#INFLICTING PAIN UPON OCs WHO?

[gazihsah]

「help me to breath」

[tinosawruswrites]

Jealousy

Week 1: Jealousy (One-shot)

BG3 Baddies/Lilith Hell Discord server Fanfic prompt

Word count: ~5000 words

Synopsis: Astarion ponders over his irritation upon seeing Alina (Tav) sharing friendly intimacy with Gale (and Shadowheart) and attempting to deny that it stems from jealousy.

Tags/Warnings: Named Fem! Tav (Alina), OC Tav with backstory and defined personality, rogue half-elf Tav, spawn Astarion, side character Gale, Shadowheart, Lae’zel and Scratch, jealous Astarion, mild spoilers for the end of Act1, angst, fluff, mentions of abuse and torture, mentions of scars from abuse/torture (back and forearms), allusions to Astarion’s past abuse, smut, penis in vagina sex, pretentious ponderings of things and feelings, endless musings and vague dialogue attempting to create subtext.

Additional notes: Huge thanks to Zaria's The Rabid House Server and those who helped by betareading and giving me grammar lessons! You know who you are! <3

It was a calm evening for once. The group was on their way towards Moonrise, taking a long rest after spending the whole day traveling over the mountain pass. Everyone was at ease, mostly, or pretending to after the dud that was the gith Créche.

Lae’zel in particular. The warrior was uncharacteristically absent, her head full of things to solve after finding out about Vlaakith’s deceit. She sat sternly at the far sidelines of the camp, deep in silent meditation, uninterested and unbothered by the others relaxing by the fire.

Astarion felt he didn’t have much in common with Lae’zel, but found himself in a similar sort of – albeit entirely different and entirely self inflicted – kind of inner turmoil.

He watched as Alina laughed with Gale near the campfire. The two sat side by side, practically glued to one another. The sight made Astarion’s mouth go uncomfortably dry and he took a slow sip from his wine goblet, holding back the grimace that formed from the sour taste of vinegar hitting his tongue.

His eyes followed the way the wizard’s hand fell on the half-elf rogue’s shoulder all too casually for his liking.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too intimate.

But why?

He had been intimate with her, way more so than the wizard could ever hope to be.

He’d successfully seduced her and bedded her in the forest some weeks ago. After that night, he’d approached her again during the tiefling party and she had agreed to share his bedroll on more than one occasion ever since.

Hells, she sometimes approached him – the shy, timid Alina approached him, for a heated midnight tryst!

That, if anything, meant something and yet… it might have meant nothing at all.

He lowered the goblet from his lips, glaring daggers at Gale’s back from the shadows he sat under. He wished his stare would somehow sting the wizard enough to force him to keel back and remove his grubby fingers off of Alina, but nothing such happened. The wizard kept touching Alina, and the painful stings kept assaulting his own heart instead.

The way Gale could be at such ease near her, so openly enthusiastic about his boring, fringe interests and hobbies while being so godsdamned sincere about himself annoyed him to no end.

How could someone be so reckless?

How did he manage to survive this long without putting up a front and maximizing the others interest by careful analysis and then providing what the other sought according to said analysis? To him, Gale’s haphazard approach to social interactions was severely lacking and somehow the wizard was still winning and by the looks of it, bloody enjoying himself.

Astarion fixated on the hand that slid to gently pat Alina on the upper back. A spot he knew she was sensitive about anyone seeing in particular, with the ragged scars accumulated under her merciless debt owner littering the full length of it and all.

A spot, he had never directly touched as of yet himself either, and whenever he did so indirectly, made him uncomfortable, prompting him to remove his hand lest he push on her limits too hard to drive her away…

After all, she was self-conscious enough to hide them at all times, even when they had their little midnight meetings.

And there was Gale. Resting his stupid magic hand over Alina’s back so stupidly casually, not a care in the world.

The stinging in his heart began to burn like it had actually managed to carve a tiny hole through his undead flesh. He closed his eyes, lifted the wine goblet back onto his lips and took another bitter sip of the vile liquid in order to wash away some of the pain.

Gale had never laid with Alina, but was somehow closer to her, while he had, and his presence was reduced to sitting in the shadows at the edge of camp.

Not because nobody wanted him near the campfire, no. He was allowed to, maybe even welcome, but something kept him at bay.

Deep down, he knew why this was, but acknowledging such a thing would mean admitting defeat, and he was very keen on not doing so.

It was a frivolous little thing, an irritatingly ardent feeling that had made its existence known to him right after he had slept with Alina the first time. It was supposed to be a simple performance, a perfect illusion that would secure Alina’s heart under his ministrations, but each following night they shared, it became increasingly more difficult to keep the mask of indifference on his face.

He might have been intimate with Alina, but had never shared true intimacy with her.

That was the plan and it was working, so why did he still feel like he was losing? And to a socially awkward wizard no less??

“Either the wine in your cup is sour enough to crease your face, or it’s the other way around.” Shadowheart mused from the side rolling her own wine goblet in hand.

Astarion forced his face into seduction mode, easing any and all tension from his face like a magic trick.

“What ever do you mean?” He asked lifting his brows at the cleric.

Shadowheart raised her own brows up in tandem, giving him one of those sly knowing looks of hers.

“Oh, I just ought to point it out, since my wine was starting to taste oddly sour in your presence. Jealousy is a bad look on you, to be honest.”

“Jealous?? Me?” Astarion retorted with a dry laugh and his eyes fell back onto Gale and Alina.

He was about to take another sip of his wine, but froze as he witnessed Alina leaning against Gale and giving him a partial hug. Shadowheart watched as Astarion’s grip tightened around his wine goblet, threatening to break it if it was anything else but metal.

“Mmh-hmm.” She hummed swaying closer.

“For an over two centuries old immortal being you’re surprisingly clueless about things. Or just playing dumb. Which is it, actually?”

“Things? What things, girl? Be more specific,” he spat back at her.

He got another knowing look from the half-elven cleric.

“I wonder...” Shadowheart mused, now standing right next to him.

She extended an arm towards the way he was facing, pretending to scan what Astarion was looking at, as if she didn’t have the insight to what he was so miffed about.

“Oh! I see it now.” She exclaimed and settled to focus on Alina, who had her head rested against Gale’s shoulder in the distance.

“That’s what’s got you so worked up.” She looked Astarion in the eyes, the gleam in her green irises shining arrogantly bright over her clever assessment.

“That’s absolutely ridiculous. What I have with her is more than boring, innocent cuddling.”

“Oh trust me, I and the rest of the camp are well aware.” Shadowheart stepped back with an unimpressed half-smile on her lips.

Astarion smirked.

Alina was the quiet type and didn’t make much noise, unless a situation really called for it. Even her speaking voice was soft and tender, and she preferred to stifle herself even when she was in terrible pain. In contrast to this, she was surprisingly loud when she was feeling good – and Astarion knew how to make her feel way better than just good.

The morning after the tiefling party had been an extremely embarrassing event for her, when the others subtly brought it up to her during breakfast. After that, he’d made it a thing to let her howl out his name in the middle of the night every once in awhile, just as a reminder who she was tumbling with.

Astarion grinned a smug toothy grin, once again frowning at Gale’s turned back.

“Tell me then, dear Shadowheart, what is it that I’m so jealous about, if I’m so intimate with her already?”

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Shadowheart stared at him without blinking and took a long, slow drink of her wine. She tasted the wine before swallowing it and peered inside her now empty cup.

“Oh, would you look at that. All out of wine. I would ask for a refill from your bottle, but I know you’d just say no. Then again, I don’t think I’d actually want any. ‘Sour grapes’ and all.” She flashed him a brilliant smile before swaying away and joining the others near the campfire.

Astarion scoffed at the cleric, finished his own wine and remained scowling in the shadows in his own bitterness.

---

As the evening progressed, Astarion witnessed Shadowheart shooting glances back at him while pretending to be drunker than she was and leaning towards Alina, cuddling her excessively. The half-elf rogue would become flustered, but accept her companion’s innocent appearing clinginess nonetheless.

Astarion rolled his eyes at the cleric’s antics, ignoring the blatant spite thrown his way, well aware of the game she was playing.

Two could play that game, but something prevented him from stepping in and participating. He knew it would be a simple win for him – To saunter over, say “hello darling,” sit next to Alina, pull her against his body and nobody would even dare to approach her the rest of the night, no doubts about it.

But it would be a sour win on his part, because it wouldn’t be just a silly game to him at that point.

Shadowheart leaned to hug Alina, resting her head over the rogue’s shoulder to make direct eye contact with Astarion. He watched as the cleric played with Alina’s hair and how she returned the sentiment with a couple friendly strokes of her own.

Astarion just smiled at Shadowheart, feigning calmness in front of her adversarial behavior.

Much to his delight, Scratch the dog suddenly appeared and bombarded Shadowheart with a slobbery storm of affectionate licks as revenge for not paying enough attention to him.

The cleric pulled away from Alina, both hands sheltering her face from the onslaught of jealous canine love. Astarion chuckled with his book in hand, watching Shadowheart trying to fend off the furry fiend, resorting to running away altogether.

Alina laughed at Shadowheart’s mock panic and Astarion felt all the more better for it.

---

After nightfall, Astarion waited. He laid still in the silent dimness of his tent, waiting for Alina to come to him, if she ever would. He stared up at the purple fabric ceiling of his enclosed resting quarters. A lonesome wax candle provided a comfortable amount of light to ease the cold darkness of the night.

It had been a couple days since their latest meeting and he was hoping she would come by for another night of passion, especially after what transpired earlier that evening. He had a lot of things on his mind he’d want a distraction from.

He thought about how it felt when he saw Gale being so close to Alina, looking so intimate without ever having to take his clothes off or throwing himself at her.

He thought about the conversation with Shadowheart and the hesitancy he felt despite clearly being in the right.

He was right.

Because if he wasn’t, then he’d lost not only to her, but to himself as well.

The shuffle of fabric and a familiar form sliding inside his tent snapped him out of his head. A relieved smile grew upon his lips when he laid his eyes on Alina. The half-elf rogue smiled back at him, her cheeks already red.

“Hi,” she said shyly.

“Good evening, darling.”

“Do you mind some company for tonight?”

“You know I never mind if it’s you, darling.”

“You are allowed to say no if you aren’t feeling it, you know,” she countered sweetly, taking a seat next to his feet.

He said nothing to her offer, instead choosing to admire her form to further drive in her welcome status in his presence.

Alina turned to admire the solemn lonely candle glowing on the small nightstand at the corner, allowing Astarion a moment to take her in. She was donning her regular loose camp clothes: A white, long sleeved collar shirt, basic brown trousers and simple leather shoes.

An unassuming combination, that was worn more for comfort than style, hiding away most of her surprisingly curvy body.

Astarion lifted himself up to his elbows and hooked up one of his knees, giving Alina a seductive look.

“So, looking for a cuddle?” He blurted without thinking.

Alina turned her head to him, eyes wide in mild surprise.

Astarion reeled for a couple fateful seconds and attempted to remedy his momentary breach of character. He cleared his throat and fixed his smile.

“Cuddling sounds nice.” Alina tilted her head with a smile.

“Oh, but surely, you’re looking for more than just a simple cuddle, aren’t you, you sweet little thing!” He purred and watched as Alina’s cheeks grew in color.

She giggled.

“I was wondering if you’re hungry, actually.”

It was a silly question. He was always hungry. Such was the nature of being a vampire. It was still kind of her to ask such a thing, because it wasn’t a question as much it was an offer.

Astarion kept smiling and nodded. He pushed himself up to sit. Alina nodded and crawled closer. She laid herself next to him on the bedroll and scooted flush against him. He took position over her, like so many nights before.

Alina’s golden eyes blinked up at him calmly. Her gaze was relaxed and her body at ease under him despite what was to come. It was in stark contrast to their first feeding session, back when they barely knew each other and all he cared about was rebelling against his master.

Alina had been afraid. She had been tense and could barely mask the shivering of her body when he took his first drink of her delicious life blood. Since then, she’d grown accustomed to it all, the slight pain, numbness and subsequent wooziness afterwards.

Astarion had gotten better at the biting thing himself, finding a comfortable position, able to break skin without too much pain and drinking just enough to sate himself and little enough to not make Alina too ill.

He took one of her hands into his, kissed the back of it and laced their fingers together before leaning in. He rested their joined hands against the side of her head and heard a small hum escape Alina’s throat.

He could have just drunk from her wrist, but both of her forearms were littered with the same destructive marks from her debt owner as her back was. Another spot he had rarely seen and touched directly, fully covered up by her long sleeves even now.

Sensitive. Painful. Intimate.

Alina turned her head for him and exposed the column of her neck, revealing a faint set of bite marks from earlier feedings. Astarion trailed his nose along her freckled skin, hovering over her pulse point, inhaling the intoxicating scent of fresh apples and vanilla that lingered on her body and clothes.

Among her scent were hints of paper and ink, Gale’s cologne, wine and Shadowheart’s perfume.

He felt the stinging in his heart return and felt an urge to retaliate.

He could just bite harder than usual and make Alina feel a smidgen of the burning, stinging pain he was feeling inside his cold hard chest.

That, if anything, would serve her right for making him feel this way.

The sharp ends of Astarion’s fangs pressed against Alina’s subtle flesh, his breath ice cold and heavy on her skin. He opened his maw wider, ready to let the beast take over and punish her, but pulled back moments before it could.

What good would come of him inflicting more pain on her than necessary?

He was in pain and wanted her to know it. But had Alina not suffered just as much as he had already – as proven by the scars she carried on both of her forearms and back?

And unlike him, still showed him kindness, gave him comfort, forgave his shortcomings?

Astarion paused.

Those were all characteristics that pulled him towards her in the first place, what made her so malleable and quite frankly, easy to manipulate. It was also why she was so well liked by the whole camp, him included.

She was…sweet. Truly, and honestly sweet.

He couldn’t hurt her like that, shouldn’t hurt her like that.

He blinked a couple times and ran the fingers of his free hand across the side of her neck as if wiping away loose strands of her hair. The hand that clutched against his gripped harder for a moment. A signal of her continued comfort. Alina’s eyes remained closed, blissfully unaware.

She trusted him so blindly, but he could barely even grin in her presence without feeling like a fraud.

Astarion’s heart ached.

Alina was so close, and yet so far.

And no matter how many times he shed his and her clothes off, he knew that that kind of closeness would only ever be skin deep.

He swallowed and pressed a long kiss against the bite scars on Alina’s throat – like a wordless apology, seeking forgiveness for a sin he had committed against her.

He kissed her neck again and again, each time sinking lower beneath her collar, trying to make amends the only way he felt he could.

Eventually, Alina turned her head to peek at him. She raised herself slightly and brushed a hand through the side of Astarion’s face, a curious look in her eyes.

He smiled at her, hoping to come off as genuine enough.

“I find myself extremely peckish for more than just your neck tonight, darling.”

“You do?” She grinned at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling from joy.

“Hmmm.” Alina kept smiling and tilted her head, inspecting Astarion’s face.

“We can get better acquainted once you’ve had your fill.”

“You know I never have my fill, not when it’s you, sweetheart.”

“Oh, you romantic you.” Alina grinned and rested her head back down, her neck fully exposed once more.

Astarion chuckled and decided not to dally any longer. He leaned back in, sinking his fangs into her neck confidently. Alina tensed momentarily, but relaxed after a while, rubbing her thumb soothingly against the hand she was still holding firmly.

Astarion sighed against Alina’s skin, tasting the heavenly nectar in his mouth, swallowing it with big earnest gulps. This was what he wished his wine goblet was filled with whenever he drank and not that rank, vile bile they carried along backpack loads of.

He reveled in her taste and the pleasant hotness that brought his body back closer to life with each swallow.

