares at you.

“This isn’t about that.” He insists.

“You never would have considered this before I lay with Cassian—”

“This isn’t about distancing myself because you fucked Cassian! It’s because I want you and that terrifies me!”

The words, hard and solid as iron daggers, are actually enough to calm your growing panic. You feel them land, piercing through your skin and spreading a wanton, longing venom through your veins. You’ve spent days — weeks — caught up in your thoughts, trying to accept the fact that you want Azriel. You want Azriel. More than you ever had before.

And perhaps it says a lot about how you perceive yourself, but it hadn’t occurred to you that he might want you back.

Hearing it is heart-stopping.

You clear away what feels like a patchwork of hoarfrost that’s frozen over your throat. “I—thought you wanted Kaeda.”

Azriel makes a noise; something like a humourless laugh. “Believe me, I tried. But I don’t. I want you, so much that it burns. Burns me worse than what scarred my fucking hands. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m sick with it. I can’t sleep for thinking about you, wanting you beside me. I can’t stop myself aching for you and I’m losing my fucking mind.”

Blow after blow after blow, these words. Sour and sweet, pleasant and horrific, love and hate. You feel like you know everything and nothing at once. Like you understand what he’s saying but not quite.

But your honest response croaks out of you, “And if I want you, too? What then?”

Azriel’s jaw ticks. And he presses himself hard against the wall as if he’s trying to disappear through it. “Then,” he says, “that makes it even worse.”

“Because you’d sooner run off to another camp than give yourself to a pathetic excuse for an Illyrian like me, right?”

“Because I would sooner damn myself to a miserable existence in Fenlaros than allow this to turn into another thing of beauty that could be ripped straight from my hands. I’d sooner not see you at all than have you and lose you. And I’d rather base my decision on hypotheticals and protect my heart than give it away and wish I never had. If that makes me selfish—”

“It makes you,” you grit your teeth hard, blink furiously through forming tears, “a fucking coward.”

He pauses. “Then I’m a coward.”

But he isn’t. Never has been. Not when he was locked up in his hateful father’s keep and forced to bear his half-brothers’ twisted cruelty. Not when he came to Windhaven and was targeted here, too, simply for being different. Not through anything you’ve faced together in nine years of friendship.

Azriel has never been a coward. You will not accept it. You will not let him become one.

If he wants you like he says he does…you’re not going to let him have the sole choice of ruining this. He can try to push you away, but you’ll push back ten times harder.

“You think I’m not scared?” You move away from the counter, taking slow steps closer to him. “I am. I’m petrified. But fear is not cowardice. To fear and to face it head-on is to be brave, Azriel. When have you ever balked from fear?”

He’s watching you near him with what seems to be nerves. He swallows. “Never. But I know which of my battles to pick.”

You slow to a stop in front of him. Your body is inches from his, and his warmth and scent are like a punch to your gut. “It isn’t a battle to want.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it’s a battle to need.” So blatantly — he doesn’t try to hide it — his eyes drift to your mouth. “I was wrong before. I don’t want you. I need you.”

“And you’d rather run from that. You’d rather run than need me.”

“…Yes. I think I would.”

Finally, you close the miniscule gap between your bodies, slamming your hands either side of him, against the wall. You fight the curling of your lips when you hear his breath catch in his throat.

“What are you waiting for, Azriel?” You challenge. “Run.”

He pauses.

He does not run.

He snarls, and he grabs you by your jacket, and he hauls your mouth to his.

He tastes like the tang of sweat and blood, but also like the heavy fir trees that guard the mountains, and the crackling of a roaring fire, and the fresh berries he puts in his breakfast every morning without fail. He tastes like Azriel, and you think that taste might be the answer to every dark thought and doubt that has ever plagued your mind.

Without hesitation, you're bunching your hands in his shirt and pulling yourself against him, close as you can possibly get. This kiss is not a sweet kiss in the name of tentative practice. This kiss is a reckoning, and a choice, and it’s the past nine years in flashing moments that have led you up to this point.

Azriel makes a low, wanting sound and flips the script, using his grip on your jacket to spin you both until you’re the one pushed against the wall, and he’s pressing you there. Slotting a firm, muscled thigh between your legs. He pulls his mouth away from yours to pepper quick, biting kisses along your jaw, down the column of your neck. You gasp, and he gasps back.

“I want you.” His voice almost sounds like a plea — a plea for some solution to this. As though it’s a problem. “I can’t stop myself wanting you.”

“So don’t.” You breathe back, pushing the very centre of you against his thigh. “Stay in Windhaven and forget about everything else. Stay with me. Have me.”

“You make it sound so easy—”

“It is.” You pull his mouth back to yours. “It’s easy. We can be easy. We can be—”

Just down the hall, the opening of the front door cuts your words right off. Footsteps follow. It’ll just be a male returning from training, but it seems to send a tidal wave of ice-cold reality straight over the two of you. Azriel stares down at you, lips parted, still panting.

The nameless male passes by without even sparing either of you a glance. Azriel pulls away.

He turns his back to you and rakes a hand through his hair. You can only watch. So fast, he’s facing you again.

“I—I need you to give me time to register all of this.” He swallows. “I can’t…think right now.”

Do the words sting? Yes. Were you hoping that he would just impulsively let go of his fears and say fuck it? Absolutely.

You should be angry. You should tell him that if he truly wants you, needs you, then he shouldn’t need to think.

But something about the lost expression on his face speaks to you. He’s always been guarded. Always struggled to face his emotions head-on. So many years he spent locked up, trying to convince himself that the loneliness didn’t ache, that his heart didn’t wish.

If you push him right now…it’ll end up with him further away from you.

So it’s the hardest thing in the world to straighten yourself out and pretend your lips aren’t tingling, begging for another taste of his mouth. It’s an effort to put how you feel aside for his sake.

But maybe it’ll be for your sake, too. You are angry…somewhere beneath all the longing, the passion. He didn’t tell you about Tathaln’s proposition. He’d been considering it without consulting any of you. That hurts.

He watches you, waits for you to say something, as you reach for your boots and tug them back on. You came here to tell him what you’d found out, and you’ve done just that — and then some.

When you’ve laced up your shoes, only then do you look at him. Try to hide the bleakness from your face.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” You tell him, and it’s a promise. “But can you do me a favour?”

His eyes sweep over your face, and he nods. “Always.”

“Before you make a decision about Fenlaros…” You actually have to stop yourself and swallow down the lump that forms at the words. You try again, “Before you make a decision about Fenlaros, please just…talk to Rhys and Cass first. The three of you have been a strong unit forever. Forget the troubles that we’ve had and just…just remind yourself of what you’d be leaving behind. Fix things with them. Talk to them.”

He opens his mouth. Snaps it shut again. Nods. “Alright.”

“You don’t need me, Az.” You say as you turn away from him. “But them? You’ll always need them.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The strutting confidence with which Kaeda Baralas usually carries herself is entirely absent as she enters her father’s study.

Her wings are limp — a telltale sign of nerves, intimidation — and it’s an effort to keep them from drooping.

Wings are supposed to be worn proudly. Hers were left intact for a reason. Never will she forget that fact.

Tathaln sits behind his desk, oozing authority, even through menial tasks like going through his correspondence. As Kaeda stops before him and threads her fingers together, she feels much like the younger version of herself — that little girl always trying to think of ways to impress her papa.

“Well?” Tathaln asks without looking up.

The female clears her throat. “He still hasn’t given me an answer.”

Her father pauses, goes deathly still. Kaeda hates that stillness. Dreads it. Knows it means she’s disappointed him.

The Camp Lord places his pen down, and he asks, his tone slicing, “And why have your efforts not been enough to glean an answer?”

Kaeda purses her lips. “I’m trying, father. It’s — he’s harder than I anticipated. I didn’t expect him to be so attached to Windhaven.”

She watches, stomach turning, as the great male before her stands and rounds the desk. He perches on the other side of it and studies his daughter.

“Your brothers seem to be having no problems with the missions I gave them.” He tells her. “Why do you let me down?”

How is she supposed to answer that? Azriel is simply…not what she expected. He’s unlike all the Illyrian males she’s surrounded by. He’s profound, sentimental, caring. He values more than just violence, than war.

“I got the go-ahead from the High Lord that the ball can take place.” Tathaln announces. “We will be amongst a room full of males with potential, who may join our cause. But they won’t if we don’t have some ground to work on. If I don’t have something to show them — warriors who can advocate for us. Like the shadowsinger.”

Kaeda’s gaze lowers. “I’ll keep trying. I’ll ask again.”

“Yes. You will.” He pushes away from the desk. “Because let me remind you of something, lest you’ve forgotten.” A step closer has him towering over her, and he’s…humongous. “I do not give you the freedoms you have, just so you can waste them. I did not leave your wings intact because I abhor the practice of clipping them. I told you to earn them. To hone yourself into a weapon that I can use.”

“I know, father.”

“And what do I do with weapons that are useless? That can’t be used? I rid myself of them. Make no mistake that I would do the same with you if you can’t give me what I need.” A sneer contorts his brutal, beautiful face. “I don’t care what you have to do to attain it. Trick him, force him, bed him. Just get your ass back to Windhaven, and don’t return until the shadowsinger is on side. The ball will be held on Starfall — you have until then.”

“I—”

“Go.”

End of discussion.

He doesn’t want to hear her excuses, her ideas.

He doesn’t want to know that his daughter, deep down, is not capable of the callousness of which he very much is. That in Azriel, she sees a person who is, perhaps, as lonely as she is, and insecure, and trying not to be, in an environment where those things get you killed.

He doesn’t care to know that all she really wants is for her father to throw his arms around her and tell her he loves her, is proud of her, no matter what.

No. He returns to his seat and doesn’t spare her another glance. She’s dismissed.

She takes to the brutal skies and makes her way from one hollow place to another.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Cassian decides two chapters into the book that reading isn’t for him.

He’s just so fucking bored. Rhys is somewhere being all moony eyed over Zakai, Roza and Y/N are still in Velaris, and Azriel still doesn’t seem interested in talking through their issues.

So he’s resorted to this — plucking some weird romance novel off the shelf and giving it a go. Some dramatic tale of a human girl who falls in love with a beast who drinks blood and glistens in the sunlight. Two chapters down, he’s tempted to throw it into the fire — but he remembers that it isn’t his book and returns it to the shelf instead.

He could go to a tavern, but those aren’t fun on his own. Could seek out one of his many sexual conquests for a good time, but something about arguing with his closest of friends translates, for some reason, into his dick refusing to get hard. He’s too churned up for an orgasm, and too churned up to give one out.

So, sleep it is. He heaves a deep sigh and drags himself over to the stairs, feeling mighty sorry for himself. He’s barely placed a foot on the bottom step when a knock falls on the door.

He turns, striding over too fast. He hopes for Rhys, or even Az, anyone—

But Kaeda slumps against the door frame, and he immediately wants to scowl.

Her eyes are glazed, her usually pristine appearance a little unkempt, with strands of cherry red hair slipping free from a ponytail and a stain of some sort of liquid on her shirt.

She hiccups, and the smell of booze rolls from her. “Azriel here?”

“No.” Cassian’s jaw ticks.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Probably at the dorms, but he doesn’t tell her that. “Don’t you have a rock to crawl back under?”

She makes a vague noise and bends at the waist, planting her hands on her knees. “Think ‘m going to be sick.”

“Not here, you’re not.”

“Can I just come in? Please? Need…need water.”

Cassian really, really doesn’t want to let her in.

If he had his way, he wouldn’t let her into the camp, let alone his house.

And he’s a shitty enough person that he’s tempted to turn her away…but not shitty enough to actually do so. She’s clearly wasted, and in a place like Windhaven, a lone, drunk female is a target.

So he grits his teeth and steps aside, and Kaeda doesn’t hesitate to stumble in. She heads straight for the couch, slumping down—

“If you puke on that,” Cass tells her, striding over to the kitchen, “I’ll hold you upside down and mop your vomit up with that obscenely red hair.”

Kaeda seems to find it funny. She snorts. Cassian ignores her and fills a glass with water.

He stalks back over. More or less slams the glass down on the coffee table and then sits at the far end of the same couch. “Your water. Drink it.”

The female grabs the glass and gulps it down, droplets rolling down her chin. Cassian has never seen her so…normal.

“Why are you drunk?” He asks.

She returns the empty glass to the table. “I drank alcohol.”

“Give me a straight answer.”

She sighs, and swivels on the seat so that she’s facing him. She’s a little unsteady as she tucks her legs beneath her and says, “Because I’m a desperately unhappy person, and I can’t do anything right.”

Cass stares at her. He isn’t convinced. She seems mighty happy every time she struts through Windhaven, giving pretty, sultry smiles to different males and revelling in their attention.

“I have so much pressure on my shoulders.” Kaeda says. “I can’t afford to get it all wrong.”

“Everyone has pressure on their shoulders. Welcome to the real world, princess.”

Another snort. She shakes her head. Never seems bothered by Cassian’s sharp-edged words. “You don’t get it.”

But Cass reckons he does. He narrows his eyes as he looks at her — thinks that her perfect outfit probably costs more than his entire wardrobe. Thinks that the fact that she’s got to her age, as a female, and hasn’t had her wings and spirit ripped away from her, is a very lucky thing.

“Oh, I get it.” He bites back. “I know exactly what I’m looking at. A spoilt girl who gets everything she wishes for and still wants more. You have riches and a good standing, and you never have to worry about where your next meal is coming from.”

“…Don’t have any friends, though, do I? Not like you and yours.”

“Perhaps that’s because you’re such an insufferable toad.”

Kaeda stares at him, and he stares back. Gods, he really cannot stand her. Even the way she looks at him makes him want to punch something.

But then she throws her head back, and she bellows a great, loud laugh.

That annoys him, too — that nothing he says, however harsh, seems to bother her. Maybe he simply wishes that he could be like that. So strong.

“Why is it that you hate me so much, Cassian?” Her laughter ebbs into a quiet chuckle, and she’s leaning forward to crack him a smile that has sent better males to their knees. “Tell me.”

Cassian, too, leans forward — tries to scowl that smile out of existence. “Because I think you’re up to something.” He answers. “And I think you’re going to hurt my friends. And if you hurt my friends, princess, I hurt you. It’s that simple.”

He means it. Kaeda can see he means it. And the threat should intimidate her, but it doesn’t.

It makes her hungry. Ravenous.

