#I cannot get enough of drawing these fools

[wyrm-mlm]

Erik: Charles what are you doing?

Charles: Being Charming of course

My attempt at drawing Selkie Charles doing that little temple touch thing James McAvoy does, if it wasn’t clear.

Selkies through their magic do have some powers similar to what their canon counterparts do. Erik is very special in the fact that he is not only a magical creature that isn’t harmed by iron but can actually control it. Some more Selkie lore!

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales 6

Summary: More battles and more bargains come into play as things go from bad to worse.

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Character Death (Unnamed); Mentions of Slavery/Assault/Incest (the twins are back)

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

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I’ve aged a decade in the time it takes to get inside the Imperial Palace. The blistering heat makes sweat bead down the back of my dress, every inch of heavy fabric feeling like it’s plastered to my skin. Everything feels too heavy on my body. I need to get home and into the tub, maybe with enough soap and water I will be able to purge the oppressive weight that clings to my skin.

Though I have my doubts. It’s not just the heat or the dirt, it’s this whole place. Everything I have known and loved about the city feels like it has been stripped down to nothing but the oozing, wretched thing that has been hidden beneath golden arches and layers of stark white marble. It reeks of a decay that has nothing to the crucified bodies hanging outside our doors.

Senators and Commanders mingle, wives dripping in expensive jewels hanging from their arms, laughing and talking about how magnificent this celebration for Amarantha is. I’d be shaking with the rage I feel clawing up my insides were it not for the way Rhysand still held me in his mental grip.

“Steady,” he warns for what feels like the fiftieth time today. I don’t know how he’s managed to stay so calm, especially when his men have been taken through the back streets of the city. There is a prison on the outskirts of the capitol, on the eastern wall, hopefully there will be less cruelty on the streets now that they’re away from the parade, but it is still a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It cannot be easy to be forced to stay here, with the enemy at every turn, while your men labor in a dungeon, yet he and Cassian, stand with their heads high behind me.

One of the guards untethered them from the back of my horse, but holding their chain in my hands is just as bad as leading them on horseback. Cassian gives me a wide berth, far enough away that if I take two steps ahead I’ll drag him by the throat. Azriel, however, hovers near my left shoulder, head down like he’s trying to hide, even as I watch his shadows slither down the back of his legs and scatter across the floor in search of something. One still remains coiled around my ear, hidden by my hair.

“Be careful around the twins,” I warn as my cousin catches my eye and makes her way towards us. She’d been too far behind us in the procession for me to see her reaction to the horrors, but, judging by the grin on her usually stoic face, I’d say she enjoyed it. 

Rhysand shifts so he’s standing behind my right shoulder, so I’m framed on either side by a towering Illyrian. Their presence is soothing, especially when Brannagh’s grin could peel paint. She obviously wants trouble. I’d be a fool to think the bloodshed outside was enough. She’ll need something to sink her fangs into before the night is over to be satisfied with the day. 

“There you are, cousin!” We have the same slate colored eyes and that is where the family resemblance stops. Everything about her is rigid and uniform and for so long being near her had made me feel like a lamb being watched by a lion. Yet, with the males at my back, I don’t feel so small anymore.

“I’m surprised you made it,” she says, eyes raking over Rhysand, then Azriel, then Cassian, sizing each of them up to see which would be an easier meal.

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to punch in her teeth. 

“First the Games, now this,” Dagdan says as he abandons an attempt to woo one of the Senators with his bullshit war stories, and joins us. “Maybe we are related after all.”

Rhysand withdraws his mental presence from my head and I draw my mental shields back up to make sure I keep the twins out. 

Brannagh walks a slow circle around us, tongue running over her lower lip. “I really didn’t think you were capable of this.” Her bony fingers reach out to flick the chain looped around their throats. “It’s a little… what’s the word you always throw at us? Barbaric for you?”

“All it took was Mommy Dearest to lose her head for you to grow a spine, huh?” Dagdan sneers.

Azriel’s shadow hisses angrily in my ear as his head jerks up off his chest. The glare he throws over my shoulder could melt a glacier, the heat in it seering across my skin. 

“This one’s pretty,” Brannagh coos at him, her fingers reaching out to brush across his cheek.

“Don’t touch him,” I bite out through my teeth. 

“Careful, we bite,” Cassian snarls.

This only makes Brannagh grin further and my first instinct is to draw all three of them behind my back, as if they were small children in need of protection and not three fully grown warriors. As if I had not seen them kill a Giant and a handful of Wargs in the Arena just yesterday. 

“Were they fun?” Brannagh teases, making another circle so she can draw her nails over Rhysand’s nearly bare chest.

Red tints my vision. 

“They look like they’d be a good fuck.”

I clench my hands into fists to keep my power from erupting and taking out everything in the room. Rhysand can’t save me from this one, not without them sensing his mental presence. And if we are to play this game, I need to be able to stand on my own two feet. I might not be the most skilled fighter in this room, but I have plenty of other weapons in my arsenal. 

“How would you know? The only thing you’ve ever fucked is Dagdan.”

She flinches like I’d punched her right in the stomach. It was all rumors of course, but the whispers were there. The twins still insisted on sharing a room; still went everywhere together. They were toxically co-dependant and on more than one occasion they’d mentioned old practices of keeping bloodlines pure. I knew it was a sore spot, I didn’t care very much if it was true. As long as the blow landed; as long as I had something strong enough to cut her, so the bond screaming in my ears didn’t prompt me to cut off the hand still lingering too close to my mate’s skin. They were not hers to touch. 

Cassian chokes out a cough, trying to keep back a laugh as Brannagh’s face twists. 

Dagdan’s teeth flash in a snarl.

I merely grin as I give the chain in my hands a very subtle tug. “I think we’re done catching up, cousin. Do enjoy the rest of the celebration.” I do my best to leave them in the dirt as we head deeper into the palace. I’m sure she’ll find a way to make me pay for the remark later, but for now, I’ll count it as a victory. 

The exchange took place in the open foyer, the roof held up by pillars and the outside world only separated by billowing sheer curtains. I mount the steps that lead us into a secondary foyer, where bubbling fountains and a pool of multicolored fish take up much of the space. Standing guard atop the fountains are twin statues of our gods of war and victory; the golden bowls at their feet overflowing with coins left by worshipers as they come and go from the Palace. We need more than a little luck and victory on our side and I leave a handful of coins on Victory’s altar. I will go to the Temple later and beg the Mother for forgiveness for how blind I have been, and seek a Priestess to make an offering for her blessing in what is quickly becoming an act of outright treason.

I feel Rhysand’s violet gaze on me as I make the offering. 

“The twins really are… like that?” Cassian asks as we round the fountain. It has to be morbid curiosity that prompts the conversation, but the fact that he’s speaking to me at all makes my heart race in my chest. I’ll take whatever scraps he’ll throw my way, if it only means he doesn’t hate me as much as he did yesterday.

“I’d be more surprised if they weren’t than if they were,” I say, unable to suppress a shutter when thinking about it. “They’ve always been… together… and weird about it.”

“Sure, and we’re the animals.”

I can see the back of Amarantha’s blood red head as the inner circle makes its way towards the atrium for food and whatever entertainment could be dragged into this den of vipers for the afternoon. Servants carrying goblets of wine drift through the clusters of visiting dignitaries and soldiers. There’s more than a couple armored gladiators, acting as guards for their sponsors, in attendance. I try to keep track of who belongs to who as we go, in order to give us an edge for the next match. Senators Beron and Tamlin, former lords from Prythians courts, now given new titles within the Empire for merging their kingdoms, both have sponsors shadowing them. The males have to be half Giant, with arms and thighs thick as tree trunks. Their armor has to be custom made to be able to fit them. I don’t know the names of either males, only that they’ve been employed long enough for their conditions in the Arena are they don’t fight Amarantha’s Attor. Too much money has been put into them to let them get torn to ribbons by that beast. 

I slide my way through the throngs of people to get closer. To play this game, there is no doubt that they will have to go back into the Arena a couple times. I need to start finding ways to give them an edge. I can start by seeing up close just how much taller they are then Cassian. If they have to go hand-to-hand in the future, I want to see how they compare next to each other so I can plan to get around it. 

The gladiators have at least two feet on Cassian, which makes me basically an ant in comparison. I already have to tilt my head up to look my mates’ in the eye, these males make me have to keep distance between us to be able to see anything other than they’re stomachs. 

Cassian is fairly nimble, from what I’ve seen so far, as long as the wound on his leg is healed by the next match, he can use that to his advantage. But the thought of having to watch him fight males this size makes my stomach twist. I’m going to need to do more than size up the competition. 

Beron is accompanied, as always, by several of his sons, but it is always Eris by his side. The well dressed male turns a grin in my direction when he catches sight of me. “Highness,” the bow is graceful, fox-like in a way that reminds me of Lucien, wherever he is in the crowd to avoid his Father. It’s not like him to leave Tamlin alone in these situations, they’re usually joined at the hip.

“It does me good to see you outside,” Eris continues, as he reaches out to take my hand and press a chaste kiss on the back of my knuckles.

Azriel’s shadow hisses in agitation in my ear as something hot flickers down the bond.

“It’s been too long since you’ve graced us with your presence.” I’ve known the Vanserra’s for a long time, Eris is not quite the flirt Lucien is, but he has no shortage of sway over females, males too for that matter. It had always surprised me that Father hadn’t tried to arrange a union between us. Eris was known, from time to time, to share the same savage brutality the Emperor valued in his court; it should have pleased him to have Eris for a son in law. 

“Are you finally feeling better?”

“It took longer than I expected to recover,” I say honestly. Better to not oversell anything; all lies have a little truth woven in. “But getting some air has been good.”

His russet gaze jumps to the males behind me, and the grin I’ve known for decades turns serpentine. “And profitable, I’d imagine?”

“For the Empire, of course, all earnings will go to aid the far reaches.”

“So I heard,” he nods, still studying them. “You always did have a bleeding heart, Highness. It is good to see it benefit you.”

The compliment feels underhanded, but so do most things around here. 

“When will we get to see them in action again?”

Talking about them like they’re not standing here makes me want to start smashing things, but I reign in my temper. “I was just about to ask you the same about your Father’s gladiators.”

He glances back at the male and shrugs. “Felix is always ready, but we’ve gotten no summons.”

Interesting. The Gamesmaker should already have a match-up in place, even if the Arena will be closed for repairs for a few days still. 

“How unfortunate, it’d be quite the fight for Cassian.”

I feel Cassian shift a little closer, the scent of sandalwood and snow-capped mountains invading my senses. It is an effort not to step back and lean into him, he’s never dared be this close before. 

“It would be quick,” he states.

Eris huffs a laugh. “For your neck to be broken, brute? Yes, we’d be in agreement.”

There’s a snap as Cassian’s wings ruffle and whip closed again, his agitation so clear I can taste it. The frayed edges of our bond simmer, but I can’t tell if the rage is his or my own. We are alike in that aspect.

“Who was summoned, then?” We can’t linger too long here, especially not for information I do not yet need. Rhysand still needs to get a better look around and we’re starting to linger on the stairs, people clustering behind us.

“Not Tamlin’s man either,” Eris says with a shrug. “I’m as in the dark as you.”

“You?” I force a teasing smirk to my features. “I thought you knew everything around here, Eris?”

His russet gaze darkens as his perfect teeth dart out to bite his lower lip. It’s a move I’ve seen thousands of people swoon over. “I’ll happily find out for you, Highness.”

Azriel’s shadow snarls in a language I can’t make out, but it is Rhysand’s side of the bond that ripples with promised violence. Is that jealousy I feel? I try to shove the thought aside; hoping that they feel this thing between us is too much to ask for. I will only hurt myself if I start to hope that I am more than a means to an end.

“Please do. I’d be indebted to you.” That’s all it takes for the Autumn male to bow and disappear into the crowd.

Senator Thessian and his large entourage of guards pushes past us on the stairs, the armored guard slamming into Rhysand from behind hard enough that he stumbles forward, hands reaching out to catch himself on my hips before he can take both of us to the floor. My whole body freezes under the contact, the warm press of his body against mine enough to make all rational thought fly out of my skull.

He leans in, like he might offer an apology, breath ghosting over my neck as his lips brush the shell of my ear. My whole body shivers in anticipation. “Clever, little vixen.”

The low baritone of his voice makes heat rush between my legs, something hot coiling in the pit of my stomach. Now the citrus and jasmine scent of him invades all my senses and I really, truly have no thoughts left in my head. 

My knees wobble as he gives my hip a squeeze, even as the bond roars at the loss of contact as he steps back. Maybe it’s just been awhile since I’ve been intimate with anyone, but that small amount of contact feels like an electric current beneath my skin. It is an effort to keep moving up the stairs and not turn and do something foolish, like press my lips to his and slide my fingers into his hair. 

The atrium is a wide, open room with tables piled with food lining the far walls. On the left are floor to ceiling windows, thrown open to let in the warm summer breeze, a few Praetorians standing at attention amidst the billowing curtains.. There are low couches along the walls, some of which are already taken. If not by anyone with a gladiator, I don’t linger on who sits where. 

A servant with a tray of wine passes and I snag one to try and calm the sizzling beneath my skin. I didn’t realize one of today’s many battles would be trying not to throw myself at my mates. 

There is a raised dais against the far wall, the couches and lounge chairs far more plush and ornate than the rest. Father has found his seat, a slightly less gaudy throne than usual, and reclines as a servant fans him with a palm frond. Amarantha has taken her usual seat on his right, reclining against one of her pleasure slaves. The male wears little but a strip of crimson fabric between his legs, every inch of bare skin lean and smooth. There’s another perched on the armrest of her chair, holding a goblet of wine for whenever she needs it; a third sitting at her feet, running idle fingers up the side of her calf. All that attention, and yet her dark gaze still tracks the males behind me with enough hunger I debate how much trouble I’d be in if I threw my own wine glass at her head.

She is not the only one who pays such close attention to the Illyrians. A couple dignitaries’ wives and high ranking soldiers gawk blatantly at how much skin they have on display. More than one head turns to get a better look at Rhysand’s ass in this get-up.  He neither cowers or preens under the attention; it’s like he doesn’t even register it. I can’t help but wonder if that was the point: Everybody is so busy ogling him, they’re not really paying attention to what he’s doing. It’s a good mask, it shields his intentions and lets him observe without it being obvious, but the way they look at him, like he’s a piece of meat makes me wish I had claws to scratch out their eyes. 

I take another sip of wine, trying not to look too desperate for the emptiness it’ll bring as I head in the direction of the dais. 

“You’ve surprised me,” Father says as we approach. It’s the first real acknowledgement he’s shown me all day.

The shadow curled around my ear burrows a little deeper under my hair to avoid detection, the soft ether brushing against a sensitive spot on my temple that has me gripping the wine glass a little tighter to keep from reacting.

“As I said, I am trying to do better, Father.”

His gaze flicks to the chain in my hand, down the length of it like he’s inspecting the strength of each wrung before finally arriving on the occupants tethered to it. He grins in triumph as he takes in their attire. Maybe they were right to ignore what I’d brought out. It certainly looks like I’ve intended to humiliate them by dressing them in the same attire many of the Senator’s slaves are sporting. 

“Tell me how you managed to bring the three of them to heel when Amarantha couldn’t?” 

Amarantha bristles in her seat, her perfect teeth flashing in her pale face.

Another small victory. 

“Tell him you instructed the healer to give us a sleeping drought in our wine.” The twins haven’t reappeared and his sudden return in my head nearly makes me jump out of my skin. “And faebane in the water this morning.”

I repeat his instructions as I move to take the seat that is mine on his left and force myself not to think about how it’s a couch instead of a chair like his because it used to be shared with my Mother. 

“You’re hoping to acquire mirthroot in the city to keep us docile until the next match.”

I repeat that too, making a mental note to ensure that I follow through with it. He will monitor my every move in the city, if I don’t follow through, he’ll know it and then we’re dead. An issue that seems far less pressing when Rhysand’s hand brushes over my wrist. Watching him in the Arena did nothing to show just how agile he is, not when he expertly maneuvers my hand towards his chest, the chain blocking his part in this. The next thing I know, I’m moving to sit and he’s falling into the couch behind me so it looks like I pushed him down into the seat so I could recline against his chest. The motion takes him seconds, it looks like he rehearsed it down to the exact placement of the chain to hide the fact that he’d been the one moving me and not the other way around. 

Azriel seats himself on the armrest wordlessly; Cassian grunting as he sits on the floor with his back against the couch. I get the distinct impression he is only keeping his shoulder against my knee because being any farther away would mean his wings were in reach of Father’s hands. 

It takes me a minute to find my bearings again as my brain short circuits over how close they all are. Rhysand’s heartbeat is steady against my back, his skin warm even through the fabric of my dress. He lets his head lean back against the back of the couch, feigning exhaustion or maybe repulsion from being “forced” to be this close to me. I’m close enough that I could run my hand up Azriel’s thigh if I wanted, and damn me do I want to. Or close enough to Cassian that my fingers itch to brush through the thick strands of his hair. It is a cruel trick of fate that my mates are close enough for me to touch and I can’t.

At the mention of the mirthroot, one of Amarantha’s males leans around the Emperor to offer a rolled cigarette, even dried the hint of mirthroot is obvious. The male’s eyes are glassy, shining under the effects of it himself, the grin on his features lazy and unbothered. Far too soft a male to be shackled to Amarantha. 

I tap Cassian on the shoulder to prompt him to take it. A mistake because he flinches like I hit him and I think I might have undone any effort I’d made to get him to at least tolerate my presence. He snatches the offered cigarette, and the liter that follows and passes it back to me with a huff.

The Emperor watches the exchange with more interest than he’s ever shown me in my life. “What would you have done, Amarantha?” He asks.

“The same,” she says through her teeth. 

I take a deep breath through my nose to keep from making a disgusted face at her. “Ember said that’s what she used to do for Amarantha’s slaves before she came to my keep, so I simply took a page out of her book.” 

I pass the cigarette and liter to Azriel, and pray the sight of the flames doesn’t cause the same reaction it had when he’d been branded. He grits his teeth, but there is no angered flash down the bond or hiss from the shadow to indicate it’s anything other than a show as he lights it and takes a long drag. 

“I’m glad to see that in your seclusion you’ve finally grown half a brain,” Father says. “I was beginning to worry that your Mother’s poisoned tongue had gotten to you.”

I flinch despite myself and all three of the males tense around me. Cassian’s jaw ticks, the flutter of movement brushing across my knee. For the first time all day, his hazel gaze flicks to me, and  maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I swear I see a flash of pity there.

“No, it didn’t,” I whisper, unable to put any feeling into the words. I haven’t been back here since the execution. I’d found every reason to avoid it. Being back feels like peeling a scab off the wound and letting it bleed all over the floor.

Azriel takes another drag and I wish more than anything to take a hit of it myself and numb this feeling in my chest. What I would give for the empty numbness that had filled me in the early months of my grief. There are so many tangled emotions here, between the loss and my mates and the horrors of what we just witnessed outside. I cannot pick just one to focus on; can’t find some outlet to expel the building pressure. It all tangles and lodges itself in my throat like it's trying to drown me.

Rhysand’s fingers brush over my arm as he draws his hand up to take the cigarette from Azriel. To an onlooker it looks accidental, maybe it is, maybe I’m just reading into it, but even that faint brush drags me back to the surface for a bit of air again. At least I am not alone in the water anymore. Mother had always been emotionless, nothing got to her. I was always the one that felt too much. At least now the emotions can be shared.

“Your actions yesterday inspired me,” the Emperor says after a beat. 

Apprehension licks its way up my spine.

“I haven’t taken a champion of my own in a long time. It’s become dull, betting on someone else’s man.”

Shit!

Azriel’s shadow dares to peek out around my bangs, observing the crowd as they begin to settle in their seats with plates of food, as if on some silent command. Brannagh and Dagdan join us on my left, on the seat closest to the dais, the stare they level at me hot enough to melt glass. So much for Rhysand being in my head the rest of the evening. 

With a wave, the Emperor motions over a creature I have no name for. It walks on two legs like a man, but is covered head to toe in thick, brown, fur. Horns curl from the top of its head; a beak with a hooked tip jutting from its face. Its hands end in talons like that of a bird, but there are five on each hand instead of three. Its tunic has been folded down around its waist, leaving its chest bare, revealing a spider web of scars gouged through the heavy layer of fur. A thin, whip-like tail ending in a spiked tip flicks back and forth behind it as it walks, each step sending a shutter through the Palace. 

My skin pricks with goosebumps. Some strange sort of alchemy made this thing.

“I was hoping to test it in the Arena, but with the repairs in order, I thought a smaller show would do just as well.”

My stomach hurdles into my throat.

“Why don’t we pick one of your champions to break it in, daughter?” The Emperor suggests as if this is a thought that just came to him and not something he’s been planning from the beginning. 

I take another sip of wine as I turn to look at him, trying to steady the rapid pounding of my heart. I can’t let one of them fight this thing! Its maw opens and snaps shut with a clack as it stands before us, growing impatient.

“I’d personally like to see Cassian’s thick skull get crushed like a watermelon,” Amarantha chimes in from her seat.

I’m really going to throw up right here in front of all these people.

“A splendid idea from our woman of the hour, don’t you think?” He grins like he’s caught me, like he knows I’ve been playing games and have walked right into his trap.

“Nothing can be as bad as listening to you speak, Amarantha,” Cassian snarls as he gets on his feet, effectively making the decision for me.

He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, wings ruffling behind him, but before he can step into the center of the room, he turns to face me, much to my surprise. Hands scarred from swordplay reach out to give the chain around his neck a little tug. “Mind letting me off the leash, Princess?”

One of the Praetorian steps forward to unchain him but I stand and snag the key from his hand instead. I’ve seen enough males get stabbed or injected with something right before a fight to give the opponent an upper hand to know I can’t trust anyone near him. And, maybe, just maybe, the act of giving him a little relief from the chain might make him not hate me so much.

My hands shake as I reach up to his neck to unclasp the chain. I know better than to take the whole collar off while there are so many people watching even if I wish I could. His breath is warm on my face as he watches me, waiting for his moment of freedom. The urge to stretch up on my toes and kiss him for luck is overwhelming; maybe in another life we could have. 

I step back with the chain in my hand and return to my seat before I can follow my impulses. 

Cassian turns to face his opponent and even though I saw him perform yesterday, I can’t shake the sinking feeling that I have just sent him to his death. The creature sizes him up like it's calculating the best spot to take a bite out of him and its beady eyes settle on the bandage tied around his bare thigh.

Rhysand leans forward, resting his chin on my shoulder to watch, arm loosely looped over my waist. It looks casual. No one bats an eye at the gesture, but I am pretty sure he’s done it so he can keep me from jumping off the couch.

Azriel leans forward, bracing himself with his knees on his elbows, hazel gaze tracking the steps of Cassian’s opponent as he also calculates its weak spots. 

“Let’s make it interesting, shall we?” The Emperor asks, leaning over to be heard over the rush of excitement the audience gives to the challengers.

I tear my gaze away from where I’m trying to memorize every line in Cassian’s wings, every curve of tattoo over his back and shoulders, just in case. “How so?”

“Cassian wins and I’ll let you pick their next opponent in the arena,” he suggests. 

I like the offer; it gives them a better chance at surviving. 

“Cassian loses, and you give Rhysand to Amarantha.”

The world flips and spins and the roaring in my ears has me clutching my hands in my skirts to keep a surge of power from destroying the room. My power singes the fabric, only the smoke from the mirthroot hides the smell. 