Alina’s pulse grew more erratic and he knew it was time to stop. He pulled away, licking long languid lines over the two new punctures on her skin. Alina giggled and Astarion began to kiss down towards her open collar again.

His body was practically singing to him – his usually cold limbs felt warm and lively, his skin more sensitive. All his other senses were more keen and sharp as well, his eyes able to spot the tiniest of motions, his nose the smallest of differences in scent, his ears hearing every stifled little sound.

Astarion sucked on the skin at the edges of Alina’s shirt, then bit on the fabric, playfully yanking on it with his fangs. Alina’s pulse remained high and her breathing heavy. She brushed a hand through the back of Astarion’s head, playing with the loose curls at the nape of his neck.

She unlaced their hands and reached to unbutton her shirt for him.

Astarion followed along with each opened button, kissing down the line of skin that revealed beneath the parting shirt. Alina let out pleased little gasps as he went, her hand falling behind his head again, petting through his hair soothingly.

His own breathing had grown heavier and his body was slowly reacting to Alina’s growing arousal. Yet, a part of his mind was still occupied by the way Gale and Shadowheart clung themselves to Alina, seemingly more intimate with her.

He might have held her body, but her heart was out of his reach.

His mouth fixated over Alina’s sternum, just above where her beating heart laid. His fangs dragged over her skin, the maw within him hungry to dig itself deeper and sink its fangs into the ever beating muscle.

He became aware of himself again after Alina let out a pained whimper and he saw the small bleeding scratches that his fangs had left on her chest.

He met Alina’s gaze, silent panic rising inside of him. He tried to smile it off, but felt the edges of his lips drag downwards instead.

“...Astarion?” Alina asked with worry.

Astarion panted.

He felt out of breath despite not needing to breathe at all.

“Were you still hungry…?”

“Yes, that’s it. I was just…”

He was in pain again. A deep, stinging burning inside his chest, coiling around his heart like thorny vines that were on fire. He swallowed dryly, almost missing the sour wine he had downed earlier.

He snapped back to it again when two warm hands cupped each side of his face, turning his head. He came face to face with Alina. She looked patient as a saint, kind like an angel.

“You can have more if you want,” she said softly.

“I…”

He stared into her eyes without blinking, studying the calmness of them. Her pupils were blown wide as she studied him back, her whole demeanor giving off a sense of tender affection.

With that he let Alina guide him back towards her throat. He inhaled the coppery remnants of the previous wounds and nuzzled against them.

His stomach felt comfortably warm, his vampiric hunger sated for tonight. Drinking more of her blood would help to keep it that way longer, but would do little to ease the tightness in his chest.

But admitting to something else would mean losing the game.

Astarion hesitated and kissed the wounds, then bit back through the fresh fang marks, slightly missing and punctured another set crookedly beside them. Alina let out a stifled whine. Astarion pushed Alina down against the ground, once more drinking from her like a desert during a rainstorm, unquenchable, insatiable.

He pulled away when Alina’s pulse began to dip, knowing he passed the line of comfort for her. A red tainted string of spit connected his lips to her neck. Two sets of fang marks now decorated the side of her neck, blooming red from irritation and spilled blood.

Alina panted slow and heavy, her eyes clearly more unfocused.

“… Any better?” She asked weakly.

He nodded.

His stomach felt fuller, but his chest tighter than before.

“How are you feeling…?” He asked barely above a whisper and Alina blinked up at him.

She looked paler, but her cheeks were still somewhat flushed.

“I’m fine, just a little woozy.” She smiled.

He nodded and managed a tiny smile himself.

“Fine enough to ‘get better acquainted’?” He teased.

Alina flashed him a grin and nodded.

He hadn’t lost the game.

---

Discarding both of their clothes came easy to him. Astarion did so swiftly and without any trouble, an art he had over two centuries of time to perfect.

Astarion left Alina’s shirt on as he always did, to ease her mind off of the scars on her back and forearms, even if he wouldn’t mind seeing them.

Since when did he feel this way?

He’d seen them back at the grove with everyone else. Deep, ugly gashes running every which way up and down her back. Hideous to look at. Her forearms were no better, and if it weren’t for Gale, he and everyone else would have been spared from knowing what grotesque scarring from consistent and regular torture looked like.

At the time, he felt lucky his own were just a morbid poem his master carved onto his flesh over the course of a night. A long, agonizingly painful night, but just a single night nonetheless. Still, he couldn’t bare thinking of actually seeing the scar himself and was partially glad, he probably never would have to.

Alina panted beneath him. His hips moved against hers in languid motions, controlled and automatic. Astarion had both of his hands clasped with hers on each side of her head, their fingers tightly intertwined. She was looking directly at him, her golden eyes filled with desperate want.

Her body felt hot and sweaty against him. Her core was slick and swollen from arousal, making it easy for him to keep up his pace. Alina whimpered and moaned quietly beneath him, either conscious of her own voice and purposefully keeping it down, or too tired to let the world know how good she was feeling.

Even without her usual vocalizations, Astarion knew how good she was feeling. The subtle trembles of her body, the way her back arched when he aimed his hips a certain way… It wouldn’t be difficult to force her voice out, but tonight, it didn’t feel appropriate.

Instead, he drank in the quiet noises of pleasure that slipped past her lips, satisfied by the private secrecy it gave to their little rendezvous. He smiled and increased his pace to edge her further. Alina’s jaw gaped and she let out a pitiful gasp. Her hands grasped his even tighter, her nails digging into his skin.

He smiled, enjoying the view of their group’s resourceful, witty leader rendered into soft, quivering putty in his hands.

Alina squirmed under him, a telltale sign of her approaching release.

Astarion’s flesh yearned its own release, his abdomen tightening in preparation as he watched Alina’s pleasure contorted face. It was like clockwork these days. Watching Alina as she came apart in his hands did things to him, things he never thought he could feel with another person.

Every movement came automatic to him, practiced to perfection like a rigorous dance. No room for self-expression, lest it break the fantastic illusion he was projecting. He felt himself slip away, but was immediately yanked back into the moment by hungry kisses.

Alina licked her way into his mouth, skillfully pulling all his attention back to her. She was growing so close, the way her wet folds clasped his strained length confirmed it.

He let his focus slip away in the moment, knowing once Alina reached her peak, he’d get his – a treat he got to experience almost without fail with her.

Alina’s hands slipped away from his lazy grasp and winded over and around his neck and shoulders, pulling their bodies flush together. Her soft, ample chest squished against his toned chest and her plush thighs pressed harder against his sides. One of her hands settled behind his back, while the other tangled lovingly into his hair.

His own confused hands felt around the bedroll before instinctively wrapping under Alina’s back, holding her tight.

She broke the kiss that had continued all this time and panted right next to his ear, her voice whiny and desperate.

“Astarion…!” Alina whimpered and Astarion felt a jolt run through his spine.

He rocked his hips harder and Alina’s legs fell wider apart. Her voice threatened to grow in volume and pitch, but Astarion got overwhelmed by an increasing need to keep all of this moment to himself. He sealed her mouth with his own, capturing each and every moan between his lips.

He tasted every corner of her mouth, already knowing each and every inch of it, still not bored to explore through it all over again. Alina kissed him back fervently. Her tongue pushed boldly past his back into his mouth, unafraid of the sharp fangs that might scrape and make her bleed.

Astarion moaned when he felt one of Alina’s hands stroking through his curls and lightly yanking at the strands every now and then. The hand over his back was digging its nails into his skin, a slightly painful, but welcome feeling he’d grown to enjoy.

Finally, Alina’s breathing grew erratic and her movements shaky. Astarion smiled against her lips and brought her over the edge, soon following suit. Alina’s pleasure bloomed around him, heated wetness convulsing around him as he spilled inside of her. His hips shook against her, their rhythm broken and uneven. He hummed against Alina’s lips, the blissful heat of his own orgasm washing over him.

Both of them stilled, the silence around them filled only by their heavy breathing and the occasional wet sound of their conjoined bodies still moving against one another.

Astarion moved to separate their bodies, but Alina wrapped her legs around his lower back, trapping him in place. She cupped his face with both hands and kissed him slowly. Astarion blinked in surprise and eased into Alina’s wordless demands, allowing her to shower him with more physical affection.

Usually he parted their bodies quickly after everything was done, like finishing a smooth, clean business transaction with no further clauses to fill. It was how he used to go about things. A neat modus operandi to keep things simple and to prevent himself from getting too involved.

Alina was an exception – “a regular”, as he sometimes thought to himself. He found himself slipping further from his own rules each night he spent in Alina’s embrace, lured in by her sweet nature and the gentle allure of her touch.

She caressed his cheek with a thumb.

“That felt good.” Alina said softly.

“I am well aware. You were about to wake up the whole camp again…”

Alina’s happiness died and turned to embarrassment. Her blush reached all the way up to her pointy ears.

“No I wasn’t.”

“Oh, yes you were, sweetheart.”

“I held back.” She claimed.

“Correction. I held you back.”

“Maybe.” Alina peeked to her side, feigning ignorance.

Astarion chuckled.

“I am in control of you darling.”

“Are you?” Alina tightened her legs around his lower back and rolled them over.

Astarion let out a little whimper, staring up at Alina in shock. She sat upon his hips with her back straight, hands drawing lazy patterns on his abdomen.

“You’re more than welcome to prove me otherwise.”Alina smiled and leaned down over to him.

Astarion smiled and remained where he was, allowing Alina to pull him into another slow kiss. He relaxed against her, thinking through her statement and forgot about it altogether, melting into her kiss.

All thoughts about Gale and Shadowheart were gone, pushed off the cliff of his mind into the pit of obscurity.

Alina was here, in his arms. He had her all to himself, and she had him all to herself.

He had lost the game to himself.

[codemiracle]

Can you please tell me the backstory of the ocs...they are so gorgeous omg...thank u !!!...

My first ask... omg....!! (tries to seem calm about it) Thank u for asking!!! I'm glad you like them :((<3 The backstory of my ocs is still mostly a wip even to me (i change my mind often about things, especially when my mind fixates on different topics) But I can tell you more about the two ocs in this post here. tw: mentions of death, stalking, unhealthy behavior, dark stuff overall, and mentions of self-harm on Yuuta's part. (All of the images used here are CGs for the game.)

Yuuta is a deeply troubled person. His mother died when he was very young and he's been dealing with the loss of literally his only parental figure since (his father is literally the leader of a pyramid scheme cult and doesn't know about his existence) He despises how fragile humans can be and since then he tries to understand his own mortality through inflicting pain upon his own body. His mother died due to an illness he also has, an illness that causes parts of his body to suddenly get badly bruised or bleed without warning, his blood is really thin so stopping bleeding is hard for him too. He eventually finds some escape from his solitude exploring his darker side by meeting the MC (the character you control in the game) He gets deeply obsessed with them since he finds that inflicting pain on them (don't worry it's all consensual) is more relieving than doing it to himself. He loves the feeling of power it gives him, the feeling of a life hanging in between his fingers. And this time he won't let go so easily. He might be a little bit of a sharp-tongued person and sometimes can seem pretty harsh with people and even the MC, but it's due to the fear of losing someone again. When he really really gets into you he won't let you go, that's for sure. He can't let go of someone again.

Yotsuya it's quite the opposite of Yuuta, he doesn't hide his true feelings behind a mask of hatred and coldness, instead, he's a more shy but polite person, much more pleasant to be around tbh. But don't let that fool you. He has his own inner turmoil too. He's been following the MC for a while now (for unknown reasons) and seems pretty fixated on them, taking the same train as them after work, trying to make small talk as they bump into each other in conveniently the same places. He's always stressed from work, often you can find him just crying outside his workplace while he smokes (like in the drawing) or standing eerily quiet in the dark of night in the middle of the street. Not much is now about Yotsuya, but the fact he truly despises cheaters, often making remarks about cheating culture and hating on people who cheat on their partners. He seems to know the MC from somewhere else but refuses to say where they met the first time. Doesn't seem to have any connections or family, living alone in some simple apartment. I can't tell you much about him because I want you to discover who the "True" Yotsuya is (that's the point of his route.) But I can tell you, this guy isn't anything like it seems, he's quite the opposite of his sweet and shy persona when he's inside his home. That's his place, his playing field so to speak. He's no longer the meek office worker, but his true self.

Sorry, that was so much text.... and I feel like I didn't say anything interesting... feel free to ask if you need to know anything else!

<3

[lunarflux]

↔ ᴍʏ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴɪᴏɴ, ᴘᴛ 1

Aemond Targaryen x Fem!OC

genre—smut, dark romance song inspo—bad omens - death of peace of mind summary— Aemond indulges in his twisted desires with a woman who knows his every need. They meet in secret, their passion driven by his anger and her willingness to submit to his painful advances. Aemond craves her, yet despises the intimacy that follows. He questions why she always returned to him, knowing that she did not love or care for him. The cycle of desire and anger persists, leaving him yearning for more, caught in a tormented state until their next encounter.

Gold—gold trimmings lined the ceiling, and some part of Aemond’s mind made him believe that she would notice. Perhaps, it would have been a comment she made before her back hit the bed but after her knees touched the floor. Mixed within the moans, she did in fact see the change in décor, but the difference was not enough to distract her from Aemond’s movements. He loved to pull her hair with one hand and hold down her waist with the other. His fingers held one side of her hip, pinning her beneath him so that she could do nothing but let her legs knock back every time his hips crashed against hers. Each thrust elicited hoarse grunts from the bottom of his throat, sounds he would never let anyone else hear. He kept his lips close to her ear as if only she was privy to such a reaction from him.

This was always how they ended up. In his bed—sometimes, they never even made it past the table. There were days when he would be far too impatient.

By now, she knew when to knock on his door. He’d look at her from across the room while her father was speaking to Aegon, and that was enough. If he beckoned, she’d appear. Words were never needed. All he had to do was snake his fingers up her thigh, and she obliged. He knew what she liked, and she knew he what he needed. Some days, it would just be his fingers plunged deep inside her pulsing cunt because he wanted to see her writhe at his touch. Other days, he’d have his back to the door with her lips wrapped around his cock. The sounds she made, the wet smacking of her tongue teasing him, shamelessly filled the room through the late hours of the night until he was satisfied.

He wanted to see her struggle to keep her eyes open and to beg him to fuck her. He loved it when she begged. It was almost pitiful seeing her need him in such a carnal fashion, but the sound of her crumbling disposition drove him mad. The hunger would only subside when he was finished with her.

It could have been anyone, but the familiarity of her skin and her taste brought upon this habit.

To call her, fuck her, then sleep alone.

Again, the next day—call her, fuck her, then sleep alone.

At times, he’d bare with the torturous twitch between his thighs until he could call her. But always, it was a silent call, one only she understood as if beneath his shield, she saw into the depths of his needs, and appeared when she felt his desperation.

Desperation, he scorned himself, how pathetic.

The harder Aemond pushed, the more she felt him pulse inside her. He adored the way her voice sounded when she struggled to catch her breath. Whimpers, quivering moans, guttural groans—the reminders that she wanted more, and he would, without hesitation, give it to her. Each pain-etched scream she swallowed if only to keep her presence hidden from open ears.

Aemond had impulses that he only ever saved for her. Their lack of conversation saved him from shame, and any action taken to inflict pain on her she accepted. The days after his enthusiasm took over, a clear bruise would form around her neck. Had anyone simply asked, they would have seen how perfectly his fingers wrapped around her. Perhaps, there would be the faint stain of blood, a small crescent cut from a blade just below her chin. Whatever resulted from their nights, she hid it well.

She liked it, he thought. Maybe he didn’t want to know if she really did, but he swore her hips would buck just a little harder when his teeth sank into her shoulder. The bruises from his fingertips stayed hidden, and the tremble in her walk was dismissed as a symptom of weak ankles. Aemond wished so often that his canines would pierce her flesh, and then she’d be scarred—attached to him even in death.