His hate for her is a challenge that she wants to chase. Every barbed word, every scathing glance —

It sets her on fire.

And she’s happily not thinking about Tathaln, or Fenlaros, or Azriel, as she grips Cassian by the cheeks and slants her mouth over his. She kisses him with such heat that for a moment, he forgets who she is. Her tongue makes its way past his lips—

He shoves her off him, probably too hard. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Before she can answer, the front door opens, and Azriel is wandering in.

He takes in the sight of them and stops. Stares between them.

His expression is…indifferent. Like he knows what he’s looking at, but he really could not give a fuck.

And then he clears his throat, and turns to Kaeda. “You should leave.” He says. “Cassian and I need to talk.”

az tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-agirlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @katherinearcheron @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes @azriels-mate2

[2plottwist]

Respite, Despite it All

Summary: After a long day of battling the horrifying creatures of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, you return to the Last Light Inn. Your lover, Astarion, has wonderful plans of pampering you. TL;DR Astarion is a soft gentle cutesy vampire boyfriend that treats you like you're a queen.

Pairing: Astarion x Elf!Reader, referred to with she/her pronouns

Characters: Astarion

Warnings: MDNI 18+, oral sex, fingering

Author: Emma:)

Word Count: 2.1k

Photo Credit: pay. on pinterest

Cradled in between wooden posts and crumbling stone was the Last Light Inn, a rare refuge in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Within the room you had taken for the night, the curse felt even farther away. For starters, there was an actual bed- a luxury within itself. It wasn’t nice, by any means; some of the wood had rotted away, and the sheets scratched against your skin. But it wasn’t a bed roll, which was a huge relief for the aches that shot up your back and to your neck. 

The best part of it all was the wooden tub in the corner of the room. You couldn’t remember the last time you had bathed in an actual tub, or warm water, for that matter. You had to make do with the river Chionthar or another reservoir nestled deep in the woods for months. It had soap, a sponge, and bathing oils. Everything you needed for a perfect night of relaxation. 

After a grueling day of battling shadows and other sinister creatures in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, you finally made your way back to the inn. The weight of exhaustion bore down on you, every muscle aching from the day’s relentless combat. You had left Astarion at the inn, opting to take Halsin with you in order to give him a brief moment of respite. As you push the door open to your shared room, the soft flicker of candlelight greeted you, casting a warm glow over the stone walls. The faint smell of lavender wafted through the room, pushed towards your nostrils by the breeze coming through the open window. 

Astarion was folding a towel before he turned to greet you with a soft smile. “Hello there,” he said quietly. “I trust you had a good day, my sweet, even if I wasn’t there to brighten it?” 

You couldn’t help but smile as he stepped closer, his hands moving to help you out of your armor, each piece clinking softly as it fell away, leaving you exposed. 

“Come now,” he says, guiding you toward the tub. “Let me make up for my absence.” His touch is gentle, his hands firm yet tender as he eases you into the warm embrace of the water, sliding the curtain closed around you.

The water in the tub is deliciously warm, enveloping you in a comforting embrace as you sink deeper, letting the heat ease away the tension in your muscles. The steam rises lazily, curling around the candlelit tub. Soon, the curtain is pulled back, revealing that Astarion has also stripped. He sinks into the water beside you, the sharp angles of his face softened by the flickering light, making him seem almost ethereal. He leans back, the water lapping at his pale skin. His fingers lazily trail through the water before he reaches over, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

His touch is gentle, reverent almost, as he tucks the hair behind your pointed ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek. “You know,” he murmured, “this might be the one part of this cursed place that I actually enjoy.”

You smiled, your eyes half-lidded as you savored the feeling of his touch. “It does have its charms, doesn’t it?” you replied, leaning back against him. “Though I think it’s less about the place and more about the company.” Astarion chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Flattery will get you everywhere, darling.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips, closing your eyes and savoring the moment. The warmth of the water, the faint scent of your favorite plant, and the quiet intimacy of being with him make it feel like the rest of the world has fallen away. 

Astarion shifts beside you, turning to face you more fully. He takes the sponge in hand, dipping it into the water before running it over your shoulders with a deliberate gentleness. The warm water cascades down your back. His touch is so tender, so careful, that it sends a shiver down your spine. He notices and smiles, a hint of that playful smirk you’ve come to love evident on his lips. 

“I’ve had centuries to master all sorts of skills,” he says, his voice low and velvety, “but I think I’ve found my favorite- pampering you.”

You sigh contentedly, letting your head fall back against the edge of the tub. He continues his gentle ministrations, the sponge gliding over your skin in slow, deliberate motions. There’s something in the way he touches you, as if he’s savoring every moment, every inch of you. It’s a side of him that he doesn’t show often, a softness that he keeps hidden and reveals just for you. 

Once he’s finished washing you, Astarion helps you out of the tub with the same gentle care. He wraps you in a thick, soft towel. His hands move over you in slow, careful strokes as he dries you off. When you’re dry, he guides you to a nearby stool, his touch light on your arm as he steers you into place. 

He grabs a brush and sits behind you on the bed, his fingers working through your damp hair. “I used to do this for my sister, Dal, centuries ago.” There’s a pause, the memory clearly bittersweet for him. “Of course, her hair was never quite as lovely as yours.”

You smile, leaning back into his touch as he brushes your hair with practiced ease. The bristles glide through your locks, the gentle tug at your scalp almost hypnotic. “How many sisters do you have?” you ask, your voice soft. 

“Three,” he replies. “But know I was only this kind a long time ago.. before Violet started putting garlic in our bunks.”

The braid he weaves is intricate, his fingers moving deftly as he creates a pattern. You can feel the care he’s putting into it, the way he’s making sure each strand is secure. It’s an act of love, one that speaks volumes. When he finishes, he secures the end with a red ribbon before leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. 

“There,” he murmurs against your hair, his breath warm on your scalp. “All done.”

You reach up to touch the braid. You turn on the stool to face him, your heart swelling as you take in the sight of him sitting there, his crimson eyes filled with a warmth that’s still so new and wondrous. 

“I don’t deserve you,” you say, leaning against his knees and wrapping your arms around his waist. 

“You deserve so much more,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Before you could respond, he placed a finger under your chin, tilting your head up and capturing your lips in a kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of promises, of a future you both hoped for, despite the uncertainty that surrounded you. 

When you finally broke apart, you found yourself smiling. “You’re right,” you said, your voice light with teasing. “I do deserve more. Like maybe you giving me a massage.” Astarion laughed softly, his breath warm against your skin. “In your dreams, darling.” He stands, offering you his hand. “Now, what do you say we retire to bed? I’m not quite done pampering you yet.” You take his hand, allowing him to lead you to the bed. He lies you down gently before trailing a hand down your exposed torso. He walks to the foot of the bed before climbing over it, carefully placing his knees by your hips. 

He smiles down at you, his naked form towering above you. He strokes your cheek softly, pausing at your mouth and softly dragging your bottom lip down. You place a gentle kiss on the pad of his thumb. 

“I love the way you feel beneath my touch, you know,” he growls softly, placing a knee inside your own, pushing your legs open. He leans in and kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips. You smiled up at him. It made his heart sing.

“Astarion…” you whispered.

“Shh,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you, love.”

You nodded, and his tongue slid across your mouth, and you moaned into the touch. His lips run down your neck, nipping softly at the tender flesh above your collarbone where he drinks from you. He continues kissing down your body, working his way to your breasts. His tongue flicks out, catching your nipple. Your breath catches at the action and you reach out to tangle a hand in his moon-kissed curls to steady yourself. You can feel the warmth pooling in between your legs, and you can only assume he can too as he dips his head, kissing your inner thigh. 

When he finally reached your core, he took his time, licking and nipping at your folds. He licked up and down before gently circling your clit with his tongue. You gasped, arching your back. “A- Astarion…” He chuckled softly, the feeling vibrating against you. “I’ve got you, my love.”

He teased your clit with his tongue, flicking it lightly. You moaned, your hands gripping the sheets. He groaned- he couldn’t help himself. You were so beautiful. He sucked your clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. 

He paused, slipping a digit inside of you and curling it in swift motions. “Are you enjoying this?” he asked, his voice was husky with need. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you whimpered. 

“Good,” he murmured. “Now, I want you to close your eyes and relax.”

You allowed your head to fall back against the pillow as he slipped another finger inside of you, pumping them slowly in and out of you. 

His mouth found you again, sucking on your clit harder than before. The combination of his fingers inside you and the sensation of his tongue sent waves of pleasure cascading over you.

“Come for me, my darling,” he murmured, pressing another kiss onto your inner thigh. “I need you to come for me.”

The order was enough to send you over the edge, your orgasm rippling through your body as your spasming walls squeezed his fingers. The sight alone was enough to have him falling into an orgasm right after you. 

After he cleaned up, he joined you under the covers. He pulls you closer, holding you against him. His arms encircle you, strong and protective, his chest rising and falling slowly with the steady rhythm of his breath. He rests his chin on top of your head, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine with the gentlest of touches. It was reverent, every movement a worship, as if you were a divine being descended into his arms. 

And perhaps, to him, you were. 

There’s a peace in his eyes that you rarely see, a calm that had been elusive for so many years. His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper in the stillness of the night. “You are… everything I prayed for,” he murmurs. “In those dark, endless nights in Cazador’s dungeon, when hope was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Though I didn’t know you then, I dreamed of you.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of his past and the lightness of the future you’re building together. He tilts your face up to meet his gaze, his eyes searching yours as if trying to understand how someone like you could care for someone like him.

“But you’re here,” he continues, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “And you’re real. Divine, in every way that matters to me.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and then another to your lips, lingering as if to reassure himself that this moment is real.

He holds you even tighter, his arms a barrier between you and the world, as if he could protect you from everything just by keeping you close. “I never thought I’d find something—someone—worth praying for again. Yet here you are, proving me wrong in the most wonderful way.”

In his embrace, the horrors of his past seem distant, replaced by the quiet comfort of your presence. As sleep begins to claim you both, he can feel your heart beating against his chest, steady and strong, a reminder that despite everything, despite the pain and the darkness, you’ve found each other. And in this moment, that’s all that matters. 

[happy74827]

No Ordinary Life

[Sam Riordan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: The group had almost ran out of options on what to do with Sam, but Andre had decided there was still one more option to explore. And that option, was you. (GIF credits: @heronamedhawks)

WC: 1,179

Category: Slight Fluff, Slight Angst

We don’t know much about Sam as of right now, but I do know I would literally die for this boy. He and Emma really deserve the world, and they fr better have their happy ending (which seems impossible given the universe they live in, but one can hope). This definitely deserves a part 2, depending how well it goes, but for now enjoy the purity that is Sam.

Edit(2023): Hey I finally made the part 2, check it out here

『••✎••』

As Sam walked down the bustling halls of Godolkin, he couldn't help but feel like an outsider. All around him, kids with extraordinary powers, kids like him, were chatting, laughing, and walking to their classes. They were able to use their gifts freely and openly, and they were respected by others for it, but Sam didn't have that luxury. Honestly, he couldn’t remember a time that he did.

All he remembered was the woods, his brother, and the constant pain of being hunted.

His hand unconsciously traveled to top of his head, pulling the hoodie that Emma had lent over to him farther over his face as he tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible. It wasn't easy when the hallway was completely crowded by nosy students, but he did his best. That’s all he could really do.

Emma and Marie (as he found her name to be) were by his side, protecting him for the skewing eyes of others. For the most part it worked, except it drawn more attention to her due to that odd system that Emma had acknowledged him about. A rating, whatever that was.

It was cool to know that his brother had been ranked number one, though.

If Luke was still… No, don’t think about it, Sam.

He shook his head, ridding himself of that train of thought. There was no point in dwelling on the past, and thinking about his brother wouldn’t change anything. He was gone, and Sam was left alone.

His thoughts were interrupted by Jordan, who he was still slightly confused about. He? She? They? They seemed to have been good friends with his brother and they were friendly enough, so Sam didn’t really question the matter too much.

Plus, he kinda enjoyed the subtle sarcasm that Jordan would once in a while use. It made him feel like a kid back in school. So for that, Sam was thankful.

“Dude, this has got to be the stupidest thing we’ve ever done,” Jordan had said, turning to the guy walking besides them… Andre. Sam didn’t know what to make of him, or anyone really. He had always been so closed off from other people, that now it was almost a bit overwhelming.

But at least he had Emma, so he didn't have to worry about the social aspect too much.

Andre gave Jordan a sideways look, a small smirk on his face. He seemed pretty chill too.

“Listen, I don’t like this anymore than you do, Jordan,” Andre stated, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But with everything happening, and with Cate… this is our best option.”

“Yes, let’s bring the kid with a bounty over his head into the place where they’re all going to be looking for him. Great idea, Andre. Seriously, how did I not think of it first. Soooo smart of you, dude. Good job. I'm so glad we're friends, really I am.”

Jordan rolled their eyes, and Andre just looked away in annoyance. Then, to Sam’s dismay, an awkward silence fell over the group. Once again, Sam was struck by just how different his life was now. It was like he was suddenly thrown into another world, and he had no idea how to function in it. He was so far out of his comfort zone that he couldn’t even see the zone.

Sam glanced over to Emma, and saw her smiling encouragingly at him. He tried his best to return the gesture, but he felt like his face muscles were going to fall off if he forced them any longer.

After what seemed like hours, but really only a couple minutes, Andre halted in front of a random dorm room door, and turned to face the group. He sighed, his face set into a look of grim determination. Then, he knocked.

Three times, Sam counted. Three knocks.

The door opened almost immediately after, and the man who answered had to be the most handsome human being Sam had ever seen. He had short black hair, a sharp jaw, and a dazzling smile. It was actually kind of intimidating.

“Whadda’ want?” the man asked, his voice a rich baritone. Sam didn't know why, but it felt like the man was judging him. His eyes scanned over the group, lingering on Sam for just a second, before returning back to Andre.

Andre cleared his throat, a bit nervously, but he didn’t get a chance to speak as Jordan scoffed, shoving past the man and into the room. Emma followed, giving the man an apologetic look as she did. And thus, everyone followed, leaving the man alone and bewildered in the doorway.

Once everyone was settled inside, the man shut the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest. He glared at Andre, his eyes burning holes through his head, but Sam didn’t pay any attention towards him anymore. All his eyes were on the strange girl in front of him, you.