There is no way in Hel I am making that kind of bet!

Rhysand stiffens behind me, heartbeat skipping for half a moment before he pretends to be unbothered by the comment and takes another drag of the mirthroot. 

I’d rather throw myself on a blade than chance that. Cassian is an exceptional fighter, but I cannot take that risk. I am already risking his life by letting him fight like this, how can I risk both of them?

My chest aches. There are too many opportunities to lose them. Too many things that can go wrong. 

“And let our people think I am weak and incapable of following through on the deal we made yesterday?” I challenge. My voice trembles as I fight to hold his gaze steady. 

Azriel’s shadow hisses what sounds like a warning in my ear.

“You know if we split them up now it makes me look as if I can’t handle them.”

“Attached, are we?”

“No, but I am tired of looking weak,” I hiss. “If Amarantha wants them, she can challenge me for them herself.”

Rhysand stiffens behind me. The twins are too close for him to slip into my mind again, but I can practically feel him shouting at me down the bond.

She huffs a laugh around the other side of him, “As if you’d stand a chance in that!”

I ignore her as I hold my ground with my Father, “You have always thought so little of me.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“So if you really want to make this interesting, then fine. If Cassian wins, I pick when and who all their matches are with. And if he loses, well, you’ve already chosen a husband for me I’m sure, so you can speed up the process and I’ll provide them the heir you so desperately want by the end of the year.”

The bond shakes so hard in my chest it feels like Azriel’s screaming in my ear. Rhysand has gone still as death behind me and I didn’t think I said it that loud, but Cassian’s head whips in our direction, eyes wide.

Father throws his head back and laughs at that. “This new found confidence is amusing. I will allow you to pick the next two fights, but not all.”

Better than nothing.

“Deal.”

I think I can hear Azriel’s teeth grinding together beside me, so I force myself not to look at him. The bond thrums like he’s in physical pain and I hate that I have caused it, but I will not barter with their lives.

“To first blood!” The Emperor calls to the room.

“To the death!” Brannagh chants instead. 

When this whole Empire goes up in flames, I’m pushing her in first.

The crowd begins to murmur to themselves, debating. “I’ll put some money on it if they fight to the death,” Tamlin tosses out. 

“As will I!” Shouts a commander whose name I’d never learned.

The motion goes around the room in a full circle, by the time the Emperor concedes, I’ve drank my full glass and abandoned it on the couch. Didn’t we just do this?

The Praetorians provide blades for the two males, but the Emperor’s creature can’t hold the blade with its claw tipped hands and tosses it to the ground with a screech. Its barbed tip tail draws back behind it as it drops into a defensive stance. 

I forget how to breathe as Cassian drops into his own.

Time slows in a familiar sensation of undiluted horror as the creature moves first, striking forward with its tail like a spear. Cassian pivots back a step, rearranging his feet as he blocks with the sword.

The crowd cheers excitedly and I distantly recognize coins changing hands as they take bets, but cannot tear my eyes away enough to watch who is participating in it. Cassian remains on the defensive as the creature rears its tail back and attacks from the other side of its body this time, testing the Illyrian’s reaction time. When the strike is blocked a second time, it switches tactics and goes for a punch, talons extended towards Cassian’s face.

While the creature is taller, it is not as agile, and Cassian side steps out of the way of the blow, using the momentum to lunge into the next step and strike the tip of his sword across his opponent’s stomach. Its ear shattering screech shakes the room as the blade makes contact, drawing black blood. If it wasn’t for Brannagh, the challenge would be over, Cassian would have won. It would have been easy for once.

Enraged, the creature strikes with its talons again, missing a second time, but catching Cassian in the jaw on the backswing. The whole room can hear Cassian’s teeth clack together as he stumbles backwards.

It takes everything in me not to squeeze my eyes shut, not to wince and react to every blow. I have to keep telling myself that this is part of the game and I cannot give them away, but by the Mother it is harder and harder with every passing second!

Rhysand remains with his chin propped up on my shoulder, the bulk of his weight keeping me in my seat. I so desperately want to reach out and take his hand, give myself something to ground in, but I can’t. I have to accept that this might be all we’re ever allowed to touch, especially after today.

The creature strikes again with its tail, once, twice, a third, each like a punch. The third blow shatters Cassian’s sword into pieces and my heart plummets into my stomach as he dodges a fourth assault. He’s not so fast on the fifth and that barbed tip punches right through his bandaged thigh! Blood splatters as the tips hurdles through muscle and sinew until it pushes through the back of his leg.

One of the dignitaries' wives reaches for a bucket and wretches as Cassian’s roar of pain rattles my teeth. 

Azriel flinches, looking like he might just jump into the fight and stop it, but then catches himself. 

The bond screams and bashes against my insides as my powers flare again, singing more of my skirts as I hold them in a death grip that only worsens as the creature yanks the barb back out of Cassian’s leg, bringing him to the floor. Blood pours from the wound from both ends, cascading down his calf to make a puddle on the stark white tile.

There’s enough of my skirts to hide the motion, Rhysand buries his hand beneath them to hold onto my hip tight enough to bruise. I don’t know if that’s to keep me in place or himself. 

The creature snarls out a noise that sounds like triumph as it pulls its hand back, aiming to use its claws to sever Cassian’s head.

Not again! Not again! Not again!

I have to stop this! I have to do something!

At the last second, Cassian throws himself out of the way, knees tucked to his chest as he rolls out of reach, right to where the creature’s discarded sword lies. He snags the blade with a grunt, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his thigh as he pushes himself back onto his feet. His face twists in pain at the slightest movement, but he manages to stay upright. 

Rhysand breathes a little easier behind me, but his grip on my hip hasn’t let up.

The Emperor frowns beside us, displeased with the outcome thus far no doubt. He really expected this to be easy. 

The creature strikes again, sticking to what it has found successful, and it becomes a mistake. Cassian twists at the last second, blade raised so when the strike comes, he doesn’t need to block it. At this angle, not only does it miss him, he has a height advantage and he brings the sword down as hard as he can, cleaving the tail in half. The barbed tip hits the floor twitching as the creature reels backward and wails.

Holy shit! I’ve seen a lot of warriors in my life, but I don’t think I’d ever describe them as beautiful until now. Each move is calculated, backed with training and muscle. His tattoos seem to come to life with his body as his muscles shift and strike. 

He doesn’t let up as his opponent stumbles back either, he uses the distraction to his advantage and plunges the sword into the creature’s shoulder. He might have been aiming for the heart, but the wound in his leg gives him too great a limp to lunge far on. The blade catches in bone, the resounding crunch deafening in the domed ceiling, and when he reels back to pull it out, he twists it just enough to make his opponent’s arm absolutely useless.

With two of its preferred methods of fighting gone, the creature bends at the waist and charges with a roar, hoping to use its horns like a battering ram into Cassian’s chest.

An otherwise horrifying sight, if Cassian didn’t laugh and step dramatically out of the way so the creature rams right into the wall. “Is that really all you’ve got?” He taunts as a rain of dust falls on his head. 

The creature screeches as it yanks itself free from the wall and shakes its head, clearing the debris from its beady eyes. 

Cassian spins the blade in his hand, adjusting his grip, and I think it might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.

He can’t crouch with his leg, but he doesn’t need to. The creature tries to ram him again and he dodges and brings his hilt down on its neck, knocking it to the floor. He wastes no time in rearing back with the blade and bringing it down, easily cleaving the creature’s head from its shoulders. 

Amarantha throws up her hands in a huff at the sight.

I finally take what feels like my first breath in an hour as Cassian tosses the blade on the floor. He did it! He won!

Azriel removes his elbows from his knees and reclines back against the armrest, clearly satisfied with the outcome. 

“Excellent! Excellent!” Praises the steward as he goes about helping anyone who placed bets collect their proper earnings. 

I tear my gaze away from the carnage to the nearest guard, “Find him a healer, now.” Before he bleeds out on the floor or Father decides he has another champion he wants to test. 

The Emperor takes a long drink from his goblet, eyes narrowed on the severed head the staff has to now clean off the floor. Around him, his dignitaries drink and argue over why they bet the way they did. It is business as usual, completely unbothered by the blood around them. 

When he finally turns to me, I have to brace myself against the anger simmering in his eyes. This is usually the part where I put my chin to my chest and try to make myself as small as possible. Usually. But not today. 

“It seems I’ve underestimated their talent for bloodshed.”

Cassian hobbles back over to us and I make a show of telling Azriel to help him before he gets blood everywhere, so no one thinks I just let them wander off on their own. 

“The Games will continue at the start of next week,” the Emperor continues.

That gives us days. I try not to look at the gaping hole in Cassian’s thigh. Thank the Mother it looks like it missed bone, but how is he supposed to participate with that? There’s no way it heals in time, even if I have Ember work twelve hours a day on him.

“I expect you to have their opponent picked out by the Senate meeting in the morning. You still have that end of your bargain to uphold.”

This victory will not be without repercussions, but it is still a victory nonetheless, and we have to take what we can get.

--

Managing to procure the mirthroot I need to trick my Father into thinking I’m following through with the regime I’d given him, as well as finding horses for the Illyrians to ride back on takes longer than usual, given the massive partying happening in the streets. We have to take the backroads home to avoid being pelted with more rocks, or outright mobbed. Compared to the rest of the day, the journey is uneventful, spent mostly with the others ensuring Cassian doesn’t pass out on the horse. 

The sun is already changing colors by the time we return to the River House, but I know if I try to prepare for bed now I’ll never sleep. Instead, I leave Anise with instructions to look into potentially safe opponents in the Arena, so when I see Eris again tomorrow I can compare their notes, and then set out for the Temple built on the edge of the property. 

I doubt there are enough blood offerings and animal sacrifices to cleanse the sins of this Empire, but I offer as many as I can in apology for my part in it. I don’t know how I’ve been so blind to all of it. I can’t stop seeing it now, it should have always been so obvious to me.

The Priestesses do not ask why I linger for over an hour, praying long past the time it takes for my offerings to burn atop the altar. I’d hoped that, if I said them hard enough, the weight of the day would slip off my shoulders. I’d thought, with enough sacrifices, the guilt would ease, but I can still feel my mates’ agitation and pain clearly through the bond. 

I return to the House as weary as before. Tomorrow will be a whole new set of problems. I cannot put it off by lingering in the Temple. 

The walk doesn’t clear my head, or loosen the tension, and I climb into the tub with that same heaviness still clinging to my skin. I heat the water as hot as I can, hoping it might cleanse me in a way my sacrifices couldn’t.

Exhaustion creeps its way in as I scrub and scrub and scrub until my skin is pink. Every time I close my eyes I can see the crucified bodies, gasping for air as they slowly suffocate under the weight of their own body pinned to the wood. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sight; I can only imagine how it would feel to know each of those males before this. The bond still swirls beneath my skin, heavy with agitation the hot water can’t touch. 

I wish there was a way to take that from them, but how can I do that without calling attention to the mating bond? 

I give myself a few extra minutes in the blissful heat before dragging myself out and tossing a silk robe over my waterlogged skin. My brush is on the vanity where Anise left it this morning and I have just started to brush the knots out of my hair when I hear the bedroom door open. My hand stills halfway through my hair; it is unlike Anise to not announce herself when it’s this late. 

The door clicks shut again, the eerie silence that follows enough to make my heart drop into my stomach. The darkness of the room makes it hard to see beyond the candlelight that fills the bathing chamber and my hand goes instinctively into the vanity drawer, where my Mother had always kept an extra knife. The blade is cool in my fingers, the handle smooth and undamaged from never being used. The benefit of having constant guards is you usually never see the threats against you, though there are always exceptions.

There’s no footsteps on the carpet, but I can practically feel movement next to my bed. 

I’m a sitting duck here among all the candlelight, but if I step into the darkness beyond I’ll be totally blind. Better to wait for something to make itself known. 

I suppose there’s enough guards around, I can always start screaming for help if it comes down to it.

A heartbeat passes before something dark and snakelike comes slithering across the floor. The ether loops itself around my ankle and crawls up my thigh like a purring cat before the shadow takes its perch behind my ear.

I set the knife on the vanity with a sigh of relief as Azriel steps into the light. “You scared the shit out of me!”

His shadow caresses the back of my ear in apology, far more expressive now than it was earlier. “Sorry.”

He side steps out of the doorway, but not in my direction, which is odd until Rhysand steps out of the shadows behind him.

“How did you two get in here?”

“Found the lever on the door to your secret tunnel,” Azriel says as his eyes trace up my bare legs, brazenly taking in all the damp skin I have on display.

Heat flushes up my cheeks and I have to look away from him. The candlelight and the hour of the evening makes this feel more intimate than it should, given the way Rhysand looks like he might burst out of his skin. I certainly shouldn’t be entertaining the idea that Azriel would look at me as anything other than a means to an end. Hope is too dangerous a thing to have right now. Just because we agreed to do this, doesn’t mean they’re anxious to accept me as anything other than help. Besides, I need to remind myself that it will be even more dangerous for us than it already is if we were to acknowledge the bond.

 “We were careful, no one saw us,” Azriel assures.

I should be relieved that they’re being safe about it, but the frown on Rhysand’s face makes me rethink it.

“What the hell were you thinking back there?!” He snarls.

Normally, that kind of outburst from a male would make me jump back in surprise, but at this point I’m too exhausted to move, let alone figure out what the hell he’s referring to. “I’ve had a lot of thoughts today, Rhysand, you will have to be more specific.”

The chain rattles around his neck as he steps further into the room, like it's fighting to hold back his powers. “Your bet with Hybern!”

Ah, right. That. “What of it?” Is he really still upset about that? Cassian won, nothing was lost.

Azriel winces and the shadow at my ear hisses in warning. 

“What of it?” He repeats, his voice rising to an octave just shy of shrill, like he can’t believe he heard me right. “You can’t just offer yourself up like that!”

“And what was my alternative?”

“He gave you an alternative!” He seethes. “All you had to do was say yes!”

I fold my arms over my chest in irritation, but I don’t miss the way both their eyes dip to my chest at the motion. “Oh so it’s ok for you to put your body on the line, but I can’t do the same with my own? Seems a little hypocritical, if you ask me.”

“That’s different!”

“How so?”

He’s inched his way into my space step by step, until I’m very aware of the jasmine and citrus scent of him. Sometime after he returned home he’d changed into the clothes I’d had laid out for him, the swirl of ink along his chest just barely poking out around the dark collar. Even hidden, the urge to reach out with my hands and trace the swirls with my fingers remains. 

“Because,” he says through his teeth. “It’s not a deal I can live with.”

“You don’t have to live with it because Cassian won anyway,” I retort, tearing my gaze away to look at Azriel. Rhysand is too close to me like this. I can barely think past the urge to touch him, let alone hold the argument like I need to. “Tell him he’s being ridiculous.”

Azriel folds his arms over his chest and frowns. “He’s not. You shouldn’t have made that deal.”

I throw my hands up and push past Rhysand, trying to give myself room to breathe. “You two are impossible!”

They follow like I’m still holding onto their leashes, footsteps somehow impossibly silent despite their size.  

“You’re honestly going to stand there and tell me you’d rather I offered you up to Amarantha?”

“If it meant you were safe,” Rhysand snarls. “Yes.”

I find myself gritting my teeth, a snarl working its way up my throat. “Well that’s not a deal I could live with, Rhysand.” 

Their legs are a hell of a lot longer than mine, Rhysand manages to snag my arm and turn me back around to face him before I make it more than three steps into the darkness of my chambers. 

His face looks strained, eyes rimmed red. He has to be exhausted. The bond feels fragile, strained from all the emotions that have been blared down it today. “I need you to find a way to deal with it,” he says, voice verging on pleading. 

I hate myself, but I can’t help but wonder what the hand holding onto my bicep would feel like travelling down the rest of my body. 

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, whatever you have to do, I… We need you to find a way to live with it.”

Azriel comes to stand on the other side of him, so they’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. “If Cass had lost and you had to…” even in the dim light coming from the bathroom I can see the heaviness in his eyes. 

I glance back and forth between them. “You’ve all suffered enough, I can handle myself. I knew what I was doing.”

Rhysand shakes his head, “I can bear a lot of things, but not that.”

Hope is a cruel bastard, and I’ve never learned to master it. “Why? What does it matter to you?”

He lifts the hand not holding onto my arm, fingers just barely brushing over my damp cheek and my heartbeat is suddenly very loud in my own ears. His mouth opens like he might say something, and then he clamps it shut again, debating with himself over the words.

While he can’t seem to find the words, Azriel’s scarred hand reaches out to gently grab my chin and tilt my face in his direction. “It matters,” he huffs, voice low and rich and the reverberations of it send shivers down my spine. “Because you’re our mate.”

------

Author's Note: Hehe was gonna wait for the reveal at the end but couldn't bring myself to do it. Let me know what you thought about it! And as always, if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know :)

@sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

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@hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd, @urfunnyvalentin3, @mack234-blog1, @kissfromnovalie

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@marrass , @lia-h-r, @celestialzdiviner, @daughterofthemoons-stuff, @tenshis-cake,

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@of-outerspace, @erencvlt, @corvusmorte, @lindsayjoy444,

[bucketslutz]

Don't Be Late (Logan Howlett/Fem mutant reader)

Chapter 1

(A/N): btw this takes place in an alternate universe where the x men as a team don't really exist, but the members and mutants obviously still do. readers powers are similar to atom eve from invincible, if you haven't seen that show i highly recommend it, but if not, you don't really need to know any of that to understand readers powers, they'll be explained in more detail later on.

Summary: You've spent your entire academic career trying to hide who you really are, your goal to end up working in a small museum or archive and live the rest of your life going unnoticed. The first day of grad school you meet someone that sparks something deep inside you that you never thought existed. Your history professor, Logan, makes you feel things you've never felt from someone before. Will you keep hiding your feelings, or will you get too close and risk him knowing who you really are?

Warnings: 18+!! explicit sexual content, minors DNI!! pls!!! oral (fem recieving), logan being a munch lowk, oral on the couch, teasing, dirty talking, cursing, logan being an asshole professor, no use of Y/N.

Word Count: 3,208

You anxiously rub your forehead as you struggle to find parking on campus, circling and circling the lot. Finally, someone pulls out and you turn in aggressively, someone in front of you flips you off, probably eyeing the same spot. You’re late. Very late. You have an American Civil War class, it’s an advanced level, with a professor whose name you cannot remember for the life of you. You’ve been preoccupied this summer, and time escaped you before you got the chance to research his credentials. It’s your first day of grad school and you’re late. A long commute, a new college, and shitty parking. You hope to god the professor doesn’t care or notice when you slip in late, as you carry a specific kind of disdain for drawing attention to yourself.

You were 13 when you first noticed something was wrong, walking home alone from school when a stranger tried to pin you down and do god knows what to you, until your eyes glowed a deep fuchsia and you threw him across the alley with a strength you didn’t even know you had. Your veins began glowing the same pink color and pulsating, scaring you shitless. You ran to the woods behind your house, avoiding your family for fear of harming them. With enough practice over the years, you’ve learned to control your abilities. Your eyes only glowing occasionally when you’re especially frustrated or angry. Sometimes even when you’re…taking care of some sexual urges. While you don’t know what causes these powers, you do know the general population’s feelings about mutants enough to understand that no one can know what you are. You don’t keep boyfriends for longer than 3 months, you don’t let friends become closer than you need them to be, and you don’t tell anyone what you are. You just want a normal life.

Your forehead is slick with sweat by the time you arrive at the history building, your breath heavy and labored, not from how fast you were walking to the building, but from anxiety, which is also the source of the excessive sweat on your brow. You cannot recall this courses class size, and you damn yourself for forgetting to check; not knowing if you can slip into the large class quietly or if everyone will be able to see you come in. This isn’t undergrad where people stumble in hungover with 10 minutes left of class, this is a graduate program where people go on to become masters in their fields of study. And you’re going to look like a fool in front of everyone. You approach the door to the classroom and can see through the window that it is, in fact, a small class. Fuck. There are maybe 15 people in there total. You hold your breath as you attempt to quietly push the door open, but it fails you with a loud, obnoxious creak. Every head snaps towards you, including the teacher, and you offer a meek smile to your classmates and turn your head towards the professor to issue a brief apology. You swallow hard when your eyes land on him. his tall frame is leaning against the white board, a little scary looking with muscles that bulge against his crossed arms, peaking out from under his rolled up sleeves. You’re surprised they’re visible even through his plaid button-up. His hair is fluffy, dark, as well as his beard…or actually, you should say mutton-chops, as that would be a more accurate descriptor. He glares at you, and you swear you’ve held his gaze for hours, but realistically it’s only been no more than a few seconds.

“Sorry,” you offer timidly.

The professor nods lightly, his jaw tense, and waves you off as he continues addressing the class. You attempt to quietly maneuver to an empty seat in the back, trying your hardest to not trip over your classmate’s bags and chairs. You feel like it takes forever to get to your seat, hoping no one pays too much attention to how clumsily you scoot past the chairs and over obstacles. You try and settle as quietly as possible, unzipping your shoulder bag and retrieving a pen to take notes. He’s still going over the syllabus, thank god.

“The only homework you’ll have is an essay, every week—every Friday—you have an essay due. Then every 3 weeks you’ll have an exam,” he instructs, rather nonchalantly. “And while I don’t give a shit if you waste your money and don’t come to class,” his eyes suddenly are fixed onto you, you swallow a lump of anxiety lodged in your throat as he continues, “The school cares a helluva lot more so, if you don’t mark your name down on the attendance sheet, you forget, you’re late, or whatever the hell, you’ll be absent. I’m not going back in and fixing shit.”

Noted. He turns his gaze back to the rest of the class and continues talking about the curriculum for the rest of the semester. you try to keep your head down as you scribble notes into your notebook, trying to look busy, when in reality you want to kick yourself in the face. You left your apartment too late, you didn’t anticipate the amount of traffic on the interstate, and you conveniently forgot how terrible parking is on college campuses. You look up to see the professor checking his wristwatch with a furrowed brow, like he’s considering something.

“Alright, that’s all i’ve got today, get out,” he commands, his gravelly voice showing slight indignation.

There’s a general look of confusion around the room at his abrupt dismissal with 45 minutes left of class. As people begin to shove their belongings in bags, you quickly get the memo as you collect your notebook and pen in your hands and stand up, ready to depart from this nightmare as soon as possible. But you’re the last in your row, shoved into a corner. the line of people in front of you have their chairs pushed back to the wall as they slowly collect themselves. It takes an obnoxiously long time for you to get out from behind the the long row of desks, even longer to leave the class as everyone shoves their way past you and out the door. Finally, you find an opening, but before your foot can even reach the threshold, there’s a strong grip on your arm. You turn your head to meet the gaze of your professor. Your heart skips a beat as he maintains eye contact briefly, before he hands you a piece of paper and lets go of your arm.

“Find your name, mark it,” he directs, causing you to scramble for the pen in your hands as you scan the paper for your name.

You try and offer a polite smile to the professor, but he remains stoic and unamused, making you feel even more uncomfortable. Once you find your name, you ungracefully set the paper against your flimsy notebook for structure, and scrawl a shaky check mark next to your name. You offer the paper back to him.

“Here, thank you, um, professor…” you trail off awkwardly, forgetting that you never actually checked what his name was. He takes the attendance sheet from you.

“Logan,” he answers.

“Ah, thank you professor Logan—”

“No,” he cuts you off with a wave of his hand, “just Logan.”

“Logan, right. thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, his tone far from indicating the typical politeness of the statement, and rather literally cautioning you to never bring up this act of kindness again. And with that you turn to leave the class, unsure of why this gruff, sturdy, serious professor bended his own personal rules just for you. But no matter with that, you at least know you’ll never be late to his damn class again.