She knew that when he grinded his hips into her, writhing deep inside, he was close. His teeth sank deeper into the supple flesh beneath her neck, and as his movements turned erratic, she returned the gesture, biting firmly at the base of his collar.

Aemond moaned into her neck, lapping at the tender marks from the love bite with his tongue. When he finished emptying into her, he hummed blissfully in a drawn-out hiss, finally feeling the release of today’s anger and whatever caused it. He removed himself, and she trembled at the emptiness in her core. A sweet, shaking cry crossed her lips.

Aemond laid his head across her lap, and her fingers danced up and down his cheek in random pitter-patters. Draping his wrist over her knee, he sighed into her skin, and felt at ease. This would not last. This was the temporary reprieve, one that only she could beckon. The calm that took over his troubled mind lingered once he was finished with her, but he would wake up soon. The anger would return, and he would once again feel nothing but anguish.

“Why do you never refuse me?” Aemond asked. No matter how many times they went through this dance, he never let himself find comfort in the silence that followed. That was the intimacy he hated. Maybe that was what he feared.

He was not king, and she was not a peasant. Why was it that when he needed her, she never turned away? Knowing that he used her without regret, one sin to rid himself of another, why did she return every night? If she did refuse him, there would be nothing left to argue. Though, he didn’t know if he’d find another to replace her.

“You do not love me, and I would never believe it if you said you cared,” Aemond sat up to face her, “Do you pity me?”

He did not sound kind, and he didn’t not try to hide his contempt at the thought of the daughter of a lowly Lord feeling anything other than fear or respect for him. He already ruined her prospects of marriage months ago when his weakness overcame him and the urges took over. Granted, she did not carry herself like someone beneath him. If his mother told him this was an advantageous match made to strengthen the Iron Throne, he would have believed her. No, this was a nobody, and yet when she reached for him, he could not resist.

“It is not pity,” she dragged her finger across his lips. He parted them and let her feel the tender warmth of his tongue, tasting her, “I am not blind to your follies.”

As she spoke, Aemond found himself in a numb state of acceptance, one where he could not react because nothing that followed was within the realm of what he expected from her.

“You’ll never admit to needing me, and it kills you to know that you do,” a cruel, cunning smile crept across her face, “That’s why I always come back. I want you to feel the pain of needing me, and I’ll keep torturing you with it until you’re broken.”

Knowing he would not allow her to leave him so easily, she covered herself with a robe and headed towards the door. He met her there, placing his hand on the knob and holding it shut.

Aemond moved behind her, delicately undoing the sash around her waist and let the silk fall to the floor. “You take pleasure in torturing me?” He set his lips on her back, purring against her skin.

She entangled her fingers into his hair, pulling him close until she could feel him against her, “You have my body, my Prince.”

The silken tones of her voice, teasing him, aroused the twitch in his groin. There were no others who could tame him the way she did, and she did so effortlessly. Despite his childish antics—calling upon her at odd times of the day, pushing her away when he felt too intensely—she still returned. He never knew if she liked the space beneath him in his bed, and he never bothered to ask.

“But I have your mind,” she took hold of the back of Aemond’s neck, and immediately, he stood still feeling once again like a fly trapped in her web, unable to move, unable to react. “I am not here to heal you, Aemond,” she spoke clearly with spite on her tongue, “I am here because you called. Your pain called me, and it’s intoxicating. If I could bathe in it—drown in it, I would. So if fucking me is the only way I can sip your pain dry, then so be it.” Her hold on him relaxed, but he remained.

Aemond dropped to his knees, ready to taste her again, but she stopped him, easing his face upward to see her properly. She caressed his cheek, feeling the tenderness of his scar and the sapphire beneath it.

“Forgive me for finding your torment beautiful,” she kissed him sweetly. “It is a weakness of mine.”

The sapphire glimmered in the dim light. He reached for her, and she knelt in front of him. Aemond placed his hand on her chest, bringing it slowly up to her neck, “Is that your only weakness?”

This was the first time he felt tempted to ask her to stay. He could see the way she twitched, ready to leave the moment it was all over. The second she was gone, his anger would return, and again, he would call.

“I will see you tomorrow, my Prince.”

Aemond stayed on the floor as her fleeting figure, covered once again by her silk robe, closed the door. He got dressed in silence. He yearned for her. He wanted more.

That was the anger, and it would taunt him until she returned.

[starrysnowdrop]

Were there any barriers to you establishing your OCs relationship? Perhaps social or cultural stigma? Or a concern that "ships" with that character were already overdone? Or simply a fear of being seen as "cringe"? If so then how did you overcome this?

Ohhh now this is a good one, as this is something that I’ve been told, that I have inspired others to “overcome their fears” of shipping based on certain stigmas in the FFXIV fandom, so let’s get into it shall we? Oh and I will apologize in advance, as this WILL get long.

The Stigmas

Hali x Aymeric

So for Hali x Aymeric, the obvious stigma is that Hali is a lalafell, and Aymeric is not. Though I’ve seen lately that this stigma has waned a bit, especially here on Tumblr where people who infantilize lalas don’t seem to last long, but keep in mind that there is still plenty of lala infantilism on the bird app and other places like Reddit and in game.

For my main ship, that is really the only thing that I see that makes the ship “problematic” to some in the fandom; some people still see lalafells as “child-coded”, despite lalafells being a fantasy race of little people, no different to gnomes, hobbits, dwarves, etc. in other fantasy media, and despite the in game world treating lalafellin adults the same as any other race.

Yume x Zenos

(Yume’s blog: @firelightmuse)

So for Yume x Zenos, but also to a lesser extent Urania (Hali’s Azem) x Hermes, and my other secret ship that I haven’t revealed yet because it’s still in development, these ships fall into the category of being “problematic” because they are Hero x Villain ships at their core, and because Zenos, Hermes, and the secret ship partner are all major antagonists in the story, they have many haters.

Now there isn’t anything wrong with not liking certain characters, as I truly think we all have certain characters that we just don’t vibe with for one reason or another. But there is a problem, however, when people go after villain shippers just because they happen to not like those characters.

Just like with the Lala infantilism problem, villain ships get a lot of hate in the fandom, but for different reasons. I would guess that the main reason is the haters assume that villain shippers either don’t see that the villains have done bad things and/or try to minimize or excuse the villains’ bad behavior. Now I won’t say that there aren’t a few people out there who will truly excuse a villain’s bad behavior and try to make them out to not be as bad of a person as they are written in canon. But I really do think that there’s not as many of them as the haters are likely to believe.

Remember: just because someone is a fan of a villain doesn’t mean they agree with their actions, and a writer is NOT the same as their character. For example, Yume may minimize and/or downright ignore all of the pain and suffering Zenos has inflicted upon not only her, but innumerable others, doesn’t mean that I as Yume’s writer share the same views. I actually consider Yume to ride the thin line between anti-hero and villain herself, just so y’all know.

How to Overcome the Stigmas

So now that the individual stigmas of each of my ships have been outlined, how did I overcome the stigmas? And how difficult was it for me to do?

Well, if you’ve followed me for several years already, you might’ve seen that Hali, my lala WoL, is not the first WoL I have written. That honor goes to Yume, who is a Raen Au Ra and she doesn’t come with the same stigma that Hali does as a lalafell. So I had the privilege for several years of being able to write Yume without the infantilism that Hali would have to fight against in the fandom. But those years gave me enough courage in my own writing to create Hali and to fend off the stigma of lala x non-lala shipping and my own insecurities surrounding it.

Though it was difficult, and it took me a long time to do so, I eventually realized that I was happier and way more fulfilled when I wrote what I wanted to and not what I thought my followers or my friends or anyone else wanted. Trust me, I tried more “popular” and less “problematic” ships before, and even though they were nice at the time, I ultimately dropped them because I realized that I didn’t feel fulfilled, and that I was scared to write for more “problematic” ships because I feared the backlash.

One HUGE thing that I highly recommend is to find yourself a good support system to surround yourself with. Whether that be reaching out to your mutuals here on Tumblr or joining discord servers with like minded individuals, having people there who can help you through your journey in shipping will help greatly! Trust me, I wouldn’t be where I am today without my support system to be there for me when I’m having a bout of anxiety and/or insecurity with my writing.

Another thing that I highly recommend you do is to Unfollow, Hide, and/or Block haters liberally!! Please, it’s for your own mental health and wellbeing to do so! If you’re wanting to ship your lala oc for example, never hesitate to block the lala haters out there! No good will come from seeing the hate all over your feed, because it will just bring you down.

That’s about all I have for now. If you have any other questions on this subject, please do not hesitate to send me a message, DM, or ask!! I am always happy to help with any questions or advice when it comes to shipping! Thank you so much @mimble-sparklepudding for the ask, and thank you all for reading this very long winded answer!! 💖

[daenysthedreamer101]

Youngest Original ~ TVDU

Ch 4 - Homecoming

Mikaelson!OC

Warnings: descriptions of blood, murder, injury, death, Mikael being a horrible dad, fem oc

Corresponding episode: TVD 3x9

She's finally here!!!

Masterlist

Oh, who is she? A misty memory A haunting face Is she a lost embrace?

Portland, September 2010

Klaus was walking through the woods when his phone rang. It was Stefan. He picked up the call.

"Portland is fantastic, once you get over all the whiney music and healthy-looking people, it's literally a breeding ground for werewolves." He says.

"Your father's dead," Stefan says.

"What did you say to me?"

"Oh, my mistake. Not your actual father, and not dead. Mikael. Daggered. What do you want me to do with the body?" Stefan asked.

"Well, first, I want you to explain to me exactly what happened," Klaus demanded. 

Stefan "explained" what happened. Klaus demanded to see his rotting body. 

"Well, he's here. Come by whenever." Stefan said. 

"I want to talk to Rebekah." Klaus says and Stefan hands the phone to said blonde who tells Klaus that Mikael is dead.

"I miss you. I'm miserable here." She says to Klaus.

"I'll be home soon." He replies softly.

"Good. I'll see you then brother." Rebekah responds and finishes the call. Klaus walks to his car and drives back to the city, a plan forming in his mind.

~

Mystic Falls, Salvatore House

Rebekah was painting her toes in the living room when her father woke up from being daggered.

"Finally. Took you long enough." 

He looks at her wide-eyed. "Rebekah."

"Whatever fatherly rubbish you're thinking, save it. Nothing you say matters to me." 

"I see..." He gets up from the floor. "Where's my dagger?"

"Elena has it. So you can forget your plans to use it on me." 

"You were never the one I was after." Her father said.

"Nik was my family. If you were after him, you were after me." 

"He blinded you, Rebekah. He killed your mother." Mikael said.

Rebekah got up from the sofa. "I know what he did. And he'll pay for it with his life.  But Nik was not born a killer. None of us were." 

"You did this to us when you turned us into vampires...You destroyed our family, not him." She said to her father with tears in her eyes. 

"Rebekah..." He called for her but she was already gone.

~

Klaus's POV

He walked through the halls of the warehouse where he kept his sibling's caskets. He decided that he needed someone he could trust, someone who would never lie to him, and he had only one person on his mind. 

His eyes fell upon a specific casket. Taking a deep breath, he opened it. Inside was his youngest sister and sibling, Kassandra. Daggered, grey, and desiccated, she lay in this casket for almost 15 years. 

Klaus took a good look at her. This was the first time since daggering her back in 1996, that he has opened her casket. It was too painful to look at her while she looked like that. It just reminded him of the promise he broke. 

As Klaus gazed upon Kassandra's desiccated form, a wave of guilt and remorse washed over him. Despite his outward demeanor of strength and ruthlessness, he couldn't deny the pang of sorrow that pierced his heart at the sight of his youngest sister in such a state. He remembered the promise he had broken to her, the trust he had betrayed, and the pain he had inflicted upon her.

Her long brown hair was styled into a classic 90s blowout. She wore a black turtleneck with white lace details on the cuff of her sleeves, black dress pants with a silk string tied into a bow in the front, and on her feet, she had a pair of black leather ankle boots. 

Her usually bright blue eyes were now closed and the only color on her gray face was the dark red lipstick she had. Slightly below her daggered heart, her hands were neatly folded over her stomach. On her right hand was her golden daylight ring. 

He smiled slightly as he caressed her cold cheek with the tips of his fingers. "It's time for you to wake up, little dove." He took hold of the dagger and slowly pulled it out of her heart. 

~

After her conversation with Bonnie, Elena went back to the Salvatore house and argued that Rebekah could not be trusted and that she would turn her back on them. Damon told her that he was making a secret plan and that she should trust him. 

~

At Mystic Falls High, Tyler was decorating a truck with a glitter gun. He told Caroline that he was hungry and they should go and grab a bite. 

"Oh, I have a thermos in my bag," Caroline told him with a smile.

"I mean a real bite. Rebekah knows some people who like to be fed on. They're into it. We don't even have to compel them." Tyler said. 

Caroline refused, saying it was too risky and he should stop hanging out with Rebekah.

"Just keep the claws in tonight at the dance, ok? For me?" Tyler told his girlfriend.

~

Elena's POV

"Getting a head start, huh?" Elena said as she entered the room. Her eyes fell upon Rebekah who was wearing the red dress she chose days ago.

"Embarrassing truth, this is my first high school dance," Rebekah revealed.

"Ever?" Elena asked.

Rebekah said that with her and Klaus always running, she never had time for high school. "Anyway, I didn't want to leave anything to chance." She said as she looked at herself in the mirror.

Rebekah asked if she heard anything from Klaus and if Damon and Mikael had everything prepared. 

"Yes," Elena answered.

"Don't tell me. I just want to go to the dance and leave the rest to Mikael." Rebekah said as she took a golden bracelet and put it on her wrist. 

Elena thanked her for helping them bring Klaus back to town. Rebekah warned her that she was running for a reason. 

"Mikael is not a good person and he definitely can't be trusted. No one in my family can." 

"Are you okay?" Elena asked.

"I've spent my whole life loving and hating my brother with equal measure. I never thought that I'd be the one to help drive a stake through his heart." Rebekah said tearfully. 

The blonde blinked. "No tears. I don't want to ruin my makeup...How do I look?" She asked, looking at herself in the mirror once more. 

"You look amazing." Elena complimented. "But you're missing one thing." She pulled out Rebekah's necklace.

"May I?" Elena asked, offering to put it on. Rebekah nodded and Elena clasped the necklace around her neck.

"Thank you," Rebekah said with a smile. Elena smiled back. She then proceeded to stab Rebekah in the back with the silver dagger.

Rebekah gasped, hunching over in pain. "I'm so sorry. I can't leave anything to chance either." Elena said as Rebekah's body turned grey and fell to the ground.

Elena daggered one Original, not knowing that on the other side of the country, another one was waking up from her long sleep. 

Kassandra's POV

She was sleeping a dreamless sleep. It could've been hours, days, months, years, she wasn't quite sure. For the longest time, there was a stinging pain in her chest that weighed her down, making it impossible for her to move. 

Then, the ache in her chest disappeared. Slowly, she regained feeling. First, her mind cleared. She was no longer sleeping. "I'm waking up." She realized. Then she regained feeling in her extremities - her hands and her legs. 

Then she realized that her heart was beating again. Slowly and painfully, but it was beating. It felt like a certain heaviness was lifted from her. She waited until she was a hundred percent certain that she could move. Once the numbness left her entire body, she opened her eyes.

She took a deep breath and welcomed the air into her lungs. The first thing her eyes saw was a ceiling. Her eyes moved and she realized where she was - inside a casket. "Klaus..." The face of her impulsive older brother immediately came into her mind. 

Slowly, she moved. Her right hand grabbed the edge of the casket, her golden ring shining in the early morning light. She pushed herself up and sighed. The memories of Klaus stabbing her by the edge of Lake Geneva came back to her. Anger and fury flooded her mind, a desire for revenge creeping into her heart. 