You were sitting on the floor, legs crossed and a bored expression on your face. Your eyes were half lidded, and you seemed to be lost in your own little world. Andre had mentioned you, a little. Said that you were the person he had called earlier, that you would help them figure out what to do with Sam, and that you knew and could a lot of stuff. But he had never told them how gorgeous you were.

Your hair was down, and looked so soft that Sam just wanted to touch it, run his fingers through it, and feel the texture. You had a cute little button nose, and a round, chubby face that was just too adorable. And your eyes were so expressive, a mixture of colors that swirled and shone and sparkled in the light.

Andre had called your attention and you snapped out of it, blinking a few times before glancing up at him. It was then that you noticed the others, and you stared at them all, wide eyed and open mouthed, but that was quickly replaced with a smile.

“Hi, Andre! Wow, you must be Jordan… Marie… and Emma? Right? Oh, and you must be the kid Andre talked about, oh my gosh. It's so nice to finally meet you all. Sorry I didn’t say anything when you came in, I was just finishing up this thing for Kota. Oh, Kota! You're still here… hi. Wait, why are you all here? You weren’t supposed to be here until 2:00, and it's only-”

You looked down at the watch on your wrist, your eyes widening even more when you realized the time. You had been talking so fast that no one had been able to get a word in edgewise, but you had managed to finish what you had to say, and it was all so rushed that it was hard to keep up.

The only thing Sam could focus on was how despite all of that rambling and mumbling, you were still keeping that bright smile that never seemed to falter. A truly happy supe? He never thought it would exist. Even Emma, as sweet and pretty as she was, tended to falsify the smiles she had. Sam only saw her real one about three times. He cherished them, of course. Every single one.

You stood up, brushing yourself off and fixing your clothes, and walked over to them. Your hand was outstretched, and your smile was radiant. Sam could practically feel the happiness radiating off of you.

You looked so innocent, so sweet and pure. He could hardly believe that you were a supe, but the fact that they were all standing here said otherwise. You had power, and you knew how to use it.

Jordan and Marie seemed to have recovered from their daze, and the two shook your hand after Andre. Marie had even introduced herself, and it ended with you in giggles, telling her that you already had known her name.

Emma was next, and she had taken your hand immediately and shook it.

Then it was just him that was left.

He stood frozen, staring down at your outstretched hand. He could feel all the eyes in the room on him, and he just knew that his hood was starting to slip.

His instincts were yelling at him, screaming at him to run. To get out of there and stay far, far away from you. From everyone.

But he couldn’t.

So, instead of fleeing, he slowly, cautiously took your hand in his. It was small, warm, and fit perfectly.

You smiled again but this time it was strictly for him, because of him, and it made his heart beat just a bit faster.

He didn’t even realize it until your smile has widened, but he had pulled down his hood, letting you see his face. He didn't understand why he did, and a part of him wanted to pull the fabric right back over his face, but it was too late now.

The damage had been done.

Sam didn’t have a chance to scrape off the dried blood off his cheeks, another result of an accidental outburst, and he could feel your eyes rake over his face, taking in every single detail.

But it wasn’t judgmental, or critical.

No, there was something else in those swirling eyes of yours, and it was then that he noticed the little flecks of gold hidden in the sea of color.

Sam was a bit embarrassed, to say the least, and he tried to pull his hand away but your grip only tightened, and he didn't have the strength to resist. He felt your hand go up his arm, unraveling the hoodie that clung to him like a second skin.

The others didn’t seem to do anything as you pulled the material above his elbow.

Your eyes roamed over the scar that stretched across his forearm, and he knew what was coming before the words even left your mouth.

Sam couldn’t bring himself to look at you as you asked the dreaded question, and his eyes were glued to the floor.

It was Emma who answered, her voice barely a whisper.

Sam despised the pity in your tone. The last thing he wanted was to be pitied. He didn't need or want anyone's pity. He was fine. Everything was fine.

The silence shattered as you took a sharp breath, but Sam couldn't bring himself to look at you. Not when he knew the look of pity in your eyes.

You released his arm, the hoodie dropping to the ground, but Sam didn't even register it. He stood there, frozen, as you slowly reached out your hand towards his face.

"Before I do anything, I want to warn you so it doesn't scare you. Is that okay with you? I just... I want to make sure you're alright. But if you don't want me to touch you, I won't. I'll respect your boundaries. Just tell me, okay?"

Sam blinked, his head tilting upwards, his eyes wide with surprise. There was no pity in your eyes. No negativity or degradation. Only a gentle concern and kindness that he had only experienced in these past few days.

Your touch was tender, and he felt a warmth spread across his face. He couldn't bring himself to deny you. So he nodded, and a small smile appeared on your face. It was still a smile, but a different kind. One he had never seen from you before. And once again, that smile was meant just for him.

Suddenly, the lights in the room dimmed, capturing Sam's attention. He hadn't noticed before, but the entire room was filled with interconnected lights, forming a grid-like pattern. They began to glow, pulsating and shifting with each passing moment. The light danced across the walls, creating mesmerizing shapes.

Sam was captivated by the whole process. And then, the lights suddenly stopped, freezing in place. Sam expected them to return to their normal brightness, but they grew brighter and brighter. It was then that he noticed your hands. They were no longer touching him, but rather, they hovered above him, palms facing his face. A peculiar expression settled on your face.

Sam didn't know what it meant, but he didn't have time to wonder because, in an instant, your hands transformed into light. It wasn't like beams shooting out of your palms, but rather, golden particles that flowed around your body and traveled along the lights, intensifying their brightness. Patterns began to form and move.

Sam watched in awe as the shapes transformed into pictures and scenes. The colors melted and shifted together. Light filled the room, washing away the world around him, leaving only the vibrant colors, the images, and your face.

Your face, so close to his. The smile still adorned your lips, and your eyes shone like stars, the brightest things in the room. Sam could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Reluctantly, he admitted that the light was beautiful, just like you.

It was the most extraordinary sight he had ever witnessed. It was as if the sun had exploded, its light spreading across the room. The colors danced along the walls, forming vivid images. Sam saw a field, a house, a family. He saw his old friends. He saw him. His brother, Luke.

Sam's face crumpled, and a sob escaped his throat. Tears blurred his vision, but they were absorbed by the light, vanishing as soon as they fell. You remained a silent observer, watching over him as the colors gradually faded, and the world returned.

The room was as bright as before, but everything was the same. Sam could still see the concern and worry etched on your face. You reached up to wipe away his tears, but this time he flinched back, and the contact never happened. Your hands fell to your sides.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and your lips trembled, trying to hold back your emotions. But a tear escaped, rolling down your cheek. Andre cleared his throat, breaking the spell. Both you and Sam turned to face the others.

They were all watching, expressions of shock and confusion on their faces, except for Jordan, who wore a mask of indifference.

Andre and Emma stared at you, mouths agape, while Sam saw the tears in your eyes, the fear evident on your face.

Of what, he couldn’t tell. As of right now, there were so many things you could be scared of. With The Woods, being the thing that contains most of it all, It was hard to pinpoint one specific reason.

Then, just like before, Andre's voice cracked as he decided to interrupt Sam’s thoughts.

"What the hell was that?"

[promitto-amor]

Should Something Happen

Pairing: Mark Hoffman x You

Summary: While working as Jigsaw Apprentices, Amanda spoils some quality bonding time between yourself and Hoffman.

Warnings: Cursing!

Might this actually be a little bit of fluff? I wanted to do something involving the main Jigsaw crew and a protective Hoffman. 👀

Perhaps the only aspect of being an apprentice Mark enjoyed was the opportunity to work alongside you. Every trap crafted, every game played and every eventual death led Mark one step closer to his freedom. A life no longer in servitude for an impulsive act of vengeance. Mark had always struggled to quell his impulsiveness. It made him good in the field, Mark had earned a fair share of promotions for his quick actions, but his greatest mistake had cost him almost a year of servitude to Jigsaw himself. Until his sentence was up, until mark could be certain both John Kramer and his helper monkey were dead, he would carry out his part in the games with minimal complaint. In the meantime, he could find a steady contentment in watching the slackened, dream-like expression on your face as you fiddled with some shards of broken glass. 

“Careful,” Mark finds himself saying, “It’s not intended to spill your blood.”

You drop the shards back into the glass coffin and wander back to the workbench you’ve commandeered as a desk, “There’s so many traps,” You whine and if it were anyone else Mark would be grinding his teeth together. You flip your notebook onto a fresh page, “Who is this one for again?”

“I try not to make a habit of remembering names.” Mark answers, “Once you name something you get attached.”

You nod, “You’re right.” You pick up your pencil and hover it over the page. “Sadly I don’t have that luxury.” Mark keeps one eye on you as he cleans up his workbench, placing a set of screwdriver heads back in their assigned places. You think for a couple more minutes, your expression growing more pained till you drop the pencil again. “How can I write the tape for someone I know barely anything about?”

“Don’t ask me,” Mark says. “I’ve never been one for words.”

You give him a shrewd look, as if confirming his words. “You have special uses.” You say, jumping off your stool and heading over to a stack of boxes, freshly delivered.

“Oh yeah, like what?”

You send him a small smile, “Brawn, muscle, inside info…” 

“Is that all I am?” Mark can’t help the flicker of irritation he feels, “A meathead?”

“No,” You return to him, catching on you may have offended him. “You…” A couple teeth sink into your lip, “You’re the only one whose behaving.” 

Mark glances towards the open door, connecting the room to the rest of the Nerve Gas House, “Go on.”

You turn cagey, “Ever since Mexico…”

“Ah,” Mark nods, “Say no more.”

“I don’t like what I’ve been hearing.” You admit, “The aim of all this was never revenge.”

“Was it not?” Mark enjoys how your head lifts up to meet his gaze, “Was that not why you got mixed up in all this?”

You fix him with eyes of steel, “Maybe…” You admit, “But not anymore. Seems we’re cut from the same cloth, Detective.”

Mark likes how you say his title, pronouncing every syllable distinctly, “You don’t know me. Not really.”

“Maybe we should work on that?”

Something gives a leap inside Mark. Before he can answer you’re back at the delivery boxes and Amanda is thudding through the door. Her steel toe capped boots echo on the wood, little patches of dust springing up where she steps. She pauses on catching Mark stood in the centre of the room, “Admiring my work?” She asks, tilting her head.

“I thought John made this one?” You pipe up, before Mark can.

“He did.” Mark confirms, “That’s why this one has some refinement.”

“But it was my idea to add the…” Amanda’s points to the walls and then places her hands a couple inches apart. She presses them together slowly, applying pressure. The visual is enough for Mark to look away.

You busy yourself with the boxes again, “There’s nothing but syringes.” You take out one to show the two apprentices.

Mark tosses you a pair of gloves, “Put them on, they probably aren’t clean.”

You make a face and drop the syringe you’re holding, “Great. I’m going to need a check-up after this.”

“Be thankful you’re not the poor bastard diving in there.” Amanda smirks, heading over to inspect the coffin trap. “Is this one done yet?”

“Just needs a couple tests,” Mark says. “Any volunteers?”

“You first.” Amanda holds her arms up as if she’s a presenter, “Get in there, Detective.”

“What about you, babe?” Amanda slinks over to you and throws an arm around your shoulders, “The glass isn’t in yet, it’ll be like taking a good nap.”

“Stop trying to scare her.” Mark’s voice comes out with more bite than he expected. 

Amanda’s eyes flash, “Why you protective all of a sudden, Hoffman?”

Mark would never confess to the bitch before him, but he’s made a mistake and Amanda knows it. “We’re not testing anything without John here.”

Amanda makes a noncommittal noise.

“If John approves it, I’ll test it.” You offer, “I trust him.” Amanda jumps back into performance mode, “Aren’t they precious?”

“If you put this on.” You gingerly remove from another box a very familiar contraption and hold it out for Amanda to see. Mark grins behind Amanda’s back. He can just picture the colour draining from her face. Amanda doesn’t move as you walk past her with the Reverse Bear Trap in hand, “Very funny.” She calls, trying to reclaim some of her bravado.

“I thought so.” You counter, placing the device on the workbench.

Amanda’s scowl only becomes more prominent the longer she stares at her old trap, “Why is that here?” “Inventory.” You supply, “Or so I’m guessing.”

“Something old can always be re-used.” John wheels himself into the room. Wheelchair bound, he surveys the glass coffin standing pride of place in the middle of the room. “Is Laura’s test finished?”

“Almost,” Mark busies himself with checking over the gears situated behind the coffin.

“Laura,” You repeat, scribbling something on your pad. “I couldn’t for the life of me remember.”

John appears amused at your choice of words, “Writer’s block?” You look up as John wheels himself over to you. The Reverse Bear Trap is sat just a few feet away, Mark doesn’t like how close you are to something so barbaric. With you showing John your tape speeches and Mark still preoccupied with the gears, Amanda sulks in the middle. She makes her way over to Mark’s toolbox and grabs a wrench, right in John’s line of sight. Mark thinks it’s pathetic behaviour, how co-dependent she’s become since Mexico. He can see that your worries were justified. She makes her way over to the trap, but Mark has left her with nothing to do.

“There’s one glaring issue I see with this entire game,” You say in a low voice. You glance over to Amanda, “Won’t they all get suspicious if every one of them has a trap but her?”

“What did you say?”

“Amanda,” John cautions as his apprentice as she wheels round on the spot.

“I just worry that something will happen.” You say, closing your notebook and leaning against the workbench. “Are you really betting on all them failing and Daniel just being the last one left alive?”

“He doesn’t have a trap either.” Amanda points out, “I’m not the only one.”

“He isn’t being tested.” John states simply, “That is why you are there, Amanda. To protect him.” He turns back to you, “Nor is Amanda being tested.”

‘I still think we should put something in there.” You hold up your hands, “I think it’s foolish to leave it to chance.”

“Not if you can predict the outcome.”

Mark has heard it all before from John Kramer. He knows your attempts are futile, so he finishes up his work on the coffin and with nothing else to do, makes his way to the door. “I’m done for the night.”

“Thank you, Mark.” John says, “The game begins tomorrow. I presume you’ll be in position?”

“On the monitors.” He nods.

He’s been excused. Mark should go home and rest up for a long day ahead tomorrow. But he can’t quite bring himself to leave. John has resumed helping you with writing out the tape for the trap, but Mark doesn’t like how Amanda won’t leave the two of you alone. Her new behaviour has made him protective. Mark would have liked you to finish up at the same time as him. Perhaps he could offer to drop you home and they could work on getting to know each other.