***

You pull into the driveway of your house with a sigh. It's late, the time you prefer to get home, so you can fully relax and use your powers in peace. Despite living in the middle of nowhere, you still fear someone will mistakenly pull into your driveway and catch you flying into your second story window or creating an apple from nothing. The lack of sound, except that of the chirping crickets and cicadas, puts you at ease. You release the tension in your shoulders and float off of the ground, propelling yourself to the patio on the second story of your house. You unlock the door with a flick of your wrist, the fuchsia energy encasing the doorknob and letting you into your bedroom, you then toss your things down onto the floor. An exhausted groan escapes your lips as you face plant onto your cool, soft bed. Not even coming up for air when you fling your arm up and slam the door shut with a pink, crystalline whoosh. You turn over to face the ceiling, your eyes fluttering shut within the comfort of your bed. Longing to get out of your stuffy jeans and bra, you trail your hands over your body and watch as your clothes dissipate into a pink flash while you manifest some boxer shorts and a loose t-shirt. Finally comfortable, you slide under the covers, wanting to sleep off one of the most stressful days you've had in a while. A morning full of classes, then 5 hours interning at the museum, before finally finishing off your day at the convenience store down the road working a 6 hour shift. While you can create most anything you want with your powers, you cannot create the full nights sleep that you most desperately need right now. 

As you drift, you think about how embarrassing of a morning you had. Stumbling into class like a fawn learning how to walk, Logan directly looking at you when speaking about attendance, Logan shoving the attendance sheet in your face so you mark yourself as present, Logan's strong arms and the way they looked with his sleeves rolled up. Logan's fluffy, dark hair and--No. Shut up. Don't think about that, he's your professor for god's sake. And, more importantly, an asshole. No amount of muscle or sheer sexiness will distract from that fact. You repeat this fact to yourself as you doze off, not wanting to give in to immature thoughts of attraction. Despite falling asleep to the negation of that attraction, your subconscious drifts somewhere you know you shouldn't physically go.

You're in Logan's office, your ass perched on the edge of his desk. Logan's back is to you, locking his door and drawing the blinds. He turns to you, his stance almost primal and animal-like, like he can't wait for the chance to devour you. The thought of that causes your arousal to swirl deep in your stomach. Logan saunters towards you, bearing his lower teeth like a predator ready to take their prey. Your breath hitches in anticipation as he gets closer, causing you to spread your legs, hoping the clear view of what lies beneath your skirt will draw him in closer. It seemingly works as he closes the distance between you two, his waist now flush against your lower stomach. Tingles shoot down your spine at the sudden contact, blood rushing down to your pussy. He pants as he brings his hands to your waist and strokes up and down the sides of your body, then achingly slow up your neck, then finally stopping at your chin. One hand creeps to the nape of your neck where he lays his palm flat while the other pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Your eyes flutter shut, anticipating that he's close to having his way with you. He holds you there for a beat, his face so tantalizingly close to yours that you can feel his breath against your skin. You whine gently when his lips teasingly graze your own. The fingers pinching your chin adjust slightly to grip your jaw instead, allowing him better control to tilt your head up towards him. His other hand, at the nape of your neck, travels upward allowing his fingers to gently rake through your hair until he roughly takes a fistful and tugs. A soft moan escapes your throat and you try to satiate the throbbing pressure between your legs by rubbing your thighs together. An amused huff leaves Logan's lips as he looks down at your squirming figure beneath him.

"You gonna be good for me, princess?" he asks in a low, gruff tone as the hand on your chin trails down the side of your neck before landing on your breast. He massages the flesh fervently, finding it harder to hide his own desperate arousal and need from you. You moan into his touch and arch your back into him, your pussy searching for more friction that Logan is expertly avoiding giving you by not allowing his pelvis to meet yours.

"Logan," you gasp.

"C'mon, baby," his voice soothes, like smooth velvet, "tell me you want it."

"I want it," you whisper, desperately seeking any sort of release.

"Good girl."

And with that, Logan removes the hand on your breast so he can aggressively hook an arm under your ass and easily hoist you up with one fell swoop. Your legs wrap around his waist and your arms around his neck, reveling the feel of his palm that covers your asscheek. With a growl Logan spins you around and throws you onto the couch in the corner of his office, barely allowing you a second to recover when he crawls on top of you and captures your lips with his own desperately. The kiss is aggressive and needy, tongues dancing together ungracefully, teeth clashing, hasty lip bites between kisses. His hips grind against yours roughly, causing you to hook both your feet around his ass to keep him there for as long as you can, desperately seeking more friction. His hands alternate with each other between grasping your breasts to gripping your face passionately. Without breaking the kiss, he hooks his arms under you and drives you further up the couch so your upper back lays against the armrest. You whine when his lips leave yours, but it's quickly replaced with a moan as his lips travel down your neck, chest, the stomach he exposes by lifting the hem of your shirt, biting the fabric at the waistband of your skirt. You squirm underneath him, anticipating what's gonna happen next as his face nestles between your legs. He licks, bites, sucks, and kisses the skin of your inner thighs, causing you to gasp with each harsh move of his mouth, before promptly melting into a moan when he alleviates his biting or sucking with a kiss or flick of his tongue. Your clit is throbbing, your pussy aching for him to get closer to your center. So he does. His tongue dances along the edge of your panties, not dipping much further into the fabric, his head alternating between each of your lips. You whine desperately as Logan's mouth hovers above your core, his hot breath teasing you further. He looks up at you and into your eyes as his mouth latches onto your thinly clothed pussy, causing you to squirm and moan underneath him, the already damp fabric from your arousal, getting further soaked from Logan's saliva.

"Logan," you whine fervently. "Please."

His mouth leaves your pussy, just barely hovering above it now.

"I gotta make you want it, princess, it's no fun unless you're begging for me to taste you," he breathed against your pussy, his voice low and syrupy. He quickly resumes the hold his mouth had on your pussy, making your back arch off the couch with a moan.

"Okay, I'm officially begging, please, Logan, please," you whimper, not sure how much longer you're able to take his teasing.

"Atta girl," he rasps against your pussy. Like nothing, his fingers hook around the fabric of your panties and he rips it off of you with an experienced strength, leaving your pussy now exposed to Logan, and your torn lace panties on the floor.

"So wet for me, huh?" Logan teases through a cocky smile. You squirm more underneath him, causing his hands to move to your hips to hold them down. Logan stares hungrily at your cunt, removing one hand from your hip and bringing it to your pussy lips to rub it tantalizingly slow with his fingers. Flicking his eyes up to meet yours, he finally brings his tongue to your folds and licks up to your clit. You moan throatily and bring your hands to his hair to give it a tug of appreciation. He groans enthusiastically into your pussy, eating at it like your core is the forbidden fruit dripping in molten pleasure. He's animalistic in his movements and noises, lapping at your clit with groans and grunts in pleasure, almost growling even. He brings his fingers to your core, tracing the hole before shoving two digits inside of you. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, curling them with each push inside. The noises are lewd and wet with each drive of his fingers. Your moans grow more desperate and needy as you climb towards your climax, the death grip you have on his hair growing stronger and stronger. The hand holding your hip down crawls up to your breast, grasping desperately at your flesh, hastily circling your nipples with his thumb. Your breaths quicken, your eyes flutter shut as he continues the steady onslaught of your pussy with his mouth and fingers. 

"Logan, I'm so close, don't stop...please..." you trail off, beginning to lose yourself in your pleasure. Logan responds with needy moans against your clit and the continuous pumping of his fingers in and out of you. His grip on your breast loosens to grasp your side, slinking down to your waist, definitely leaving a mark with how rough he grabs at you. As his lips and tongue continue lapping you up, you can feel your arousal swirling in your stomach more and more. Your moans grow louder, your hips begin bucking. Logan groans into you, desperate to feel your release around his fingers. White hot pressure forms around your clit as you teeter on the edge of your orgasm, you look down at Logan and lock eyes with him just as you feel yourself dropping off.

The feeling of hot pink fire pricking your eyeballs jerks you awake, mid-orgasm, your eyes glow a pulsating fuchsia. You pant heavily, your orgasm ending unceremoniously against your fingertips. Leaving you disappointed. You huff in annoyance, wishing you could plunge yourself back into the wet dream that ended in a rather mediocre way. No, wait, that was your professor. You shouldn't be feeling, or thinking, this way at all. You feel disappointed in yourself for having such lewd thoughts about another person, especially a person of authority. You catch your breath, turn your head to face the clock on your nightstand and gasp when you see the time.

"Shit, shit, shit," you curse, hastily throwing yourself out of bed. "Please don't be late today."

(A/N): and that's that!! i hope people enjoy! this concept popped into my head earlier today so i've spent my sunday working on this, if people are interested to see where this goes, please leave a kudos or comment!!! TYYY🫶🏻🙈 i also posted this onto my ao3 here if you would like to view it there and keep up with it there as well!

[newfoundstateof]

but she fell in love with an english man | b.b. x reader

summary: Academy friends drag Benedict to a tavern to watch Irish fiddle player!reader perform. He buys her a drink. But who can play a fiddle and drink a pint at the same time?

word count: 1.2k

warnings: suggestive but none

a/n: definitely not inspired by those tiktoks of dirty talk bar maids at ren faires, who said that???

“They are spectacular,” Rupert Norton declared with an arm slung over Benedict’s shoulder.

The rest of the Royal Academy students hummed in agreement. Already drunk from the party they left minutes ago, a small group of them stumbled down the cobbled streets of Soho. Earlier that night, news broke that a band that visited a few weeks before Benedict enrolled at the Academy had returned to much anticipation. In an instant, pipes were dropped, coats were gathered, and boots were marching to The Intrepid Fox tavern.

“They’re from Ireland,” someone said.

“I’ve never danced so much in my life,” another added.

“And the fiddle player is quite easy on the eyes,” Rupert slurred into Benedict’s ear. “Try and buy her a drink if you can. That usually gets her attention.”

Benedict laughed. “I’m just here to enjoy the music. As should all of you scoundrels.”

Once inside the tavern, a few of the men beelined to the bar to order whiskey shots for the fiddle player despite the empty stage in the corner. Benedict simply took a seat at the bar, observing the growing crowd. The band’s reputation must have preceded them, as he was soon shoulder to shoulder with the eager fans. But for the next twenty minutes, only chatter filled the room.

“They always like to keep you waiting,” Rupert grumbled into his ale. “But it’s worth it, I promise.”

“I don’t mind,” Benedict smiled. “It’s good people watch-”

The room erupted into cheering, and he turned toward the stage. Sure enough, two men climbed the small wooden platform. One carried a fiddle, the other a flute. The room roared even louder when you emerged with your fiddle, waving a good-natured hand to the audience. Your smile was wide and disarming. Your gaze was equally piercing. Looking at the gleam in your eyes, Benedict knew just how aware you were of your control over the room. Soon the clapping died down, and every soul waited with bated breath to what you would say.

A scrawny kitchen hand hurried up to you and set a tray of shots down on a small barrel.

“Wow,” you breathed. “All this for little old me?”

Benedict found himself chuckling with everyone. As you threw a shot back, his stomach dropped. You were certainly not like the young ladies of the ton. 

“This crowd is mighty impressive, isn’t it, boys?” you asked your bandmates as you all started tuning your instruments. “We appreciate you for coming out. If you don’t know us already, the lad on the flute is Johnny. My fellow friend on the fiddle is Patrick. And I’m Y/N. I have a favor to ask of you all… From now until the last of you sorry lot leave this building, I hereby decree this an Irish pub! That means we will be clapping along to the songs, singing if you know the words, and if you are so inclined, I would love to see some dancing tonight.”

Someone in the audience whistled, evoking more cheers.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” you grinned.

The trio launched into Seven Drunken Nights, a popular jig even Benedict knew. Though his classmates were rowdily singing along, he could only stare at you. Johnny and Patrick generally kept to their places on stage, but you swayed across, drawing your bow theatrically compared to Patrick’s controlled movements. He was the main vocalist, but during the wife’s lines in the song, you sang with the crowd. 

“Ah, you’re drunk, you’re drunk, you silly ol’ fool. Still, you cannot see, that’s a lovely tin whistle that me mother sent to me!”

Benedict couldn’t decide if you were a better fiddle player or singer, you were impeccable at both. But without a doubt, you were the best at simply putting on a show. You encouraged people to dance along as you skipped across the stage. Benedict could only imagine how taxing it was for you. Dancing, singing, and playing an instrument all while not breaking a sweat. He eyed the tray of shots, turned to the nearest bartender, and ordered something more refreshing for you.

As you strung out the last note of Seven Drunken Nights, the same kitchen hand ran the mug of beer up to your tray. You sighed to yourself.

“Which one of you did this?” you cried out, lifting the mug high.

Heads spun every which way. Benedict froze. Was liquor the only appropriate drink to tip a musician? He wasn’t sure, he’d never been to something like this. Awkwardly, he coughed and raised his hand.

Your eyes found him in the sea of faces, and you smirked. “Don’t be shy, come here!”

 Rupert clapped Benedict on the back. “Don’t screw this up, Bridgerton. She might go home with you tonight.”

Though he had been with many women and dangerously close with a few men, you still intimidated him somehow. Nothing intimate had been on his mind before Rupert’s comment, but now his heart skipped a few beats at just the thought of it. Benedict snaked through the crowd, trying to read the expression on your face. But all you looked was smug, and he wouldn’t be surprised if you poured the ale on his head. 

“Finally,” you breathed as he stood before you. “One of you buys a lady a real drink!”

He exhaled in relief.

“I’m afraid I’m quite thirsty though,” you pout, getting down on one knee. The stage was barely a foot off the ground, putting your face directly in front of Benedict’s wide shoulders. “And we need to get on with the next song, but I don’t have enough hands. Would you help me, good sir?”

Without waiting for his response, you shoved the drink in his hands and looked up to the ceiling. Before Benedict could blink, you were poising your instrument and drawing out a note with your bandmates following suit.

“We’re lucky I don’t sing in this one,” you smile, giving him a pointed look. “Get on with it, now. I’m parched.”

Never one to argue with a lady, Benedict slowly tilted the rim of the glass to your lips and poured the liquid steadily down your throat. You looked up through your lashes at him, daring him to look away. But he didn’t. Only when some of the ale dripped down your chin and onto your bodice did his gaze break yours.

“Should I stop?” he asked.

You shook your head, “No,” as much as you could with your lips around the glass.

As you neared the last dregs, your head tilted back more and more to get it all. The eroticism of it all was not lost on Benedict, especially as you swallowed the last gulp and moaned audibly. The growing friction in the front of his pants was no help. But once the glass was finished, you rose to your feet and sent him off with a wink. As you spun to the other side of the stage, the hem of your skirt brushed his groin and he mindlessly reached for the fabric. But you were gone. In a trance, Benedict walked backward to his friends at the bar, adjusting himself. 

“Has she done that before,” he coughed.

“I’ve never seen that before,” Rupert crowed. “And I’ve seen them perform at least five times since I started at the Academy.”

“You’ve got to talk to her after, Bridgerton,” someone urged.

“Can I come along?” a voice teased.

“You’re the luckiest bastard on earth right now,” another sighed.

Across the room, you caught him starring and blew him a quick kiss.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Luckiest bastard on earth.”

[toms-cherry-trees]

"Lessons" || Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: When your husband's attempts at tutoring you fail, he is forced to seek less orthodox ways

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Innuendo, teasing, edging and denial, thigh riding, overstimulation, ass slapping, titty slapping, titty succin, fingering, p in v sex, degradation, breeding kink if you squint, bad teaching techniques

Author’s note: No excuses here. Credits to Sarah @aemondsbabe for the HORN and massive thanks to Miranda @solisarium for the beta read! Requested tag: @marthawrites

Header by the beautiful lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs

Your desperate whimpers and heavy gasps disrupt the silence of the chamber, mixed with the crackling of the logs in the hearth and the rhythmic drumming of your husband’s fingers against the armrest of his seat. He looks so smug and relaxed, leaning back on the chair, his feet well planted on the floor; a heavy, leather bound tome rests on the table beside him, open in the same page it has been for over a fortnight now.

His index taps three times on the book, pointing at a fairly simple written word, but in your brain it reads like the most complex of riddles. Endless hours your husband has devoted to educate you in the beauty and magic of the Valyrian tongue. There would be no greater pride for him than to have his perfect little wife speak the words of his forefathers, to hear the ancient language roll effortlessly out of her beautiful mouth and whisper before others words only for her to comprehend. Yet you quickly proved to be as thick as you are beautiful, and no effort nor technique could get you past the most basics of vocables. This forced him to seek new methods of instruction, which he implemented with utmost enthusiasm and methodic dedication.

You currently are the perfect image of depravity. Your smallclothes lay in a careless heap at his feet, hair free of the intricate style and flowing freely, flyaway strands sticking to your damp forehead and temple. Your robe hangs loosely from your shoulders, giving you a weak resemblance of modesty. The skirt of the nightgown is rucked above your hips, allowing Aemond a prime view as you drag your soaked folds along his clothed thigh, desperately seeking a climax he knows all too well you cannot achieve like that. He knows your thighs tire too soon, he knows you can’t ever get the angle right. But this is the only touch you are allowed until you learn your lessons.

His questions don’t make it to your ears, unable to hear anything above your own broken moans. The first days you tried to comply and learn, to give in your best to please him in that way. But your best efforts melted into naught when he teased you night after night, trailing touches along your skin that ignited fire in your lower belly, only to cruelly deny you while he sought his release in the warmth of your mouth instead of where you needed him the most. 

The motion of your hips stutters as your thighs begin to burn from exertion. Your fingers dig on the flesh of his arms for support, legs shifting just enough to seek a new angle, to find the right pressure you need. But you cannot fool yourself; you need his help.

“Please. Husband, I need you.” Your words are pleading, desire and desperation lacing your tone; your eyes wide and innocent, batting your eyelashes. But your helplessness only amuses Aemond, the corner of his mouth raised on a half smirk. Warm and calloused hands slip the robe off your shoulders and the nightgown away from your frame, leaving you bare before his heated gaze.

“Say it like I taught you, ābrazȳrītsos, and I may consider giving you a little reward.” His thumb brushes across the peaks of your breasts, nipples stiffening immediately at the gentle stimulation. Your nerves are frayed and every gesture pushes you closer to the edge. He rolls the hardened buds between index and thumb, drawing another mewl from your sweet lips, back arching to offer more of your bosom to his touch. Your core throbs in sync with your heart, arousal coating your inner thighs and having left a damp patch in the fabric of his breeches. You rack your brain to find the words he wishes to hear, but it seems your head has been emptied of all thought and logic, leaving only raw and primal desire, an almost animalistic instinct to sate your hunger.

Aemond is quick to pick up the almost dazed look in your eyes, chuckling in delight at your inability to form a coherent thought, all because of him. He brushes his thumb alongside the plushness of your bottom lip, pushing inside your mouth just enough for you to wrap your lips around it and suck dutifully, swirling your tongue around like you had his manhood in you.

“My pretty little wife, so needy for her husband's cock she can't even answer one simple question. Humping and sucking like a wanton whore.”

You whimper around his digit, his words fanning the fire between your legs into a raging inferno. He withdraws his thumb from your mouth, slowly sliding it down your body, leaving behind a shining trail of your saliva. His hand halts just above your mound, darkened eye watching in satisfaction the slight and involuntary buck of your hips, seeking his touch anywhere you can get it. A light swat to your thigh makes you yelp, but the sting is easily forgotten as Aemond’s lips trace the line of your collarbone, settling on the juncture between shoulder and neck and gently sucking at the skin.

With unsurprising ease, Aemond shifts your body until your knees rest on both sides of his legs, your drenched cunt hovering above the tight bulge straining his breeches, almost feeling the heat radiating from it. You swallow thickly, whining loudly as he undoes the lacings and frees his thick cock from the confines of the garments. Fingers wrapped around his girth, he teases the head through your slick folds a few times. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, entire body tense and trembling with the effort to not grind against him. You know better than to test your luck when he is being so generous. 

“Ñuhus litses ābrazȳrītsos, so wanton and needy for aōhe valzȳrys. Can’t get that beautiful head of yours to work until I fix that problem between your delicious thighs.”

His free hand sneaks between your legs, tracing agonisingly slow circles around your throbbing pearl, making you shudder. You see how much your easily triggered reactions entertain him, the fair lilac of his eye darkened to a purple hue. You are desperate for him, but he is equally delirious for you, that much you can tell when he brings his fingers to his mouth to taste your arousal, his cock twitching in response. You can only hope his need is enough to give in to you.

Two fingers shallowly breach your entrance up to the first knuckle, his thumb pressing down firmly on your pearl while he gauges your reaction. Your eyes squeeze shut and your head falls back, nails digging in your palms, lips parting to elicit a breathy moan. Another question comes to you, but the words never register, and incoherent babbling is all you can gather as a reply. The sharp smack delivered against the supple flesh of your arse snaps you back to your senses, feeling the light sting spread across your skin.

“Eyes on me, kēlītsos. Until I get what I want from those pretty lips of yours, you do as I say. You don’t get to escape me.”

He pelts you with question after question you cannot answer, each failure punished with sharp slaps on your ass, breasts and thighs; some gentle like a caress, others strong enough to make you hiss through your teeth. In between smacks he continues the sweet torture, his touch on you so tender and featherlight it feels like it is just in your imagination. Every time he senses you getting too worked up, he pinches your clit tightly, pulling sharp cries from you intertwined with pleas for mercy.

“Please, husband, please. I can’t hold it anymore. Please,,” You sob, your fingers digging into his shoulders to emphasise your words, and you make a tentative roll of your hips against his hand, hoping he will take pity on your pathetic current state.

He clicks his tongue, the back of his hand dabbing at some tears you hadn’t noticed pooling at the corners of your eyes. Large hands cup your cheeks, thumbs caressing your cheekbones; you lean into his touch instinctively, eyes fluttering close as you take slow breaths to try and regain some control over yourself.

“Dumb little lady you are. So beautiful and so silly. Your head is filled with nothing but flowers and filth.” The slight degradation should sting and wound your pride, but all it does is send a fresh wave of arousal straight to your cunt. “Can’t write Valyrian, can’t read it, not even say the simplest of words without getting all tongue tied. All you are good for is to take Valyrian seed deep in your womb and help spread my bloodline. You would like that, ilībītsos, having my seed take root inside you and grow round and heavy with my children, your breasts full of milk for my heirs. All you know how to do, no?”

You can’t help it, you nod eagerly at his words, hoping this means he will finally relent and allow you release. And it seems all your prayers will be answered when you feel him line the tip of his cock with your awaiting entrance, meeting no resistance as he sinks into you, stopping halfway and delivering yet another smack upon your arse to spur you on like a stubborn mare.

“Ride me.”

You swallow at the command. Your legs are aching still and your energies are weaning, but the promise of putting an end to this most delicious misery is enough to fuel you. You do nothing to stifle your moans as you rock your hips, feeling in you will not last. The hot coil tightens in your belly at a dizzying speed, so taut you feel ready to snap. Wet sounds fill the chamber and your walls flutter around him, breaths coming in short pants. It is so close you can taste it, the one thing you have been so cruelly denied and so ravenously crave. His hand caresses the length of your spine, from the curve of your ass up to between your shoulders. He cradles the back of your neck and pushes your head forward so your forehead rests on his shoulder and his lips are against your ear.

“Stop.”