"Your sister is awake." She heard someone say. She turned her head and saw a man dressed in a guard uniform. He was talking to someone on the phone.

"Good, you know what to do." A commanding voice said. A voice she instantly recognized - her brother,  Klaus.

Kasandra got out of the casket and carefully stood on her feet. "Where's my brother?" She asked the man, her voice hoarse from not being used. 

"I don't know. I just know what he told me to do." The guard answered, obviously compelled. 

"And what did he tell you?" She asked tentatively. The man proceeded to pull out a knife and cut his arm. Blood poured from the gash, spilling everywhere. 

Only then did Kassandra acknowledge the hunger that had been building up inside her for almost 15 years. The scent of blood hit her nostrils and her eyes instantly turned red. She couldn't help but devour the man on the spot. 

As Kassandra fed on the guard's blood, the primal instinct to survive overrode any semblance of rational thought. Her senses heightened, she could feel the warmth of the blood coursing through her veins, revitalizing her with each swallow.

Once the hunger was sated, Kassandra stepped back, her chest heaving as she fought to regain control of her emotions. The taste of blood lingered on her tongue, a reminder of the darkness that lurked within her.

~

"In the back. Harsh." Damon said as he covered Rebekah's body. Elena defended herself, saying it had to be done.

"Hey, I'm not judging you. It's very...Katherine of you." 

"Not the way to make me feel better about myself, Damon!" 

"It was a compliment! Sort of." 

Elena said that Stefan was right, that someone was going to mess up the plan, and that it was most likely going to be her. Damon argued that she would be fine. 

"Yeah, but I feel bad about it. I care too much. That's the problem, Damon...I'm the weak link." 

Damon told her that he didn't trust Mikael or Stefan and that when everything went down, he didn't want her taking part in any of it. 

~

Klaus's POV

He immediately got into his car once he got the news his sister had awakened. Half an hour later, he found himself inside the warehouse again. He felt something akin to nervousness as he walked through the halls. He wondered how Kassie would react to seeing him again.

He took notice of her empty casket and the dead guard on the floor. 

"Kassandra. It's your big brother. Come out, come out wherever you are." He said in a sing-song voice, the same way he greeted Rebekah.

Walking further down the hall, he found her next to the caskets of their brothers. She had her back turned to him. She had opened Elijah's casket and was looking at him.

"Hello, love. Long time no see." He said with a smirk. But she made no reaction, no effort to acknowledge his presence.

"Is that any way to greet your big brother-" He joked but was cut off by a heavy smack to the face. The ferocity of the slap sent him back by a couple of meters, the skin of his cheek stinging. 

Before he could move, she kicked him in the stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. He fell to his knees, groaning, not expecting this whatsoever. She put her foot on his chest, pressing harshly against his ribcage. 

Then, she stabbed him in the heart with her dagger. "That's for breaking your promise, traitor!" She spat, her words dripping with venom.

As Klaus staggered to his feet, he couldn't help but feel a mix of astonishment and admiration at Kassandra's display of strength and defiance. Despite the pain radiating from his chest where her dagger had pierced him, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride swell within him.

"Touché, little dove," he managed to choke out, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips despite the agony coursing through his body. "You always did have a knack for keeping me on my toes."

Kassandra's expression softened slightly at his words, but the anger still simmered beneath the surface. She turned her attention back to Elijah's casket, her fingers tracing the edges reverently. "When did you dagger him?" she repeated, her voice laced with accusation.

He sighed. "I wake you up after 15 years and your first instinct is to worry about Elijah? Seriously?"

She turned around and for the first time in over a decade, he could see her eyes properly. Most of the time, there was nothing but pure love and adoration in them when she looked at him. 

Now that love was replaced by a fury Klaus rarely ever saw. "Answer me!" She demanded. 

Klaus would never allow anyone to talk to him in that manner, but he always did have a soft spot for her which gave her leeway to do many things and act in a certain way around him. 

"A couple of months ago. There, are you happy?" She slapped him again. She sighed shakily, her lip trembling as she held back a sob.

Klaus winced as her palm connected with his cheek once more, the sting of her slap a sharp reminder of the pain he had caused her.

He could feel the weight of her anger pressing down on him, a heavy burden that he knew he deserved to bear. He watched as she turned away from him, her gaze fixed on Elijah's desiccated form, and he felt a pang of guilt tighten in his chest.

"Why did you wake me?" She finally asked. 

"Why do I have to have an ulterior motive to wake you? Maybe I just missed my darling sister." 

"Don't lie to me! There's always an ulterior motive with you, Klaus. I'm not stupid." 

He sighed. "Alright, fine. Yes, there is a reason why I woke you. Months ago, I broke the hybrid curse our mother put on me."

Her eyes went wide at that. "You did?" She asked softly.

"Yes, even though our dear brother here tried stopping me." He said as he gestured to Elijah's body. 

"I'm happy for you." She said in her usual soft voice.

"What?" He asked confused at her ever-changing mood. She walked closer to him. 

"You've been wanting to break this curse for centuries, Nik. I know how much you wanted it. I'm happy that you have finally achieved your goal." He couldn't help but smile at her, his dear sister, always so sweet and loving.

"I'm sorry. I really am sorry, for everything I did to you. It was a necessary evil." He told her, unusually sincere.

She smiled lightly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I forgive you, brother." He looked at her, suspicious as always. She took his face into her hands and looked into his eyes. 

"Don't make me regret trusting you, Klaus." She said with a smile on her face, though there was a certain edge to her voice. He took her hands and kissed them. He then pulled her in for a hug and kissed the top of her head. 

"Now how would you feel about a homecoming dance?" He asked her with a smirk. 

~

In front of their high school, Caroline watches in disbelief as emergency services block the entrance to the school.

"What happened?" She asked Tyler.

"The gym's flooded. The dance is canceled."

"Excuse me!? Well, what are we supposed to do now!?"

~

Caroline and Bonnie entered the Lockwood mansion, where the homecoming was transferred. Bonnie questioned who all these unfamiliar people were. 

Stefan stood amongst the crowd and watched as the band played. Tyler greeted him. 

"Hey, Tyler. Nice party you got going on here." Stefan commented. 

"Thanks, but I'm not the one throwing it. I'm just doing what Klaus wants." Tyler admitted.

"What do you mean?"

"It's not a party, man. It's a wake."

Then Klaus appeared on stage and thanked everyone for coming here to celebrate with him.

~

Stefan's POV

"Quite the homecoming," Stefan commented as he and Klaus walked outside the Lockwood mansion. 

"I've been planning my father's funeral for a thousand years. Granted, in no version of it were any of these people involved, but you get the idea." Klaus replied. 

"So, what now? You stop running?" Stefan asked.

"Now I reunite my family." 

"Your family? You mean the people you cart around in caskets?"

"Not all of them are in caskets." Klaus pointed out. 

Stefan chuckled. "Right, Rebekah's out of hers. That's one. What about the others? Oh right, they're dead."

Klaus smirked and rolled his eyes. "You seem to forget I have another sister, Stefan." Klaus turned his head at the sound of heels clicking against the ground. Stefan turned as well. 

A tall, slender girl in a tight-fitting, black dress approached. Her long brown hair was curled into loose waves. "Stefan Salvatore. My God, I thought I'd never see you again." 

Stefan furrowed his brows. "...Kassandra? " The girl smiled and her blue eyes bore into his. 

"Hello, Stefan." She greeted, her voice soft and melodious.

Stefan looked at her dumbfounded. "Speaking of Rebekah. Where is she?" Klaus asked, breaking the Salvatore out of his stupor.

"I've no idea. I thought she was coming with Matt." Stefan said. 

"Oh, be honest now Stefan. Where's my sister?" Klaus asked again.

"I said I have no idea. Now would you like me to take you to your father?"

"Well, it wouldn't be a party without the guest of honor, would it? Bring him to me." Klaus replied.

Stefan bargained with Klaus - if he brought Mikael's body to Klaus, he would be free of Klaus's compulsion. Klaus agreed.

~

"Change of plans. Klaus is back. He's at the Lockwood's and he wants your body delivered to his doorstep." Stefan said to Damon and Mikael as he entered the living room of their house.

"I'm afraid he's in for a colossal disappointment," Mikael replied. 

"But you do have a plan? Right? Stefan asked.

"We have a plan. It just doesn't involve you." Damon said.

Mikael then bites Stefan and leaves. Damon looks surprised. He takes his things and leaves as well, leaving an unconscious Stefan on the floor.

~

Tyler's POV

"My mom would seriously freak out if she saw all these people here," Tyler commented as he and Klaus looked at the massive crowd of people in his backyard.

"Your mother won't be a problem. I compelled her to go to church and pray for your friends." 

Tyler laughed, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I want you to look around," Klaus said and pointed to Tyler's friends - Bonnie, Elena, and Matt.

"But who are all these other people?" Klaus asked, feigning ignorance. Tyler said he didn't know half of them.

"That's cause I invited half a dozen friends of my own," Klaus revealed. He then pointed out certain people in the crowd who were hybrids all sired by Klaus.

"They were all sired by me. They wish to serve their master. So if anyone should so much as make a move against me they may feel obligated to retaliate."

"And how could I forget my beloved sister, Kassandra? She's right there, talking to your pretty little girlfriend, Caroline." Klaus said and pointed to a tall brunette in a black dress who was standing next to and talking to Caroline.

"She is my most loyal sibling, so I don't think she would take it lightly if something happened to her big brother." He added

"Feel free to warn your friends," Klaus said and walked away.

~

Caroline sighed as Tyler pulled her into one of the spare bedrooms. 

"What are you up to with Klaus?" He asked her.

She turns to look at him. "Nothing."

"He's onto you, Caroline. Whatever you all think you're about to pull off, he's two steps ahead of you." Tyler said, warning her.

"Ok, I don't know what you're talking about."

Tyler sighed. "That girl you were talking to, the brunette in the black dress, she's Klaus's sister."

"What?" She asked shocked.

"Yeah. I don't know what you told her, but stay away from her, she could be just as dangerous as the rest of her siblings."

"I didn't tell her anything!" She defended herself. "And how was I supposed to know that he had a second sister?"

"Can we just go back to the party?" She asked and started walking toward the door when Tyler pulled out a syringe full of vervain and stabbed her in the neck with it.

~

Kassandra's POV

She sighed as she walked around the estate, looking for Klaus. On their flight from Portland, he explained everything to her.

How there was a new doppelganger, Elena Gilbert, and that she was involved with the Salvatore brothers. He explained how he broke the curse and over the summer had a little adventure with Stefan.

Now they were back in town to kill their father. She wasn't sure if she was ready to face her father, not after everything he and their mother did to her and her siblings. 

She still wasn't sure why he awakened her specifically but just the fact that she was awake after 15 years and not daggered was good enough for her.

As she once again made a full circle around the house, she saw a tall, dark-haired man in a black leather jacket kill one of Klaus's hybrids. "Curious." She thought as she watched him enter the house.

She made her way into the house. As she walked she heard a voice she hadn't heard in centuries.

"To what end, Niklaus? So you can live forever with no one by your side? Nobody cares about you anymore, boy!" Her father said as he held the new doppelganger. 

Kassie listened to how her father insulted her brother and anger spread through her body. 

"Who do you have other than those whose loyalty you've forced?" 

She couldn't stand it anymore. She couldn't just stand there and not defend her brother. She walked to the front door where Klaus was facing their father and she stood by Klaus's side.

"He has me!" Kassandra said defiantly as she took Klaus's hand into hers.

Surprise and shock washed over her father's face as he processed her presence. "Kassandra?"

"Father." She greeted coldly.

"What are you doing here?" 

"Nik's my brother. My family. I'm here to help him."

Her father laughed at her words. "You foolish girl. You've always blindly followed him and trusted him. He doesn't deserve your trust or your love, Kassandra."

"I will decide who gains my love and my trust," Kassie responded boldly. She could feel Nik squeezing her hand.

Mikael threated to kill the doppelganger. Nik told him to go ahead. 

"Ah...your impulse, Niklaus. It has and will forever be, the one thing that keeps you from truly being great." Her father said, taunting Klaus.

She looked up at Nik and could see tears falling down his face. She could see the pain in his eyes. She could feel her own eyes starting to tear up. 

"Enough! Stop talking to him like that!" She defended her brother. Her father's eyes fell upon her once again.

"And you, my daughter...He will be the end of you." 

"Then so be it." She responded as a tear ran down her round cheek.

~

Klaus's POV

He looked at his sister and felt his heart tighten at her words. She was always there for him, always there to comfort him and put his mind at ease. 

Even now, she was choosing him, her half-brother, against her own father. Loyal to a fault, she was. And he thanked her by stabbing her and putting her in a casket for 15 years. He had to find a way to redeem himself to her.

His sister's gasp pulled him back to reality. Mikael stabbed Elena in the back, and the girl fell to the ground with a gasp. 

Then, someone yanked his sister away from him and slammed her against the wall. Before Klaus could react this person punched her in the stomach.

Damon Salvatore, he realized, as he got slammed down to the floor. "Klaus!" His sister yelled and tried getting up. 

On the porch, the doppelganger got up. "Katherine," Mikael said, realizing it was not Elena. 

"Kaboom!" She said and threw wolfsbane grenades onto Klaus's hybrids. 

Damon was just about to stake him with the White Oak stake when Stefan appeared out of nowhere and pushed Damon off of him.

Klaus took the opportunity - he grabbed the white oak stake and threw himself onto Mikael. He drove it right through Mikael's heart.

His body started burning in flames and Klaus stood there and watched as the man who tormented him for centuries was finally gone. 

~

"What do you mean he stole them?" Kassandra asked, confused. 

Klaus sighed. "He stole them, Kassandra. All of them." Klaus repeated himself. 

"Why would Stefan steal our siblings?" Kassandra wondered out loud. "What would he gain by stealing their caskets?"

"Leverage. Against me." Klaus replied as he chugged his bourbon.

"You still haven't found Rebekah?" Kassie asked, her thoughts drifting to her sister.

"No. I've no idea where she could be." 

"They daggered her. They must have. How else would they keep her down for so long?" Kassandra theorized.

"Well, it seems we'll be staying in Mystic Falls for longer than I expected," Klaus said as he took a seat next to his sister. 

She was on her laptop. After waking her up, he showed her how to use modern technology and she quickly got accustomed to it. "What are you doing?" He asked her.

"Looking for a house. You said it yourself, since we're staying here might as well stay in a nice place, right?" She responded as she looked up from her laptop.

***

She is finally here in the flesh! We see that Kassie will not put up with Klaus's bs lol and will beat him up if necessary.

Can't wait for the following chapters where she'll interact with her other siblings.

Thank you for reading. ❤❤❤

If you have any opinions feel free to comment.

[myfandomprompts]

To Risk It All | Chapter 1

Aemond x Dragonrider!OC

Summary: Daera arrives in King's Landing. Aemond remembers her vividly.

Tags: possessive!Aemond, angst, mature, strangers to lovers, enemies to lovers, slow burn, obsession, blood, canon divergence, king Aemond, smut and fluff, dragons, war, F&B spoilers. | Prologue - Masterlist

Though Daera had never stepped foot in King's Landing before, the Dragonpit was unmistakable as she glided down her dragon towards the sandy ground, the Dragonkeepers welcoming her as they once did with Laenor. The red towers of the castle were visible in the distance, the chaotic sound of the city rising in the air as well as the stench that came along with it. All of this was so new to her. Once in the carriage that would lead her to Aegon’s Hill, she wondered what her mother and cousins had planned upon their delayed arrival. Would they demand justice, revenge?