“You want to put me in that.”

You, John and Mark all turn to Amanda, “What?” You ask.

Amanda nods, “That.” She points to the Reverse Bear Trap, “You want that to be my test. You want me to do it again?”

John glances imperceptibly to Mark. He swallows, so John shares their concern about his favourite apprentice. “Do you know how stupid you sound?” Mark cuts in, taking up what he hopes is a casual position beside you. “Everyone knows you already escaped it. 24/7 news coverage.” You’re still leaning against the workbench as Amanda walks around it, her eyes fixed on you as if you were prey. 

“It’s not a bad idea,” You taunt, “Some poetic justice”, but Amanda doesn’t find it clever. 

She shoves the Reverse Bear Trap toward you, “You don’t deserve to be here.” She hisses. Mark swears he can hear a ticking sound as you brace your arms on the table, “Of all the people to win, it had to be you didn’t it?” “Fair and square.” You return and Mark finds himself wondering for the umpteenth time just what your own game was. Before Amanda, before Mark himself joined Jigsaw, you were tested and won. His eyes fall on the scar on your neck, all that remains of your own brush with death.

“Use your brain,” You counter and your face is far too close to the trap as you glare back at Amanda Young. “You’d have to wake up in it, or someone would have to put you in it. I don’t think either of those are going to work in this game.”

“How about you wake up in it, you bitch?”

Mark’s hands snake around your middle and yank you back just as the trap rips open with a loud bang. The ferocity makes both you and Amanda jump. You would have fallen off your stool if not for Mark’s chest breaking your fall. He can feel the sharp breaths you take as the Reverse Bear Trap cools down and lies dormant once more.

“Amanda, take the trap and put it in my office.” John says. His apprentice turns wide, teary eyes on him, but John’s face is expressionless. “Now.”

She obeys instantly, taking the trap and striding out of the room.

Mark slides you back onto your stool, “Thank you.” You murmur, hand jumping instinctively to your neck.

“Are you alright?” John asks and you nod. Mark can see right through you, he could feel the tremors of your body against his. That was a close call. 

“She’s out of line, John.” Mark says, “I don’t know what the fuck happened over there, but it’s messed with her.”

“Amanda will be fine.” John insists, “She will play her part, so long as she isn’t provoked.” You nod, understanding your own fault but Mark refuses to admit to his own. “Now Detective, I believe we’re finished here. I will see you both tomorrow for the final preparations.”

Mark watches John wheel himself out. The moment he’s gone you rest your forearms on the workbench and place your head on them. You let out a deep sigh. Mark’s never been good at consoling anyone. It’s just not what he does. Not since Angelina…

He spots your fallen notebook and places it beside you, “Need a ride home?” “I don’t think I want to go home.” You say, your voice weak.

“You don’t want to stay here.” Mark says, “You can’t anyway. They all…arrive tomorrow.”

“How can you do that?” You lift up your head, “How can you willingly put people in here knowing they will probably die?” Mark meets your eyes, “I convince myself they deserve to suffer.”

“You don’t lie awake thinking about it?”

“No,” He’s being honest. “I think it’s one less shitty person out there.”

“Then you must think that about me.” You push some hair out of your eyes and wrap your arms around yourself. “I’m not…you know what I did-“

“And you know what I did.” Mark takes you by your forearms, “Do you think I’m a monster?”

Your eyes dart around the room and then land on the glass coffin, “Sometimes.” Mark allows himself time to digest that, it isn’t what he wanted to hear. But your hands come to rest on his own forearms and then you’re pressing your forehead into his chest, “But you make me feel safe. You help me.”

He didn’t expect to earn such close proximity again, this time deliberately. Mark pulls you closer, your hands slide up to rest on his chest and Mark curses his choice to remain in a jacket. Your warmth is tantalising as it seeps into him. Mark tucks you into his large frame and winds his arms back around you.

It feels good to be wanted.

With your face smushed into him, Mark rests his head atop yours. He doesn’t know what else he can do, so he lets his eyes close. “We can look out for each other.” He proposes, “Should something happen.”

“I’d like that.”

[jelzorz]

191.

Opeli has never been to the Banther Lodge.

She has never had a reason to. Typically, it's used as a retreat for the royal family during the winter festivities, although once, one of Ezran's distant relatives had lent it to the city orphanage to use while their own building was being rebuilt after a fire. It's large for a cabin, obviously supposed to be rustic without losing its air of luxury, and without the castle...

Well. It's better than camping in the temples, that's for sure. It's too far away from the city to use as a permanent base, but it will have to do until other arrangements can be made. Tents have sprung up on the grounds to house both soldiers and refugees, and although it's crowded and busy, Opeli likes it.

It's a quiet place, nestled in the heart of the woods, away from the hustle and bustle of the city with enough space to breathe, to think, to simply be without all the trappings of court life. All things considered, it's a lovely reprieve, and she wonders if, one day, she might be able to come out here and enjoy it for what it is. There's just... one thing about this current arrangement that sets her on edge.

The kingslayer sharpens his blades.

Opeli's fingers twitch.

It has not been an easy few weeks. The attack on the castle was grave indeed, and although Ezran and Corvus had returned with Queen Aanya's troops and Queen Janai's to provide aid and assistance, the loss of their home still rings painfully through camp. Prince Callum and Rayla had returned shortly afterwards as well, and Opeli had been pleased to see them, her unofficial wards home and safe, until Rayla had ushered forward someone new—or someone not so new, and all hell had broken loose among their friends.

For what little it's worth, Ezran had managed it well. His pain was most obvious in his eyes and in the crack of his voice, and he'd been composed as he dealt with it but hasn't spoken to Callum in days. He holds his anger tight, keeps it all buried under the mountains of things they have to do, blue eyes filled with cold that he doesn't let leech into his words, but he avoids the issue entirely and spends almost all his free time with Queen Aanya or Corvus, people he can't be angry with, people to distract him from kinglsaying banther in the room.

Opeli has been less mature about it, if that can be believed. She had Rayla arrested once for breaking into the chambers beneath the castle to steal the kingslayer's bow, but Callum has made it clear that he will not stand for that, so instead Opeli funnels her frustration into sharp words and biting remarks, which she does not temper, even for Callum.

The air is tense. Their council is fractured. But if Ezran won't let himself be angry, the Justice help her, Opeli will be angry in his place.

It's dinnertime. Everyone is pulling double duty because the circumstances demand it, and Opeli is helping Barius dole out the food tonight to give the other staff a bit of a break. She passes bowls of stew to Ezran, to Corvus, to Soren, to Queen Aanya, her lips tilted in an appreciative smile as they thank her, and then slams bowls wordlessly down before Callum and Rayla and the other elf who only shifts uncomfortably in his seat as the stew sloshes over the rim.

"Enjoy your dinner," she snaps, and Callum, because he's Callum, snarls and snaps back.

"What the hell is your problem, Opeli?" he demands. "You've been passive aggressive about everything for days. This isn't okay anymore."

Opeli bristles at him. "And I suppose it's okay to have a murderer at the table instead."

"He was imprisoned in a magical coin for years, he's been punished enough—"

"Has he?" Opeli sneers. "Historically, kingslayers are hanged."

"You need to back the hell off—"

"That's enough!"

Silence falls over them, and things are dire indeed because it comes from Soren. He glared at Callum and Rayla, the elf with them shrinking beneath it, but it's Opeli that he turns to, that he offers his hand to, that he ushers away from the table leaving Callum, Rayla, and the elf alone and in silence in the dining hall.

Opeli waits until they are out of earshot before she rounds on Soren too. "You're not defending that murderer now, surely."

"No," mutters Soren darkly, "but Callum's right. You need to back off."

She scowls, affronted. "That elf shouldn't even be here," she snaps. "He murdered King Harrow, and would have murdered King Ezran too, if Rayla hadn't stood in his way. And they have the nerve to bring him here, our last stronghold, at a time like this?"

"I know," says Soren, grimacing. "I agree with you. But haven't we lost enough?"

"All the more reason he shouldn't be here."

Soren sighs. "He's Rayla's dad, Opeli. You have to let her have this."

"I certainly don't," says Opeli loftily. "Why on earth should he be allowed to walk free after the things he's done?"

"Because Rayla needs him," says Soren, "and not all of us are lucky enough to have a dad we can forgive."

A pause. A breath. A beat so heavy that Opeli feels it slam the air out of her chest. Soren looks away and swallows, his own conflict painfully clear in the way that he blinks and breathes and clenches his jaw.

She relents.

"I'll leave them be," she mutters at last. "But he can't be here long."

"He won't be," agrees Soren. "But just for now. Okay?"

"Yes." Opeli takes a breath and touches his arm, a promise to make an effort, for him more than for anyone else. "Just for now."

[dyaz-stories]

Cuddling — Day two of Inukag Fluff Week

Second one shot for @inukagfluffweek! This one is set in canon, and probably a little more on the hurt/comfort side.

Keeping an eye on Kagome was second nature for Inuyasha. After all, if there wasn’t food on her plate, she’d grow hungry and Jewel shards hunting would be interrupted. If there wasn’t a fire to keep her warm, she’d be too tired to go on. If they were caught in a downpour without shelter, she’d get sick. If she kept going when her legs hurt, the next day would be hell. So he got her food, he built the fire, he found the shelter, he carried her on his back. Not ‘cause he cared, though, well, he did care, a little bit, the normal amount, whatever that was, but for purely practical reasons.

That meant he figured out early on that something was wrong. He couldn’t pinpoint what for the life of him, though.

He’d added wood to the fire. He’d caught and cooked a rabbit. He’d carried her on his back half the day, holding her two-wheeled thing in one hand. He’d even offered his services in ridding some farmer of pesky yokai, so they’d get to sleep in a barn for once. Sure, he wasn’t Miroku, and he couldn’t secure them a place in some luxury house, but he was trying his best, ‘kay? Miroku wasn’t around anyway, and Kagome had never complained about luxuries before.

And still, when everything should have been fine, something was clearly wrong. Kagome kept looking in the distance, eyes turning glassy, mouth curving downward as she buried herself in her thought, keeping him so, so far away from her even if she was sitting right next to him.

 Inuyasha had no damn clue how to fix it.

“What is it this time?” he snapped at last as she was finishing her food in silence, taking small, slow bites, and she jumped at the sound of his voice. Her wide brown eyes focused on him at last, and that simple action was grounding enough for him that he would almost have felt sorry for his outburst.

Almost.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, and the immediate frown on her face told him she was not to be messed with right now — too bad he didn’t care, at this point.

“What’s wrong with you, you mean,” he scoffed, folding his arms and shaking his head. “You’ve been sulking for days. So tell me how to fix it, or just stop doing that already!”

If he’d been self-aware enough for that, he would no doubt have realized how childish he sounded. Kagome could have, too, but instead, her face flushed.

“I’m fine!” she replied, her voice too high-pitched to be convincing. “It’s not your problem anyway, so just forget about it!”

“How is it not my problem when you’re all—” He gestured at her, frustrated. “—and it’s a pain to travel!”

“Well if it’s a pain to travel with me, why don’t you just go with someone else?” she replied, raising her voice a little more.

“Because I don’t want to travel with someone else!” he yelled back. “I just want you to tell me how to not make it hard for you!”

She went quiet then, uncharacteristically so, red spreading to her ears, and Inuyasha growled under his breath, muttering to himself. He wasn’t sure what to do with this quiet Kagome. If she needed to scream at him to feel better, well, she could get on with that, and at least then she’d be fixed or whatever, but even picking a fight wasn’t working, damn it.

“I’m sorry,” Kagome whispered at last, and Inuyasha started like he’d been stung by a bee. Uh, yeah, not good. She didn’t do that. Even when she was in the wrong, she needed her time and space to calm down, and then she’d apologize, often while bringing him an offering of ramen. She never turned down a fight with an immediate apology.

That was when the tears came.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, sniffing.

“Wh— No— Don’t—” he pleaded, voice cracking, but she paid him no attention.

“I just— It’s been a very long year, you know? And I— I— I miss my mom,” she finally broke, waterfalls on her cheeks, quiet sobs wracking her body as she wrapped her arms around her knees.

Inuyasha froze. He reached out for her without thinking, overwhelmed by the need to make it stop, make it better, make her better, make it so she’d never ever cry again, but his fingers curled up before he could touch her, caught by some other part of his instinct.

“W-why didn’t you just say so! You can just— you can just go home then!” he scoffed, trying very hard to sound annoyed, but he couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice.

“But we’ve been on the road for days,” Kagome sniffed, “and it would take days to go back, and we haven’t found that stupid Jewel shard, and I just want her to give me a hug, and—”

“Ha, well I-I can do that too! You could have asked me!”

That made Kagome stop crying for long enough to give him a blank stare.

“Come on, Inuyasha. I’m not going to force you to hug me.”

“W-who said anything about forcing me!”

“Well you don’t look thrilled about it,” she said, doubtful, and at least she was crying a lot less now, but her eyes and nose were still read and he wasn’t going to let that slide, was he?

“J-just— just don’t move, okay?”

Clumsily, despite how careful he was being, he put both arms around her, awkwardly tugging her until he’d brought her against his chest. He was barely touching her, his arms forming a misshaped circle hovering around her. He’d hugged her before, but it had been an impulsive action, not one he’d thought about. He— had no idea how to do it intentionally.

Against his chest, Kagome giggled.

“You have to actually hug me, you know? Like that.”

She did it without hesitation, wrapping her arms around him. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against his, and this time when he froze, there were very different emotions running within him. On the top of his head, his ears were twitching, all his senses alert, taking in her breathing that was getting more even, her smell, her breath against his skin. Swallowing, he finally brought himself to close his arms around her, and she sighed contentedly.

“See?” she asked. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”

He could barely reply around the knot in his throat. She felt so soft against him, so delicate. His half-demon strength would make it so, so easy to break her in half — and she knew that. Her warmth was spreading through him, from his chest and face to the root of his hair and the tip of his toes. Everything he felt was Kagome. With great care, he ran his fingers through her hair, not wanting his claws to cut through them by accident. She shivered, tilted her head forward a little to give him better access. Mesmerized, he kept going. Her hair felt soft between his fingers, silky.

Everything about this was calming. And she’d been right. It was nice.

It caught him by surprise when she moved, entangling herself from him.

“Thanks, Inuyasha,” she said, sniffing again. “I’m feeling better. It was nice of you to— Oh!”

He pulled her back into him, this time with a tighter grip.