Aemond’s voice cuts through you like a sword, eyes shooting open and a broken sob coming from your lips. Every nerve urges you to ignore his command and chase your climax, but you don’t. You do as you’re told, letting your body rest in his lap. He questions you again, but you don’t even try to find an answer. You only shake your head, tears beading in your eyelashes while you press tender kisses on the skin of his collarbone. He waits until he feels your body relax, your grip on him loosening.

“Continue.” 

Again you try your best, ignoring the cramps of your muscles and the dull pain of your knees against the chair. And once more, Aemond commands you to stop every time he feels you clenching around him. Each time it is harder to stop, but you do it nevertheless. Not once he tries to restrain you himself, because he knows his good girl does as she is told. Even as the tears run freely down your cheeks and pitiful sobs are the only sound you are capable of. 

“Please.” The quiet, barely audible plea is muffled against his neck, your face burrowed there as exhaustion threatens to overcome you. Your body feels tense like a bowstring, waiting for the smallest of gestures to let go. Your cunt throbs around him, his length and your thighs coated in warm slick. You remain denied yet your pearl is so overworked it feels almost painful to the touch. All ruined for him, without having been allowed a single peak.

“Daor.” He purrs against your neck, nibbling at the skin as he takes hold of your hips, thrusting into you tantalisingly slowly, burying himself to the hilt in your warm heat and withdrawing until only the head remains, making you feel every inch of him. He steadily picks up the pace, alternating between long strokes and shallow thrust, fast and then slow again. He roams your body, kneading your thighs and squeezing your ass, fingertips tracing the dip of your waist and the curve of the hips. His lips capture a nipple, rolling it between his teeth and sucking with gentle pressure, lapping at the pebbled nub.

You are absolutely overwhelmed, losing control of your bearings as the pleasure comes and goes in powerful waves, barely letting you catch breath before threatening to drown you again, never taking you to one extreme or the other. For moments you want it to stop, but you are sure to die if it does. You no longer remember what brought you to this moment. But amidst the fog clouding your mind you manage to scramble out a single word.

“Kostilus.”

His movements come to a halt, and you can practically feel the wicked smirk against the flesh of your breast. He takes his time to leave a trail of open mouthed kisses round your breast and up your chest, trailing the line of your collarbone to your neck, finally settling on your ear. Aemond gives the earlobe a quick nip, while one hand slowly snakes between your conjoined bodies to circle your pearl once more.

“Sȳz riña.”

Your body slackens against him as he picks up speed, already teetering on the edge. It takes no more than a couple powerful thrusts for you to peak, sinking your teeth into his flesh as you scream your release into him, whole body spasming as the waves of blinding pleasure wash over you, filling your veins with a fuzzy feeling you cannot explain, but is as if your soul has elevated to the heavens and left your body behind. It seems you black out for a moment, for when you regain your surroundings once more Aemond has you cradled against his chest, your robe thrown over you to keep you warm. He caresses your back, the soothing motion lulling you back to sleep. Through the grogginess you hear him whisper in your ear

“This is but the first lesson.”

~

ābrazȳrītsos - little wife

Ñuhus litses ābrazȳrītsos - my pretty little wife

aōhe valzȳrys - your husband

kēlītsos - little kitten

ilibitsos - little slut

daor - no

kostilus - please

Syz riña - good girl

[intoxicated-chan]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 ༻ 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞-𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞

(A/n) ➳ I have written this over three times as an attempt to get Daemon’s personality correct and I butchered his character... P.S, I used a High Valyrain translator. I’m not sure how correct it is but you can find it HERE.

Word Count ➳ 1.8k

Content Warnings ➳ 3rd P.O.V, alcohol use, theft, threats of violence, mentions of murder, mentions of death, mentions of war...

AWOIAF Masterlist

Daemon stepped into the Prancing Pony, slipping off his waterlogged hood to reveal his platinum blonde hair and violet eyes. It was a candlelit inn, a seemingly calm one for the night. He observed the inn a couple of hours before entering, he wanted to make sure few eyes were on him.  

But his observation of the inn did him nothing, everyone stared at him, gaining all kinds of attention. Good or bad. He kept his arm rested on his sword, making his weapon known so no one would dare.  

He approached the bar, setting his pouch of coin he stole off a drunk bystander. “A pint of strong ale.”   

The bartender eyed him before pouring his drink. Daemon handed the man the coin, taking the wooden mug in return.   

His nose scrunched at the heavy and bitter taste of the ale. Daemon could certainly hold his own when it came to drinking but this was different. He took the mug as he left the bar and made himself comfortable in a corner with a man.  

It was his contact from the last lead that led him to the Prancing Pony. “I was right to say you are not from these parts.” The man started. “You are causing trouble, drawing eyes from people you do not want to start a war with.”   

Daemon scoffed, laughing to himself. “These people are the least of my worries. I only care of the dragon people speak of.”  

But the man started to laugh, too loud for Daemon’s taste. “The dragon they only hear of is Smaug.” Yet his eyes became wide with a mixture of fascination and fear. “I’ve seen another, not as big but just as fearsome.” He murmured.  

Daemon breathed deeply, his jaw clenched as his grip tightened around his mug. “And you dare hold the information from me?”  

The man rolled his eyes. He sat back in his chair, throwing his leg over the table. “Go East of the Misty Mountains, you will find Mirkwood.” The man ignored his questions and pointed at his hair. “You will find its rider, a woman with strands of hair that match yours.” 

“Now you give me this information? At no cost?”   

“You cannot scare me, Daemon Targaryen. There are many things worse than dragon fire.”  

Daemon rushed out of the inn feeling frustrated, he was played like a fool. Another reason to despise this place.  

He pulled his hood over his head as the rain poured heavily down on him.   

He always knew his older brother was obsessed with omens and prophecies, but Daemon was able to believe in one of Visery’s dreams. a Targaryen had found their own path to safety, escaping the calamity that took their home.  

“The Targaryen dynasty will rule beyond Westeros.”  

He was stuck in his mind for hours, keeping himself busy until he found Caraxes still deep in his slumber. Daemon took a breath before he spoke softly in High Valyrian, running his hand over his long and slender neck.   

“Vēzot, Caraxes.”    

Daemon flew to the East of the Misty Mountains, it was a trip of two days, three before he found Mirkwood. A kingdom surrounded by woods, isolated from the rest of the world.   

Caraxes landed just feet away from the narrow bridge, but his neck was long enough to reach the gates where two guards stood.  

They remained still as they felt Caraxes’s hot breath and saw him bare his teeth.  

Daemon sat up tall in his saddle, he relaxed one wrist over the other. “I demand an audience with your lord!” He exclaimed. “Step aside and you shall live to go home to your families.”   

Caraxes grumbled when the guards did not move or say a word. Daemon clicked his tongue after another minute of silence. He wanted to take his brother’s words into consideration. How he must learn to control his anger, how this world was unlike Westeros. 

Talking was getting Daemon nowhere since he was met with silence. “It is a simple request that I am sure you can fulfill, I have no need to burn your kingdom but turn me away and I will.”   

But it was a failure.   

Yes, they reacted, drawing their bows, and shouting in their tongues. It was not the reaction he was hoping for...  

“You have chosen your own fates.” Caraxes pulled back and opened his jaws. “Drac-”  

Suddenly, the gates creaked open, another Legolas stood at the entrance, walking forward with his bow in hand.  

“You seek and audience with our King.” Legolas stated, looking up at Daemon with a stern expression. “But first, you must hand over your weapons. I shall not let you approach the King armed.”  

Daemon's eyes narrowed, his hand itching to draw Dark Sister and so he declared.   

“We must obey by their rules, it’s their land but it won’t be for long.”    

Dameon gave a curt nod and huffed. He dismounted Caraxes to stand before Legolas. He drew his sword along with its scabbard.  

Legolas shouted orders the guards to come forward, his eyes glued on Daemon. They came forward, taking everything out of his hands, Dark Sister, and his cloak.  

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew it gained him access to Mirkwood.  

Legolas was sure there were no more weapons on him. “The King awaits.” He turned his back, walking back into the kingdom with Daemon behind him.   

He took one final glance, watching Caraxes whistle again until the gates shut.  

Daemon did not hide his amazement at the inside of Mirkwood, he made his expressions clear and kept his composure but remained carefree. He was surrounded by guards, but he walked like he owned the place as his head stayed high.    

Then, it was just Legolas walking with him, and it was not long before he was brought in front of the king.  

Thranduil sat on his throne, one leg over the other. His finger tapped the arm rest as he looked at Daemon with a lack of concern. 

“My Lord.” Daemon addressed. “It seems you’ve been expecting me.”   

Legolas took his place by Tauriel’s side. She whispered in his ear, something making him huff in anger and shaking his head.  

Thranduil stood from his throne, his hands clasped together. “Of course I have, you made yourself quite known.” He stepped down the steps. “I received word from an acquaintance, he said your dragon was like a serpent. I wondered what they called your dragon back in Westeros.”  

“You’re aware?” 

“I’m quite aware.” Thranduil responded. “You’re home called Valyria, dragons that you ride, and you Targaryens... I’m only aware of the name after her relative stepped foot on Middle-Earth with a clutch of eggs and managed to sire many offsprings.”   

“Where are they?”    

“All of them killed each other, it’s difficult to say what happened but (Y/n) appeared with said egg hatched.” Thranduil slowly circled Daemon. “I cannot speak to what happened to the rest of the clutch but now she’s here and you’re here for her.”   

“I intend to bring her home.”   

Thranduil stopped at his left side, shaking his head. “You will not take her home. She knows no other home than here, Mirkwood.”   

Daemon wanted to punch him, stab him, have him burned to death. But he knew better than to do anything disorderly. “She does not belong here. She belongs with her family, with the rest of the Targaryens.”   

Thranduil’s eyes flashed with anger as he got in his face. “I have raised her since she was a babe, she is my ward, my own. I will not allow you to disturb her home and peace.” He took a couple steps back before waving Daemon away.   

Tauriel attempted to grab his arm, but Daemon shrugged her off. “She has no place here!” He shouted. “Where is she?!”   

Thranduil walked back up to his throne, sneering at Daemon. “You have no right to demand anything for me.” He gestured for Tauriel to proceed, ignoring the threats and curses coming from Daemon, it clearly had no effect on him.   

Tauriel summoned the guards. “Hold him.” She readied her bow.    

Daemon kicked the elf in the chest, pushing him back. He twisted the other’s arm, grabbing his dagger only for Tauriel to shoot it out of his hands.   

“If you wish to keep your hands, you will come.” She held no room for argument. “īlon līs ȳzaldrīzes mērī.”  He nearly froze in place and Tauriel could see her words confusing him. But the guards grabbed hold of his arms and Tauriel pushed him to walk.   

“We must talk alone.”   

Caraxes awoke, he was curled up near the entrance, grumbling when he caught sight of Daemon surrounded. He shoved their hands off him. “My effects?” Tauriel took them from one and handed them to him.   

Tauriel nodded at the guards, dismissing them. “How did you get here?” She questioned, eyeing his armor and then his dragon.    

His dragon had a saddle too, but it was wrapped around his chest with a three headed dragon.   

“I’d care to explain but I do not.” Daemon threw on his cloak. “Yet I only care to learn where did you hear those words.”    

“There is a Targaryen here.” She confirmed in a hushed voice. “And I fear that darker things may be her future.”  

Daemon's brow furrowed. “Yet why help me?” He questioned, staring down at her.  

Tauriel’s expression softened, sadness forming on her face. “I care for (Y/n), deeply.” She confessed, her voice barely audible. “But I fear the path she is on will lead to tragedy. If there is a chance to changer her fate, I must take it.”  

“Where is she?” 

“I cannot tell you exactly where she is.” She explained. “I received word that she had left the kingdom once again without the King’s permission. But there is a nest, past the Enchanted River. (Y/n) is known to frequent that area.”  

Without another moment’s hesitation, he mounted Caraxes and took to the skies. Tauriel watched as Caraxes flew for a couple moments then descended.  

“The King will not be pleased if he learned you gave out (Y/n)’s location.” Legolas appeared, looking disappointed. “He could kill her.” 

“He will not.”  Tauriel sharply retorted. 

“How can you be so sure?” 

“I would rather (Y/n) perish happily than see her and her dragon fall on the battlefield.” 

(Y/n) drew her sword as Caraxes landed in front of her. Aegar’s upper body hovered over her as he growled at the sight of the two, stretching his wings, ready to defend her. 

Daemon dismounted Caraxes, approaching (Y/n) but stayed at a safe distance. “Nyke emagon daor māzigon naejot vīlībagon.” He said.  

“I have not come to fight.” 

Her breath hitched as her heart quickened. She continued to look back and forth, between Daemon and Caraxes. She kept a tight grip on her sword. “Who are you and why have you come?” She ordered loudly. 

“I am Daemon Targaryen.” Daemon replied. “And I have come to take you home.”  

© Intoxicated-Chan 2024, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without my permission. 

Taglist ➳ @mrsdurin , @marsmallow433 , @oneiratxxia10 , @sassybutclassy96 ,  

[ventismacchiato]

40 behind the lens — paper rings !

scaramouche x g!n reader

⇢ ˗ˏˋ time skip of three years ࿐ྂ

˗ˏˋ headcanons ´ˎ˗

✰ you and kuni graduate at the top of your respected classes and have been dating for almost five years now, known properly as the campus it couple

✰ neither of you moved in together until last year when everyone else started moving out of the shared content houses

✰ first xiaoae move out together, then childe, then heikazu, albenari, then ayaka going back home and venti living on his own

✰ living in the houses on your own was essentially a waste of money and space so jean ended your leases and you guys finally moved in together

✰ and after graduation, with jean’s help, you’re able to slide into the industry pretty easily with your large fanbases

✰ you start off as side characters that grow in popularity since your fans watch the shows and movies you star in just for you both

✰ i like to think kuni double majored in child psych along with film in case acting didn’t work out in his favor so he’s pretty and smart

✰ but since this is fiction it did work out for him cus dreams come true #livelaughlove

✰ id like to think star/you would also act but probably dials it down to direct full time instead

✰ you preferred to direct compared to acting so eventually you started to fund your own projects with kuni on your cast which helped you grow

✰ you try not to cast kuni in every one of your movies because then it’ll look like favoritism but he prefers to star in ones you direct

✰ you also get your friends to be extras a lot, most of the time it’s childe who begs you to let him be in the back for movies

✰ you guys probably don’t get engaged for a while despite living together, blaming it on scara’s commitment issues and the fact that your careers are your main focus

✰ alongside luna, your previous black cat, you probably adopt another white one alongside scara

✰ as for actor!scara headcanons imagine scara on hot ones, that one show on youtube, and he has a straight face the entire time as he eats the hottest wings and answers questions about you

✰i think he’d have a lot of fun on shows like that, example would be eat it or spill it by jimmy fallon, he would annihilate them

✰ he probably does all his own stunts, always giving you a heart attack as you see him falling from heights on harnesses, sometimes he convinces the staff to fool you into thinking he actually got hurt due to a broken rope as he plummets to the ground

✰ he does it so much that there’s enough content for ‘scara pretending to die in front of yn for ten minutes straight’ compilations

✰ you guys probably stream when you can but not as much with your jobs, i think star doing behind the scenes vlogs of you and scara together would be so cute though

˗ˏˋ headcanons ´ˎ˗

✰ was a communications major so he’s the PR manager for scara and you after graduating

✰ yes i know technically jean could do this but she has enough on her plate! i’m just thoughtful like that #feminist

✰ constantly trying to prevent you guys from getting into scandals, which is hard when scara cannot keep his opinions to himself

✰ aether probably has a heart attack everytime scara goes off to do interviews since scara always ignores the pre written answers and goes on tangents, which his fans love but twitter not so much

✰ xiao as an animator wud be so sexy guys. like walk with me here imagine an operation true love anime after the drama and webtoon are a hit so he gets to animate for the anime and storyboards with albedo

✰ i’m tryna intertwine all of them even after they graduate can you tell

✰ as for him and aether they probably tie the knot a little while after graduating, small wedding with just close friends and family

✰ xiao would edit one of those pretty wedding videos that youtubers do

✰ but they don’t film the entire wedding for their channels cus they gotta gatekeep

✰ id say xiao probably still streams but he mainly just draws with music in the background or works on his stardew town with aether

✰ xiao probably strains his wrist a lot from all the work he does so at promotion events he’s always wearing a brace on his hand

˗ˏˋ headcanons ´ˎ˗

✰ okay in this au let’s all pretend he’s the creator of operation true love cus rmbr he’s a writing major and a huge romantic

✰ like how sexy is that, obviously it does well cus all his fans all read it and so it gets turned into a drama

✰ directed by you of course starring kuni as eunhyuk

✰ he’s still head over heels and throwing up in love with heizou, they probably adopt a cat together when they move in together

✰ i imagine if kazuha ever wrote a murder mystery novel he’d have heizou read it to decipher if the culprit was too easy to figure out

✰ nothing really exciting about heizou’s major in this au, he probably just becomes a detective and streams on the side, known as kazuha’s partner in the entertainment industry and attends all the events when he can

˗ˏˋ headcanons ´ˎ˗

✰ obviously goes into the art industry, works on a lot of graphic novels and novel covers and sometimes album covers

✰ when kazuha’s work gets turned into mangas or graphic novels he always does the art for it

✰ he probably paints nari’s favorite flowers for him and they adorn their house’s walls

✰ i’d say he doesn’t stream as much anymore but if he does it’s probably just him doing commissions with music in the background

✰ nari’s major is also not exciting in this au, probably becomes a forest ranger or a college professor

✰ albedo builds him a greenhouse in the back of their house for him

✰ the type to bring hurt animals home and fosters them back to health

˗ˏˋ headcanons ´ˎ˗

childe

✰ stealing from my pookie mrbeast for inspo

✰ he probably does stuff like has a whole business for his videos and side hustles like merch and a food company

✰ like maybe he and diluc collab to make an energy drink or something

✰i mentioned he fancies diluc like once in a previous chapter so that’s why he’s with diluc who streams a little

✰ they probably met properly at another twitch con or creator event

✰ very wow factor oriented like he does more than just stream games, he prefers to work on big challenge videos and loves giving away money

✰ like he would host those extreme hide-and-seek challenges with all his youtuber/streamer friends in weird locations and get them to do weird dares with him

✰ i think heizou would win those types of videos most of the time, whereas scara barely tries and still seems to almost win

✰ diluc probably does one stream a month because it’s not his entire focus, probably also a business major and just appears in childe’s videos once in a while

✰ how cute would it be if childe was always at his 110% in videos and extra hyper to make them more entertaining but when diluc joins him he’s more calm and cute

venti

✰ his streaming fanbase gives him a jumpstart in his music career yk how it is

✰ does a bunch of osts for shows and movies. still streams but also is a popular musician

✰ not an idol 😍🤞 has to be a little different than jptp but does start out by opening for tours and makes it on billboard

✰ i do think he’d eventually do a world tour though on his own and stray away from streaming to focus on his music, would probably just upload vlogs if anything

✰ does the operation true love ost so everyone is working tgt and he’s single in this au cus #singlerep

ayaka

✰ honestly i don’t care what happens to ayaka she’s just there ig

✰ keep doing what ur doing queen! i’ll support you from all the way over here!

behind the lens !

masterlist — prev | next

yes i’m using yeonjun as scaras face 🤞

also sorry if this isn’t as in depth as the jptp one i’m just tryna wrap this fic up ☠️

author’s notes — just like jptp i just wanted to do a bunch of headcanons :] this is how i envision their future and if u don’t agree talk to the wall cus idc 😊

synopsis — you, better known as STARDUST, and BALLADEER have always been in competition for the top streamer spot on twitch, which is especially impressive since the two of you have never shown your faces. you’ve never been on good terms, constantly one-upping each other in matches and getting into petty arguments on twitter, causing your fans to also dislike each other. that’s until BALLADEER does a face reveal that breaks the internet with his good looks…which makes you realize it’s the same guy you went on a date with last night. the type of date that made you crave to see him again. the only problem was he didn’t know you were STARDUST and he was way different behind the lens than he portrayed himself online to you. should you keep your identity a secret to salvage the relationship or just let him go?

taglist is closed — @captainzep @elysiumarchieve @plinkuro @sakkakuu-squared @eliqusgenma @vuvulia @kunikuzushiit @ins4nebish @stxrgxzxr @lilacponds @uma-umie @mitsukifilms @caesars-bubbles @wheneverthesunrise @its-like-twilight @kazuhalvrr @erosdevil @thenightsflower @p1utto @noodleshark420 @lxry-chxn @court-jester-stuff @lauragalliart @veyu002 @kaeyas-eyepatch-69 @leathernourishingshoepolish @satowaluverr @lexlapis @drunkwithfever @exhaustedcommunist @vincanzu @ainlaw @ovaliz @kitsuvil @whatamidoing89 @celestair @kunihaver @kazioli @xiaosoneandonly @cridtiins @cherrybeomgyu @asukahiriko @moon-320 @orionicchaos @cartierfiles [1/3]

[dewffin]

soo... I think I accidentally began to make a Silmarillion Fangame...

For some unknown reason i was like "I wanna make textures :D" but i didn't want to model shit, so i just used VROID studio as a painting book... but then i was like "ummm, i never tried to draw a character an then tried to make it 3D in vroid" so uh-

yeah...

and then i was like "let´s drop this bad boy in Unreal to see how he looks" and because, well, i don't know why i decided to try to make him look a bit 2D? like he was drawn? like doing the complete opposite of what i just did?

so this is what he looked when i began to play with post process stuff

and because i wanted to look around and stuff i added a little guy i had, and it turns out that he was really little and i had to make him a box to take pics of Fëanor's face

Then i did more stuff and i ended up with these cute flowers :D

And then I said fuck it, i think I'm making a game...

So the thing is that doing a game doing a game while being a one person studio is a biiiiiit difficult.

By that i mean i had to try to keep my head leveled in what i could do, so I ended up with this...

Tecilwë's Adventures in Arda

(yeah, i don't have a name for this)

So, you play as Tecilwë, a noldorin journalist that travels around trying to document the best stories of Arda. You can find out what is happening around by talking with people, sneaking around or finding clues. Then, you can write your take on what happens, and depending on what you say, how you say it and what secrets do you keep your reputation as a journalist and your relationship with the different character you find can change for better or worse.

A little bit about Tecilwë...

Q Tecilwë Autanna -  S Tegilu

Tecilwë - The one who writes [tecil “pen”, wë “person”] or as i like to call them "El pibe birome"

Autanna - the lost sign, the fool sign [au “away, lost”, aut “fool”, tanna “sign, token”]

A young lore master from Tirion. Studied under Rumil, and is excited to document all that happens in the course of the story. 

Curious and eager to learn. More often than not ends up in trouble for documenting what was not supposed to be seen.

Tecilwë believes in the power of the word, and on how truth is composed by those who write it.

Not often remembered, wants to be remembered as one of the great lore masters. But the curse of the Noldor runs deep…

Basically a player insert

Y alto chismoso

What i have for now in gameplay is that you can run around a location (and you'll be able to travel to different places, but time passes so, for example, if you leave Aman you cannot go back, or if Gondolin fell then you cant go there). There as i wrote you can talk to people and find out stuff, and all what you find you write in your journal, which you can check to remember what you have seen. With all of that you can unlock new dialogues, and when you get enough information you can end the day and write like a newspaper or magazine. If, for example, you found that gasp Maedhros and Fingon are being two love birds behind a tree, you can write about that in different ways. A- You just say thing as they are. B- You say that is great to see the unity in the House of Finwë. C- Accuse Fingon of corrupting the innocent eldest of Fëanor. D- say nothing about this. With A you get lower relationship points with Russingon for exposing them. B gets you a good realtionship with them, but lower with Fëanor. C gets you a good amount of points with Fëanor, but the other two will hate your guts. And with D, nothing changes, but you can confront them about their relationship and tell them to be more careful if they want to keep it a secret.