Leaving the Queen, she was led to her brother’s temporary chambers. Upon seeing him again, Daera did not hesitate to throw herself in his arms, holding him tightly as if she feared he would disappear. His purple eyes were red with exhaustion, his small figure pressing against her chest as she held him close. She asked about him, but Daemion only voiced a weak affirmation before diving back into a worrying silence.

“Mother and father’s cousins are on their way, they will be there soon. Then we will go home,” she assured him, stroking his silver curls fondly.

His silence endured and she could do nothing but respect it, basking in their shared embrace before they were led to the royal sept. She held her brother’s hand while she paid her respects to their father, trying to not care for the gruesome state of his head under the white linen while Daemion stared at the ground, speechless.

Daera could feel him trembling, so she squeezed his hand harder.

Soon nightfall came and Daemion had still not said a word to her and when they came back to their apartments within Maegor’s Holdfast. The ghost of their father floated around them like a cold breeze, icing their blood, making them feel so alone, so powerless.

She asked him if he was tempted by a nightly ride upon Seasmoke, hoping to spark something other than sorrow in his eyes, but he only dismissed her with a curt shake of the head. “Daemion… we must be strong. Carry on what he left behind for us, and for mother. You can cry in front of me, you don’t have to hold your tears.”

He finally looked at her, pain plaguing his expression, and she wanted to wipe it away, make it disappear forever.

“You don’t cry,” he remarked with watery eyes.

“I do. I only reserve my grief for the ones I love, and that is you and mother. Certainly not the court,” she answered with bitterness, thinking about those who had done nothing while Vaemond Velaryon was mercilessly slain before them.

Now all that she hoped was that one day, her brother would be able to overcome the trauma the Rogue Prince had inflicted upon him, upon her family. She would make it so, she promised.

Daemion didn’t say a word, instead wrapped her arms around her, flattening his face against her and her heart ached in affection. “Goodnight, sister.”

As she watched her brother close the door, she realised that she, on the other hand, could not bear to be alone. She was scared to be left with her thoughts in such an unfamiliar place and desired to return to what comforted her.

She glanced at each side of the corridor, trying to remember the location of the stairs that led to the main hall. She moved through the castle silently, her steps leading her through the red faded stoney walls until she reached the outyard, where the night had settled so deep she shivered under her cloak.

“I demand to be taken to the Dragonpit,” she called out to one of the guards standing at the main gate.

“It is the hour of the ghosts, my Lady.”

“And what of it?” Daera said, arching a brow high on her forehead. 

The guard looked at her with a repressed scoff. “So I cannot prepare a carriage only because you wish to see your dragon, I am afraid.”

Daera fumed inside, but was unwilling to give up. “Then find someone to escort me on foot.”

This time, the guard did not hide his snicker. “I do not think that a young Lady such as you should be strolling the streets at this hour.”

“Open the gates.”

Daera turned around to see the newcomer as the guard widened his eyes. She had to narrow hers in order to see properly amidst the shadows of the courtyard but she could recognise the silver hair around his face and the smug demeanour of the man that was now advancing toward them. He wore a long dark green cloak that enveloped his figure, boots scratching the floor.

“Yes, my Prince.”

The guard did as told, gesturing to his counterpart to help him move the heavy doors in order to allow the Prince passage. Once outside of the walls, he suddenly stopped in his tracks to look at her over his shoulders. “Are you coming or not?”

Daera almost jumped, startled to be addressed and scurried to follow him, earning an annoyed look from the guard that closed the gates behind them. The silver-haired man only smirked and resumed his walk, forcing her to catch up with him.

“You are the Velaryon girl. Daera, is it? The Winged Seahorse?” he said, glancing at her from the corner of his eye while hastening his pace away from the castle’s gates. “You ride Seasmoke?”

“Yes.”

The way he behaved along with his unabashed confidence left little to no doubt about his identity, and Daera’s suspicions were confirmed when they came to a stop at a junction, now facing each other for the first time.

He looked at her, fully, and she could see the lilac eyes, the curly silver hair, the proud jawline and the redness under his eyes. She had not seen them in years, but it was easy to guess which out of the three children of Viserys Targaryen he was.

“Yes, my Prince. And you are Aegon Targaryen," she concluded, hinting that they had never been introduced properly.

“Indeed, we’ve met once before. But we both grew up since that time,” he said with poise before giving her a onceover. “And for the best, it would seem."

Daera stayed emotionless. “I suppose so. We must live up to our House’s name the best we can. Make them proud.” 

He looked at her for a little while, assessing her features and the way she spoke, trying to decide if the girl was not very quick witted or if she was just careful around him.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he finally said after his study, watching as her eyes turned grimmer at the mention of her father.

“Thank you."

She did not know what to say, and gazed at the paved stone. She had successfully managed to exit the castle grounds but from her position, she had no idea in what direction the Dragonpit was, the night sky hindering her vision.

But her curiosity was piqued by the unexpected encounter, making her momentarily forget about her destination. "May I ask where you are going at this hour, Prince Aegon?”

“The only place I can truly entertain myself,” he smirked. "I would have invited you to come along, but as I understood, you have a dragon to ride.” 

She only nodded, deciding that she did not want to drag a more precise answer out of him by the way he mysteriously looked at her.

“The Dragonpit is this way, you’ll have to cross Fleabottom,” he pointed vaguely to the street on the right. "Keep on and you’ll see the light of the dome from the plaza. I hope the Dragonkeepers are in a good mood,” he added. “For your sake.” 

He reached for his hood to put it over his hair, covering the very recognisable silver of it. “Oh… Thank you.”

“Have a nice flight, Daera.”  

As she watched him stride off southward, she felt jealous of his hood, feeling silly for not having brought one of her own to hide her silver head. Instead she was left to squeeze the fabric of her cloak around her and began walking, thoughts swirling around the oddity of the King’s son.

Were all of his children like this? Helaena? Aemond? Daeron?

She thought about Aemond, the boy she had met with two eyes before he lost one out of pure perseverance. She had seen neither him nor Helena since her arrival, and she knew Daeron to be in Oldtown. But now that she had met one of them, she found herself most curious about the others.

It was a shame that she was to leave as soon as her great cousins’ plea would be heard.

Aemond cursed under his breath when he saw that none of the adjacent streets he had taken were empty, his plan to remain unnoticed moot. His evening ride on Vhagar had been pleasant, a necessity after the dinner that had left him fuming, remembering the sufficient snort of Lucerys Velaryon as the roasted pig was served, and how Jacaerys Velaryon had thought he could provoke him. In fact, Aemond felt vengeful still, much of the ire accumulated within him since that fateful day on Driftmark demanding to be released, and he felt it more and more difficult to keep his rancour at bay. 

The noises of the night owls above and the drunks staggering on the main street steered him away from his murderous thoughts, noticing with relief that he was getting closer to the Red Keep as he walked further up Sour Belley Row. When he took a turn to a street he hoped to be empty, the thoughts invaded him once again.

If only he could challenge Lucerys Valeryon, challenge him in a fight, or even sneak into his room, unseen, and make him beg for him to stop when he would try to take his eye as wel-

A loud laugh echoed from one of the back alleys, and he instantly stopped in his tracks, his jaw clenching. "... the King passes away, head to the dark clear glowing flame that turns as green as the dawn…"

He looked under his hood to search for the source of the voice, only spotting two shadowy forms as another shrilling laugh echoed against the stone walls of the alley. From afar he recognised an old woman he knew blind, talking to a stranger whose back was turned to him. 

He sighed with annoyance; this woman was known to be some sort of seer, overlooked by some, adored by others, and decided to pay it no mind, rather walking away before earning more of her questionable predictions. It was easy for a charlatans like her to announce the death of his father when he had one foot in the tomb, and her sort only deserved his disdain.

But as he casted one last disapproving look to the old crone, he caught sight of the stranger’s silver hair facing her and stilled again.

It was a woman, a young woman that was wearing noble clothes, both blue and black, wrapped around a thick dark marine cloak. A Targaryen? One of Aegon’s bastards? No, she was far too old. An imitator perhaps? Not from her clothes and the way she stood herself. She then turned her face slightly, and curiosity took the better of him at once.

She was too beautiful not to be of noble blood, and there was only one person that possessed her characteristics and was currently in the capital: Daera Velaryon, the girl he had watched grieve Laena Velaryon all of those years ago on Driftmark, and had sometimes after claimed her brother’s dragon, following his own steps.

The one who had led him to the dune where Vhagar slept.

She had grown much, she was nothing like the girl he had met by the seaside. Before he could realise it, his feet had advanced toward the two women on their own, and as he stepped into the light, the white orbs of the seer snapped at him like she had suddenly recovered the ability to see. The Velaryon followed her gaze and took a hasty step back when she realised that he was right behind her, a jasmine fragrance filling the air as she moved.

He could not blame her for her reaction, knowing that he would look rather imposing to her as he beat her both in height and size and bore a hooded cloak that hid most of his face, keeping it in the shadows.

“Ha! There is the vision, the one you will cower under!” continued the old woman, drawing back both Aemond’s and the girl’s gaze on her. 

Then the young woman spoke, allowing him to finally hear her voice for the first time in years, memories coming back to him at the softness of her tone. “I… I don’t understand.”

The seer cackled again and began searching for Daera’s hands, reaching to her front and bringing them into her own. “The God of Flame and Shadow understands, my dear,” she said as she tapped her hand and grinned widely. "You, on the other hand, don't need to."

Aemond was almost certain that the woman had ‘looked’ straight at him as she said her last piece, but he had no time to react for she let out another cackle before letting go of Daera’s hands and proceeded to slowly limp away in the dark alley, holding on to the wall for direction.

Both him and Daera watched as she disappeared in the shadows before she turned to face him, making Aemond remember where he was and where he was going before he had stupidly lost himself in a dark alley. 

He could feel her gaze on him, scrutinising, the scent of jasmine spreading in the air.

“Who are you?” she asked, her eyes searching under the hood that covered his face.

He congratulated himself for letting his sapphire eye bare of leather for that particular occasion. No one could know he was away from the keep, even less recognise him.

“None of your concern, I’m afraid.”

His tone was cold, unforgiving. He wanted to turn away before she could ask any more compromising questions, but his body refused to move, as if it was detached from his brain.

“You smell of dragon.” 

He stopped himself in time from lifting his head completely in reaction, keeping his features safely tucked away in the shadows. Instead, he watched her intensely under his hood as she kept searching for his eye, gears visibly turning behind her violet ones. 

“It’s unwise to insult strangers away at such a late hour. Especially alone,” he answered with all the menacing tone he could muster.

She straightened at that, and if she hadn’t considered him dangerous before, she was now. Or was it prudence? 

“I didn't mean to insult you. I only… I just wanted to head to the Dragonpit by myself, but I got… distracted,” she gestured behind her where the woman had disappeared, staring at the now empty street deep in thought. “I wish to see the dragons for myself.”

“Hm,” he found himself muttering, wondering why in the seven hells he was still standing there instead of being on his way back already. Instead he found the want to goad her, to test her. “Maybe if you had stayed on the main street and avoided being lured by beggars and liars, you would have found it without difficulty.”

He saw her chin lift up at that, like a creature ready to strike, to defend itself. 

Like a dragon.

“Well, if I was lured so easily, like you put it, I wonder what you are doing here,” she said defiantly, “Fancy the words of a liar or do you just have a likeness for dark alleys? Or perhaps more discriminating endeavours?”

He considered her for a moment before letting out a scoff, surprising himself and earning a puzzled look from her. She had the grit of her father, he could give her that. Or was it the fire in her veins, the same that he possessed?

"See the dragons," she had said, instead of explaining that she wanted to ride hers. Just like he had.

Exactly as he had said all of those years ago.

He hummed again, scrutinising her. “Maybe you should ask someone else, there are much more informed people in those streets than old fortune tellers and strangers that smell of dragon. You would be better to take your chance with them.”

He allowed himself a short moment to see her expression shift from defensive to surprised, before turning his back to her swiftly and finally walking away, letting a smile creep at the corner of his mouth.

That was unexpected.

“You think you can protect him? Ha! He will fall, girl, you are powerless against their wits. Grief plagues you all, but so do teeth and claws. Maybe wings will cover his tomb?”

The blind woman's voice kept ringing in her ears as she walked down the main avenue. Protect him? Protect him from what? From who? Was it her brother, she had asked. Was it Daemion? But the woman had not answered her, only mocked her further.

"One candle burns as the King passes away, head to the dark clear glowing flame that turns as green as the dawn and see your heart within it, your future."

What had she meant?

Daera raised her head and exhaled in relief when she saw the enormous roof of the Dragonpit over a nearby building. She began walking again, carefully staying in the dark and avoiding every person she would cross paths with.

The seer had called to her, asked her to approach, but when Daera had said that she had nothing to offer, taking the woman for a beggar, she had seen the white of her eyes and felt compelled to go to her. The old woman had then passed her hand over her face before laughing and speaking mysterious words, taunting her. Should she even take her seriously? 

But against all odds, it was not the most peculiar encounter she had made this evening, and wondered if maybe, the night had more in store for her.

The hooded man that had inexplicably materialised behind her, listening in to the incomprehensible words that were spoken to her, had unsettled her and now occupied her thoughts as she climbed the steps to the Dragon Pit. He was tall and lean, from what she had seen. His voice was soft, but firm, and obviously rather cold as he spoke and she wondered if he always sounded so scathing.

She had only seen his jawline in the dark, the rest of his face hidden from her, but she found herself more intrigued by him than by the blind woman's words. And the smell, sandalwood mixed with smoke. But it was the distinctive scent of dragon that had her eagerly curious. It was the exact same smell as when Princess Rhaenys came back from a ride with Meleys, or as Laenor had once, or as Laena did. Was he a Dragonkeeper? Or maybe just a worker there? Maybe she had been wrong completely, and had mistaken the scent for another odour. But he had not denied it, rather had looked unphased when she had pointed it out. She might think of every possibility but her instincts already knew the truth.

She wondered what the odds were of meeting two Targaryen Princes in one night.

Chapter 2

Thank you @babyblue711 & @arcielee for beta.

Tag list: @knightprincess@baconturtle @witheredoffherwitch @lexwolfhale @toodlesxcuddles @watercolorskyy (sorry I forgot to tag you in the prologue)

[ltash]

Venom

Part 9 "Another Chance"

Simon Ghost Riley x female OC

"I am going to hell Simon Riley and I am taking you with me."

What have I done?

Hurt the one who was the cure for all my ailments.

Anastasia fell on her side, her body crumpling under the weight of her injuries. Ghost turned her onto her back, her eyes half-closed, soft gasps escaping her lips mixed with her sobs. Tears cascading down her cheeks. He leaned in close, his face a mask of cold intent.

"Look at me, Princess," he murmured. "I want you to remember my face when you die."

He stood up, his gaze never leaving her vulnerable figure sprawled at his feet. His phone rang, breaking the heavy silence. Pulling it from his pocket, he answered, recognizing the caller immediately.

"Ghost! Where are you?" Laswell's voice demanded.

"About to finish the job. She's almost dead," Ghost replied, his tone indifferent.

"Ghost! We want her alive. She's valuable to us. She has intel we need," Laswell's voice was sharp and urgent.

A flicker of frustration crossed Ghost's face. "You should have told me earlier. She's almost gone now." He glanced down at Anastasia, noting her faint attempts to breathe. Kneeling, he placed two fingers on her neck, feeling her weak pulse. "She's still alive," he confirmed.

"Good. Don't take her to any hospital. We're sending a helicopter to your location with a team of doctors. She will be airlifted and taken care of. Give her first aid in the meantime. We can't lose her," Laswell instructed.

"Okay," Ghost said, ending the call.

He looked down at Anastasia, a complex mix of emotions flickering in his eyes. Crouching beside her, he began to administer first aid with swift, efficient movements. The urgency of the situation called for immediate action, and despite the brutality he had shown, he now worked methodically to keep her alive.