“You said you needed a hug, so I’m giving you one that’ll last you until I can get you back to your time,” he said gruffly. “Now just sleep, ‘kay?”

Her laugh vibrated through his chest, and he found it to be the best thing he’d ever felt.

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks, Inuyasha.”

He would have told her that he was just doing it so she’d be in the mood for shard hunting the next day, but if she’d called him out, he would never have been able to lie with a straight face, so he chose not to.

‘cause truth be told, now that he was experiencing it, he thought he’d needed that hug at least as much as her.

Don't have ideas for the upcoming themes so this will probably be my last entry for the week! Thank you all for the love on yesterday's entry, hope you've enjoyed this one as well, and I'll see you when I see you!

[zarnzarn]

new fic, tw rescue from a kidnapping and s/a (calypso), illiad modern spy au

They find him in the place they were told they would.

The lot of them almost don't make it past the door with how all of them fight to get inside first. The woman inside screams and drops her basket of fruits as they storm into the kitchen, staring at them with wide, piteous eyes as they all point their swords at her.

"Where is he?" Eurylochus snarls, half-bear in his rage. The guilt has been ripping him apart, whatever he and Odysseus disagreed on before he disappeared into thin air all those months ago, driving him wild. Menelaus nearly flinches himself when he roars louder, "WHERE IS HE?"

"Have you people never heard of politeness?" The woman demands starchly, even though she's still pressed back against the counter. Menelaus sees her eyes flash with power as she scowls at them, and takes a deep breath, readying his sword.

If he dies fighting her- if any of them do- the rest will understand. It's only because of Odysseus that any of them were alive at all.

"We were told that the merchant Xen'ath made a sale to you, seven months ago," Diomedes cuts in, voice cold. "An illegal one, even for a protected one like you."

She snorts, jewellery tinkling. She looks kind, and for a desperate moment Menelaus hopes.

"What will you do, put me in jail?" Calypso giggles. "Besides, a sale is a sale. He's mine, fair and square, so if you all would kindly-"

A vase crashes by her head, scattering muddy water and making her scream.

Patroclus hasn't recovered much from the coma, but he's just as angry as any of them and wouldn't be talked out of not coming along, even though he has to use a cane. He doesn't know about how they all fell apart while he was under, but has informed them all quite clearly that not only does he not care, in this situation it does not matter.

Menelaus holds out a hand to signal him to back down, knowing that they are all barely holding onto their fury enough to get answers.

"Where is he?" Ajax cuts in quietly. They point their swords again.

She scans them all calculatingly, grimacing. Then recovers, tossing her hair over her shoulder proudly, hmphing at them.

"In the basement," She says casually, and Menelaus' heart drops. Horror suffuses the faces around him, with many eyes closing in pained resignation, even though they already knew the truth. Knew what kind of sale it had been.

Penelope had recovered over fifteen hundred victims in her search for her husband, and all of them had the same story.

"He tried to run last week," She sighs, putting her hands on her hips and talking with such casual disappointment that it makes his blood run cold, makes him want to throw up. "Honestly, I made sure that he had everything one could need, I don't know what on earth-"

"Shut up," Polites snaps. "Just- shut up!"

"Why, you-" Calypso growls, eyes turning pink as she calls her power, and with a roar of fury, Achilles rounds the table and attacks.

Menelaus whistles to the others and they all scatter. He comes out at the veranda, opening every door and cursing when there's nothing beyond. It's a beautiful house- idyllic and pristine and packed with luxury, and it makes Menelaus want to claw off his own skin.

"HERE!" Someone shouts inside, and Menelaus skids to a stop and changes direction. They all reach the door at the same time, and he holds back the dizzying wave of horror at the lock on the outside as they all hack at the wood like crazed people to get in.

The door crashes down and Menelaus charges down the stairs into the dark room, scrambling for his torch.

"ODYSSEUS!" He shouts, moving it around. "ODY-"

They all go dead silent.

Odysseus scrabbles back, eyes glinting and wild in the light of the torch. He's still in the same outfit they have the last sighting of him in, dirtied and torn now, but the man wearing it is completely different- hair overgrown and body rail-thin, so much so that Menelaus for a heart-stopping second doesn't recognise him.

There's a chain around his leg, connected to the floor. A collar with an owl on it, made of metal that's been welded shut straight on and rope on his wrists. A dirty cloth stuffed in his mouth.

Blood on his legs.

"Odysseus!" Polites is the first to break their standstill, a huge grin of pained relief on his face as he rushes forward. It falls as Odysseus gives a small scream of terror and tries to get away from him, making the metal dig into his already scarred ankle.

Of terror. Of terror. Ten years of knowing him, and Menelaus has never seen Odysseus afraid.

Odysseus spits out the cloth. "Please," He whispers, voice wrecked, and they all flinch. The Odysseus in Menelaus' memory shines bright and golden, charming and funny and kind and angry and humble, despite having run missions for his kingdom since he was thirteen, sharper and swifter than all of them. This is not his friend. "Please, not them, not them, don't wear their faces too, please."

And-

Menelaus comes to with his face pressed against the wall, tears streaming down his face. Sick with rage and guilt and fury and horror. The others aren't faring any better when someone snaps over the microphones for them to hurry up and he turns back around- Eurylochus is sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, two others are vomiting, Polites has disappeared and the rest are just standing there frozen, crying. Patroclus is the only one who's kept his head on enough to attempt quiet reassurance, crouched near a trembling, animal version of their best spy and talking softly to him, trying to coax him away from cutting into his own skin with the rusted metal.

He tried to run away last week, Menelaus grasps onto desperately. It means he's still in there, fighting.

He can't take his eyes off the blood. There's so much of it.

"Eurylochus!" Polites snaps as he comes back down the stairs, a blowtorch in hand. "Hold him."

Odysseus screams at their approach and Menelaus does not have the courage to keep looking, places both hands over his ears like a child, unable to bear it.

(Penelope had opened the door to the group of them; twelve men Odysseus had run with for ten years who had no idea he disappeared until someone casually mentioned that Penelope had gone rogue and was on the watchlist for having tortured and murdered Circe.

Her eyes had been frigid. "Welcome," She said, as if they were strangers and not close friends. "You're quite lucky you decided to visit, you know. I had plans of killing you lot next."

Menelaus doesn't blame her.

She'd sent them all message after message, call after call- begging, pleading, bargaining; that they all ignored out of grudges and anger, until she'd stopped asking and done it herself. None of the fights Odysseus had had with them had even been that bad- it was just, somehow, every single one of them had just been that little bit extra annoyed as to not pick up when it had been her calling; and then Xen'ath had all Penelope's calls rerouted, so she couldn't reach them anyway.

"Queen of Ithaka," He'd bowed, Helen bowing lower at his side. "... Penelope. I- We are all so incredibly sorry-"

"Save it," She'd said, holding up a hand. "Just answer me this- would you rather run a mission or guard Telemachus? And what is your price?"

That had thrown them.

"Penelope," Diomedes had stepped forward hesitantly, looking heartbroken. "We would- all of us, any of us- we would do anything to save your husband. You don't need to fucking pay us to rescue him- we are his friends. We are your friends."

"Then WHERE WERE YOU?" Penelope screams, and her mask finally cracks with it, eyes filled with tears and mouth curled in rage. "Where were any of you when he- when I-" Diomedes grabs her and pulls her into a hug and she breaks down sobbing. "Where were all of you when we needed you?"

"Penelope," Menelaus says, stepping forward to place a hand on her shoulder. Glass crunches under his feet and guilt overcomes him again- all this while he'd been living in luxury, unburdened, his sister-in-law had given up everything to run missions on her own, feeding her people and taking down enemy after enemy while living in squalor herself, in a building full of unsavory men. Tears come to his own eyes. "Please, I beg you to believe me. None of us, not a single one- we did not know. We did not know your husband never made it home, Penelope, I swear on the Styx."

"Then you should have picked up my calls," She snarls, venomous, and gathers herself back up to push Diomedes and him away. "Now. Mission or Telemachus?")

When he takes his hands off, the silence is ringingly loud, the phantom screams still stuck in his ears. Menelaus looks when Odysseus whimpers suddenly and sees his sister's husband holding him down while Polites melts the collar off, Ajax silently working on the chain around his ankle.

Achilles shouts from upstairs and Diomedes calls back, and he comes into the room with grim eyes. "How is he?"

None of them can bring themselves to reply. The collar falls off with a thud.

"Odysseus, hey, we've come to rescue you," Polites tries again, smiling at him and holding his head in his hands so they can meet his eyes. "Don't worry now, we're here."

Odysseus is still. Too still.

Diomedes steps forward, eyes hard, and carefully pulls Polites' hands away. "He'll attack you. If shapeshifting is involved-"

Silence.

"What is wrong with all of you?" Patroclus says suddenly, scowling. "Did you lose your training along with your brains when I was unconscious? Soldiers, post-rescue protocol, now."

The command shocks him back to adrenaline, and they all burst into familiar movements, collecting pictures and pulling out shock blankets. Someone grabs Odysseus as the chain unravels and holds him still while they cut him free, and another talks gently to him as they inject him with a sedative. Menelaus is just glad it isn't him, because he doesn't think that even with his hardened nerves he could bear to face the fact that- to treat Odysseus like-

He looks away as Achilles grabs the other in a fireman's carry and makes his way to the door instead, pushing the debris out of the way to let them through.

Calypso isn't going to be held back for long.

"NO!" She screeches as she bursts through a wall, three times bigger than they left her. Menelaus slashes and she cowers back, baring her teeth in fear. Her face falls as she catches sight of Achilles running out the door, and tears well up in her eyes instead. "No, please, I can't be alone again! I can't be locked in here, please, I can't be alone, send anything, anyone, please!"

"Go fuck yourself," Ajax says savagely as he swings at her, and Menelaus grabs the person closest and yells for a retreat.

The van rumbles along. The windshield wipers swing.

"How long does the sedative last?" Menelaus hears himself ask.

"Should be done by now," Polites says, voice similarly bleak, turning to Odysseus. "Ody?"

Odysseus is crouched in the far corner of the van, staring at them all with sharp, hate-filled paranoia. Menelaus swallows and slows the vehicle, the rest of them turning to look.

"You're safe," Ajax says, softer than he's ever heard from him. "We got you out, Odysseus, you're going back home."

Odysseus narrows his eyes and snarls. Menelaus braces himself for something biting and sharp about how they could have done it earlier, better, faster. Except- "I'm not falling for another illusion, Calypso. Drop the fucking act."

Menelaus hits the brakes and closes his eyes as he presses his face against the steering wheel. "It's not an illusion, Ody, we promise. We're actually here."

"You don't have your chains any more, see?" Eurylochus tries. When he turns, they're all clearly holding themselves back from rushing forward in heartbreak; Odysseus had been the touchy one amongst them, winding around them like a hyperactive snake and hanging off them and hugging them tight and offering handshakes and high-fives, no matter that they were all hardened warriors. To have him clearly ready to throw a punch if they approach hurts. "Your collar is off- why would Calypso do that?"

Odysseus' face spasms and he grabs for his neck. Feels around as if it might be a trick, expression blank.

"Athena," He says abruptly, and Menelaus is extremely confused for a second before he recalls the owl etched into the metal and catches Diomedes' eyes in sudden horrified agony. Of all the terrible-

"Athena," Odysseus breathes, bending over with eyes wide in disbelief, saying it as if he can't believe he can. Hope flares in his eyes, before crumpling at the sudden landslide of grief that follows, tears Menelaus never saw from him at the worst of the Troy mission dripping down his face. "Athena. Athena. Athena! ATHENA! ATHENA!"

His voice is agonizing to hear, crazed and desperate, and someone rushes forward with a tranquilizer, before-

A loud clap, blinding light, and Athena, the goddess herself, appears in their mission vehicle.

"What the fuck," Ajax whispers next to him, grabbing Menelaus by the arm. They're both trembling. Everyone is. "What the fuck- that's actually her."

Athena snaps her neck around to study them all with blank eyes, nodding to a terrified Diomedes, before looking down at Odysseus. Studies him.

Oh shit, Menelaus thinks, remembering the rumors of Medusa, and motions for someone to intervene as he struggles with the seatbelt.

She dissolves her spear suddenly and- holds out her arms.

"What?" Odysseus says faintly, which sums that up too.

"What?" Athena returns, sounding- defensive? Confused? "You were the one who insisted on hugs and physical touch to be added to the rescue recovery manual."

Menelaus finally makes it over the barrier to the back of the van and gets to watch everyone's brains break slightly, and for Odysseus' mouth to drop open in sheer disbelief. Menelaus still knows him enough to recognise the look of him very much wanting to say that is not something you say in a situation like this before a smile suddenly pulls at his lips. A threadbare, incredulous giggle escapes him, then rickety, mirthful laughter and Menelaus breathes a sigh of relief.

"Yeah, I did," Odysseus grins slightly, and walks closer- hugging the goddess without a lick of fear, of course he does. The gods are famous for their pride and detachment and untouchability and of course this crazy man goes and hugs the most closed-off of them like an old friend.

Although, the way they talked to each other, and the implications-

"I'm not thinking of this anymore," Ajax mutters, rubbing at his face. "Odysseus, you believe this ain't an illusion yet, my dude?"

He pulls back and stares around at them like he's seeing them for the first time. His face twitches, like he can't decide whether to smile or be devastated, and quietly says, "You're here. You all came?"

The van bursts out in noise as they all trip over their sorrowful reassurances and apologies, almost shouting. Odysseus trembles. Blood drips to the floor.

Achilles steps forward and Menelaus feels the same alarm of a disaster incoming from earlier; he and Odysseus had never quite gotten over their irritation at dragging each other into the Troy mission and argued plenty during- he'd even heard word that they'd let a target escape once because they'd got into a fistfight.

But Achilles just gives Athena a wary look and a wide berth, and then pulls Odysseus into his arms. Menelaus suddenly remembers who'd been the first to run to Achilles and hold him when he'd sunk to the floor at Patroclus' diagnosis.

"We're here," He murmurs. "We came late, but we came. You're out."

"I'm out," Odysseus repeats, letting his tense posture drop as he leans into the embrace. "I'm out."

"You are," Athena confirms clinically, then- surprise on surprises, she kneels down to pull him closer as well.

Menelaus smiles, then climbs back to the front of the vehicle, satisfying himself with the flickering relief that slowly takes over Odysseus' expression. Gives his friend the privacy he can when he starts to have the breakdown delayed seven months, turns the keys to start the engine.