Also if you write a lot about gossip stuff you will lose credibility and that is kinda a way to not being remember as the great Lore Master you want to be...

Also i love how FIngon's hair is coming out. This is like a first draft but it was fun to make.

Also this motherfucker is so fucking tall

And this is one of my favourite screenshots from when i had Fëanor as the playable character

(also here is really noticeable that i added lights to their eyes, and it switches form golden to silver light)

In short, a gossip simulator

Also i cannot wait to make the "Who is Gil-Galad's dad" level

Version 0.1.0

Other updates

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FSBE 4 - She Doesn't Know What She's Done

The rogue is not jealous. Well, maybe a little.

On AO3.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Astarion has never drowned. Cannot drown, technically speaking. Yet this feels eerily similar to how he’s imagined doing just that.

His leader ducks into her tent and her little beastie chirps and trills. She bids Astarion good night, and lets the flap fall closed. He’s left to stand there as his lungs fill with something thick, his insides grown suddenly heavy.

Consider herself well and truly taken?

Oh, he’s said lines much like it many times. More than many: a well-placed “I love you” with a soft face and a voice tightened by feigned desperation? Not enough to alarm, but enough to entice? Pretty stories of devotion, how he’s never felt this way before but having laid eyes upon whatever unfortunate idiot he’s selected that night. Uses it on the foolish sweethearts when he’s in the mood to be selfish.

This should be no different. Is no different, other than the duration. His current darling is no mayfly night of passion. He’s had to work hard, be patient to finally draw her in and secure his prize.

He’s never kept a prize, however. It was never his prize. Now he’s caught one, and he has to…do something with it. Keep it. She’d been getting skittish again. They’ve gone too long without him reminding her why she ought to keep him close. And with the rest of their merry band of fools about, she won’t need to rely on him as she did in the Underdark.

(Why does that almost…hurt?)

He should be grateful he needs to do less than usual. Yet the way she looks to the others now. That protective flintiness to her gaze. He’s…jealous. And he ought to be! None of them were around to watch her back (figuratively speaking) and steal her away from a band of drow. None of them kept her provisioned, or shared their tent, or watched over her (sort of) as she slept.

Yet here they are, expecting her kindness as if they’ve earned it.

As if he’s…

But he has secured her. And tomorrow, he’ll give her a reminder. Show her what his hands or his lips or his body can do for her. He’s won, godsdamnit. This is satisfaction tightening his chest.

For now, he should reverie while he has the chance (grim though that task is). He turns. And spots the cleric staring, not even trying to disguise her eavesdropping. She lifts a single, judgmental eyebrow.

So he puts on his best simper and tucks himself into a theatrical bow. Then ducks into the privacy of his own tent. That no longer carries his leader’s warmth or her scent.

He’s not jealous of the little furred beast.

***

The doors of their decrepit sanctum screech almost as badly as Petras when Godey’s feeling particularly energetic. Astarion has to join the cleric in covering his ears until the tortured things are finally wrenched wide enough for them all to catch a glimpse of this shadow curse.

The heaviness already plaguing him plummets to a new low.

Outside was once a wood. Tall trees, green grass, probably bouncing bunnies and frolicking fawns.

What greets them now is beyond dead.

“I’ve seen corpses more lively than this place,” he says. “And I don’t mean my own brethren.”

Eleanor winces with her entire body. Even her beastie shuffles closer to her legs. She reaches down, thoughtlessly, to scratch the animal’s head. Astarion wonders where he might stash such a creature after he’s drained it.

There is no sky. No horizon. Twisted trees, rotted black, the bark split like a days-old corpse to show decayed, hollow wood. Barren ground, save for clumps of something writhing and twisting slowly in the gloom. He has an inkling that walking into that would be a terrible idea.

“Do we have more torches?” says the druid.

The large elf looks grimmer than the dead landscape. Astarion has seen sad eyes—he’s quite drawn to them, usually. A sad mark is an easy mark. And the druid looks rather like a beggar who’s had his last coin swiped by a pickpocket.

Astarion leans in close to his leader. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if our venerable guide simple keeled over.”

Realizes immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Because Eleanor is soft when she’s not a terror, and now he’s drawn her attention to a wounded baby bird, of sorts.

Damnit.

“Halsin?” she says.

The big elf pulls back into himself. Offers what she probably sees as an encouraging, if slight, smile. Says, “It’s alright.”

Only Astarion is drawn to those, too. Can spot the crack along that smile, and the festering beneath it. Sorrow. Shame, perhaps. The druid wouldn’t stand out in a lower city dockside tavern, four cups in and mooning for some lost love.

He uses his cantrip to light a spare torch when his leader glances his way. Let her see his magic (he’s learning magic) is as potent as ever. He even hands her that torch. Doesn’t imagine (he hopes) the way her face softens as she takes it.

Good. Focus on him.

They head out, into the gloom. The shadows immediately swallow them. Astarion is used to shadows. Has something of a love/hate affair with them, really. They’re quite useful for slinking about when he’s drawn unwanted attention. When that bastard let him out of the kennels as prey rather than lure. But being confined only to the shadows, even when he doesn’t want to be…

Their tiefling flares hot. The orange glow in her chest burns, mechanical heart brightening as the vents along her arm spit sparks.

“Anybody else feel like we’re being watched?” she says.

Dearest Eleanor is close enough he could reach out and brush her ear. Which he does not do. Her gaze flicks about, a nervous bird finding no safe perch.

“Usually, I’m the one stalking the shadows,” he says. Her gaze lands on him for a moment. That’s it. Look to him. Draw her in. “I can’t say I appreciate being on the other end.”

“Stay within the light, whatever occurs,” the big druid says. As if his bulk doesn’t take up nearly an entire circle of said light.

Something moves in Astarion’s periphery. Too fluid to be a living thing, too solid to be a spirit.

“What the fuck,” his leader says.

The mist around them swirls into tendrils, into claws reaching for them. They stop at the edge of the torchlight and curl back into mist. Things move within—small sounds, scurrying sounds. Odd, dry clicking that makes Astarion think of hated bones scraping along joints as a skeletal face leers down.

He turns to make some remark, only to find his leader curling in on herself, teeth beginning to chatter. He feels nothing but the usual touch of undeath. On a lark, he sticks his hand out, brushes his gloved fingertips through the mist, and it feels like the grave. Waking in the dark, lungs creaking, kicking and thrashing and something was wrong, wrong, wrong why was he in a box oh gods, gods—

He hisses. Pulls back.

“Careful,” the druid says, as if her were an errant child. “The curse lies thicker than I’ve ever seen it. I wouldn’t expect it to pass over even you, Astarion.”

“Because I’m so charming?” he says.

“Because you’re a corpse that doesn’t know better,” the cleric says.

He should bite her.

But now she’s frowning and reaching out. There’s something in the road—if he’s being supremely charitable with that word—ahead. She makes a small sound, takes a step towards it. A step outside the light.

“Shadowheart,” the wizard says, the first strain of tension pulling at his voice.

But the cleric stands there, looking at her hands, down over her body. Turns back and there’s a look to her eyes he’s seen before, on the wretches and idiots drawn to that bastard’s mansion of their own accord. The desperate and deranged come to prove their service in return for the gift of immortality.

Astarion manages to not to bare his teeth at the naked fanaticism shining through their cleric. Barely.

Beside him, his leader’s face has turned to stone.

“It doesn’t affect me,” the cleric says. Brushes one of the reaching hands of mist. Her touch passes through it like it’s nothing but colored festival smoke. “It must be my lady’s protection. She must love me still.”

Familiar again. He’s heard that in other voices.

In his own.

Disgusting.

“Ugh, the rest of us our trying to keep our breakfasts, if you don’t mind,” he says.

To his surprise, it’s the gith who swipes back. “You did not feed this morning. Or last night.”

He can’t help it. Instinct and armor all at once, and the flirting slides down, over his face. “Oh, are you offering, my dear?”

“Touch my neck and you will not even see me strike your head from your shoulders.”

He turns to his leader. “Mmm, I do love spicy food.”

But she’s looking at the cleric—now examining the pile of rags in the road. A long-withered skeleton in faded, rotting armor. Apparently it’s a “dark justiciar” according to their cleric, who sighs wistfully.

There’s something very peculiar to the way his leader watches this. Not quite hostile. But more than focused. It’s close to the face she wears when she’s plotting a murder, except…no, that’s not correct, either.

The cleric is taking up entirely too much of Eleanor’s attention. That won’t do. Not at all. He needs to be her primary focus, not their delusional Sharran.

The group eventually moves on. Astarion lets himself drift back. Waits until he’s nearly out of the light. The skull of the dead fanatic stares up at him. The face is halfway crumbled, though the teeth are all there, shiny and yellowed.

He brings his boot down right through where the nose would have been. Crushes the thing to powder.

When he looks up, Eleanor stares.

“Ah, clumsy me,” he says. “Shall we?”

He needs to get to her tonight. Refocus her. Keep that tether tight and strong.

Note: No update next Wednesday, possibly not on next Saturday either. I'll be back by 1/8/25 though.

[goodqueenaly]

Hello again! Sorry I’m trying to figure out how to make this a question, but if you’re willing to, I’d love to hear any thoughts you have about Myranda Royce? I feel like she’s interesting as a counterpoint to the general depiction of the Vale nobility—it struck me that her open association with “Alayne Stone” could be considered unusual by her contemporaries. Do you think it’s genuine, or being gracious (or both)? Thanks and I hope you are well!

I think Myranda is quite an interesting character! (Long, more under the cut)

On the one hand, Myranda certainly wants to encourage Sansa-as-Alayne to see her as a friend. Throughout their conversation, Myranda asks, indeed demands that Sansa-as-Alayne refer to her as “Randa”, an informal nickname which bridges the class distinction between them (more on that in a bit). Myranda’s genial, self-identified “wicked” gossip, punctuated with laughs and jokes, directly recalls Sansa’s last true experience of female friendship, way back in AGOT - sharing a strawberry pie with Jeyne Poole, “giggling and gossiping and sharing secrets”. Too, as they near the Gates of the Moon, Myranda tells Sansa-as-Alayne of the apartments readied for her but offers to share her own bed with Sansa-as-Alayne, much in the manner of Margaery’s bedsharing with her close-knit cousins. Nor is this proffered friendship an entirely empty hope on the part of Myranda. By TWOW, Sansa is internally referring to Myranda as “her friend”, and when Myranda cheerfully dares Sansa to race the gatehouse by declaring “[l]ast one to the gate must marry Uther Shett”, Sansa laughs and joyfully thinks that “[f]or just a little while … [Sansa] found herself remembering bright cold days at Winterfell, when she would race through Winterfell with her friend Jeyne Poole, with Arya running after them trying to keep up”. Myranda does provide Sansa-as-Alayne, at least eventually, some access to friendship and fun Sansa has not experienced in a very long, very traumatic time; finally, after months turning to years of loneliness, abuse, and fear, Sansa has a young aristocratic woman of an age with her, with whom she can be happy - in fact, feeling “alive again, for the first since her father… [sic] since Lord Eddard Stark had died”.

Yet Sansa cannot embrace Myranda Royce as her friend without complication, given the context in which she is introduced to Myranda. Before Sansa and Myranda Royce ever meet, Littlefinger warns Sansa that she, Sansa, must “be careful” and “[g]uard [her] tongue around [Myranda]”, because while Myranda “likes to play the merry fool … underneath she’s shrewder than her father”. That Sansa takes this warning to heart is reflected in Sansa-as-Alayne’s greeting to Myranda, allowing Myranda to call her “Alayne” but internally adding “you’ll get no secrets from me”.  Indeed, Myranda’s frank conversation, complete with blunt questions, seems to parallel Olenna Tyrell’s similarly staged interview of Sansa at the start of ASOS; just as the shrewd Queen of Thorns weaponized an attitude of uncourtly candor to make Sansa comfortable enough to admit to Joffrey’s monstrousness, so Myranda seems to want to draw information out of Sansa-as-Alayne, particularly to her true identity, by peppering their chat with candid sexual references and choice bits of gossip. To that end, Myranda does appear to succeed: when Myranda seemingly offhand mentions that “the Night’s Watch has a boy commander, some bastard son of Eddard Stark’s”, Sansa-as-Alayne blurts the name “Jon Snow” - an improbable bit of identification for supposedly the bastard daughter of a minor Vale lord, allegedly living in Gulltown with the Faith until relatively recently. (Whether Myranda then later remarks on Sansa-as-Alayne’s “rosy cheeks and big blue eyes” to make a coy reference to the true Sansa’s Tully appearance, or later still tells Sansa-as-Alayne that “[t]he first Lady Waynwood must have been a mare” as a sly allusion to the Waynwood marriage Catelyn says was made by one of Jocelyn Stark’s Royce daughters, are both open, intriguing possibilities.) In the ongoing theme of truth versus lies so central to Sansa’s storyline, Myranda’s search for knowledge is used by Littlefinger to portray her as an antagonist; falsehood and secrecy, literally defining Sansa for the moment in the guise of “Alayne Stone” must perforce divide Sansa from her would-be friend, at least according to Littlefinger. 

Yet Myranda does not simply represent the duality of friendship and animosity for Sansa-as-Alayne. For all her risqué jokes and targeted requests for information, there is I think a good heart to Myranda, most clearly demonstrated in her treatment of Robert Arryn. Before we even meet Myranda on page, Sansa mentally notes that “Robert [would] be pleased” at the news of Myranda’s coming, because “[h]e liked Myranda”, implying not only that Robert has met her before but that Myranda made a good impression in her prior visit(s). While it’s certainly good political sense for any Vale aristocrat to treat the Lord of the Eyrie with respect, Myranda shows Robert genuine warmth and kindness: kneeling to meet him at his level, grandly lying that he had “grown so big” and would “be taller than me soon”, and joining Sansa-as-Alayne in allaying Robert’s fears by agreeing that the Winged Knight could indeed fly “[h]igher than the mountains” - all important actions to take toward a young boy infantalized and dismissed as sickly for virtually his entire eight years of life. Like Sansa, who plays to Robert’s favorite stories of chivalric heroism to encourage his bravery, Myranda offers Robert a rare opportunity for pride in himself in this trek down the mountain. Indeed, Myranda acts exactly as Sansa believes Mya Stone should have - “greet[ing] him with a smile” and “[telling] him how strong and brave he looks” - a positive reflection on both Myranda’s relationship with Robert and her perceptive sense of manners. 

Related to this point, Myranda seems to have a keen and natural grasp of her position; this is a young woman who understands how to be lady of a castle to her fingertips. The little Sansa initially knows of Myranda Royce includes the fact that Myranda “kept her father's castle for him”, and that “it was a much livelier court when she was home than when she was away”. Myranda’s courtly experience is on full display in Sansa’s TWOW sample chapter. When the Waynwood party arrives to the Gates of the Moon, Myranda curtsies to Lady Anya, politely ignores Wallace Waynwood’s stammer, adds some sweetly witty commentary on the upcoming feast and tourney, and informs the Waynwoods of their and their party’s lodging with both grace and tact. Too, while she might continue to provide her cutting opinions privately to Sansa-as-Alayne, Myranda also seems to know where to express herself more subtly: calling to Sansa-as-Alayne for a less rude escape from her Lipps and Shett admirers, and quietly teasing Lyn Corbray (whom Myranda already identified as an unlikely suitor) by piously wishing for a healthy delivery for that Corbray sister-in-law whose pregnancy Lyn resents so much. 

Which, of course, only highlights the (relative) societal knife edge on which Myranda exists. As the daughter of the head of the lesser branch of her family, Myranda already occupies a place lower than that of other Vale blue-bloods - recall Littlefinger’s note to Sansa that Myranda’s father was in part quite willing to believe Littlefinger precisely because he, Nestor, was “very much aware that he was born of the lesser branch of House Royce”. As “a widow, but scarce used”, to borrow her rueful turn of phrase, Myranda has neither the maidenhood so prized by aristocratic Westerosi nor the dynastic investment of a child with her late husband - and by extension, a socially acceptable role(s) as wife and/or mother. Myranda is, in the cold and unfair calculus of Westerosi aristocratic marriage making, a lesser prize - a fact Myranda herself appears to recognize all too well. As she sighs to Sansa-as-Alayne, Myranda cannot determine “whether it was me she [i.e. Anya Waynwood] found unsuitable [for Harry Hardyng], or just my dowry”; too, as Sansa herself picks up, behind Myranda’s japes of Sansa-as-Alayne’s apparent success in being betrothed to Harry, there is the hurt of a young woman brusquely reminded that she was, at least in the estimation of Lady Waynwood, not good enough for such a match. In the zero sum game of Westerosi matchmaking, Sansa-as-Alayne cannot win (again, only in the  sense of a betrothal to a politically very important fiancé) without Myranda losing out on that exact match. 

This tension, in turn, I think as much defines Myranda’s relationship with Sansa as the duality of Myranda as both (potential) friend and foe does for Sansa’s relationship with her.  Myranda has the name and familial credentials, but not the dowry to make good on them or the aristocratic marriage to show for them; Sansa-as-Alayne is (ostensibly) an unlegitimized bastard of a rather upjumped lord, yet she has the great dowry and (as of the start of TWOW) the brilliant future marriage to the heir presumptive of House Arryn. Consequently, when Myranda first meets Sansa-as-Alayne, it is Myranda who condescends (in the most fundamental meaning of the word) to her: “I am 'my lady' at the Gates”, Myranda reminds Sansa-as-Alayne, “but up here on the mountain you may call me Randa”, a quiet reminder that it is Myranda who can waive the privilege of formal address because she herself is automatically entitled to such a style. It is Myranda who sniffs at the “common girl”, not even dignified with a first name, with whom Harry fathered a child; Myranda who thinly veils the bitterness in her observation that “Harry could have done much worse” than marry her, even if she was, as she reflects, widowed and no longer a maiden; and Myranda who declares that she “shan’t concern [herself]” with Sansa-as-Alayne’s “bastard breasts” when comparing their physical appearances. Likewise, it is Myranda who scathingly asks whether Sansa-as-Alayne “ever knew] a Sisterman who could joust”, as according to Myranda “[t]hey clean their swords with codfish oil and wash in tubs of cold seawater” - proper performance of chivalry being so often equated in Westerosi society with aristocratic bearing. These two young women occupy similar, yet opposed, liminal spaces in their society (as I talked about before specifically with Sansa), operating in an aristocratic sphere that at the same time embraces and rejects them, but for very different reasons. 

What I could certainly see is that when (not if) Sansa-as-Alayne is in fact revealed as Sansa Stark in TWOW (ahem, Shadrich), Myranda helps verify Sansa’s true identity (having, again, perhaps puzzled out as much from observing her). More importantly, I hope that Myranda is not in fact an antagonist to Sansa out of some petty sense of jealousy (I had plenty of negative female relationships in F&B, thank you very much), but rather helps undermine Littlefinger��s governing thesis presence in Sansa’s life (before the final denouncement of Littlefinger by Sansa at Winterfell, anyway). For Littlefinger, who values and employs lies and deception as a fundamental aspect of his character, a figure who seeks out truthful information is indeed a disturbing, dangerous individual. Moreover, as a confident and (again, relatively) independently secure aristocratic young woman in her own right, Myranda Royce almost certainly represents to Littlefinger a threat to his isolation of and control over Sansa; just as Cersei separated Sansa from Jeyne Poole in the immediate aftermath of the purge of the Stark household to keep Sansa alone and friendless (remaking with annoyance that “[t]he gods only know what sort of tales she's been filling Sansa's head with” - that is, true stories of the violence and bloodshed of the purge), so I think Littlefinger fears the appearance of a potential friend to Sansa, unconnected to himself, who could begin to influence and encourage her in ways he would not be able to oversee. In perhaps identifying Sansa as a Stark, but then supporting her, Myranda may appear to Sansa as a deliberate rejection of Littlefinger’s description of her as a truth-seeking villain - and, in turn, begin the downfall of Littlefinger himself. 

[konnosaurus]

Can I see smol Duck pretty please?:3

well, i cannot say no to a duck request like this hehe! i am a duck enjoyer indeed! though to be honest i am an enjoyer of most characters, i have positive feelings (or at least a fun dislike, the sort where you go 'aargh this fool is back!!' and laugh at them) for almost everyone. in fact, i can only think of one character i actively dislike! (it is flynn. sorry flynn enjoyers, i am glad you get something out of him!)

i've got a few art notes (and a little duck note!) below the cut

i had so much trouble with the pose on this one, i think something about his shape made it really hard to bend him, but i didn't really like the way he looked when i tried side or front-on poses. these little engines are really fun to draw because i get to mess with shapes and poses in ways the trains cannot usually bend, which gives me something different to think about! the relatively thick lines and small canvas also means i cannot get bogged down in details, as there simply isn't enough space to fit every single tiny detail, and i like that challenge. if anyone has any specific engines they would like to request, feel free to ask, but as i only have a limited amount of time to draw (and i have plans for some non-smol-engine ttte art in the works) i may not get around to them quickly!

while drawing this i was watching a whole bunch of duck and duck adjacent episodes, and recalled that he is in two moments i feel are very amusing, so i have attached those below hehe.

he's just a little idiot i love him so much, he is having so much fun being lightly rude to oliver. what a legend.

[2demondogs]

Would you ever consider writing Dutch as a trans man in a Vandermatthews fic? I love your work and trans Dutch is very close to my heart :)

Thank you <3 And absolutely!! I assume this was ur request but if you have a specific one and were just checking w/ this ask (I'm painfully autistic I'm so sorry lol), I will write more when my requests open again :D Shouldn't be too long, I only have 2 more requests to finish.

Sorry this is kinda moody I was feeling some type'a way myself... *insert cigarette emoji*

Words: 1.6k Tags: FTM Dutch, young VanDerMatthews, hurt/comfort, gender dysphoria I'mma be fr my man is in the trenches, talk of binding, face-shaving,

He still changes before Hosea wakes, or after he's left the tent. Convincing him to sleep without the binding wrapped around his chest, now and then, was a Herculean task — until Hosea said he likes laying on him, and Dutch couldn't argue with how it made him despise himself a little less — so this one must be Sisyphean. Love can nudge odd things in new directions.

Not that he's ever asked him to go without it. Hosea isn't a fool, as much as he is self-indulgent. The only inkling of the question he gets is calloused fingertips on his bare back below the beige bandages this morning, tracing the indent of his spine. He's turned away, legs crossed as he dresses.

"Can't be good for your ribs, wrappin' so tight." His voice is nasally, thick with sleep. He must've woken him up shuffling around for his shirt, rolled up with the rest of today's clothes in a pair of jeans.

Dutch turns to glance over his shoulder. He looks good, the sharp shadows of morning along his face softened by the canvas tent overhead. The golden cast of it as the sun breaks through the darkness does him well, makes his wheat hair look as blond as those maidens in paintings. Angelic, disregarding that there's dried drool on his chin from snoring his heart out all night long— same as always. He's started falling asleep too quickly to kick him and make him turn on his side.

"Can't be," he agrees, turns to tie a knot over his chest, tucking it into the cradle of his sternum.