Ghost stood up and hurried to his apartment, returning swiftly with a medical kit. Kneeling beside her once more, he met Anastasia's pained gaze.

"Seems like you have to hold on. They want you alive, Princess," he said, his voice devoid of warmth.

Lifting her nightgown to expose the deep stab wound he had inflicted, he poured alcohol over it to clean the injury. Her lips parted as more whimpers of agony escaped, tears streaming down her pale face. She couldn't even muster the strength to scream.

"I hate you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Now that was expected," he chuckled, pressing a gauze pad over her wound to stem the bleeding. As he prepared the stitching kit, he mocked her further. "Too bad, I marked you with a scar. You'll remember me for the rest of your life."

He began to stitch the crescent-shaped wound, his hands steady and precise. She whimpered with each painful stitch, the sound filling the silence of the apartment.

"I know, love. It hurts, but not more than the stab wound I gave you," he said, his tone almost conversational.

The room was now filled with the soft sounds of her whimpers and the steady rhythm of his work. Each stitch was a reminder of the violence she had endured, and the cruel twist of fate that had brought them to this moment. Ghost worked methodically, his focus entirely on keeping her alive despite the brutality he had inflicted upon her.

As the last stitch was secured, the distant sound of helicopter blades grew louder, signaling the arrival of the medical team. Ghost looked down at Anastasia, her breaths shallow but steady, her eyes glazed with pain and exhaustion.

Her weak gaze fixated on Ghost's face, now deprived of his mask. Despite her agony, a flicker of defiance remained in her eyes.

"Feisty! Nobody has ever dared to touch my mask and see my face, but you did," he remarked, a hint of grudging respect in his voice. Pulling his skull mask back on, he instantly looked more menacing, the eerie visage concealing any trace of humanity.

"You don't dare to show your face to the world after what you did," she whispered, each word a painful effort.

Ghost knelt down, his eyes locking onto hers. "So does Makarov," he said, the name dripping with cold significance.

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. "But unlike him, I still have a job to finish. You're valuable to us, Princess. More valuable than you know."

The whirr of helicopter blades grew louder, signaling the imminent arrival of the medical team. Ghost's eyes never left Anastasia's as he continued, "You should thank your stars. They want you alive, and that means you get to live another day. For now."

"Let's get you to the heli, Princess," he said, his voice a mixture of command and reassurance.

Ghost gently scooped her up in his strong arms, his grip firm yet careful. Anastasia whimpered in pain, her eyes burning with hatred as she looked at his masked face.

"Eto bol'no," she cried out, the agony evident in her voice.

He carried her through the hallway and up the stairs towards the roof, where the helicopter was landing. Each step was a jolt of pain for her, she clutched the collar of his tshirt again in agony as she bit back the screams, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

As they reached the rooftop, the blinding lights of the helicopter illuminated the scene, the blades creating a deafening roar. Ghost moved with purpose, his eyes never leaving the medics who were waiting to take her.

Despite the searing pain, Anastasia's gaze remained locked on Ghost, her hatred undiminished. "Why?" she gasped again, her voice barely audible over the noise.

He paused for a moment, looking down at her with those piercing eyes that had haunted her since the attack. "Because you have something we need," he replied cryptically.

"You will take me to Makarov, Anastasia," Ghost said as he carried her up the stairs to the roof, his voice firm and unyielding.

"No. I am going to hell, Simon Riley, and I am taking you with me," she whispered, her voice a mixture of defiance and pain.

Ghost's eyes narrowed behind the mask, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at the use of his real name. He tightened his grip on her slightly, acknowledging her spirit even in the face of death.

As they reached the rooftop, the helicopter's blinding lights and the deafening roar of its blades greeted them. The medics were already there, ready to take her from him. Ghost carried her to the waiting stretcher, laying her down gently but with a sense of urgency.

"You're not going anywhere yet," he replied coldly, leaning in close so only she could hear. "And as for hell, Princess, I've been there and back. You won't scare me."

The medics quickly secured her, checking her vitals and preparing for immediate evacuation. Ghost stepped back, his figure imposing against the backdrop of the helicopter.

"Remember this," he said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Your fight isn't over. Not by a long shot."

"You'll live, Princess," he said once more, his voice almost drowned out by the helicopter's roar. "And you'll remember this night. Every detail."

As the helicopter lifted off, Anastasia's vision began to blur, the pain and exhaustion taking their toll. But even as darkness started to claim her, the image of Ghost's masked face and his chilling words remained etched in her mind.

As the helicopter lifted off the rooftop, the roar of its blades filling the night air, Ghost took a step back, watching the scene with his piercing eyes.

"Sweet dreams, Anastasia. Till we meet again," he said, his voice carrying a chilling promise.

Anastasia, fading in and out of consciousness, caught his words. Her eyes, heavy with pain and exhaustion, met his for a fleeting moment before the medics moved to block her view. The helicopter ascended, and the city lights below blurred into a haze as she was carried away from the nightmare she had barely survived.

Ghost stood on the rooftop, his silhouette dark and menacing against the floodlights. The mask concealed his expression, but his eyes remained fixed on the helicopter until it was a distant speck in the sky.

Turning away, he disappeared back into the shadows, Anastasia's defiance, her knowledge, and her spirit had marked her as a key player in the unfolding game.

And Ghost, ever the hunter, would be ready when their paths crossed again.

Ghost made his way back to Anastasia's apartment, the scene of their brutal confrontation now eerily silent. The place looked like a battlefield, remnants of their struggle scattered across the floor. Without hesitation, he began to clean up, moving with the precision of a predator who had just finished his hunt.

Methodically, he picked up the pieces, wiping away any traces of blood and disposing of the broken items. His movements were efficient, practiced, as if this was a routine part of his dark profession. He left no detail overlooked, ensuring that when he was done, it would be as if the violent encounter had never occurred.

Her cellphone lay on the kitchen counter, a silent witness to the night's events. Ghost picked it up, turning it over in his hand for a moment before slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. It might contain valuable information, something that could be useful later.

Once the apartment was spotless, Ghost took one last look around, ensuring he hadn't missed anything. Satisfied, he locked the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the now-quiet hallway.

As he left, the city outside buzzed with its usual nocturnal life, unaware of the dark deeds that had transpired within its walls. Ghost moved with purpose, blending into the night, the weight of the evening's events still lingering in the air.

With Anastasia's cellphone in his pocket and her fate now tied to his.

Ghost made his way to a bar, his mind reeling from the night's events. He needed a drink to drown out the memories of what had transpired between him and Anastasia. The bar he chose was the same one where he had first encountered her, a place now steeped in the ghosts of their past.

"Bourbon, two fingers," he ordered, his voice low and rough. He settled onto a stool, letting the familiar ambiance wash over him. The bar was alive with chatter, groups of people engrossed in their conversations, oblivious to the dark thoughts swirling in his mind.

As he sipped his drink slowly, his gaze wandered around the room, finally landing on a woman sitting alone at a table. For a moment, his heart skipped a beat. Her hair was dyed red, just like Anastasia's had been. The resemblance was striking, pulling him back into the torrent of memories he was trying so hard to escape.

He watched her for a moment, his mind playing cruel tricks as he imagined Anastasia sitting there instead. The pain, the anger, the defiance in her eyes as she had whispered her final words to him-they all came rushing back. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away, but the image lingered.

Taking another slow sip of his bourbon, Ghost tried to focus on the present. The warmth of the alcohol burned down his throat, a stark contrast to the cold dread gnawing at him. He had done what needed to be done, yet the weight of it was heavy.

He glanced at the woman again, seeing her laugh softly at something on her phone. She was not Anastasia, just a fleeting reminder of a night that would haunt him for a long time. He finished his drink, the familiar taste offering little comfort.

With a deep breath, Ghost pushed the memories aside. There was still work to be done, and dwelling on the past would serve no purpose. He signaled for another drink, determined to lose himself in the anonymity of the bar, if only for a little while.

With Anastasia gone, only her memories and her cellphone remained. Ghost felt the weight of the phone in his pocket, a silent reminder of the events that had transpired. Determined to extract any useful information, he made his way to a small, inconspicuous mobile repair shop.

The technician, a middle-aged man with glasses perched on his nose, looked up as Ghost entered. The shop was cluttered with various electronics, the air filled with the scent of solder and plastic.

"Remove the password," Ghost said, placing Anastasia's phone on the counter.

The technician eyed the phone and then looked up at Ghost, noting the urgency in his voice. "It'll take a bit of time," he replied cautiously.

"How long?" Ghost asked, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

"About an hour, maybe less," the technician said, already reaching for his tools.

Ghost nodded and took a seat in the corner of the shop, keeping an eye on the technician as he worked. The minutes ticked by slowly, each one a reminder of the night's events and the weight of the secrets the phone might hold. The technician worked methodically, his hands moving with practiced precision.

As he waited, Ghost couldn't help but reflect on the chain of events that had brought him here. Anastasia's defiance, her whispered threats, and the bitter reality of their situation played over and over in his mind. The phone in the technician's hands was a key to unlocking more pieces of the puzzle, and Ghost needed to know what it held.

After what felt like an eternity, the technician finally looked up, a satisfied expression on his face. "It's done," he said, handing the unlocked phone back to Ghost.

Ghost took the phone, his fingers closing around it with a sense of grim determination. "Thanks," he said, slipping a few bills onto the counter before turning to leave.

As he stepped out of the shop and into the night, the unlocked phone in his hand, Ghost knew that whatever he found on it could change everything.

Ghost reached his apartment and settled onto the couch, Anastasia's phone clutched in his hand. As he powered it on, her wallpaper greeted him: a stunning image of her blue eyes framed by long, red lashes. It was a stark reminder of the woman she was, beyond the violent encounter they had shared.

He navigated to the call logs, finding only one number repeatedly contacted. Makarov's. "Bloody bastard," he muttered under his breath, the pieces of the puzzle starting to align.

Opening the messages, he found they were all directed to Makarov, each one a detailed update about her missions. The regularity and precision of the messages indicated her deep involvement in Makarov's operations.

Next, he ventured into the gallery. The first images were innocent, snapshots of a little girl with her parents, followed by solo pictures and ones with friends. Each photo told a story of a life that seemed normal, even happy.

But then, the images shifted. Photos of Anastasia with Makarov appeared, dating back to her teenage years. In these, she seemed younger, more innocent, yet the association with Makarov hinted at a long history entwined with darkness.

Ghost scrolled through the images, piecing together glimpses of her life. He saw her transformation from a carefree girl into a key player in Makarov's network. The juxtaposition of her childhood innocence with her later involvement in such dangerous activities painted a complex picture.

The photos revealed a woman who had been molded by her circumstances, shaped by the influential and malevolent figure of Makarov. It became clear that she had been a part of his world for a long time, possibly indoctrinated from a young age.

As Ghost sat there, the phone still in his hand, he felt a strange mixture of understanding and resolve. Anastasia's life, laid out in those images, was a testament to the choices and influences that had led her to this point. It deepened his resolve to bring down Makarov, to unravel the web of deceit and manipulation that had ensnared so many, including Anastasia.

He knew that the information he had gleaned from her phone was just the beginning. There was much more to uncover, and he was determined to use every piece of data to his advantage. The war against Makarov was far from over, and Ghost was ready to delve deeper into the shadows to emerge victorious.

He closed his eyes, hoping to find solace from the tumult of emotions swirling within him. Yet, as soon as he shut them, Anastasia's face appeared before him, vivid and haunting. Her features, etched in his mind, replayed the moments they had shared together.

He remembered the day she had bumped into him, groceries scattering in every direction. Her drenched figure standing in his doorway, vulnerable yet determined as she sought his help. The innocent expression on her face, brows furrowed in concentration as she bit her lip in thought. Moments when she had brought him coffee, small gestures that now seemed to hold profound significance.

As he opened his eyes again, the image of Anastasia lingered, refusing to fade. He couldn't deny the ache he felt, the void left by her absence. Despite the circumstances, despite the violence and deception that had defined their interactions, he missed her. He missed everything about her-her presence, her clumsiness, the way she had managed to carve a place in his guarded heart.

Though he grappled with the truth, part of him still refused to accept that he had grown fond of her. Yet, deep down, he knew he couldn't ignore the longing he felt. The realization struck him with a jolt-that perhaps amidst the chaos and darkness, there had been a connection, fragile and unexpected.

Ghost sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair as he wrestled with conflicting emotions. The war against Makarov loomed ahead, demanding his focus and determination. But for now, in this moment of solitude, he allowed himself to acknowledge the ache of loss and the lingering memory of Anastasia, the woman who had unwittingly stirred something within him.

With a heavy heart, he set the phone aside, knowing there was still much to be done.

Ghost stood up in his apartment, the weight of recent events heavy on his shoulders. With a sense of resignation, he peeled off his t-shirt and lay down on his bed, his head resting on his arm. As he closed his eyes, Anastasia's voice echoed in his mind.

"Miss me?"

Her words cut through him like a knife. Memories of their tumultuous encounter flooded back-the violence, the pain, and the bitter words exchanged in moments of raw vulnerability. He had wounded her deeply, struck at her when she was most defenseless. He had crossed lines that even he struggled to justify.

He had seen the pain in her eyes, heard the anguish in her voice as she lay bleeding in his arms. The realization hit him hard-that he had not only physically hurt her but had also shattered something deeper within her. The trust she might have placed in him, however reluctant or fleeting, was now shattered beyond repair.

Ghost's chest tightened with guilt and regret. He had broken her, not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. The consequences of his actions weighed heavily on him as he lay there, grappling with the harsh truth of what he had done.

The ghost of Anastasia lingered in his mind, a constant reminder of the irreversible damage he had inflicted. He knew that no matter what happened next, he could never erase the pain he had caused her. And as he drifted into a fitful sleep, her presence loomed large, a poignant reminder of the price they both paid in the shadowy world they inhabited.

Pic credit: Instagram: fairyanddragonprints

[thatuselesshuman]

New OC alert!

Introducing.... Simon Cruz!

Simon is a man who looks about 26, but is in reality much much older. He was cursed with immortality when he was 26, along with painful events called 'glitches' (his body suddenly rips apart before putting itself back together again, a lot like video game characters glitching). These glitches heal whatever physical injuries have been inflicted upon Simon, though they happen randomly and not just when he's injured.

Before he was cursed, he had a wife and 2 young children (a son and a daughter). After he was cursed, his wife vowed to stay with him no matter what. Simon didn't view his affliction as a curse until he attended his wife's, son's, daughter's, and multiple grandchildren's funerals. He soon began trying to find ways to die, so he could be with his family. The emotional distress caused his glitches to become more and more frequent, so much so that Simon wears bandages to keep the blood from seeping into his clothing. He has tried just about every method to die you could think of, but he's still as healthy as a normal 26 year old (despite having great great great grandchildren alive).

[ya-zz]

Could you write a piece between Ramattra and another omnic who wants to join Null Sector and believes in what Ramattra is doing and like. First this omnic (who I would imagine as using it/its pronouns) is in Null Sector purely as a sympathizer and a member to help out but then Ramattra starts taking care of it and it gets flustered by him doting on it? Real soft fluff stuff while they work on human extinction

Apologies it took awhile but hopefully this works well for your request!

Ramattra x Omnic

[not necessarily a reader insert or OC insert]

Word count: 1149

Ramattra would rarely step foot on the asphalt below him, wanting to stay within the safe confines of his vessel to avoid detection but also to keep the dirt and grime out of his joints. He knew what he was doing when he finally chose to walk the streets, keeping to the walls and back alleys. Ash and debris littered the streets, smoke rose from the buildings that barely stood tall.

Within the rubble, there were muffled cries, static mixed with pain. Ramattra sought them out, optics scanning over the area, searching for a heat source, something to locate the cries. After pulling away several bricks and concrete, he finds a lone omnic, optics flitting erratically as they call out to him. 