It's still a long journey to get Odysseus back to Penelope, then back to the Ithaka headquarters. But they have him now, and they'll get him back.

Menelaus, and the rest of them, will have to content themselves with that. That at least, the most they can do now, is bring him home.

He taps on his earpiece, and it crackles to life. "We have him," He tells her. "We're bringing him back to you by morning. Rest, please, Penny."

She sobs over the comms and the car drives on.

[theladycarpathia]

@hellcheeranniversaryweek

Day three - Hanahaki Chrissy’s with the wrong person. It’s killing her more than she realizes. 

The wet clump of daffodil petals almost chokes Chrissy as she gags over the toilet bowl. She coughs and coughs until she feels the mass begin to clear and she can spit out the remains of the yellow petals. 

That’s not good. Last time they were red chrysanthemums. If the petals are growing and changing, it means the affliction is getting worse. 

She slumps back against the bath, taking deep steady breaths. She never took breathing for granted before but it’s becoming more of a luxury these days. It’s getting hard to hide too - she’d been in class the other day when she’d felt another clump beginning to gather in her throat. She’d begged to visit the restroom and had only just made it in time to vomit blood-red petals down the sink. 

There’s a furious pounding at the door and Chrissy starts, grabbing desperately for the pull-chain. The toilet sends the petals vanishing down the drain in a whirlpool of water just in time as Andrew pushes in. 

“You’re supposed to knock!” Chrissy says furiously. Her mother had disabled the chain on the door a long time ago, under the guise of fearing that one of her children would get stuck in there. Chrissy had been old enough at thirteen to see through it for what it really was. 

Andrew stares at her, still slumped on the floor, with something like concern creasing his features. “Are you okay?” he asks hesitantly, whatever indignation he’d previously held lost. 

“Fine,” Chrissy says, rubbing at her face. She must be a hideous sight - pale and sweaty, the faint sheen of the recently sick. “I think something disagreed with me. Don’t eat meat from the cafeteria when you get to high school, okay?”

“Okay.” Andrews says and then offers her a hand up. She takes it, unsteadily getting to her feet. She knows from past experience that she needs to go lie down and drink nothing but water for a few hours. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Andrew asks, flicking his eyes over her. Chrissy tries to smile and hopes that she doesn’t have a petal stuck in her teeth. 

“Fine,” she lies and she can feel his eyes following her all the way down the corridor. 

She collapses onto her bed, after kicking her door shut. It also doesn’t lock - Laura doesn’t believe much in privacy in the same way she doesn’t believe in calories - but at least she has a door. 

She presses her face into the coolness of her pillow and breathes. She has homework and chores and she can’t do any of it right now. Her throat hurts, rubbed raw by thick petals and the occasional thorn and her chest aches from the heaving. She won’t be able to eat this evening but maybe that’s best. She feels as though Laura scrutinizes every bite, like she can see each one turning Chrissy into an unshapely, imperfect daughter. 

She fails at everything. Daughter. Sister. Girlfriend. 

She and Jason have been together since middle school. She doesn’t know how to be anything other than Jason Carver’s girlfriend. That’s all she’s known, and if she’d been anyone else, it would have been like fate and destiny laid out her life in front of her, each perfect step following the last. 

But she’s not perfect. The constant effort of trying to be was choking her. So she’d decided to do something about it. 

She hadn’t known. She’d gone to the woods at the back of the high school after practice and there he was. Eddie Munson. 

The next day she’d woken up to find a single petal on her pillow. That had been two months ago and each day, she spits up more and more. Every time she sees him - passing in the hall, sitting with Hellfire club in the cafeteria, when he waves at her during class - she feels another clump beginning to grow in her throat. 

Eddie Munson isn’t meant to be her destiny. Unfortunately, her heart says differently. 

There’s a sudden knock at the door and Chrissy jolts upright, heart pounding. “Come in!” she calls and Andrew pushes in.

“I made you some tea,” he says, holding out one of their mother’s delicate rose pattern cups. Chrissy takes it, fingers trembling. She must have looked awful for Andrew to do something like this. 

“Thank you,” she says and takes a sip, even though she knows that the liquid will scald her sore throat all the way down. 

It’s a recurring problem of her’s, proving to be a fatal flaw. She’ll put someone else’s feelings ahead of her own wellbeing. 

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Andrew asks, almost hesitant to leave. Chrissy swallows and tries to not wince at the pain.

“I’m okay,” she says, the lie as bitter as the tea. “I think I’ll just skip dinner and go to bed early. I’ll be alright tomorrow.”

But she knows that she won’t. There’s only two ways out of this. But if the love isn’t reciprocated, it will only kill her faster. She’s not sure if that will be kinder, the petals choking her before everyone knows the truth. 

She’s with the wrong person and it’s going to kill her.

I'm gonna go ahead and add this to 'never ending list of fics I mean to write'

Red Chrysanthemums - unrelenting love Daffodils - unrequited love

[thewritetofreespeech]

Since you do Demon Slayer requests, could I request Tanjirou, Giyuu, and Douma's s/o(s) petting their hair as they start to doze off on their lap?

Demon Slayer men (and 1 demon) + falling asleep in s/o's lap

Tanjiro Kamado

It was, for once, a peaceful night. The fireflies dancing around the garden of Butterfly Mansion, while Tanjirou enjoyed the sweet smell of jasmine in the air.

“What are you doing out here?” Tanjiro perked up when he heard [Y/N]’s voice behind him. Soft, but still able to be heard. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“Oh, I’m ok.” He insisted, with his usual comforting smile. “I was going to head in but….” He looked down at his lap where Nezuko was resting. In her petite form almost fully in his lap as she dozed.

[Y/N] chuckled. “I suppose you’re pinned then. I’ll join you.”

They sat down beside Tanjiro. Both their feet dangling off the edge of the porch as they looked out over the garden. “Hopefully she’ll get up soon. I don’t know what it is but ever time she lays on my lap she goes right to sleep.”

“She trusts you.” Tanjiro looked up and over to [Y/N] curiously. “Plus, I’m sure it’s comfortable. Haven’t you ever taken a nap in someone’s lap before?”

“Oh. No.” He replied. Nervously scratching his cheek. If he had it had been years. Perhaps with his mother, or father, when he was much younger and certainly not a big brother. “I think it would be pretty silly.”

“It’s not silly.” [Y/N] insisted.

They then got up and adjusted so that they were sitting on their ankles behind Tanjiro, and gently patted their lap. “Come on. Try it. This way you won’t bother Nezuko either.” Tanjiro blushed and gulped a little. It was a little embarrassing, being in a position like that. It was also embarrassing on how much he wanted to try it.

Carefully he leaned back until his back was flat against the wood and his head was in their lap. He suddenly realized that the roof over the porch had little butterflies and flowers carved into it. He’d never bothered to look up, so he never noticed. It was comforting, he thought.

Very quickly Tanjiro was asleep as well, dozing off with his sister. Nezuko eventually did wake up, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists, and noticed her brother was asleep. Her big eyes turned to [Y/N], who placed their finger over their mouth in a silent shush. The little demon didn’t say anything in response. She just got up, jumped off the porch with a quiet thud, and went to chase fireflies.

Giyuu Tomioka 

A big part of being a member of the Demon Slayer Corps was traveling. Demons and evil never rested, and the ones that caused the most havoc tended to wander. The corps went where they were needed. Which could be any area in Japan.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” [Y/N] asked rhetorically as they and Giyuu bounced along in the back of a wagon. Along with lots of travel came lots of unconventional ways of getting there. Not every mission had a luxury train to get them there.

Giyu grunted, but still sat up with his arms crossed. [Y/N] sighed.

“You’d feel better.” Giyu glanced over at them from the corner of his eye. “I know when you’re tired or upset Giyu. You can’t hide it from me.”

They had been together a long time. Originally partners before they became partners. The little ticks and subtle hints in Giyu’s mood that were often lost on others were an open book to them. One that he should know by now.

“I can't sleep on hay. Makes me itchy.”

[Y/N] smiled softly, then adjusted to make their lap open & free. “Rest here then. No hay or scratchy surfaces. I won’t tell anyone you took a nap on the way.”

Giyu didn’t say anything, but [Y/N] could tell their mind was reeling about it. Eventually, he submitted and laid his head down. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me just yet. After you get some sleep it’s my turn.”

There was the faintest hint of a smirk on Giyu’s lips before he eventually fell asleep. Rocked there by the wagon and warm, damp smell of hay around them.

Douma

A big sigh echoed across the room as Douma heaved it out, followed by a yawn. “I’m bored.” Being a cult leader was really rather boring. All he had to do was sit here and listen to people’s problems. And since he didn’t care what happened one way or the other, to the problem or his followers, then there was really no interest to be held in the situation. He just sat here, listening to someone play the shamisen, while people brought him their problems and offerings he wouldn’t eat.

“Where’s [Y/N]?” He asked. Examining one of the many mandarins brought to him as a present, and not having the stomach to even consider eating it, before he tossed it aside. “I haven’t seen them all day.”

“It’s only noon Douma-sama.” The demon growled. He didn’t ask for the time. “But, I will find them. They were helping with the new members earlier today, so they must still be doing that.”

“New people….” To a normal cult leader that would be a good thing, but to Douma it was just another headache.

Sure, more people to choose from when he was selecting his meals, but also more people to listen to. Maybe he should make some sort of decree that the Gods asked for their silent contemplation and meditation so he didn’t have to hear them whine anymore. Yeah, that would probably work.”

“Lord Douma-sama?” The demon perked up when he heard his name and saw [Y/N]. “You wanted to see me?”

“[Y/N]-chan!” He beamed brightly as he perked up in his seat with a big grin. “I did. I wanted to see you because I missed you!”

“I’m flattered Lord Douma-sama.”

The pink in their cheeks and the subtle smell of desire made Douma’s stomach tighten in hunger. But he doesn’t want to eat them. Yet.

Once and a while he would get a favorite. No particular rhyme or reason. He would just decide to keep one of the humans as a pet, more than an hors d'oeuvre. It usually worked out well, as humans were pretty stupid and susceptible to flattery, and he was a master manipulator.

“Come sit by me. I wanted to borrow you for a moment.” [Y/N], of course, instantly came to his side and sat down. The demon giggled a little before he dramatically laid down in their lap. “Ahhhh….that’s better.”

“Is this all you wanted of me, Lord Douma-sama?”

“For now.” He replied. Eyes closed, with a cat ate the canary grin on his face. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.” They replied, without question. “I’m happy to be of any service that brings you comfort Lord Douma-sama.”

He can smell a wave of sickly-sweet perfume coming off [Y/N] that he’s come to realize is ‘love’. Douma has never felt it, but he has smelt it before. Bombarded with the scent from his followers. Clinging to those people left behind by their lovers as he devoured one and the other fled for safety. His last favorite had the same smell, but not for him. A ‘mother’s love’ and all that. Not that he believed any of it.

“This will make me happy for now. But if I think of anything else I’ll let you know.”

“Of course Lord Douma-sama.”

The demon yawned and started to doze. Still bored, but at least mildly entertained by his new pillow. He supposed he’d have to find a new favorite soon; since this one was becoming stale and dull. For now though, this was fine.

[tmwcs]

T̴̶̨̨̢̛͇̱̙̭̳͚̼͍̪̮͔̯͍͎͔͔̽̿͊ͥͨ͗ͬͧ͑̓̌̓ͫ͋̇̂̈́̀͘͠͞͠ḩ̵̶̧͈̜͇͖̮͚̟͉̝̤̘̹̬̎̍͊͑̋͌͂̏͒̾̇̌ͩ́͂͛͊̾̂ͩ̀͆̓ͮ̚̚͢͢͠ë͍́̾ͭ O̶̼͚͐̌́ͦ́͆͋̌͡t̷̴̴̩͓͍͔̣͖̟͈͕̰̱ͨ́͛̾̎͐̽͐͑͒̏ͮ̃̀͂ͧ̔̾̚͘͘͢͠͝͡͡ͅh̥͉͂ę̜̮̱͕̟̘ͧ̄̃ͣ̋ŗ̢͔̖͎̪͚͇͕̩͖̹͒ͮͬ̎̃̽͆ͫ̏ͩ̀͆̇ͬͣ̃̄̚͟s̸̴̶̨͇̣͈̪͕̯̺̮͇ͦ̏̓ͤ͛ͥ͑̆̋̏ͦ̀̊̃͢_̢̛͍̖̩̞̬ͨj͇͓͚̝͑̇̊̒͐ͥ́̚͞ḍ̵̵̸̡̨̧̢̛͉̣̜̗̦̫̮̪̰͂̌̃̌̽̀̌́͑̏̑̂̊ͯͩ̀̊͌͆ͬ͛ͧ̑ͦ̉̕͟͝͝ẽ̸̸̢̖͕͙̦̄ͭͪ̈̊̈͐̂͝

CHAPTER SIX

Warnings: Mentions/hints of murderous rituals, hints of cannibalism, grave digging, cults, mentions of death, cursing. This chapter isn’t really for the light hearted and it’s going to get a bit gory from here on out so please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable. I also need to update the TO Masterlist. Also none of the chapters will be proofread since I don’t have the time to do so. 😭

Taglist: @nshmrarki , @lprww , @baekxo07 , @m7omo@nikstrange@heeshees@moonmoongi@heesitation@heeseung-min @nctsslut @heeseung-min @addictedtohobi @strxwbloody

“Y/N! Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head around and take in the sight of your co-worker, Jessica. She always seemed to be so friendly, despite hardly knowing you. Since you both were part-time workers, she would constantly take the opportunity to ask about hanging out after your shift ends. Unfortunately time never permitted you to have that luxury since school and homework was taking up the majority of your free time. But what luck! Since you were on Spring Break, you finally had the chance to secure that bond and make a new friend.

“Y/n, let’s hang out today, yeah? Some friends and I are going to this get together at a very cool spot, come with us! It will be fun!”

You initially shook your head; the idea of you joining a random group of people whom you’ve never met didn’t sound so appetizing, yet Jessica was so eager to get your approval, you could almost see the tears forming in her eyes.

“Okay, I’ll go just for tonight.” You caved in. She jumps jovially as she claps your hands within hers. “It will be so much fun girl! I’ll text you on what to wear.”