Hosea makes a soft noise, shifts closer. His arm slings around his middle, warm where it was trapped under his body as they slept. Curled up, anymore, like two stray cats. The weather is turning cold off the tail-end of summer, and the heat off Hosea is a welcome one as the air starts to nip at his skin. Then, his hair tickles his hips above where his half-undone union suit is pooled, nose pressing in after. Stubble scratches him.

He doesn't like to linger like this, feels naked in a way that he cannot describe. Still, he reaches behind him to lay a hand on Hosea's head, fingers scrunching in the straight strands. It earns another warm noise, and he settles his forehead to Dutch's hip.

"Gon' freeze me out," he says, twisting to look at him. It's hard to turn back like this, and he catches only a few glances of him looking as pleased as he's ever been.

"I ain't stoppin' you from nothin'." He draws away, anyways. Sleep has his lids set low once he's sat up, meeting Dutch's eyes. "Can't I love on you?"

Dutch turns before he lets himself smile. "Absolutely not," he replies.

There are many times where Dutch feels confliction deep enough it makes him want to withdraw. Physically, emotionally. He almost cannot handle this, either, wants badly to curl in on himself the same way that he had the first time Hosea touched his hand, recoiling as if embracing him would be the same as willingly stepping into an Iron Maiden.

But his fingers are not spiked where they hold his jaw. Tender as they can be, for working hands. The straight razor glides easily over his cheeks, because he doesn't have anything beyond peach fuzz to slice off. Hair grows from that beauty mark of his, but slow. Even his upper lip, untouched since he left his mother's house six years ago, has little to show for it. Hosea tells him his hair is dark and that his mustache shows in the light, but it doesn't make him feel much better.

Some days, it does, when he can appreciate the thick, dark hair growing on his arms and legs and belly and it all soothes some of the aching. Others, he thinks he ought to find a way to stuff his pores with the hair off his head for all the luck he's having with waiting. Without a word, Hosea doesn't touch his upper lip.

It's an odd feeling, cool shaving cream on his face, and a relief when it comes off with each swipe, blade cleaned on a cloth sat on the man's knee. They're open-legged over a log, facing one another, and he's talking, knees brushing his for something to do with the excess energy of focusing. Dutch is too stuck inside of his own mind to listen to what he's saying about the angle of the razor or how to keep one tidy.

Even the sound of the river they've camped out by is dulled by the case settled over his head. It was loud at first when he closed his eyes, tree branches rustling as dead leaves floated downstream. The air still feels as cold. Hosea apologized for a nick on his jaw when he shivered and caught him off guard. That had felt good, at least.

His hands tremble, anyways, doing fine work like this. Always says he's got the shakes thanks to his shit-heeled father, that ominous way folk refer to mystery ill-traits no one really understands but that seem to flow down the bloodline from one to the next. Dutch said it was better than his daddy being dead, and then he told him he was. He felt a little bad until he laughed about it. That was all a long time ago, Hosea had said, and Dutch thinks the same about that moment between them despite how often he recalls it when he sees his fingers shudder.

The clean side of the cloth, folded with the wiped-marks tucked inside, is a relief when Hosea hands it to him and he holds it over his jaw before wiping it off. It's irritated, complains about being abraised by the cloth again. Just a scrap from an old shirt that was torn while they were out hunting; Dutch recognizes the tartan print. The skin feels scraped raw in places where the man was heavy-handed.

He can't be angry. He's only ever been jealous of the razor nicks along Hosea's face and throat, and now he's got his own.

The conflict finds him again. When he looks at him, Hosea has that sturdy expression he takes on whenever he can tell Dutch is— upset?

He isn't sure if he's upset.

"Steam's comin' out your ears, man," he says, and Dutch knows what's coming before it does. "What're you thinkin'?"

He folds the scrap fabric, takes to fingering at the strange smoothness on his face and the stinging cut that he traces a fingernail over. The difference is minute, but noticeable with all the time he spends anxiously rubbing his jaw.

It's difficult to say while looking at Hosea, but it's just as hard with Hosea looking at him and that much isn't going to change, so he braves the eye contact as he gives shape to the feeling he can't ignore.

"Why're we playin' pretend?" His voice comes out thicker sounding than he meant it, cracking over it wrong and seeming too emotional. He clears his throat. "I ain't—"

"Dunno what you mean, Dutch," Hosea stops him. He takes the cloth to polish his straight razor off before flicking it shut. Glances up at him, and then back to where he's rubbing a fingerprint off the metallic case of the blade. "Man oughtta know how to shave his face."

How to respond escapes him. He fights the urge to be alone. There is no point in it around him. It comes onto him hard on days like these, and he reaches out for Hosea's knee to tether himself to something, to make a reason that he cannot scurry away from the man when he's only being kind.

Only is not it, but Dutch doesn't want to contemplate that on top of what's already running through his mind. Things like if he likes that Hosea says he is a man so easily, and why it stings at times that things seem so simple to him; if he wants Hosea to wish he were different, or if he feels good that Hosea likes him how he is.

Nothing's ever felt simple to Dutch. He isn't sure if it's loathing or jealousy or hurt that makes him chafe against the unquestioning sweetness Hosea has on him. He finds it so easy, it's almost grotesque.

Hosea says that Dutch hates himself, which isn't true. He finds himself quite a good character and usually very right about things, which is what matters most. His face doesn't hurt his self-image either, even if it's a little soft in the cheeks, some men don't grow out of it until their thirties— no, it isn't hatred at all. It's discomfort, some feeling of wrong that doesn't go away until he forgets himself or until, apparently, Hosea says his chest is comfortable to lay on.

Hosea tucks his razor into his jeans pocket to free his hand, placing it over his. He rolls one of his rings around, and the pinch of the webbing of his finger makes him grunt, coming back to his body from wherever he'd gone.

The man is leaning in, some, angling to look up at him with a faux doe-like look in his eyes. They're so soft it makes Dutch sick; he exhales and turns the unwitting smile down to their hands even before he starts sweet-talking.

"Look real handsome," Hosea says, voice soft.

Goddamn him. He's perfected that conman's swagger, and he rarely turns it on Dutch— they both know it's as fake as can be, because they both know how to draw their brows just right, how to look weak and smitten.

"Old fool," Dutch replies. Sometimes things are simple enough, and it soothes the ache to hear the word.

[something-tofightfor]

Fool's Gold 6: Storms Will Pass and I'll Remain

Pairing: Pirate Oberyn Martell x Female Reader (with a twist)

Rating: M.

Word Count: 9,954

Summary: With the pirates taken care of and the truth revealed, you and Oberyn have a lot to talk about. There's only hours to go until you reach Dorne, which means that everything's about to change ... again. Even with Oberyn's assurances, your fears get the better of you, and there's no hiding it.

Author's Note:

IT'S PEDROTOBER 2024 OBERYN MARTELL DAY!!! I couldn't let the day pass without posting.

This is a little longer than expected, but I didn't want to drag out the final hours on the ship more than necessary. I cannot wait to get to Dorne - and hope you're excited, too.

If you want to talk about this story (or any of my others) please feel free to pop into my inbox or DMs!

Chapter title comes from "The Stormchaser" by Caligula's Horse.

Fool's Gold Masterlist

You went back onto the ship’s top deck, Oberyn walking a few paces ahead of you. 

Even in the short time you’d been down in his quarters, the crew had made progress with cleaning up after the attack. 

The wood had been scrubbed free of blood, crates and barrels were stacked back into place, and the prisoners were nowhere to be found. There are no bodies either. You wondered what had been done with them - if they’d been moved back onto the other ship or simply tossed into the water, made into meals for the creatures that lurked below. 

The smell of smoke filled the air and you turned toward the source, watching as the pirates’ ship burned in the distance. “It was necessary.” He touched your arm, drawing your attention back in his direction. “They would have chased us if we’d just let them go back onboard.” 

“And now if they make it to one of the islands and are rescued, they’ll just talk about how they need to find the Blood Adder’s ship.” He nodded. “And this ship won’t be sailing anywhere anytime soon, will it?” 

“No.” You made your way to the same area you’d first spoken in, Oberyn gesturing for you to sit. “No, she’ll need some repairs, and new sails. The next time anyone sees her…” He looked up, eyes lingering on the wheel. “She’ll be a Dornish pleasure ship again.”

“That’s been true this whole time, though.” He smiled at your words, taking a seat next to you. “I understand why you didn’t tell me the truth right away, Oberyn, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t upset.” 

“I know.” He clasped his hands together, one thumb spinning the golden ring on the other. “And I am sorry for lying to you.” He paused long enough to let the apology sink in. “I thought, at first, that you knew who I was.” What? “I thought you were pretending to have no memory and that you recognized me since you knew so much about Oberyn. I assumed it was all a ruse, and because I was finally on my way home, I was … worried.” 

“I didn’t, and it wasn’t.” You bit your lip, wincing as you felt the wound on your side pull. “I thought … I thought that some things about you and this ship didn’t seem right, but I never thought you were Prince Oberyn Martell.” He smiled at that, still staring out at the horizon. “Now, it makes sense, though.” 

“How?” He angled his body toward you, eyes narrowed. “What wasn’t right?” 

“Your hands aren’t rough enough to have lived a life on the sea. You spent far too much time with me to captain the ship.” You looked down at your hands, thinking. “You and your crew are too kind, especially to a woman like me.” You pointed at the plume of smoke. “If they’d found me? There would have been no question about what my future held.” 

He didn’t disagree, but Oberyn did say your name then, reaching over to take one of your hands. He held it gently, eyes downcast to focus on where you were connected. 

“I left the drawers unlocked and the journals out, even in the beginning. But you didn’t read them. You could have at any time, but you didn’t.” He was right - and that reminder made his reaction to you not reading Oberyn’s letters much more understandable, too. He tried to tell me even when he had no reason to trust me. 

“Your promises make more sense now, too.” You held up your other hand, his ring still on your finger. “To keep me safe and to give me choices?” You wiggled your fingers, his gaze rising briefly to watch. “This has a version of the Martell sigil on it, doesn’t it?” He nodded. “Do the people in Tyrosh know that -”

“There are rumors.” He smiled, the expression smug. “The only people that truly know are Doran, Ellaria, my oldest children, the crew on this ship, and a few friends in port cities that I couldn’t avoid.” Of course. “And now you.” 

The gold glinted in the sunlight, and for the first time, you realized exactly what it meant that you were under the protection of the Dornish Prince. “You meant it. You meant that I had a choice about Perle and Oldtown. You meant that I didn’t have to go, and -”

“I did. I do.” He tightened his grip on your hand. “I will invite that Lord to Sunspear and lie to his face about finding pieces of your ship and an empty raft if remaining in Sunspear with me is what you choose. I know you’re worried about your parents, but as I said before, there are options, even though in my opinion they don’t deserve them.” 

Hearing him speak about your parents that way hurt - but not as much as you’d thought it would. Because I think the same, too. They didn’t care where they sent me as long as it meant they survived.

He was right. It wasn’t just that you’d been picked up by a pirate and had a chance at a new life in a far off land when he set you free. Oberyn had promised you a place to stay and whatever type of life you chose in Dorne, including a job. “But if you’re Oberyn Martell, that means that your … that when we get to Dorne, Ellaria will be there. And I’ll just be …” 

If he’d gone back to just a woman he was in love with, that would have been one thing. But Oberyn and Ellaria’s devotion to each other - and the lengths they’d go to prove it - was one of the best known facts in the realm. But so is the understanding that they seek others out often. That realization brought up another thing for you to consider, though. 

“Ellaria won’t like that you’re returning after so long with someone. I know you two don’t have a conventional relationship, but -”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” He moved closer, changing his grip on your hand so that he could slide his fingers between yours. “She will understand, especially when Nymeria and Obara tell her what they know.” You thought back to their surprise when they’d seen his ring on your hand, and that memory made you react almost violently. 

“Take this back.” You pulled your hand free and removed the jewelry, holding it out to him. “I have no business wearing this when we return to your home. It served its purpose, and I’m thankful, but …” But I cannot arrive in Dorne wearing a piece of your jewelry on my finger when Ellaria doesn’t. “But I won’t need it in Dorne.” 

“No, you won’t.” He took the ring back and slipped it on, flexing the digits a few times. “You must have many questions. What’s on those pages answered some things, but … there is so much I couldn’t put into written words.” 

“You were injured in the attack.” He nodded, swallowing. “How did you survive that?”

“When I was stabbed, I went overboard. I’m a good fighter, but in those moments, it was safer for me and my crew to let them think they’d won. I am a strong swimmer, even injured, and I managed to reach one of the below deck windows and climb back onto the ship.” He paused, thinking. “I hid for hours behind a stack of crates, waiting until we were underway again before I snuck out and found some of my men.” 

“I bet they were surprised.” He cocked his head to the side and winked at you. 

“Not as surprised as you might think.” That made you laugh, and when he reached over to take your hand again, you let him, curling your fingers against his. “It was much easier than you’d imagine to overtake the pirates in the darkness and take my ship back.” He nodded. “I killed the man who took this ship with the same weapon that Cersei’s lapdog thought he killed me with. And once they were all gone, the healer finally tended to my wounds.” 

“And you’ve just been sailing around since?” He nodded. “No one wanted to go home? Your whole crew just decided to -”

“A few of them did, and we let them. They were how we got word to Doran and Ellaria and my daughters that I survived. They were the proof my family needed to prepare for the news from King’s Landing and Cersei fucking Lannister.” He snarled the words out and then lowered his head, scoffing. “And we have been sailing ever since, waiting for the right time to go home and reveal to the world that I am still alive and still angry.”

“And now’s the right time.” He nodded twice. “Because of Prince Doran’s health.”

“It has worsened.” Oberyn closed his eyes. “A Martell has ruled Dorne for as long as it has existed, and that will not change. If … when my brother is no longer able to remain in power, my nephew will need guidance.” 

“So you’re going home for good.” He nodded again, his eyes still on the horizon. “Will Cersei try to kill you again?” 

“She’s got bigger problems now.” He smiled, the expression almost soft. “The Dragon Queen. Her own people rebelling against her. Losing two of her sons to death and her daughter to us.” He turned his head, meeting your eyes. “My daughters tell me that Princess Myrcella has fallen in love with Trystane, and does not want to leave Dorne.” 

“A Baratheon and a Martell? That’s quite the surprising pairing.” 

“Hmm.” He nodded, taking a deep breath before his smile turned into a smirk. “It will surprise you more to hear that Baratheon isn’t even the girl’s correct name.” 

There had been rumors that had made their way to Braavos; whispers of Cersei and her own brother together, but you’d never believed any of them. It wasn’t because you didn’t think it possible, instead it was because there’d only been the whispers - and nothing certain. 

“Oberyn, are you saying …” You moved slightly closer, head shaking back and forth. “That the rumors are truths? That the King Robert isn’t actually -”

“I am.” He cleared his throat. “And you can believe me when I say that in Dorne, we care very little what a child’s parentage is, or how it impacts their status or who anyone chooses to love … but a brother and sister passing their children off as future kings or queens under another banner?” His jaw was set. “No. Even that is not acceptable in Dorne, and even a Lannister child deserves better.” 

“But Cersei will want to attend the wedding.” You crossed your arms. “And if it’s in Dorne, then you’ll be in danger. Again.” You didn’t want to think about it; Oberyn fearing for his life in his own home just because a woman was hellbent on revenge.

“We will make those plans when the time comes.” Oberyn reached over and settled his hand on your knee. “They are still a few years away from marriage. And Cersei … she may not have that much time left.” 

You didn’t know what he meant by that. You wanted to ask, but didn’t want to overwhelm him with questions or get overwhelmed with his answers - and so you chose another route - and entirely changed the topic of conversation. “When we get to Dorne tomorrow, what … what will I do?” 

“You’ll come with me to my home. You’ll greet my brother. You’ll meet Ellaria. We’ll tell your story, and then you’ll go off and take a real bath and eat a real meal. You’ll sleep in a real bed, but still have the sounds of the sea coming in through the window, and then …” His smile grew, one of Oberyn’s hands rising so that he could cradle your cheek against his palm. “And then I will show you the place where I was raised.” 

“The palace?” He nodded, swallowing. 

“And the Water Gardens, and the orchards and the markets. All of it. I’m going to make you fall in love with Dorne.” 

“It sounds like it won’t be that difficult for you.” He grinned at your words, shrugging as he pulled his hand back and rested both atop his thighs. “Oberyn, I know … I know that you haven’t been home in a long time, and when you get there, you’ll have things to do.” You paused, looking down at your hands and then back over at him. I might as well say it; we’re both thinking it. “You and Ellaria have a lot of lost time to make up for.” 

“We do.” He said nothing else for a long time, and you watched the smile on his face as it was replaced with a frown. You hated being responsible for putting that expression there, especially when he was so excited about going home.

“I don’t want you to feel responsible for me once we get there. You don’t need to pull yourself away from your family to make me feel comfortable. I’ll just …” You looked away and out over the water, forcing a smile. “I just need a place to sleep and to know where to go for meals, and -”

“Stop.” He reached for you again, whispering your name. “I know what getting back to Sunspear means. I’ve been looking forward to it since the day I pulled myself out of the sea and back onto this ship. But me being back home doesn’t mean that every word that has come out of my mouth to you was worthless.” 

“I never said -”

“No, you didn’t. But for some reason you seem to believe that once I step foot back into Sunspear, you’ll be forgotten or that I won’t want to spend time with you.” He leaned in, locking eyes with you. “That could not be further from the truth.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that the honesty in his eyes - and the seriousness of his tone would matter when you reached Dorne. You wanted to believe that even after Oberyn got his hands back on Ellaria, there’d still be enough of a place for you in his life for what he was promising to become reality. But I can’t count on that. 

“Oberyn, I’m just trying to be realistic. You’re a Prince. You have a woman that is your wife in, as you put it, all the ways that matter. You’re going to have things to do and people to see and stories to tell. You’ll have responsibilities to the throne, even if you’re not in line to inherit. You say that you want me to fall in love with Dorne, but what happens then? I stay and rely on your kindness for the rest of my life just because I find Sunspear or the Water Gardens agreeable?” 

“Tell me what it is that you’re not saying.” He stood abruptly, and for the first time since you’d met him, you saw anger in his eyes that was directed at you. “I want the truth.” He didn’t reach for you. Instead, he let his arms hang loosely by his sides, his fingers curled in toward his palms. 

“My fate in Oldtown with Perle would be to become his wife and bear his children and sit silently and take whatever abuse he deemed appropriate as my husband. I wouldn’t be happy, but I’d know that my parents and their business were alright.” You wet your lips, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “In Dorne? What is my future there? No matter how much I enjoy a place, I still need to make a living if I won’t be married off to someone that is expected to support me. And I’m afraid, Oberyn, that my staying would make it seem like I was taking advantage of your offer or trying to force something impossible. I don’t know that I could accept that.” 

That wasn’t even everything that you weren’t saying - and he knew it. “There is more.” He crossed his arms, waiting. You didn’t want to admit the depth of your worries, because it wasn’t fair to him. “I’ll stand here all night if I need to.” I know you will. 

You weren’t getting out of it, and after a few more moments of thought, you nodded, covering your face and taking a breath to steady yourself. The sooner I say it, the sooner he can set expectations. “I have become attached to you in the time since we’ve met, and I’m not sure how I’ll react when there’s more space and more people between us, Oberyn.”  Ellaria. I’m not sure how I’m going to react to seeing you with the woman you love, even though I knew it was coming. “And going to Dorne may not prove to be as perfect a solution as I hope it will be.”

“What changed?” His tone softened slightly and his posture loosened, Oberyn shifting his feet. “You were excited to go to Dorne and to see it, and now … you’re anticipating the worst before you even get there.”

“I didn’t know you were a Prince. I thought … we’d get to Sunspear and even if you were wealthy or had a large home, we’d still… cross paths occasionally after things settled. I am excited to see Dorne. I’m looking forward to it, but I also dread it because who you are? It changes everything. What you’re going back to? You’re not just returning home to a woman you love. You’re returning to Ellaria Sand, I don’t belong anywhere near -”

“You do if I say you do.” He held out his hands and you took them, letting him help you to your feet. “And I say you do. You will not be a prisoner in Dorne. You will not be expected to marry or have children or serve any man. For as long as you wish to stay, you are a guest of the Martells - my guest. And between you and me?” He leaned closer, the warmth back in his eyes. “I would be happy to have you stay for good.” 

“What do you gain from it?” You pulled free, turning away from him and shaking your head as you stepped toward the railing. “I still don’t remember everything about myself or my past. I can’t offer you coin or an army or -”

“Stop.” He reached out, gripping your upper arm. “I don’t care about any of those things.” He tightened his hold, and even though it wasn’t painful, it was still more tightly than he’d ever held you before. “Turn around and look at me.” 

You did, and were ashamed to realize that there were tears in your eyes. “Oberyn -” His fingers loosened, though he didn’t pull his hand back. 

“You are not the only one who has become attached.” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as it moved back and forth. “The thought of you going anywhere that is not Dorne saddens me. The thought of you returning to your home and letting your parents choose your future or going to Oldtown and letting Perle do what he pleases sickens me.” He lifted his other hand and cupped your cheek with it. “You deserve better. You deserve to have what you want and who you want. I can give you that. Dorne can offer that.” Can you? 

“But why? Why would you do that for me with everything else you’ll return home to? We only met each other weeks ago. I -”

“Because I want to.” He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Because you gave me a chance, even when you didn’t trust me or know who I was.” He opened his eyes and there was sadness in them. “My whole life has been one opportunity after another because of my lineage. I’ve made the most of it, and like to think that I’ve proven that I am more than the Martell name, but …” He looked down and then raised his head, meeting your eyes. “It was new to meet someone new without any of those expectations hanging over my head.”

You hadn’t thought of it that way, but it made total sense. It doesn’t change anything though. “Everyone will just think that I’m one of your -”

“Fuck what they think.” He stepped closer, the sadness in his eyes gone. “It only matters what we think and what we know. ” 

“It’s going to take some getting used to.” He nodded, and you could feel your heart racing. “But will you promise me something?”

“Of course.” He wet his lips. “Anything.” 

You didn’t doubt that he meant it, but you were unprepared for the surety in his voice and the steely look of determination he gave you. It threw you for a few seconds but when you recovered, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, holding it before you let it out slowly. 

“No matter what happens, please don’t lie to me. I know there will be things you can’t tell me about your family’s dealings and that’s to be expected with your position, but I can handle truths. They might hurt, but I need them.” He looked confused. “For example, if Ellaria is unhappy I’m in Dorne, I need to know. I don’t want to cause tension between you, so -”

“If she’s unhappy you’re in Dorne, she will tell you.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “And you’re so concerned with her being displeased that you’re coming home with me, why? We have done nothing wrong.” 

“I forget just how different things are between you two sometimes.” You looked out and over the water, needing a few moments to think. “When it comes to sharing each other, anyway.” It was the truth, and even though he’d told you over and over that what was happening between you wouldn’t be a problem after going home, it was difficult for you to believe it. Even after finding out who he is. 

“I would be a fool to believe that Ellaria hasn’t found someone … or many someones to keep her busy in the time that I’ve been gone.” He shrugged, stepping next to you and turning his body so that he was facing the water. “I certainly kept myself occupied. I will not hold that against her in the same way she won’t question my behavior when it comes to you.” 

It confirmed what you’d thought about him even before learning who he really was - and the truth to the reputation of Oberyn Martell. But. “Bringing someone home is different, Oberyn. And even though we haven’t… even though it’s just been…” You struggled with your words and he saved you, turning his head and murmuring your name. 