At first, this omnic is confused. Why was someone out here? Everyone else had left them behind, both his own kind and the humans he thought were friends. Ramattra took pity on them, something tugging at his own heart when he realised that this omnic was injured because of him. 

He shook the feeling off as he pulled the omnic up, cradling them in his arms before returning back to a nearby vessel. Ramattra chose to take care of this omnic personally, especially after listening to their words.

“Everyone left me. You saved me.” The static was almost drowning out their words. “Null Sector is good, I wish to help. I see them, their beliefs. I want to help.” 

Ramattra holds them just that little bit closer to his chest. They were fading, lights flickering haphazardly and the hissing of their inner workings slowly got quieter. The leader had to be quick, get them up to the vessel and repair them before he truly loses the one omnic that wants to help. 

There was no need to indoctrinate them, they believe his cause despite being under the rubble that he had inflicted upon them. 

For a human, the time that had passed would have been unknown, but for this omnic; four days, seven hours and twenty-six minutes had passed since their system was last online. 

Ramattra had done what he could with their repairs. While some damage was severe, the larger omnic had the parts to replace the broken limbs. Wires were replaced, optics recalibrated and voicebox repaired all within those four days. Ramattra wasn’t there when the other omnic awoke, he was too busy looking over his plans and blueprints, too busy focussing on his liberation. 

When the omnic finally rose from the bed they were placed upon, their joints grind, wires were stretched and their optics adjusted to the change in atmosphere. At first, their systems run the usual diagnostics and everything came back in working order. Their head tilts at their new parts, from the silver and gold joints to white and purple, the comparison was almost startling. 

“Peculiar…” They spoke and then adjust their vocal frequency. They stood with a slight wobble before finding their feet, walking out of the room and following the sounds down the hallway. The omnic is clearly lost, but that doesn’t stop them from being curious. Room upon room was entered, their amazement for the technology on the vessel was astounding to them. Clearly the work of a genius.

There was one final room that the omnic hadn’t been in, and when the door finally opens, they’re met with Ramattra’s back turned to them as he watches the wall of monitors. 

“I apologise that the accommodations are not the best suited for visitors.” Ramattra speaks, turning to face the smaller omnic. “I also apologise for the change in your body.” His head cocks to the side as he speaks. 

The omnic shakes their head and raises a hand. “No apologies necessary. I quite like them.” 

Ramattra could feel the air shift around him, something calm and friendly. It was a nice change from the usual tenseness that surrounded him on a daily basis. His optics look down at the smaller omnic, analysing his movements, not there was much to analyse to begin with as they stand there. 

“Do you have a name?” Ramattra finally breaks that small silence. 

The omnic shakes their head. “If I did, I do not remember.”

“I see.” The taller omnic looks off to the side, something of guilt settling inside of him when he remembers the damage caused to their body and systems was his fault. “Perhaps in time you will find a name for yourself. One that suits your… uniqueness.” Ramattra wasn’t one to hand out flattery. 

The omnic before him shuffles in their spot, their wires burning up as an attempt in blushing. 

“Come, let me show you what is happening.” Ramattra gensures for the omnic to stand next to him before he motions towards the monitors. 

From there, The leader proceeds to explain in detail the who purpose surrounding Null Sector and his beliefs, watching the smaller omnic nod and look on. Ramattra can feel a sense of pride within himself; finally, someone agrees with him. 

—-

Months had gone by and Null Sector was still advancing. Their movements caused conflict among many nations and while Ramattra had seen some brother omnics stand with him below, humans still oppressed him and the ideals he wanted to share with the world. 

The fighting continued and Ramattra’s friend stayed by his side throughout everything. The successes were celebrated and the failures were spoken about in a civil manner… after some shouting and throwing of holopads. 

Ramattra had grown close to the omnic he had saved, taking care of them when they needed it the most. Sleepless charging times mixed with nightmares made Ramattra feel pity towards them. They had lost their home, their friends. They had nobody and Ramattra was the only one there for them. 

As the pair worked together their relationship was blossoming, one that even Ramattra had to admit he wasn’t expecting. The omnic beside him grew on his systems. 

While still nameless, the omnic enjoyed being a part of Null Sector. They enjoyed helping Ramattra and the praise they received after they did something good only made them feel closer to the leader. Everything was done in the best interest of the causes and Ramattra appreciated that. 

The smaller omnic would get all bashful, wires burning whenever Ramattra’s hand met their shoulder. Whenever Ramattra sought to repairs and gave the omnic his utmost trust to keep everything in working order, they would do their best to make sure that nothing went wong. 

A few hiccups occurred here and there, but Ramattra was never mad with them. How could he be? This omnic was someone he needed. 

It wasn’t before long that Ramattra realised that this omnic meant more to him than just liberation. He had someone close to him to protect.

Ramattra finally had someone to call a friend, perhaps more.

The omnic finally had a family. A home.

[cebwrites]

in death (eternally bound)

oc x canon | AU word count: 0.8k

In a different, perhaps crueler, timeline - Shisui's unable to erase his existence completely and Kabuto successfully revives him during the war.

The results are catastrophic.

Even the strongest present members of the Allied Shinobi Forces are pushed onto their back foot, and, with the five Kage busy putting their efforts elsewhere, numbers of ninja dwindle greatly at the edge of his blade.

Merciful as he was in life, Shisui's autonomy was stripped of him upon reincarnation and now has to watch in horror as he cuts down friend and foe alike.

Shinobi old enough to remember the fear his name struck into their hearts on the field, shinobi young enough to only barely have heard of the Uchiha clan and what befell them, former peers from his own village, enemy shinobi that still felt the pangs of previous wars - the movements Shisui's body was commanded to perform held no prejudice.

Just as he's about to cut down just another terrified shinobi, frozen in place after witnessing the carnage Shisui had inflicted on the ninja around them, Shisui's tanto is blocked by kunai held in familiar hands and he's sent back a few paces.

Shisui looks upon the face he fell in love with all those years ago; the light in his eyes have dulled over the years, though they're sharp with experience, he's trying to stifle the pain meeting again here like this means. He recognizes that the man who stands before him on this battlefield, primed to attack, has seen far too much in his life, yet none of that makes Shisui love every part of him any less.

Even now, he wants to run into his arms and kiss the pain from Taeru's vacant expression, even knowing how his partner dulls his emotions for battle and how much more difficult that'd make it for Tae.

But he can't.

Damn that Yakushi. Damn him and Orochimaru's twisted jutsu to hell.

Once this was all over, and everyone was rotting in the ground where they should be, Shisui would drag them both there if it was the last thing his fractured, beat up soul allowed him to do.

The battle is tense, filled with so many words held back by wavering restraint and grief; Tae's able to keep up with him but just barely, only with the help of his fellow shinobi and years of being at Shisui's side, memories that gnaw painfully at the edges of his heart with every blow.

Somehow, they manage to force him back between his monstrous attacks and fending off other poor, reanimated souls in the periphery. But Shisui was doing much more damage than everyone could tank, and even Tae's stamina was starting to wane.

In a last ditch effort, a plan was proposed.

While others kept Shisui busy, barely being able to withstand the sheer power of Shisui's Susanoo, Tae erased his presence - remaining hidden to prepare his final attack; a fuinjutsu that would bind them both and give everyone enough time to seal Shisui away.

The orders in control of his limbs made Shisui drive the tanto into his assailant's side before either realized, but that didn't matter - the plan was fully in motion now. Quickly, Tae formed one-handed signs as he trapped Shisui's arms and seals began to inch over both of their bodies.

Shisui was partially grateful that the Edo Tensei did not grant him many senses - just the bare minimum required to fight - the grief he'd have to die with for the second time, knowing the warmth of his lover's blood draining out onto the ground below them while Tae desperately tried to stop him.

The pain would surely turn him into a wraith.

This technique doomed them both; ironic how they were together so briefly in life but would be bound forever in death as the jutsu would slowly eat away at their bodies and souls, leaving nothing left.

The fact that Shisui wanted to cry so badly but was incapable, his body struggling against the one person he wanted to be held by after so long of wandering aimlessly after the Naka River, now that he was back in his arms but only in this twisted perversion of life and death - made him crave it more than ever.

As the seal overtook more and more of their forms, restraining movement and binding both men for the beginning of their eternity, Shisui used the last of his time to confess everything; his fears and hopes for a proper reincarnation, for a full life lived together, just how much he loved Tae and wished he was able to be at his side like he promised all those years ago.

Tae's only response, feeling his mind start to ebb away, was that there was no way he was going to let Shisui go somewhere he couldn't follow anymore, and wherever they were headed now, damnation or not, would be together.

---

A little later on, once the Allied Forces developed a way to neutralize reanimated shinobi; Hyou wanted the earth to swallow him whole when he heard the details of his brother's sacrifice.

[cc-tens]

do you have another oc you’d like to share? Any one you choose would be fine, I just like hearing about them!

About to go so nuclear about my main medic character Quips LOL.

Quips, oh Quips, the one who started this all. My very first and my most beloved Clone OC who I adore so dearly. Literally all my followers are gonna hear about him nonstop once I start actually writing his lore down because I LOVE HIM.

Whenever Quips thinks about who he was and how he acted as a cadet, he viscerally hates who he had been with such a passion, he is very ashamed of who he was before deployment. As a cadet he was extremely apathetic to other clones, often turning his nose towards those who tried to extend bonds of brotherhood and friendship towards him. He was extremely intelligent and very capable as a medical student in the academic sense - although you couldn't tell at first as he often slacked off and didn't particularly care about scoring well - but even a few of his trainers were uncertain about the prospect of him becoming a medic out on the field. He was too clinical, too apathetic, they found him egotistical and disinterested in the well-beings of others and had even noted in his file that he acted like everything was some sort of competitive game rather than a war.

It wasn't until he got a metaphorical slap in the face did he finally realize how real and important his training and future role in the war was. Another cadet named Kipper was injured extremely badly from a self inflicted wound and it was Quips who stumbled upon him and tried saving his life. It was the most harrowing experience Quips had ever been in by that point and it had really put into perspective how serious his role was and he became so intensely dedicated to Kipper in that moment as a medic and also a brother. Unfortunately Kipper was decommed and Quips was hit yet again with the reality and the weight of what pain and death and loss truly means. Afterwards he did a complete turn around, while still remaining emotionally and socially aloof with others - that's just sort of his personality - he suddenly dedicated himself 200% to his field of work and became obsessed with being the best medic possible. He studied hard, in his free time he'd practice modules and repractice them and do them again until he could do them in his sleep, he aced his classes, he started preparing himself in every way he could for what was to come.

Now as a veteran and senior medic in the 212th, he's come a long way and many of his brother's in orange know him and trust him with their lives fully and without doubt. He's worked tirelessly to save lives, thrown his own body onto other's to shield them, has refused to let even some of the worst cases go without his damn best try. Sometimes old vode he knew as a cadet back on Kamino try and give him a hard time, a few even tried to refuse to let him help them as they feared he was the same Quips they knew back in their training days; but he's done nothing but proved himself a different man since. He may still struggle with connecting with others, he's aloof and often never knows how to sooth a vod emotionally or verbally; but he is a presence there, one that says "I'm not fucking giving up on you so you better not either."

He meets Whistle and Caddy after Umbara, letting Caddy collect the body of his dead batchmate Kydd. The trio bond heavily over their losses and the weight of what being a medic means. They become so close, and this is eventually the bond that helps save Quips and Paean post O66 as they help smuggle a critically injured Quips and Paean off Coruscant and to the arms of the Rebellion. Quips after the war spends a lot of his time making informational videos on medical treatments and procedures and distributes them to people who don't have access to full medical data banks, so even outside of the war he refuses to give up his dedication to helping and saving anyone and everyone he can.

[theink-stainedfolk]

OC Interaction tag

Thank you @drchenquill for the tag

I'll be taking my OC from my new WIP The Devil's Advocate

Drchenquill's OC: Artur Karakaxa is a shape-shifting magpie with a lot of resentment and anger. He is the second child of four and had to witness his parents being killed by humans to steal their feathers, as they are very prescious. From that moment on, he has a deep hatred for humans, or anyone who isn't his family. When his youngest brother, Martin, was kidnapped for the same reasons as his parents, who were unfortunately killed in the process, he took matters into his own hands and hunted down the humans. He slaughtered them and managed to bring his brother home safely. From that day on, he worked hard and became an assassin with the goal of exterminating any threat that might come his or his family's way.

My OC: Seraphiel Victor Megdalena is a man of paradoxes, his outward demeanor a carefully crafted facade concealing layers of complexity and depth. Charismatic and articulate, he exudes an aura of confidence and intellect, captivating those around him with his eloquent speeches and sharp wit. Yet beneath this polished exterior lies a fervent idealism and burning passion for justice, born from a lifetime of witnessing the injustices inflicted upon the downtrodden. Complex and enigmatic, Seraphiel navigates the murky waters of morality with a blend of ruthlessness and compassion, his actions driven by a fervent belief in the greater good, even as he skirts the boundaries of legality.

How I think they'll interact: The dynamic between Seraphiel Victor Megdalena and Artur Karakaxa is a study in contrasts, a collision of light and shadow, empathy and resentment. Seraphiel, with his innate sense of justice and moral duty, would approach Artur with a mixture of curiosity and concern, recognizing the deep-seated anger and pain that fuels the magpie's actions. Despite Artur's outward hostility towards humans and those outside his family circle, Seraphiel would see past the facade, sensing the wounded soul beneath the hardened exterior. With his gift for empathy and persuasion, Seraphiel would seek to understand Artur's motivations, attempting to bridge the gap between their worlds and offer a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. Yet, Artur's mistrust and bitterness may prove to be formidable barriers, testing Seraphiel's patience and resolve as he navigates the delicate balance between compassion and self-preservation. In the face of Artur's relentless quest for vengeance, Seraphiel would strive to illuminate the path towards redemption, drawing upon his own experiences of overcoming adversity and finding solace in the pursuit of justice.

Idk i just wrote what i thought, no hate please.

I'll tag @cssnder @finickyfelix @sshawthorne @ascotwriting @willtheweaver @agirlandherquill and anyone else who fancies Seraphiel ;))))

[credince--writes]

Jitters book 2 teaser

Here are some crumbs ;)

AO3

Simon 'Ghost' Riley & Fem!OC(Jitters)

Jitters?

Jitters where have you gone?

The sound of crashing glass alerted his eyes upward, staring as the glass framed by black metal broke out, a corpse falling through the air back first.  Well. That was the thing, it wasn’t a corpse yet, and that falling figure was Lopez. A display of limbs, his hands holding onto the gun as he continued to shoot up at the ceiling in rage as he pulled the trigger. Body falling, life fleeting.

To fall is to be peaceful, to feel the air rip past your body as your maneuver your body through the sky.

Peaceful.

Until he collided with the ground, the sound of a skull coming into contact with concrete from such a height creates a sickening crack. The sloppy wet sound of his brain spilling out onto the floor from the force of the impact. Not that he had any time to think of the wet sound of brains splattering against the floor, relishing in the feeling of seeing the prick who caused so much pain dead on the pavement and wishing that he had been the one to do it himself. To be the one who watched as his life drained from his eyes and to be the one who would inevitably meet him once again in Hell. It was a sick, dark pleasure of his. 

To see.

Feel the life drain out of the body.

To inflict the pain he felt deep inside upon something else other than himself.

His eyes drifted upwards, narrowing on the office space the glass came from.

Maybe it was a fluke.

Maybe it was the devil sending him to his doom.

But he knew.

Knew deep in the marrow of his bones as they screamed.

As his flesh protested, joints groaning in protest as they had done so many times before. So many times when he had been beaten, starved, mangled.

Almost as if she were a dog hot on a trail, following the scent of a woodland creature to catch between his canines and crunch.