“What to wear?” The perturbed sense in your voice sets her off to quickly justify her reasoning. “Well yeah, we gotta look good because there will be some cute guys.” She winks. You hardly could care about boys. Between work and school, there really wasn’t much time for anything else. Honestly, having a puppy would be much easier than having a boyfriend.

As the evening progressed, you met up with Jessica and sure enough, she brought you to a house party where a group of her close and personal friends greeted you. They all seemed very friendly but it was odd that they all wore black, as did Jessica. What was even more strange was that she had texted you to wear white, preferably a dress. Upon questioning her about it, she laughed softly as she informed you that you looked splendid in white, and that it complimented your skin tone the best. She also added that the likelihood of her and the group wearing all black was just a matter of coincidence. You felt a little strange about her response but her hand holding on to yours gave reassurance.

“Hey, it’s a nice night. Let’s take this party outside and have a nice bonfire.” A male voice speaks from the center of the crowd and everyone chimed in with a tone of approval. You didn’t want to ostracize yourself, so you followed suit. It was only for an hour or two before you would head back home anyhow. Jessica even stated that she would drive you back.

Walking through the woods, you questioned the whereabouts of where you all ventured into. “It’s all land that belongs to my grandfather. He’s got over a hundred and twenty acres.”

One of the guys spoke out as he overheard your question to Jessica. The latter looked back and flashed a smile over to him as she continued to hold onto your hand. “It’s really pretty here. Maybe we’ll come back during the daytime so you can see it.”

You nodded seldomly as she swings your hand and skips along. The group was split into two, sandwiching you and Jessica in between.

“Ah, we’re here.”

Your eyebrows frowned together as you squinted to view under the dark conditions of the current atmosphere. Once you fully configured what it was that you were seeing, you stuttered out as you pull Jessica’s hand to your side. “Is that a…tomb?”

“Hm? Oh yeah—well, before the land was bought by his grandfather, there were several acres that were dedicated as graveyards—“

Her voice is gently interrupted as the same young male chimes in. “It was the whole reason why he bought this land in the first place. These tombs honor the lineage of my ancestors.

You didn’t bother acknowledging his words. The entire venue was too uneasy and you huffed under your news that you wanted to leave, to which Jessica simply stared wide eyed in response.

You stared right back with an expectant look, raising a brow in annoyance at her silence. “Jessica, I’m not kidding. Let’s go back, now.”

“Unfortunately you can’t leave, y/n.”

The man’s voice peers from behind as you turn back and issue a nervous but steadfast glare. You should have known this was all too shady, from the choice of attire to the location of the gathering, it was enough to leave a nasty taste in your mouth.

In a blink of an eye, you felt your arms pinned to your back as four random group members restrained you, Jessica disappears into the crowd; her stoic countenance allows her to fully blend in with the other members, signifying that she completed her part in getting you out, which seemed to be the main mission behind whatever intentions the group had.

They dragged you over to a man made altar, one that was made of concrete and steel, spiral rods. It was rustic and industrial in appearance, with a pair of chains in various sizes hooked onto the sides. You whimper out, saving your breath as you try your best to shrug and fight off your captors. Screaming seemed to be pointless as you configured that you were so deep into the woods, completely evident that no one would be nearby to hear you. You did your best to save all your energy but alas, it was all useless as you felt the clasp of the chained cuffs locking onto your wrists and over your waist.

“You see y/n, my family has been participants of a long lived ritual, one of Pagan originals. We believe that in order to honor the recently deceased, blood and organs are a necessity for them to feast as they become reborn.”

Your eyes grow glossy as you shake your entire figure trying to break free. “What the fuck are you on!? What fucking cult is this!? You all are delusional!”

You screamed out as you witnessed the group members digging up various farming blades. To your dismay and utter sense of betrayal, you watch as Jessica arms herself with a farming hook, while the others take on various types of scythes. A feeling of hopelessness overwhelms you and you nearly feel it is too late to do anything. What could you do?

Fear swarms and takes over as you feel your heartbeat escalate. How could this happen? In a blink of an eye, your whole night is becoming murderous as you begin to sob. They can’t do this to you. They have no right.

“The blood of one such as you, with the glowing complexion of the Seeded Goddess. Hair as deep as a raven's feather, and lips the color of peach blossoms.”

The man’s words spoke as he edged his blade against your skin, barely pressing as the flat part dragged along your chest. The tip is tucked under your chin tightly, you refrained from swallowing as you feared the traveling lump would slide against the sharpened edge, piercing your skin in the process.

“You might wanna close your eyes, unless you want to watch as you scream.” The man chuckles condescendingly. The others stood around, encircling the altar as they preach out their animalistic chants. Four torches at each corner of the stone bed were lit up, allowing for you to witness the faces of your murderers. Unable to handle what was about to transpire, you squint your eyes when someone from the far back speaks rather timidly.

“H-hey…who's that?”

The nervousness in the young man’s voice catches the attention of the leader as he remains standing above you, but turns to face the direction the group member pointed to. “What is that? W-what the FUCK is that?”

A member flashes the light, and a slight bit of hope mixed with curiosity causes you to open your eyes, but the position forced on you prohibits your sight from gaining full access to see what it was everyone was looking at.

“Hey…hey! This is private property!” The leader shouts out. You can see the flaring of his nostrils and the frustration built up from the interruption. “Hey man! I’m talking to you!”

The leader breaches the shorthand distance of whoever it was that ignored his warning. The group all followed closely with Jessica standing behind and guarding you from escaping.

“Look man, if you don’t fucking leave I’m going to cut you in half. Get out no-“

You hear his words cut short, though a vibing sense tells you that it was by his own halt. “What in the fuck…”

The group members all stand in shock and semi-disgust as they witness a young man, shadowed in the heavy badness of black coveralls and hat. He paid no mind to the forewarning cult and continued with his overt butchering.

“D-dude…is he…” the voices stutter, shaking in fear and disbelief as they piece together what the intruder has done. “Did he dig up your sister and…cut her to pieces?”

The leader's eyes stretch in anger as he watches the young man cut the deceased’s body into quads. The passing of his elder sister was already too much to bear for him; seeing her body being switched up as if she was cattle was infuriating. The nudeness of her flesh, or whatever was left of it, displayed the numerous marks sketched on the skin, outlining the amount of souls that had been taken under her hand. It was all a part of the ritual, and being that she was an active participant of the sickness that infested this family line and its followers, she was just as delusional as the rest. The car accident was a blessing for the world, but for the cult members, it was a tragedy.

“W-what have you done?! Get your hands off my sister!”

The leader screams in anguish. Another chop and out went a piece of the torso, then a thigh, and the arms. The head was the first thing he had packaged, sealing the identity of the lifeless body. He ignored the screams as he made haste, the body was still fresh, but barely. Normally he would have had the meat harvested and freezed within a twenty four hour period, yet the autopsy provided delay by an added day. There was still time, but none of it could be shared with the blubbering idiots who were screaming obscenities his way.

“Mother-fucker!” The leader lunges forward and prepares his scythe to strike. He was so sure that he was going to lop off the head of this invasive intruder that desecrated his sisters gravesite, but a sudden movement on the intruder's part is followed by a painful sting to the chest. The cult stands confused and shocked upon seeing the display of violence happening before them. With a lighter blade, the stranger managed to slash through the man’s chest before he could even swing the heavy scythe. Quick with his movements, it almost seemed as if the stranger committed the deadly deed motionless as he stood unfazed and calm. With the young man choking on blood and groaning in pain, the victor stands aiming his vision at the other members. With two machete blades in his grip, he narrows the tip point of a blade upwards against the bill of his cap. With it, he flicks the cover off, completely removing it and revealing the beauty of his noble face. Blonde locks gracefully frame his Asiatic features and compliments the ivory pale complexion he inherited. Stabbing the ground, he stabilizes one of his blades to free a hand. Raising it delicately, two elongated fingers gently hook his plump lips, stretching it to a forced smirk. There, the members all witness a shuttering image of the beautiful man showing his deadly warning through the display of sharp canines. Flaring a sense of vampirism, goth, and gore, the man eloquently releases a soft chuckle right as he oozes his words.

“Run along kids. Never get in between a dog and his bone.”

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 15 - Sharing

The rogue makes a connection.

On AO3.

“Why in the sweet hells would I have a rock?” Astarion says.

The bag of sparkpowder makes sense. It’s hard to screw that up. But then she wants a stone, and while he pilfers nearly anything he can get his hands on (to sort through later, mind you) that doesn’t extend to rocks.

“I need to test my theory,” she hisses back at him.

The underground beastie lurks beneath the dirt. Its heart beats slow and strong, and he can’t help but wonder what it’s blood would taste like. It seems simple enough to him: light the bomb, throw it, and run in the opposite direction.

But his illustrious leader keeps mumbling something about “tremors rules” and it makes absolutely no sense to him, but when has that ever mattered.

“Throw one of your own trinkets,” he says. She’s even worse than him about grabbing whatever isn’t nailed down.

“That all got washed off.”

Ah. Right. That. The little, inconsequential thing he might have had a hand in.

Gods. Her and her theories. He knows she’s got at least one, phallus-shaped trinket she could sacrifice. But it’s too much fun to tease her about it, and honestly, it’d be a shame to lose such a quality item.

Of all the things in all the planes, this weirdo beside him took her phallus when she was kidnapped. It’s hysterical.

So he sighs and reaches into his pack. Rummages around until he finds something cool and smooth. One of his empty blood jars—they’re all empty at the moment. He hands it over.

And she leaves him holding it. In silence. Is she judging him? Because it feels like she’s judging him.

“Ahem,” he says and jiggles it.

“Huh,” she says. Articulately. And finally takes it from him. “You have gotta take better care of your stuff.”

The beastie shifts down there. He can imagine it eyeballing them.

“Really?” he says. “You’d like to discuss sanitation right now?”

“I’m just saying. Between this and that bed plank…”

“The one you’ve been sleeping on with no complaint so far? Having ousted me? You’ll have to forgive me, darling, for wondering what your point is.”

He’s…aware all the others sleep on bedrolls. He knows they exist, and that they’ve run into plenty more. He could have plucked one up for himself. But sleeping in comfort was for that bastard’s favorite. Or for when Astarion was put to work. He complains about the lack of a feather bed because it’s expected for the image he’s built for himself: the decadent hedonist. And in truth, he thinks it might very well be nice to rest in one fully clothed for a whole night.

But camping in the wilds with other monsters and an illithid parasite, with the lingering fear of being hunted. No. That’s a luxury he hasn’t been able to afford.

She’ll be wondering about that, however. Even if she never complained, he knows she must have questions. And…he…he almost wants to tell her? For some boggling reason. So he hedges, reveals only part of it. “I don’t like bedrolls. They’re, ah, too soft. The dormitory beds were little better than wood anyway, and those were a luxury compared to the kennel floors.”

“Kennels?” she says, with a strange tone.

“Oh yes. Whenever any of us earned punishment, Cazador sent us to the kennels for correction.”

She silent for a long, long time. During which her heartbeat spikes almost louder than he’s ever heard it. It’s a pathetic excuse, he knows. He shouldn’t have told her. It’s not worth her fragile, mortal back pain to tolerate his sleeping arrangement just because it sends his reverie to places he’d rather not go.

Then she says, “Your plan for that fuckface. Do they include ripping off his head to shit down the back of his neck.”

“…no?” he says. But it sounds incredibly delightful. And vulgar. Maybe once he’s pulled that bastard’s intestines out and draped them around his neck like a festive garland?

“Right. I, uh. Sorry. For snarking at you.”

Again with apologies. It does strange things to him. Things he can’t trust and doesn’t like.

“We,” he says. Trails off. Has to clear his throat for some reason. “You could, ah, lay a bedroll down for yourself. If you wanted.”

There. A compromise. Prevent her frail back from splintering to pieces since they’ll have to keep sharing until they find a bloody waypoint stone.

Then, very softly (and not just in volume, as they’ve been whispering the entire time) she says, “If you’re okay with that.”

And everything in him is unsettled, so he reaches into what he knows, splays a hand over his chest, and says, “Well, I was born for decadence, darling. We’ll just have to make do until then.”

He’s beginning to feel strangely…exposed on the inside. As if he sits in that blood-soaked clearing, in flickering torchlight, with an oozing hole in his chest large enough she can see straight into his lungs.

He needs to paper over that hole with his usual charm, in hope she’ll stop looking into him.

She hums. Then, in an atrocious mimicry of his accent, says, “As m’lord requests.”

He ought to bite her for that level of cheek. But they’re rather stranded and low on medical supplies, and if one of them stumbles and falls off, they’ll be eaten by some huge, armored monster.

So he lifts his eyebrows and drops his lids in the way that almost never fails to bring the first soft brushing of a blush to some tipsy tavern-hopper. “You know, my dear, I could grow very used to the sound of that.”

Without the accent, preferably.

But she continues to drive a wedge between herself and most of his marks (the successful ones, anyway) and instead of leaning in or sliding her fingers across his own, she only snorts and says, “Yeah yeah, y’big dork.”

Which doesn’t translate as anything, but the shape of that word sounds ridiculous and she’s certainly mocking him. Only, once again, her tone carries a smile, and not a trace of coldness or cruelty or disgust.

Something shifts below them. The beastie stirs. And it must be visible enough for his leader to catch, because her fingers start drumming on her thigh.

“What’s the plan, darling?” He’s close enough the warmth of her skin almost soaks into his cold cheek.

But she doesn’t shiver or shy. She’d focused on a murder, which means she notices little else, despite her earlier flinching away. He tilts his head to try and better hear what’s behind them. Someone needs to watch her back. Or listen, anyway.

“So,” she says. Pauses as she does, while her fingers slow to a rhythmic ta-tap-ta, ta-tap-ta. “So I’m thinking we chuck that blood jar as far as possible to the left.”

“We?”

“I’ll get to that. We throw it—”

“Why can’t you throw it, darling? On account of having functional eyes.”

She takes a breath in through her nose. Which she does when she’s annoyed and trying not to show it. He’s fairly certain she thinks she’s being subtle when she does it.

“Astarion. You’re an archer. Your biceps is bigger than mine.”

It’s not the time. He knows that. And yet…?

“You think I’m big?”

It’s hard to describe the sound she makes. It’s rather like an artificer automaton plowing into a shrub, all of it somehow emerging from low in her throat.

“Would you just—”

He’s already standing and slipping in front of her (finding the ledge with his booted toes). “Go on and aim me, then.”