“You want the truth from me?” You nodded. “It would be easier to explain things if we already had slept together. But I am not welcoming you to Dorne only to warm my bed, and that is different.” That set off a new flood of panic within you, and you were angry that you hadn’t thought of it at first. Of course us being together just for sex would complicate everything less. That’s what they do.

“We still have tonight.” You rushed the words out, heartbeat racing as you gripped the railing. “We can change that. We can -”

“No.” He settled his hand over yours and squeezed. “The time for that has passed.” You wondered if he meant on the ship or in totality, but couldn’t force yourself to ask. Instead, you opted for humor. 

“Oberyn Martell, turning down a lover? Are you sure it’s really you?” That made him laugh, which eased your panic slightly - but then it went elsewhere and reared back up. “If you’re not bringing me back as that, what will we tell people about who I am and why I’m with you?” 

“That depends on you.” He straightened up and then leaned against the wood, recrossing his arms. “You may want to think that over and decide what you want the story to be after you meet my family. But all we have to say is the truth: I found you in a raft, floating in the water, and I couldn’t just leave you there to die.” It was good advice, but it still didn’t answer exactly who you were or where you’d been going. You still had the token you could use if you chose to disappear, so even if you told the whole truth, you weren’t trapped. “Are you hungry? It’s getting late, and they’re making a feast to use as much of the remaining food as possible.” 

“I am.” You closed your eyes, thanking him for the distraction. “Are you?”

“Very.” He stepped away from the railing and motioned for you to take his hand. “Will you have dinner with me?” 

“Of course, Your Grace.” He rolled his eyes but linked his fingers with yours and pulled you closer, his other hand finding its way to your waist. “Oberyn, what -” 

“Ellaria is going to like you,” he whispered the words, angling his head so that he could speak them directly into your ear. “Because it seems as though you share her enthusiasm for teasing me.” That made you laugh, but it turned into a sharp inhale when he pressed his lips to your temple before pulling back, his smirk full of mischief. “I will have my hands very full between the two of you.” 

You hoped he was right. 

You hoped that when you met Ellaria Sand, you’d get along with her. You desperately hoped that she understood that even before you’d known who he was, you’d cared for Oberyn. And that he cares about me. “We’ll see. Maybe it’s going to be us that have their hands full.” Swallowing back a lump in your throat, you squeezed his hand before he could respond. “Food, Oberyn. I want to hear all about your weapons training.” 

— 

You ate with a large group of the crew and halfway through, Obara and Nymeria breezed in, both of them giddy. 

They sat with you and spent the better part of the evening telling you stories about Oberyn and their upbringing in Dorne. It was clear that despite the way things had begun for them, they’d adapted to the life he’d offered and flourished under his care - and with his love. He’d never send them away only for his own benefit.

Everyone was excited; the room was buzzing with conversation, and even though you were focused on what Oberyn and his daughters were saying, you couldn’t help listening to the others, too. They’re all so happy to be going home.

“Are we boring you?” He was leaning back in his chair, a goblet of wine dangling from between two fingers. “You seem distracted.” Oberyn went quiet, arching a brow and staring you down. It was a look that you hadn’t yet seen from him, and you could feel the heat in it, his eyes bright. 

“Of course not.” You picked up a small handful of berries and ate one of them, gesturing with your hand. “This is the most excited I’ve ever heard or seen the crew, and I’m just … it’s hard not to pay attention to them, too.” 

“They deserve long rests.” He finished the wine and set the cup down, his eyes moving away from you and over the other people in the room. “And they will get them. We all will.” He stood suddenly, clearing his throat. What is he doing? “Everyone.” He held up a hand and the room went silent almost immediately. “I want to thank you.” 

You turned in your chair to stare up at him, watching as his posture changed - shoulders back, head held high. He looked around the room, nodding, and you watched the set of his jaw change too, his lower lip jutting out slightly as his lips turned downward in thought. 

“I have kept you away from your homes and your families and your lives for far too long. I am sorry it took many months. I never intended -” He sighed. “If I didn’t want to be away this long, I can’t imagine any of you would, either.” 

There was murmur of agreement, but no one actually spoke up. It didn’t surprise you. Even though they were likely closer with him than was typical with a member of the Martell family and sailors, it was clear that he’d shifted from pretending to be Daavos to once again being Oberyn in the hours since the Dornish port had become the next destination. And they respect him. They respect his position. They don’t fear him like so many others would fear the ones they serve. 

“You have my gratitude. It has been an honor to spend so many months in such close quarters with people like yourselves who are so loyal to my -”

“For Dorne!” One of the men stood, lifting one hand to his chest and then bowing his head. And  then another man stood, adopting the same position. 

“For the Martells!” Slowly, the others joined them, rising to their feet and making their own declarations - a combination of  the two phrases you’d heard already, accompanied with a few indecipherable ones, too. Even Obara and Nymeria stood, turning their attention toward their father. He reached out and put an arm around both of them, and you could feel the pride he had in them - and what they’d accomplished.

You rose, too, curling your fingers inward before you pressed your fist to your chest. He held power over the crew - and so did his daughters, despite their origins. It impressed you. You were certain that you’d seen the arrivals of nobility in Braavos, and even though you couldn’t remember your entire life, you knew that if you’d seen anything similar, it would have stuck with you. They love him. They love him in a way that the Lannisters could never begin to imagine anyone loving them. 

His daughters were watching the room, their smiles broad. But Oberyn was eyeing you, waiting. And instead of using something that the others had said, you took a deep breath, straightened your shoulders and met Oberyn’s eyes. “Fuck Cersei Lannister.” 

That made him laugh, his head tipping back to expose his throat as his eyes closed. 

It was short lived, though, because Oberyn returned his attention to the crowd and held up his hand again, waiting until the noise had died down slightly. “What are our words?” 

“Unbowed!” The voices were a chorus, with no hesitation. “Unbent!” Oberyn and his daughters joined in, their smiles never faltering. “Unbroken!” It repeated, over and over, the volume growing as people began to bang on the tables and clap their hands together. You didn’t join in - you weren’t Dornish, and it didn’t feel right, but that didn’t seem to matter. 

Oberyn pressed kisses to the tops of his daughters heads before releasing them and beginning to move into the crowd. He circled the room slowly, thanking people one by one. When he made it back to where you stood, he stepped behind you, the heat from his body apparent even through your clothes as you both faced the entirety of the room. 

It was an intimate position, and though everyone’s eyes were on you, you felt no judgment from them at their Prince’s display of affection. Instead, you felt peace - leaning back into Oberyn and allowing yourself a small smile. I can’t get used to this, but there’s no harm in this one moment. He cleared his throat, inching closer.  

“Tomorrow we will be home. Tomorrow we will feel the Dornish sun and smell the Dornish air and gorge on Dornish food and wine. Tonight?” You felt his hand on your hip, his chest pressed against your back as he inhaled deeply. “All I ask is that you make sure we get there safely.” 

Everyone laughed, some shouting out their promises to him. Moments later, the attention fell away from where you stood as people returned to their food and drink. But Oberyn didn’t step away. Instead he urged you to turn around, his hand remaining in place. 

“That was an impressive show, Oberyn.” He winked at you, his lips twisting upward into a smile.

“That was nothing.” He sighed. “Let me walk you back to your room.” Gesturing to your side, he frowned. “It must be painful.” You hadn’t noticed it throughout his speech, but your side did ache. “Obara. Nym. I’ll see you in the morning?” 

Both of them nodded, Obara’s smirk directed at both you and her father, but then they turned away and toward a table where a group of sailors were laughing heartily. “Thank you. But you don’t have to. I can get there on my own.” 

“I insist.” He led you from the room and down the hall, footsteps quiet on the sleek flooring. Both of you stopped to use the commode and washroom, and then resumed your path to his quarters. “I meant what I said in there. All of them - the crew and my men - will get the rest they deserve once we’re home. They have lives and families to get back to, and I’ve stolen enough of their time.”

“They all want to be here, Oberyn. They love you.” You were getting close to the doorway, and your steps slowed, trying to drag out the time until you said goodbye. “They’re all loyal. I’m sure they’ll be happy to be back on land for longer than a few days at a time, but …” You turned to face him. “I very much doubt that any of them hold it against you that they’ve been away for as long as they have.” 

“You may be right.” He took a deep breath, looking over your shoulder at the door to his quarters. “If I was out of line in front of them with you, I apologize. I should not have … put my hands on you, at least without knowing if it would make you uncomfortable.” 

“It didn’t.” Closing your eyes, you lowered your head. “I liked it. I know that’s not how it’s going to be in Dorne, but it was nice to feel so wanted.” He stepped closer, keeping his eyes on you. 

“You really think I won’t want you in -” He was interrupted by the ship’s movement on the waves, and much like the first night you’d been in the same position, you lost your balance. You took two steps forward, both hands shooting out to steady yourself. 

He caught you, keeping you upright, but that night, he didn’t hesitate to hold you close. He said your name quietly, one hand on your elbow and the other pressed to your back. You had every reason to push him away - the fact that he was a prince, the fact that he was going home to Ellaria Sand, the fact that he’d already told you that there was no chance for sex on the ship and letting yourself get even closer was a dangerous game - but instead of that you curled your fingers in his shirt and sighed. 

“I’m not going to stop you from kissing me like I did the first night, Oberyn.” 

His eyes flashed but he didn’t keep you waiting. His hand slid up to the back of your head and angled it so that when he leaned in to press his lips to yours, the connection was perfect. The kiss didn’t linger, though, and it was Oberyn that backed away first, clearing his throat. “Goodnight. We should arrive in Dorne before midday tomorrow, so -”

“I thought you said you wanted to stay.” It was a risk, but if you were going to believe what Oberyn said to you, you needed to begin with accepting the things that he’d said before you knew who he was. Because he said nothing was changing. He said he still wants me. “Just this morning, you said you wanted to spend the night. Has that changed?” 

Questioning Oberyn - even in private - wasn’t something that you’d ever expected yourself to do, but in the darkness of the hallway, you did it anyway. All he can say is no. “Even though I lied to you for weeks?” You nodded, heart pounding as you tried to keep your breathing steady. “Even though you believe that after tomorrow, nothing will be the same between us?” 

“Especially because I know that once we’re back in Dorne, it may be some time until I see you after sundown, Oberyn.” It stung, but it was the truth. “Between Ellaria and your duties and all of the Dornish pleasure houses that have certainly missed your patronage for the last two years, I’ll have to wait my turn.” 

He blinked a few times before taking a deep breath, and then Oberyn reached around you and pushed the door open, nodding. Reluctantly, you turned away and walked in, the realization that it was the last time you’d enter for the purpose of sleeping hitting you all at once and stopping you in your tracks. 

“What’s wrong?” The sound of the door closing behind him was soft, and then his arms were around you, Oberyn’s mouth next to your ear. “Is everything alright?” 

“This is the last night I’ll… we’ll spend in this room.” You looked around, eyeing your surroundings. “I remember much of my home, but this room… this ship, and you, Oberyn…” You turned to face him again, your lower lip trembling. “I feel safe here, with you. And I know that Dorne is safe, too, and that people will help to reassure me of that.” But it scares me. “It’s not just about us being different once we’re on land, it’s everything.” 

He was frowning, his eyes searching your face, but Oberyn didn’t answer you. You wondered if you’d said the wrong thing, wondered if you’d voiced the thing that would make him regret inviting you to his home. But when his expression softened and Oberyn closed his eyes, sighing, instead of pushing you away he pulled you closer, urging you toward him. 

“I did not consider that, and I should have.” He spoke against your hair, his chest rising and falling steadily. “It will be different. It will be new. But you will not be truly alone. Even if I am not with you, or one of my daughters aren’t beside you, you’ll have everything you need. Anything you might want. I hope … I hope that one day, you will feel as at home in Dorne as I do.”

It was an offhand comment, but you understood the significance of it. You feeling that comfortable in Dorne would only happen if you were there long term, and that was only possible if you chose to stay for good. You closed your eyes and hugged him tightly, hissing out in pain as the wound on your side rubbed against your clothing. 

Oberyn immediately let you go, holding you at arm’s length and letting his eyes drop. “I need to see that.” You lifted the material without thought and Oberyn dropped to his knees, the tips of his fingers gently skating over your skin and then removing the bandage. Staring down at the crown of his head, you tried to stay still as he examined you, though it was difficult because of the pain - and because of the way your stomach bottomed out at the way he touched you. 

“Despite my best efforts, this may require an actual healer.” He glanced up, and you saw the worry in his eyes. “It is deep, and if the blade was filthy, it will need to be thoroughly cleaned.” 

“You cleaned it.” Wincing as he touched the skin just below the injury, you let out a shaky breath. “You studied poisons, and -”

“I do not think he poisoned you.” Oberyn reached for more bandages and re-covered the area, securing it with a small knot. “But I do think the blade was dirty. And while supplies on this ship are limited, they’re plentiful on land.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to the dressing, his hands on your hips. 

It was a position that you’d never have even dreamed to find yourself in - the Red Viper of Dorne on his knees in front of you - and so when he pulled away enough to look up and meet your eyes, you savored the sight of him. 

There was need in his gaze, and you didn’t try to stop yourself from lifting your hand to drag your fingers through his hair. “You should get up, Oberyn. A Prince on his knees for a commoner?” 

He stayed in place, lips splitting apart in a toothy grin. “There is nothing common about you.” That made you laugh, and a few seconds later he did stand, his hands sliding up your body so that both of them could cradle your jaw, tilting your head back. “And you will find that I enjoy being on my knees far more than the average man. Give it time.” 

You gasped, but it was a quick sound, Oberyn’s lips meeting yours again - and that kiss wasn’t slow or gentle. Despite the pain in your side, you melted into him, hands grasping at his shirt as he repositioned both of his to hold you even closer. 

With his hands on your body and mouth on yours, it was easy to forget what was coming and what would change once you arrived in Dorne. And though you knew it would only make things harder for you, you let yourself forget - let yourself kiss him back, one hand slipping under the deep neckline of his shirt, nails scraping against his chest. 

Oberyn only broke the kiss long enough to breathe and then he resumed it, urging you to draw his full lower lip between yours as he turned both of you toward the bed, the groan he let out when your lips turned into teeth dragging over that same lip long and low. 

You wondered what other sounds he made, and what sounds he’d be able to pull from you, but before you could get lost in those thoughts, he let you go, whispering your name. “Someone is feeling adventurous tonight.” You inhaled deeply, lips parted as you looked at him. I got carried away. “I wish I could let you continue.” 

“I understand.” You let out your breath, closing your eyes. “Oberyn, I’m -”

“Don’t you dare apologize.” He laughed, the hand on your hip tightening. “We should get some rest, though.Tomorrow will be a long day.” He was right, and when you moved away from him to sit on the edge of the bed to remove your boots, he began to undress, too. 

You watched him - eyed his movements in the low light, the candles casting a warm glow across his skin once he removed his shirt. His pants hung low on his hips, and when he loosened them, they dropped even lower, exposing more of his lower back. He was teasing you - tempting you, and though in the coming days, you figured the memory of his bare body would make waiting harder, you were thankful. 

You climbed into the bed first, rolling onto your uninjured side and waiting until Oberyn had joined you to speak. “Will I be watched while you’re doing whatever it is that you need to do, Oberyn?” He smiled, inching closer and carefully draping an arm over your side. “I’ve never been in a castle before, and I don’t know what to expect.” 

“My words will never do it justice,” he started, moving his hand up your arm slowly. “I can tell you that it is beautiful. I can tell you what I love about it and why, but until you see it? Until you’re there? You will never understand.” His fingers danced over your skin, the tips of them dragging along the curve of your neck before he flipped his hand over and trailed his knuckles over your jaw and then up and over your cheek. “You will only be watched if you wish to be.” 

“What does that mean?” You yawned, turning your face toward the pillow and closing your eyes. “If I wish to be?” 

“There are many people employed by House Martell in Sunspear.They attend to our needs - whatever they might be. And as my guest, someone will attend to you, too.” What? “I have a confession to make.” That got your attention, but it took a few seconds for Oberyn to continue. “I have been away from home for so long that I am … worried about what will happen when I’m back in Sunspear.” 

That admission - moreso than anything else he’d said or promised - convinced you that Oberyn truly trusted you and cared for you. You had a feeling that there were very few people who ever saw the vulnerable side of the Red Viper, and even though it would have been a great tactic to use to win you over, you were certain that he wasn’t trying to do that. He’s admitting something to me that he won’t tell anyone else. 

“What are you worried about?” He wet his lips and then squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sure they won’t expect you to -” 

“As Daavos I was free to live my life however I wanted to.” He sighed. “And in Dorne, it is much the same, but with Doran’s health, I … I’m worried that I’ll be asked to immediately return to politics and be much more involved than before. I have so much to catch up on, and I don’t want to fail after I’ve already asked so much of them.” 

“Oberyn, they’re going to give you time to adjust to being home.” You stroked his beard, shaking your head. “They have to. All of the news you’ve gotten has been secondhand or delayed. I don’t know your family, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Leaning closer, you rested your forehead against his. “They’ll give you time. They need you. And they need you at your best.” 

His uncertainty should have shattered your image of him. Coming from anyone else, it would have diminished his reputation - put doubt into your mind about just how intimidating he was, or what he was capable of. But it doesn’t. It makes me … respect him more. 

“You barely know me and you have so much faith in me. Why?” 

“Because you’re the Red Viper of Dorne.” Backing away to meet his eyes, you said his name. “Because you fought a mountain of a man to avenge your family and walked away from a fight that no one thought you’d survive…and you did it twice.” His eyes flashed and you continued. “Because you pulled me from the Narrow Sea and helped me when you had no real reason to.”  And you’re still helping me. “You haven’t given me a reason to doubt you.”

“I lied to you. I let you think I -”

“Your name and status were a lie, but everything else was the truth.” Smiling, you shrugged. “I hope, anyway.” 

“It was. It is.” He shifted closer, one of his legs rising from the bed and bending at the knee before it settled over yours. “I told you everything about myself without revealing who I was, and all of that was true.” 

“Then let yourself enjoy going home. Your family has been waiting for two years. Ellaria has been waiting for you for two years. And I’m sure she’s going to tell you the same thing I am right now.” 

“She will.” He smiled, eyes drifting closed. “The two of you together …. I’m in trouble.” 

You wondered what he meant by that. Was it possible that he thought that you and Ellaria would become friends? Did he want that to happen? And if he does, why? You’d known that Wyllam had been with other women before you. You’d understood that some of them were from Braavos, but you’d never entertained the thought of friendship with them. Even if I knew who they were, I don’t think … 

But Oberyn and Ellaria were a different story - and their relationship was also different. You weren’t naive enough to believe that spending time with Oberyn in Dorne would be time spent between just the two of you, but you’d never actually considered that he’d want you to get to know Ellaria, too. Or if she’ll want to get to know me. 

“Oberyn?” He opened his eyes, waiting to see what you’d say. “I’m … sorry that I’ve been the way I am about… where I fit in with you and in Dorne. All of this is a surprise to me, and finding out that you’re who you are only complicates it more.” 

“It is a lot to take in.” His hand moved back down your body and came to rest just below where you were injured. “I just ask you to give it a chance before you decide that you can or cannot be a part of it.” 

It was a reasonable request. And despite the way you felt about him, and the fact that you’d never dreamed of possibly sharing a man’s attention long term with others before, the truth was that you didn’t know what would be more difficult for you: only having Oberyn in your life in a small way, or not having him there at all. 

“Sleep now. You’ve had a busy day.” He leaned in, taking a short breath before brushing his lips against yours. “And tomorrow will be even busier.” 

He was right. Even though you knew your day would be less demanding than his, it was still going to be a change from the life on the ship that you’d gotten used to over the previous weeks. “Goodnight, Oberyn.” You whispered the words, inching even closer to him so that you could tuck yourself against his chest, forehead resting against the top of his shoulder. 

You didn’t know what was going to happen once you got to Dorne. There was no way to predict what you’d feel - or what Oberyn or Ellaria would feel - once you were on land and everyone had settled in. 

But you did know that if it was the last night you’d get to fall asleep next to Oberyn, you were certainly going to make the most of it. 

— 

When you woke up the following morning, he was still in bed - but his eyes were open, and he was staring at you. He looks tired. He shouldn’t, because - “Oberyn, did you sleep?”

“No.” He blinked, chuckling. “I couldn’t.” 

“Too excited?” His laugh got louder, Oberyn’s eyes closing to show off the crow’s feet at the corners. “I didn’t think it was funny, Prince Oberyn, so -”

“I am excited. But like I said, this ship? It has been home for a long while, and I will miss it.” He let out a breath and then said your name. “And I will miss these last weeks with you, too.” His words hit you hard, but you were quick to speak, rushing your own reply out before you could give yourself too long to think about what they meant. 

“As soon as you set foot on Dornish soil, none of this will matter.” Backing away, you took a deep breath. “All you’ll feel is excitement to be back home and with the people you love.” It was easier that way - to set expectations for him, but also for yourself. “You won’t have time to miss this.” You gestured to the room with one hand, smiling at him. “And speaking of that, I wonder how close we are. I should get up and get dressed, and -”

“We have time.” Oberyn leaned in, kissing your forehead. “Plenty of it.” 

“I think that’s the first actual lie you’ve told me.” Both of you laughed, and you let yourself enjoy the closeness with him for a few moments longer before sitting up, careful of your bandaged side. “I need to get into the dress Nymeria and I chose, and it might take me a while. It’s not as straightforward as Braavosi attire.” 

“I can stay and help.” He propped himself up on one elbow, arching a brow. “I am very skilled with -”

“I need to put it on, Oberyn, not take it off.” That made him laugh again, but instead of arguing with you, he sat upright and then stood, stretching before he began the process of tightening his pants and putting his boots back on. “Should … I come to the top deck once I’m dressed? Should I bring my things? I -”

“You can leave everything.” He turned to look at you over his shoulder, nodding. “Pack it together, and someone will bring it to your room later. It will be safe here, you have my word.” Thanking him, you looked up at where he stood, watching as Oberyn turned to face you again. “But yes. Get dressed. Find something to eat. I’ll be topside. My daughters will, too.” 

He didn’t say anything else before he left the room, your eyes following him until the door shut and obscured him from view. It was a strange goodbye, and unlike any of the others he’d given you, but you figured he was just distracted by the fact that he was so close to home after so long. 

As you got out of bed and carefully packed all of your things into a small satchel, you wondered if he was beginning the process of distancing himself from you in preparation for reuniting with his family. You hoped he wasn’t. You hoped that he wouldn’t. It is a possibility, though, even if it’s temporary. 

It didn’t take as long as you expected to redress yourself in what you’d chosen. Once you got the straps and ties situated properly, you let out a slow breath. More of you was exposed than you were used to, but you still felt good in it, the soft material flowing over your skin in a way that your other attire hadn’t. You wondered if you’d have the opportunity to choose more clothing in Dorne, or if the outfit was a one time thing, meant only to impress Prince Doran and the royal council upon your first meeting. I have coin. I could probably buy … Looking down, you smoothed your hands over the fabric, smiling at the way it felt against your palms. Hmm. 

You hadn’t chosen a pair of shoes to go with it, though. So before you headed to the galley to find something to eat, you went back to the room that you and Nymeria had visited and opened a trunk, digging through it. You ended up with a comfortable pair of slippers in gold, sliding your feet into them and wiggling your toes at the freedom they afforded you. I could get used to this. 

With one last look at your boots, you bit your lip and turned away from them, heading for the door.

You were hungry but too anxious to eat anything substantial, and after grabbing a stonefruit, you headed up to the main deck, stepping out and into the sunshine. Tilting your face upward, you inhaled deeply, eyes closed. 