In between all the mortal peril, he’s gotten somewhat used to her bare palm on his. She’d had no qualms about grabbing it an hour ago. But the monster hides below, and she’s back to plucking gingerly at his armor. He nearly says something about it, but in a rare burst of generosity (she’s been through a lot) he lets her turn him in the direction she means him to throw without making any kind of comment.

She hands him the emptied blood jar. “Think you can toss that a hundred feet out?”

He can do a lot better than that. And then another, even rarer flash of planning comes to him, and he finds himself saying, “And after that?”

“If it goes after that, you throw the grenade. Um. In the same spot?”

Even she seems to realize how challenging that’s going to be. Tossing a jar into the distance is nothing. But hitting the same spot again? Blinded? He can’t help it. “Bit of a long shot, darling, even for me.”

He’s certain she’s staring at him. Then she sighs. Doesn’t roll her eyes (well, she probably did) or call him an idiot or order one of his siblings to slap him.

Just says, “Mmm. I…might have an idea for that?”

And oh, does she sound ever so tentative.

“We can, y’know, share thoughts and all with the brainworms, huh? And I saw bits of where the others were that one time. So…?”

Oh dear. She’s actually suggesting what he thinks she is. She’s going to let him into her head.

It’s a double-edge blade, he knows. An opened door with an open invitation can let anyone or anything through. Both ways. And he’d felt her horror when he slipped into her mind that night. When she panics, she curls herself into a tight, impenetrable ball to their shared illithid connection. To say she’s wary would be one of Astarion’s greatest understatements, and he has many.

She’s suggesting she lower her defenses (and his). Maker herself (and him) weak.

“Are you certain?” he says. While he collects the weaknesses of others—it never hurts to have too many weapons in one’s arsenal—he’s aware of a certain…similarity (how disgusting) between them in that respect.

“I mean,” she says. “I got enough water for another day, maybe. What’re the odds of the others finding us within three days of that?”

So she’ll be letting him in, then.

There’s a joke, there. Inviting in a vampire and all. But her voice is tense enough he keeps his tongue behind his teeth and only says, “If you’re sure, darling.”

“This’s probably gonna be fast. Got no idea if it’ll even work. But I’m thinking we pull a Kevin Bacon on it—you chuck that jar, see if it goes after, and then light and toss that bomb right on top if it does. How long do them things burn?”

The wick is short. “Not long.”

“Mmm. So the second it swallows that shit, we book it for the crevasse.”

“And if it chases?”

“Run faster?”

“And if it catches up?”

A pause.

He swears.

“It wouldn’t cross to this mushroom we’re on and that was something I could hop. If we can reach that crack, I think we’ll be good.”

Astarion sighs. “Well, I suppose that’s better than sitting here and drinking from your corpse.”

Even though he could, technically, survive well until the others found him. Whether or not they’d put much effort into it—especially after he sits and watches their glorious leader die—is up for debate.

And…the thought of sitting in the dark silence again is wretched. Especially the thought of listening to his only companion’s heart race, weaken, and then stop.

Dead blood is disgusting.

(he doesn’t want to listen to her die)

Astarion rolls his shoulders. Flexes his fingers. Readjusts his grip on the bottle. Then, “Whenever you’re ready, dearest.”

She takes a few breaths, this time. Rustles quietly. Mutters so softly he only picks out bits of words. Then the brush of her mind against his own.

He leans into it.

It’s rather how he imagines swimming (having no actual memory of the deed). A sort of weightlessness and jostling about. Two people trapped in a very small pool trying not to slosh each other too much.

It’d be easier if they’d just grab each other (we are one, the tadpoles yearn; become Us, become Whole). But the both of them can only pluck at the others’ clothing in an attempt too steady themselves.

Until Astarion loses his patience and finally reaches for her.

Outrage. Fear. Teeth, teeth BITE IT.

Yet his leader manages to reign in her more feral instincts. Begrudgingly lets him ease into her until their outlines blur—

Astarion blinks. It takes a moment to make sense of anything. A new body, a new sense.

He’s…seeing, in a fashion. Shapes and colors. Blue and black. So much black. They’re shadows, he realizes. The dark of the Underdark.

He blinks again, only it’s her blinking and turns his head—

Their bodies revolt. Not one, but two and that’s wrong, it’s not how it’s meant to be, they are a Whole. The moving throws off that synchronicity.

“Jesus fuck!” they say and their stomachs give a queasy flop.

But they need to see around them, so they try again, and they’re angry about it; so, so scared about it. But they got to. It’s a necessity. There’s a birdshark (a what?) waiting to bight off their feet and leave ragged, spurting stumps at the ankle.

“You are a morbid thing.”

“Fuck off.”

More gloom. Details lost. A darker slash to the right (think it’s a crevasse; lord jesus please be a crevasse).

“Darling, your eyesight is shit.”

“Just fucking throw it!”

To the left, then. A dark gap between two, soaring mushroom stalks. They’re rather beautiful, like this. Shining softly in the dark.

They lift an arm, the glass cool in their grip (it’s crusty inside?) (of course, that’s what blood does, darling). It still smells faintly of said blood (that clawing, biting hunger that never goes away) (a spike of something disgustingly soft and they both shove that down in mortification).

Take aim. Feel their own doubleness. Test their arm a few times. The disorientation settles faster each time as they adjust. Cock their arm.

Throw.

The bottle goes spinning off. They already hold the grenade in one of their hands, which they pass to themselves. Eyes move when the other commands to look down. The gap between the mushrooms and the boulder. Track down to the ground below. Along the route they’ll need to run—

Movement.

A surge in the dirt. That low thrumming noise—

“Holy fuck you hear everything—”

Of course they do. Poor, deaf thing she is.

The birdshark surges towards the clank of the jar. Fuse. How short? When?

They gauge the distance. Peer with eyes that fail far too quickly. They have to blink several times. Look around the churning dirt because their sight is atrocious.

“I got perfect twenty-twenty vision you ass.”

Now. Now.

“Ignis!”

The wondrous magic leaps to them. A cat after a string of yarn. An opened valve. Rushes to them and fills them and surges along their arm to ignite a ball of flame in their palm and it really is magic, fuck me.

They light the fuse. The birdshark closes in on the decoy.

“Throw it!”

So they do.

And then there’s no time to untangle themselves because they need to run and they didn’t think this part through, didn’t know they’d be so enmeshed (it’s terrifying) (it’s glorious) (oh god).

They have to run.

Their feet move. All of them. Two pairs and two bodies of a whole running, sprinting, stumbling. They reach out to steady themselves, the cavern rumbling as the birdshark plows on.

As the birdshark stops. It’s tremors rules. It’s gotta hear their pounding footsteps oh sweet hells fuck.

The bomb goes off.

Slaps them stupid. One of them falls, hands cradling ears that hurt and hurt. Claws at them, even. Have to get up, have to go, go!

Scrambling and kicking. The birdshark is quiet. They must have blown it to pieces! It never works in the movies, fucking run.

What’s a movie…? Oh. A wonder. They want more, want to delve in and view the memory of them all—

Get your fucking ass up and moving!

They close the distance to the crevasse. But they’re already flagging. A body unused to this: impact lancing up shins, air clawing at their throat and a cramp stabbing them in the side and they can’t, they can’t go any more. You have to, darling. Up! Get up!

Then. Oh then.

A hissing and rumbling anew. Not towards their distraction, but towards them. It’s failed (told you!) The bomb failed (fucking horror movie rules you fucker) and now it’s coming for them and it’s real fucking pissed.

That puts a pep right back into their step. They’re closing. Even as their body screams. As their feet drag and their lungs burn and they force themselves on. They run. They run for their lives.

Closer. Closer.

They can feel the birdshark now. The ground shivers right on their heels. Right beneath their feet. It’s going to come up right between their legs and chomp off their bullocks—

The ground ends. Drops off in a sheer cut.

They leap.

One lands badly. Feet slide out and their battered and abused left knee twists and pops and gives out. They barely manage to catch themselves on bare palms that rip open on hard stone.

The other doesn’t land. They hit. Fold over a ledge of stone that knocks the air out of them and knocks their thoughts with it. They hit so hard they become two for a moment. His leader scrabbling for a handhold as her feet kick in the terrifying nothingness of the crevasse.

She’s going to fall. Be swept away because he cut that rope and let her.

Shock. Horror. She can still hear him. She can see that memory, the knife sawing through that straining rope and the way he knew it was damning her and he did it without a thought. They stare at each other through her eyes.

Something flashes orange to his left. Some fungus. It throbs once. Twice. Swells up shockingly fast. Oh. That’s probably bad.

“Ast—” she starts and their fear is a shared thing, a rampaging beast thrashing in both their minds.

The mushroom explodes.

He sees it. The flash. And barely registers that before the blast swats him. His leader yelps and her legs flail. She’s going to slip, going to fall and it’ll smash her leg bones up through her pelvis and shish kabob (what?) right through her bowels and into her liver.

But it’s him who feels the ground fall away. Who tumbles, is blasted right off their little ledge.

He falls.

And he falls.

And he falls.

Everything in him goes rather numb. Goes still and silent. But something else rages up inside him and it takes him the span of a thought to realize it’s her, his illustrious leader: her panic. Her terror.

Not because he’s leaving her to die again (as she feared he’d do, oh, he’s really failed hasn’t he). It’s not for her. She’s horrified…for him. His safety. His unshattered (for the next few moments) body.

She’s afraid for him. Despairing, because she cannot reach him, cannot stop this, can only watch him fall.

“Astarion!” she screams.

It’s honest. It’s genuine. No guile or secondary motivation. She reaches out through her tadpole as if to hold him, shield him somehow simply because…because she wants him to not be—

He hits.

[spider-ghoul]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧- 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

𝑯𝒐𝒃𝒊𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒙 𝑴𝒊𝒅𝒘𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒆𝒎𝒐!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒃𝒊𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓

𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒚: 𝑯𝒐𝒃𝒊𝒆 𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏'𝒔 𝑴𝒐𝒎 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒏. 𝑯𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒈, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒅 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄, 𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒘𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓.

𝑪𝒘: 𝒊 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒘 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒖𝒑𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒆 :)

The car ride to Hobie's home town was silent, the radio playing quietly as Hobie watched the trees pass.

The car felt too small after Hobie's last growth spurt. It was the same car his mom bought when Hobie was seven, but back then it felt like a luxury. 

His mom drove slowly through forests and a few small towns, sometimes pointing out high schools she competed against when she was in school. 

Honestly, Hobie didn't mind. Sure, he wasn't hyped about spending his months off school in some small town in ohio, but all of his older siblings had graduated and his mother desperately wanted to visit her parents. So, he tagged along. His guitar was buried in the trunk, along with a few suitcases of clothes and personal items. 

The drive from New York to Ohio was a decently long one, not that he had much to compare it too. He'd only been on a few vacations and school trips in his life, his family wasn't very well off, but they made it work. 

He could tell they were getting close when his mom's comments became more frequent, pointing out a drive-in movie theater off the side of a empty road, and when they got to the town she pointed out the library, public pool, the small shopping mall, and an old high school. 

It seemed like a nice place, but everything felt so old. Hobie had been here once or twice when he was a kid, but that was years ago. Every memory he made had long faded. 

Hobie was relieved to get out of the car when his mom pointed to a house and said that this was his grandparents house. it was vaguely familiar.

It was in a nice-ish neighborhood, houses lined the road, which had a number of potholes and cracks. He was pretty sure he'd seen a church a block or two away too, he only hoped his grandparents weren't religious fanatics. 

"This is where I grew up. You remember it, don't you?"

"Yeah..." Hobie said, stepping out of the car, "Kind of." 

His mother smiled at him, "Thank you for coming, I know it's not quite your ideal summer, but i think it'll be good for you to Spend some time out of the city."

His mother was a soft woman, but that wasn't to say she wasn't strong. His father had passed a few years prior, and she did her best to raise Hobie and his siblings in the city. He figured that giving her the summer before his senior year was the least he could do. 

"Now, I'm gonna go say hi to Mom, you can grab yourself now, they'll show you to your room..." She paused for a moment, turning to face him, "I love you." 

"I love you too." 

He opened the trunk, pulling out his guitar case and his biggest suitcase before turning back to the house. 

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

Hobie unpacked his suitcase into the old wooded dresser and the small closet. He was mentally debriefing about his arrival.

In the past almost seven years, he'd only spoken to his grandma and his pops over the phone. Not frequently either, mainly on holidays or birthdays. From what he'd seen, they were pretty cool. 

His pops had commented on his sex pistols shirt, and asked if he was into that kind of music. When Hobie said yes, his pops promised Hobie a drive to a record store a town over that sold lots of old records. 

His grandma greeted them with a plate of cookies on the table and led him up to his mom's old room. It had nice white walls and light blue curtains. There was a queen sized bed shoved in one of the corners with a quilt that looked older than Hobie laid over it. A small desk was pushed under the window and next to the window was a cork board, which Hobie took the Liberty of putting up the few pictures he brought of his friends. 

That was the only thing he really dreaded. He didn't have any friends here. Not that he had a whole bunch back in new york, but he had Gwen, who was his drummer and year under him in school, and Pav, who played keys and always gave Hobie food to bring home. Plus that Miles kid that Gwen begged Hobie to teach bass so he could be in the band- though it really didn't take much begging. They were his people, his band. The Mary Janes. He already felt like he was missing out by not being there for the end of school, though, party is a strong word for a few kids underage drinking in someones bedroom, but still.

All things considered, he liked it here. it was nice. The normal sound of car horns and engines was gone, though it was replaced with the neighbors lawn mower. And his only problem was that his grandma kept calling him "Hobart" and not "Hobie". It only really bothered him because no one called him his full name other than a few of the difficult teachers at school. 

Once his grandma called for him to eat and he found his seat in the dining room, his Mom started talking about plans for the summer.

"I think you're gonna like it here. One of these days you can look up things to do. I think the old skate rink is still open, we hung out there all the time when I was a kid. And Ceader Point is just two hours from here, we'll get season passes and drive down there a few times."

She kept talking, but Hobie focused on his food. He only started listening again once his Pop's chimed in.

"We're all driving up to the farmers market tomorrow, so you'll be here alone for a while. You can drive around, but you need to be here until twelve so Y/n can come mow."

"Who?"

"Y/n, they live two houses down. Sweet kid. You'll just need to open the garage for them so they can get the mower. After they leave the day is yours."

Hobie hummed, "yeah, will do."

---

Taglist: @muffin1304 @shallweselvi