He’d told you that you’d still be able to hear the sea from your room in the castle, but you wondered if you’d be able to smell it, too. I’ll ask him. I - Your mind went blank as you opened your eyes and saw that the largest sail had been replaced with a new one, the Martell sigil in the center of it and unmistakably visible. 

Your heart raced at the sight, and you moved one hand to cover it, pressing your palm against your chest as you stared upward. It’s really happening. He’s going home, and he’s making an entrance. Blinking twice, you lowered your eyes and scanned the deck, looking for more changes. 

Some of the crew were wearing armor, their chests and shoulders covered in what looked like reinforced leather pieces. Others had changed from the attire you’d grown accustomed to into more flowing garments, though there were a few that had kept the casual dress that you and Oberyn had also adopted. 

You saw Obara and Nymeria first, both of them leaning against the railing on the deck up and near the wheel, their backs toward you. He can’t be far. There was a flash of yellow to your right, and when you turned to look and see what it was, you gasped, mouth hanging open. Oberyn. 

He’d changed clothes, too, and you recognized the new ones immediately. The yellow coat from the wardrobe. He strode toward you, arms swinging by his sides, and all you could do was stare. The coat reached mid-calf, and was held closed by a belt that sat low on his waist. His chest was still bared, the tanned skin visible between the panels of golden material and the slightly darker underlayer. 

But what was completely new was the thick golden chain and large pendant he wore around his neck, the metal glinting in the sunlight. You realized that the formal dress was for show, and while you understood why he’d opted to wear it as you sailed back into Dorne, you wondered what Oberyn preferred. He looks comfortable. He looks… like a prince. 

He’d wet his hair down, too, combing through the tousled curls and then pushing them away from his face, but one of them wasn’t behaving like the others. Instead, it had caught the wind and was hanging over his forehead, reminding you that even though he was dressed differently, he was still the Oberyn you’d met weeks earlier. I wonder if he’ll keep it long once we dock. I wonder if he’ll shave his face, or - 

“Dornish clothing suits you.” He stopped just in front of you, eyes moving up and down the entire length of your body. “You chose well.” 

“Nymeria helped.” You used one hand to adjust your skirt. “I think she pulled this one out because it …” You eyed his robe from up close, breath catching in your throat. Oh, Nymeria. What were you thinking? The stitching on your dress matched what was on his robe - the golden threads woven into sun shapes that were broken up by tiny spears. “It matches. Oberyn, I didn’t mean to -”

“Do not apologize.” He reached for your hand, fingers curling around yours when you took it. “I would have chosen the same one for you.” His smile widened. “Come. There is something I want to show you.” 

You let him lead you up to where Nymeria and Obara stood, both of them giving you quick glances before they turned their attention back toward the horizon. Oberyn stepped behind you as you gripped the railing with both hands, his chest flush with your back. He lifted one arm and used his finger to point ahead of you. 

It took you a few seconds to see what he was focused on, and when you did, you felt your heart skip and tears well up in your eyes, even as he used his free hand to pull you backwards and toward him, his fingers splayed over your stomach.  

“There.” He rasped the word into your ear, his voice thick. “That is Dorne. We’re almost home.” 

—  

[wolfpawzjakey]

Jason is protecting Percy.

One stupid son of Ares looks at Percy with lust and one day behaves too brazenly with him and Jason turned out to be next to him.

And thanks to the bitter experience of this fool, everyone remembers that Jason is the son of Jupiter, raised by Lupa.

Jason’s not typically the jealous type, Percy might be a naturally charming guy, but Jason has no problem with how Percy acts with his peers and their friends.

He however cannot stand the son of Ares getting in Percy’s space. The air of arrogance surrounding his would tick him off on any normal day, but the aggressive and uncomfortable closeness he keeps trying to apply to Percy is what really gets him started up. He’s not right next to Percy when the guy first approaches him, he’s talking with some kids, but he sees the situation beginning to unfold.

Percy has the strength, mentally and physically, to send the dude running in terror, but knowing Percy too, he’s more than likely to try to let this issue come and pass with no issues. He’s not violent but the entire opposite. He’s not really one to start a fight unless necessary, he’s extremely careful post Tartarus. Jason knows it well that Percy can handle himself, he knows and yet he still worries, how could he not. So, he keeps his senses split, focusing on the kids with him and Percy at the same time, a little slower in his response time, but doing it all the same.

The teaching moment stops though when this dude first lays a hand on Percy, it’s sleazy and Percy’s face is laced with discomfort. Percy quickly removes the others hand from where it’s tried to grip onto his waist, but the guy just pushes more, eyes swirling with lust and Jason has almost never felt more enraged in his life. He tensely excuses himself before setting toward the two in pure determination. The whole time, Percy pulling away, frustration heavily evident on his own face while this idiotic man keeps forcing his hands all over Percy. No matter how much or in what way Percy signals or says to this guy, he won’t back off.. This Ares camper, Jason just doesn’t know how he hasn’t been kicked from the camp, he’s done things like this before but has always fucked off right in time, but he’s holding on tight, dripping a sickening emotion into the areas vicinity, Jason can feel the thick tension of Percy’s anxiety and anger, he can also feel the buzzing lust off the areas councilor.

“Come on baby,” Jason hears from the offender, “I can be everything your boyfriend can’t be.” His hand reaches again to touch Percy, but never makes it that far, hand freezing as a sharp golden blade touches just under his chin. The air around the three begins to crackle with energy, intensifying when the councilors eyes shakily meet Jason’s stormy eyes. “Jason,” Percy says, voice stern but Jason won’t back off, blade resting comfortably against the offenders sensitive skin, not heavy enough to draw blood, but enough that it could with just a touch more pressure.

“Hey man, back off, I was just messing with him, i swear.” Jason said nothing, electricity buzzing louder around them. The air smelt metallic, and in his peripherals, he could see other campers reacting to it as well, either watching in anticipatory fear or scuttling away from the scene. Percy tugged at his arm, gently as to not jostle him too much with the blade still in its position. “Jace, enough.”

Jason released a harsh, shaking breath, dropping his sword from the others neck, looking down at him. The electricity hadn’t faded from the air yet when the ares councilor moved to strike, eyes filled with anger now that he wasn’t quivering in cowardice, but without even flinching Jason knocked him back with a strong but not totally ridiculous gust of wind. Enough to leave him on the ground and groaning for a while at least. It’s less than he wishes he could do.

When he turns his attention entirely back to Percy he’s met with a look of both amusement and exasperation. He also looks relieved and like his emotions are still buzzing under his skin. Jason huffs softly and pulls Percy into a tight hug, feeling tension melt from Percy and himself. “Kick their ass next time anyone tries that shit on you. I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.” Jason mumbles into Percy’s hair. He can imagine the eye roll in full detail, but Percy nods anyway.

-

I’m a 100% believer that Percy can and will fight his own battles, but I also feel like he struggles with the thought of hurting other campers and councilors since he’s got a decently high kill count of them. I also hc that he really struggles with fighting post the stuff in Tartarus because post blood control he’s grown fearful of himself and can really only fight on a clear mind when danger is the only thing he has time to think about. He’s still an incredible and untouchable fighter, but he’s much more adamant about solving things without fighting or just kind of pushing his emotions aside so he doesn’t actually cause any accidents.

Jason knows these things about Percy too, so despite Percy being able to help himself, when he really struggles with doing so, even if it’s just removing himself entirely from a situation, Jason steps in. Usually, it’s simple as actually removing Percy from said situations, but he does fight Percy’s fights from time to time. Percy doesn’t argue with him on it.

-

Thank you for your ask anon :3 I had fun with this one

[venomwrites]

CaitVi but involve Jinx?

Spoilers for 2x08

Kind of a followup to Caitlyn cleaning VI up but it's not necessary to read that first

Caitlyn’s body moves without consent as she rides the elevator down. 

She has to do something to make this better. Something for Vi. She has been able to tell herself all kinds of lies with Vi’s absence. Probably with her time before. No, before she just listened to Vi’s bullshit. Because Vi wanted to make he happy. 

There is one thing Vi cares about. 

“I’ll take that,” she says, picking up the tray of food. 

Jinx looks small in the cell. 

Small in the same way Caitlyn saw when they first laid eyes on each other after the flare. She hasn’t since. Caitlyn is intimately familiar with the damage small objects can do. She tells herself she is not fooled by the small, curled up creature who is sobbing into her knees. The stupor that had her listlessly following them has eased. Caitlyn knows this part. Now the grief has dug in its claws. 

Your blood in her veins

Why do you sound like her?

“You sister survived surgery,” she says, unable to listen to the small sounds Jinx is making, “she’s resting.”

“Vi’s alive?” Jinx croaks. 

“Yes,” Caitlyn says. She could throw the food at the door and say nothing more. But she thinks of Vi just laying there and how furious she would be, “she isn’t out of the woods but the doctors don’t think she’s in any immediate danger.”

Jinx wipes at her face messily. Just that movement has Caitlyn jerking back, nearly spilling the water on the tray. She is better than this. Better than the memory of those ultraviolet eyes staring at her from her own bathroom mirror. 

“Did you see her?” Jinx questions. 

For a moment it’s Vi looking back at her from that cell. Where did you get these. Caitlyn tries to remember if they had the same eyes before the Shimmer painted JInx’s that color. But the memory of Vi is replaced by the image of her on the hospital bed and finally back to where Jinx is looking at her suspiciously. 

“Yes,” she says. Annoyance pricks at her, “I am not lying,” she snaps. 

Jinx just keeps staring at her and it is unbearable. Caitlyn drops the tray by the food slot and pushes it forward with her foot. She expects Jinx to grab her but she doesn’t. She just watches every move as Caitlyn nudges the tray forward and steps back. Caitlyn cannot take the gaze and walks over to the elevator. 

“Why did you tell me?” Jinx asks. 

“Vi would want you to know.” 

&&&

Vi crashes in the morning. 

It takes three doctors to stabilize her enough before they rush her to surgery again to cut her back open. Find the bleed. Find the swelling. Find what is making her die and relieve it before it can put her down for good. 

Caitlyn can only watch as they swarm over her. 

She’s powerless. 

“She had another surgery,” she tells Jinx. Jinx’s fingertips pause their listless drawing, “She’s alive.”

“She’s not getting better,” Jinx says. 

“That’s not what the doctors say,” Caitlyn shoots back. Jinx scoffs something that sounds suspiciously like Topsider and Caitlyn sees red, “what would you know?! You haven’t been around!”

Jinx lays her head on her knees and shifts enough to lock eyes with her. Caitlyn hates the appraising look in her eyes. She told everyone Jinx was dangerous. Vi always mentioned how smart she was. The bars of the cell are a cold comfort as Caitlyn gets the distinct impression Jinx is here only because she wants to be. 

“You talkin to me or yourself?” She asks. 

The desire to kill her rears up again and immediately gets overwhelmed by the guilt. Jinx is right. Worse, she knows she is right. Who is she to speak about Vi’s state in any sense but the medical one. It’s not just her new, urgent wounds. It’s her half healed ones too. Infected cuts, a fungal infection, vitamin deficiencies, concerning liver values—Vi has been doing everything but taking care of herself. And that, Caitlyn knows, is her fault. 

“I’m telling you what the doctors have said because Vi would want you to know,” Caitlyn says, trying to reach for the voice that puts obedience into people’s hearts, “That is the only reason I’m here. Not to talk to you.”

Jinx looks as though she is going to say something further. But then she looks back down at the floor. Her fingers resume their drawing. Caitlyn wants to remind her she can have her killed with a snap of her fingers. She has all of the power here. 

But then she thinks of Vi with the paddles pressed to her chest.

She has no power when it really counts. 

&&&&

“You say you were out of your mind when we were walking back,” Jinx says, “were you when you kissed her?”

It’s sometimes the bitterest pill to swallow. She can say she was not in her right mind. Dismiss her actions as those of a woman mad with grief. But she wanted to kiss Vi. She wanted to kiss her for so long. To feel the cut in Vi’s lips against her own, to feel what it felt like to have Vi’s arms around her. Not out of pity but out of desire. And they were, they were around her and then Caitlyn had to go and ruin everything. 

“Do you love her?” 

The words make her freeze. 

Jinx waits until she is crouched in front of the cell with the tray to ask. Vi is alive, healing. Caitlyn tells herself it’s security that drives her down here to deliver the tray. It’s been a hard day so she lets herself have the excuse. 

“Why would I answer that?” Caitlyn demands, “why would I talk about my feelings with you?”

Jinx considers her. 

“You keep coming down here,” she points out, “you didn’t even say if Vi had surgery today.” 

Caitlyn strongly dislikes being called out. But Jinx is not wrong. She does keep coming down here. She doesn’t even tell herself it’s because she’s concerned about someone poisoning Jinx. She barely touches the food except when she’s threatened with force feedings. 

“I want to know if there’s a person in you,” she says. 

“No,” Jinx replies. 

“No?” 

“She chose me,” Jinx says, “you’re trying to figure out why because you hate me.” 

Anger surges through her.

“You destroyed the Undercity and killed my mother! Of course I hate you!” Caitlyn shouts. 

The anger is blinding, but it’s unsatisfied. It doesn’t feel good to shout at this broken creature. She can cling to things like the law and intent all she wants. The fact is if Jinx was from a respectable family in Piltover a judge would call her insane and send her for treatment. 

“I kidnapped you.”

“What?” She looks at her.

“If we’re listing my crimes. I kidnapped you,” she draws on the ground, “I blew up my dad—“ her face tightens, “there are others,” she looks at Caitlyn, “Vi still chose me.” 

She’s back in that temple screaming at Vi. Hitting her. Leaving her. Like everyone leaves her. 

“Yes, alright. I hate that she chose you,” Caitlyn says before she can properly think. Jinx looks at her. Caitlyn doesn’t want to be here confessing things. But Vi is slowly dying up there. And Caitlyn cannot confess to her, “you’ve caused so much pain.”

“But she loves me,” Jinx says, “I was happy when she chose me but then I saw how unhappy she was without you,” Caitlyn feels sick, “she didn’t choose me completely. She chose you too. It just wasn’t enough for you. But she does love you.” 

Caitlyn presses her back against the wall. Somewhere she surely knew what Jinx is saying. Which means she’s right. It wasn’t enough. Vi never chooses anything in half measures and the fact she chose this to try it out—it stings. It feels like a betrayal. It isn’t and Caitlyn hates that she knows that and her heart doesn’t care. 

“Everything she did, she did it for you,” Jinx continues, “that’s what Vi does. She’ll go to the ends of the earth for the people she loves,” her eyes peer at Caitlyn’s through a mess of blue hair, “it’s hard to be loved like that.”

Caitlyn feels her throat go tight but she shoves the feeling back. 

They both know Jinx is right. 

&&&&

“It’s an eating day,” Caitlyn announces as she pushes the tray through the slot. Jinx gives her an annoyed look, “it’s been two days. You know what will happen.”

Jinx sighs and picks up the sandwich. On days when she eats her energy perks back. She’s more talkative, more alert. Caitlyn likes those days because it is much easier to hate her on them. She looks down at the water Jinx has used to paint things. Much to her shock, she recognizes something.

“Is that Jayce’s old studio?”

“No,” Jinx says, “that’s just some guy we robbed,” her brows knit together, “when everything went wrong.”

“When you blew it up!” Caitlyn says. Jinx pauses and for the first time looks intrigued, “I was there!”

“You were?”

“Yes! The door was jammed. We couldn’t open it,” her mind is spinning, “you—Vi was there?” Jinx nods slowly. Caitlyn tries to think back to that hallway. She remembers the sounds of people scrambling and the muttered voices, “I dropped something.”

“So did I,” Jinx laments, “after we heard you.”

“You heard me,” Caitlyn repeats. 

Jinx gives her a halfhearted annoyed look. Caitlyn knows she’s repeating things but she cannot help it. Vi was on the other side of that door. She presses her fingertips to her lips. Tries to imagine what Vi may have looked like at that age. Her stomach twists when she realizes the rocket Jinx fired at her mother was not the only time she tried to blow up someone Caitlyn loved. The familiar anger is acidic in her mouth but it’s more vinegar than bile. 

Because Vi was there too. 

And slowly Caitlyn is realizing that may matter more. 

&&&&

The day Vi starts to wake up is the worst day of Caitlyn’s life. 

She knows it does not happen all at once. It’s a gradual process. But it’s hell. She cannot kick the doctors out. She does not know what to do. She can only watch as they remove tubes and try to cajole a response from Vi. Vi struggles and makes the most horrible sounds that cut through Caitlyn’s defenses. It hurts so much to see she practically flees down to Jinx’s cell. 

“What happened?” Jinx is instantly at the bars.

“She’s waking up,” Caitlyn chokes out. 

“Okay? Why do you look like that?” Jinx questions, “Is she okay?” 

“She’s fine, she’s in pain,” she says. Jinx rolls her eyes like Caitlyn has just said the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. Maybe it is. Vi is always in some kind of pain, “I don’t like seeing her in pain.” 

“Me neither but you look wrecked,” Jinx observes. 

“I—“ Caitlyn stops. Collects herself. Jinx sighs and shakes her head. 

“You’re not going to do anything about it.”

“That’s not true!”

“You think when she wakes up its gonna be sunshine and roses?” She shakes her head, “Vi’s going to yell at you and scare you off. Just don’t hit her this time she’s still healing.” 

“How dare you!” Caitlyn glares. 

“I’m not the one who hit her,” she says. 

Caitlyn can scarcely believe her ears. Jinx has done so much worse. Nearly killed her more times than she can count. Caitlyn knows she has made terrible mistakes but this is different. Surely it is different. They are not comparable. 

You sound like her

 Only one of them flooded the Undercity with drugs. 

You sound like her

Hurt Vi

You sound like her

It’s her blood in your veins!

Caitlyn’s back hits the wall. 

“You sound like her,” the words slip out of her mouth, “that’s why I’m here. You sound like her.”

Jinx moves over and places herself in the corner closest to Caitlyn. It’s only a wall that separates them. In another world perhaps it is her in the cell and Jinx is the one who prevents all of this. Maybe then Vi gets to be happy. 

“You love her, don’t you?”

Caitlyn nods, though she knows Jinx cannot see her. She cannot say those words to her first. No matter how human she has become as they both wait for Vi to wake up. 

“What if she chooses me again?” Jinx asks. 

“I don’t know,” Caitlyn says.

“Will you still love her?”

Caitlyn wishes this was not a real question. Then she feels like a fool for realizing it will always be a facet of whatever it is between them. It is Jinx’s blood flowing through her veins. And Caitlyn has reflected her actions in every scream of grief. They have both brought Vi to this place. 

“Yes,” Caitlyn whispers. 

“What if you mess it up again?” Jinx asks. 

“I’m a Kiramman,” Caitlyn snaps, “we don’t fail.” 

Something sets in Jinx’s eyes. She considers Caitlyn for a long moment and then gets to her feet. 

“I’m not going to talk to you anymore,” Jinx says and walks to the far corner. “Next time you come down here it should be to kill me,” she says. 

&&&

Vi wakes up properly. 

And everything changes. 

[annie3eee]

So i draw my oc for mortal kombat because the laziness in me is gone for a bit

Isnt she lovely? Her name is akito ofc and if you see an old drawing of her back then when i draw her PLEASE FORGET ABOUT THAT!? that shit was a first design and testing😔 anyways heres her hcs :

-akito hayahsi

-shes a shogun (yeah its cringe ikr?)

-good friends with lord Liu Kang,harumi,kenshi,and mileena,raiden,johnny,ashrah,sonya,takeda mk 1,and geras.(Thats a lot)

-secretly likes kung lao

-okay so this is cringe but whatever i wanna share with yall,so she was the first fire goddess in the mk series she lived like raiden and wishes to be around humans like fujin did but she is also tired being a goddess so ahem here comes the cringe part when raiden was making a plan in mk11 to defeat kronika but he knows his powers is not enough to be inside liu kang so he decided to ask akito if shes willing to give up her powers and as the payment liu kang would make her life as a human in the new era and promise the happy life she wanted so akito accept it and well even so she transferred her powers some of it still remains in her

-mk 1,in the new timeline she does have a new life but sadly she always gets deja vu of the past whenever she saw someone who is close to her and also kung lao because in the past she dated kung lao and the great kung lao (girls obsessed with a man named kung lao) so i got this shit where the old akito (mk11 goddess immortal bitch) always dates the kung lao’s that got reincarnated back idk how to say this im delulu!? (Also the revenant kung lao i mean yall? Really? Hes a total catch) also in the new era she is still a shogun but as a human with the last bit of power and mind left since liu kang got her powers something she can copy his due to being the old previous owner and liu kang does not mind that (sometimes) because he trusted her also liu kang trained her and she helped him a lot on missions.

Okay so this is some quotes thats been stuck in my stupid ass head,enjoy :

Johnny cage : damn its hot in here isnt it?

Akito : if you say that one more time i promise to the gods ill rip your tongue out

Johnny cage : oh look the ex god-ess is here

Akito : dont make me burn you alive again cage

Raiden : i still cannot believe we used to be friends

Akito : be glad were still friends

Raiden : do you ever regret giving your powers?

Akito : for the last time,ask my titan self not me

(Time talk with harumi)

Harumi : do you still like that monk?

Akito : yes?

Harumi : youre a fool

Akito : harumi we talked about this

Harumi : im just telling the truth,ive seen him flirting with other girls

Akito : im sure he wont do that if hes with me hehehehe

Harumi : *rolls her eyes* delusional

Lord liu kang : please stop making kung lao unfocused on his training akito

Akito : i didnt do anything,i was just passing by

Lord liu kang : if only you see your part self-

Akito : i would never,ive heard many stuff about her from geras.

Geras : in each timeline you always sacrifice or get sacrificed,chose rightly on your next move akito.

Akito : just wish me i dont become evil geras

Geras : stop asking me about his past life

Akito : come on geras,one more!

Kenshi : i cant believe the shogun herself gets swooned by a monk

Akito : oh shut it kenshi this is a different time to tell me

Kenshi : your taste in men is weird akito

Akito : i am very aware of that kenshi,thank you

Ashrah : you arent kidding when you say you like him

Akito : ashrahh! Stop it this is training okay? We can talk about it later

Akito : tell me more about dating hacks ashrah

Ashrah : you are not ready yet akito

Takeda : HA! YOU LIKE KUNG LAO!? THATS HILARIOUS!

Akito : dont yell! Or he would hear you!

Akito : soo? Um hows the mission?

Takeda : you left me,then i get my ass beaten,then i go back home

Akito : i missed our talks old friend

Mileena : lets finish this fight faster then

Mileena : are you still a shogun?

Akito : yes mileena

Mileena : then let us see if your skills is still there

Akito : congratulations empress

Mileena : haha this time i wont go on easy on you

Kung lao : yknow im not that dumb right?

Akito : about what?

Kung lao : do i look handsome today?

Akito: why the fuc-is this a trap!?

Kung lao : geras told me about us in the past

Akito : that sand man..

Kung lao : ha! I knew it!

(Also a short moment with sonya)

Sonya : seriously!? Him!? Out of all of people!? Him!?!

Akito : sonya please don’t yell jax will hear you and say were fighting

Sonya : how couldn’t i!? You like that monk that has zero humbleness you couldve picked his friend-

Akito : my heart already belongs to him

Sonya : Eugh disgusting

So yeah thats my boring and cringe ass oc thank you so much for reading all that shit and i love yall if you did anyways dont forget to smile💋 (ill be posting again if im not lazy or busy byeee)