 His legs were moving before his brain could fully compute it, lungs expanding and contracting his muscles burned- screamed, giving it all that he had left. He needed to find her. To demand an answer. To obtain vengeance- anything. 

He didn’t even know what he would do if he found her.

Kill her?

“She was the traitor.”

“Who?”

“Jitters.” He replies, keeping a solemn tone. “Jitters was the rat. She escaped, MIA .”

That seemed to be on the table. 

Legs screaming as he ran up the stairs, arms reaching out to the door and pushing as hard as he could- resistance meeting the door but it is no match his body weight slammed up against the door. The corpse slid to the side as he pushed into the room, his eyes frantically scanning the various corpses in the room until they fell upon her.

Blood.

The thick scent of it wafting into his nose without him as much as sucking it in through his nose. The reek of death- hatred. Scents he had become so accustomed to, scents that should no longer phase him but the rawness of it all flooded back into his mind as if he were just a little boy again. The skin of his knees was not yet thickened with scars, his mind was not yet hardened by trauma. 

Fallen backward, deep red blood gushing from her middle pooling over her coat and onto the floor.

She looked so small.

He was walking back into the foyer of the townhouse, staring down the dark hallway. The damp cold feeling in his palms from the door was slightly cracked open.

The door shouldn’t be open, not even a little bit. Beth would’ve been furious, it would let the heat out- his mother would’ve said the same exact thing. Maybe it was just Tommy being lax. But of course, it wouldn’t be that.  It wouldn’t be anything of that at all- there wouldn’t be anything more to find. There was nothing left, in reality.

Maybe he died in that house.

Died in there, with them.

The gun had fallen to her side, forgotten against the floor as she laid back. The blood pooled out of her body and leaked out onto the floor. The hazy look in her eyes as if she were trying to focus on something- maybe her main hadn’t computed the injury acquired to her body. The shock.

Maybe it was worse than it actually looked.

It had to be.

It was as if he could see the demons sprawling out of the shadows in the room, dark-clawed hands cascading across the floor trying to reach for her.

She didn’t look like a villain.

She didn’t look like a traitor.

She just…. Looked small.

Frail.

Weak.

Fleeting.

The flex of her fingers was upward as if she was trying to grasp onto something that was not there. His body was moving forward, knees dopping against the floor as he slid forward. Arms wrapping around her and pulling her up against his knees. Up against his chest- hoisting her up anyway he could.

There were too many questions.

And he didn’t know enough of the answers for this to make sense.

Maybe he was clinging a traitor to his chest- he probably was.

Who had he become? Ghost would’ve gripped the rat by the throat, choking out the last bit of life. Savoring the feeling of knowing he was once again the reaper. He would mock himself. He knew he would, standing in the mirror with the mask no longer covering his face, silently sneering at himself in the mirror.

How weak he was.

But how could a Ghost be weak? 

You can not kill a Ghost.

You can not harm a Ghost.

But a ghost would still cling to the framework of a house, lingering in a hopeful jest to once again feel the warmth of the flame inside of it.

And there he was.

Simon.

Clinging onto warmth, his hand pushing against the wound and feeling the overwhelming heat of blood seep into his skin and work around his fingers.

“Jitters. You need to look at me. Jitters, talk to me. Open your eyes.” He grits out, pushing down on the wound. She doesn’t reel back in pain to the pressure against the wound. It seems as if she dosen’t even recognize that he is really there. As if he were a ghost. But she curled, subtly, almost unperceivable, but curling inward as her eyes looked up and a smile graced her features.

“Ghost…” She smiled, he hand dreadfully slowly lifting up and fingers covered in too much blood stretching for a digit to press against his fabric-covered nose. The hard plastic no longer guarded all of his faces- leaving him dressed down to the black mask sticking to his skin.  “You’re missing your face.” She sighed out happily. “You’re alive.”

There was a tightness in his throat that was unfamiliar to him, locked away. Cemented and bricked over too many times to count, all unearthing itself at once. Walls crumbling down as if they were made of the little cardboard blocks they’d play with at the parish lunches- the onces where he’d be able to score a free lunch with Tommy if they could sneak out. 

“You’re alive.”

That wasn’t the comment of a traitor.

To be happy.

The smallest glimmer- weak with the body that produced it of happiness to see someone they’d have betrayed.

Her hand dropped, and he knew that look. He hated he knew it. The fleeting movements of her eyes- the haze crowding over her sight. The paling of her skin as his hand continued to press, in some weak attempt to keep the blood inside of her.

There was commotion from down the stairs- he could hear it. The sound of charging footsteps clearing out rooms down the hallways. 

“We need a medic!” He yells, head snapping back towards the hallway.

Simon can’t remember the last time the pled. Really, really, begged. The kind where he would be on his knees, staring up at the sky wishing for something to change. The kind where his throat would be tight- the feeling of hot tears on his face. When his nose was stuffed up, his eyes were red and puffy.

Ghost never had. He would not beg, he would make men beg. Plead for their life- to beg for forgiveness that would never be given.

“Please. Please, just keep talking. I need you to keep your eyes focused on me- alright?” He pleads. The sound of his voice was almost foreign to him with the words coming out of his mouth. As a man, things would easily boil down to rage- to beg and plead was not the first instinct. But to be gentle with something that was fragile- but the thought of it breaking in his hands and being ruined forever stirred the rage in him that both Simon & Ghost were all too familiar with.

“Hey… Can you make dinner tonight? I’m so hungry.” Her voice was soft.

Her voice was weak.

Dinner?

“I’ll make dinner tonight. Just tell me what you want, alright? Tell me what you want for dinner, Jitters. Medic!” He screams.

“Jitters. Look at me. Keep your eyes open!” He yelled. “Medic! Medic!” His voice was strained- it was almost unfamiliar to him to hear the emotion in his voice as she cradled her body up to his chest.

“I’m so tired Ghost…” She all but whispered.

He needed something. Something as leverage- something to keep her eyes open. To keep her attention, to keep her here.

People find amusement in cruelty.

The engage with it and laugh, and it sucks their attention because they can’t understand that pain because it hasn’t happened to them. But they are so intrigued to learn more about it- anything they could.

Maybe, in turn to give a hint of the cruelest part of him, and give it to her.

As if it were his own little flame.

“Keep your fucking eyes open!” He yelled. “Please! Fuck- Don’t you want to know who Beth is?” He asked, the desperation in his voice evident- maybe not to the two of them, but to the heavens above. The fates watch the scene unfold before them.

It was an offer. The strain of his hands extending holding one of the heaviest burdens his brain could fathom- holding it out to her in hopes that the glimmer of his misery would catch her attention.

“.. .Beth ?” Her eyes opened, slowly, trying to focus up on his face.

And even if the acceptance was weak.

It was worth it.

“My Sister- Sister in law. She came into my family- she gave me a nephew. Made my family so happy. Just stay awake and I will tell you anything you need to know.” He begged.

“Where… Where is she?” She asked.

He wanted to sob. To curl up and cry like he had done those dark and lonely lights. To stand up- walk away and act as if none of this had ever happened. A ghost does not feel pain. A ghost can not be hurt. But this? It was as if he was using his battered soul as the rope to hold her back from the ledge.

Beth isn’t here.

The tears welled up in his eyes, pouring over the grease paint and down onto his mask. “She isn’t here. She isn’t here right now but I will take you to meet her. Just keep your eyes open.”

This really, shouldn’t be happening.

He should’ve never allowed it to get to this point.

Allowed it to spiral downwards into this horrible monster that is this sorrow. 

Her eyes closed.

“Open your eyes! Medic!” He screamed.

“I did it.” She smiled.

“What? What did you do?”

“I left. I’m sorry I left.”

 He wanted to tell her it was ok- that everything would be fine. To just keep your eyes open- please. Don’t let it end like this.

Maybe within all of that haze, she could sense his distress and tried to comfort him.

“It’s ok… I’ll meet her.” She said, hand reaching up and clutching onto his torso. “I’m so tired…”

That broke something within him he didn’t know could be broken.

“Don’t. Go. To sleep. Please .”

“Please. Please don’t go and see her. You can’t visit her, please, please don’t go. Please.”

 He wanted to scream. “Don’t take her! Beth if you fucking hear me- don’t take her. She can’t see you- not like this. Not now.” 

Because he knew once she really went to visit her, she wouldn’t come back.

[eclipsedzs]

𝗦𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗲(𝘀?)

𝗘𝗖𝗟𝗜𝗣𝗦𝗘𝗗 ▰▰▰▱▱▱ Volume: James Potter

𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Genre: ✓

Paring(s): James Potter x Slytherin! Fem!Oc x Remus Lupin x Sirius Black

Summary: Soulmate AU- You were never to big on the idea of a soulmate, though the ones your stuck with seem determined to change that fate.

Disclaimer(s): Cursing, mean-ish Reader, hints of SH. (Won’t be using OC name much, and will try to keep her description to a minimum so it’ll still be fun for readers to read- this is just a test to a book i wanna write.)

SOULMATES, a topic that typically evoked a range of emotions within her. It was a subject that had always made her shiver and cast a skeptical glance at anyone who dared to bring it up.

It wasn't that she harbored any ill will towards people who found their soulmates; in fact, she genuinely loved witnessing others find their lifelong partners.

What bothered her was the expectation that she, too, had to be with her supposed soulmate.

The idea that fate or the alignment of stars dictated her romantic destiny didn't sit well with her. She resented the notion of not having a choice in the matter, simplistically put.

A soulmate was akin to an elixir, a potent blend of Oxytocin, Serotonin, Dopamine, and even Endorphins, coursing through veins like an intoxicating potion.

The very meeting of their eyes ignited a profound connection, an alchemical reaction within the depths of one's being.

Yet, there were moments when external factors temporarily obscured the rush of those chemicals — fear, stress, and sometimes even anger.

The bond with a soulmate had the power to fortify one's vulnerabilities, weaving a tapestry of trust that transcended reason. It was a force that could make you overlook their glaring red flags, enticing you into a hypnotic dance of surrender.

Such was the mysterious allure of soulmates, a delicate interplay of emotions and desires, bound by an invisible thread that defied comprehension.

Encountering a soulmate was akin to a lamb to the slaughter, oblivious to the impending chaos that lay in wait. With naive hope and soaring expectations, one believed that everything would unfold according to their preconceived notions, simply because the elusive notion of soulmates entwined their fates.

But reality, as it often does, would swiftly descend upon them. For soulmates, too, were mere mortals, driven by their own desires and motives.

Many humans reveled in the allure of carnage, the thrill of conflict, and the pursuit of personal gain, regardless of the consequences inflicted upon their unwitting counterparts.

In the tapestry of soulmate connections, one found the intertwining threads of joy and pain, love and betrayal, woven together in a delicate dance.

The truth revealed itself, reminding souls that the mere presence of a soulmate did not guarantee a harmonious existence. It was a precarious tightrope walk, where the potential for both ecstasy and devastation loomed at every turn.

Many people choose to save themselves for their soulmates, cherishing the anticipation of the intimate connection they will share with their destined partner.

The idea of experiencing the touch of their soulmate's body against their own becomes a sacred longing, a yearning for a bond that goes beyond physical attraction.

It is a belief rooted in the belief that true love is worth the wait, and that the merging of souls and bodies will be a profound and transformative experience.

However, for others, they didn't see the point or simply didn't feel inclined to wait. After all, a soulmate is meant to love you unconditionally, regardless of your past experiences. If your soulmate judges you for having explored and expressed your sexuality, well, then they're simply not worth it.

Among the Hogwarts Casanovas, James Potter stood out as one of the most notorious. His charm and confidence could lure in girls with the flick of an unruly curl or a captivating gaze from his hazel-brown eyes, peering mischievously through his round glasses.

He possessed a heart as grand as his ego, leaving many under his spell and yearning for his attention. His best friend Sirius Black, a close second on the Casanova scale, certainly gave James a run for his money.

Sirius Black, a prominent contender for the title of biggest Casanova, was the embodiment of the classic bad boy, capturing the attention of giggly girls and fueling endless rumors.

His striking grey eyes had the power to weaken knees with a single glance, complementing his pale, chiseled complexion that bore the mark of his Black lineage.

Adorned in a timeless black leather jacket, he exuded an air of rebellion wherever he went. His slightly curly black hair cascaded to his shoulders, stylishly layered to create a captivating effect.

With a mischievous, humorous, and somewhat dramatic nature, Sirius had a knack for playing pranks and finding himself in trouble. His reputation with the ladies was well-established, engaging in snogs with anyone who caught his fleeting interest or simply served as a temporary source of amusement.

Remus Lupin, an enigma who effortlessly captured the hearts of those around him. His gentle smiles and warm brown eyes had a unique power to make girls swoon in a way unlike his friends.

His calm and protective nature, coupled with his problem-solving abilities, drew people towards the comforting embrace of his presence.

Yet, it was his occasional mischievousness that proved equally captivating, causing knees to weaken when a playful smirk graced his face, accentuating the sharpness of his canines and showcasing his endearing dimples.

Despite his tall and lanky stature, Remus possessed an underlying strength that would occasionally reveal itself when he indulged in his desires, leaving a lasting impression on those fortunate enough to witness it.

His sandy brown hair, always slightly unruly as he immersed himself in his studies or a good book, added to his charm.

The scars that adorned his face only added to the air of mystery and dramatic allure, causing girls to squeal with delight at the slightest hint of attention from this captivating young man.

In the dimly lit Slytherin common room, the crackling fire cast an eerie glow, highlighting the green accents of the room. Amidst the shadows, a girl sat, exuding an air of mystery and indifference.

She was not a Casanova by any means, though she possessed a few tricks up her sleeve when it came to getting what she wanted from boys in her year.

Quiet by nature, her mean resting face and piercing stares often caused others to keep their distance. Half of it was due to her Slytherin affiliation, while the other half was a result of her intimidating glares and perpetually downturned lips.

Her curly, slightly frizzy hair cascaded around her, occasionally pushed away by a boy who had made himself quite at home, pressing his lips to her jaw in an attempt to elicit a reaction.

But she remained unfazed, her bored expression unwavering as she stretched out on the couch, her arms draped over the back and her legs slightly spread out – a testament to her preference for trousers over skirts, which lacked the convenience of pockets.

Her eyes followed random figures moving about the room, deliberately avoiding any significant focus on the boy – whose name had slipped her mind – clinging to her side like an overly attached girlfriend.

She couldn't care less about him, having met him in a drunken state at a party where they had slept together. While he seemed to expect something more, she had no interest whatsoever in pursuing any further connection.

With a sigh escaping her nose, she rose to her feet, gently pushing off the boy who finally seemed to grasp the hint and scurried away, his face flushed with embarrassment, no doubt seeking solace among his friends.

Leaving the common room behind, she passed through the serpentine door that obediently opened and closed for her, granting her passage.

The dull ache of her soulmate mark, a moon-shaped emblem nestled on her right collarbone, persisted as she walked, causing her to exhale an irritated breath and discreetly adjust her shirt to conceal it. The throbbing ache settled into a subtle, continuous hum, its gentle vibrations almost soothing.

As she approached the library, the door welcomed her with the comforting scent of new books, coffee, and tea.

Finding solace at a table nestled between two book-lined walls, she reached into her small satchel and retrieved a hardcover book, propping her head on her hand as she immersed herself in its pages.

Time seemed to slip away effortlessly, until a sudden scuffle of a chair being dragged along the floor interrupted her reading.

She glanced up, only to be met by the warm brown eyes of Remus Lupin. His hair was tousled, his uniform tie askew and loosened, the red fabric dangling haphazardly.

He offered her a sheepish smile, a red-covered book clutched in his hand, his tongue darting out to moisten his chapped lips before he spoke. "Do you mind if I sit here? It's the most secluded area in the library," he murmured, his voice gentle with a hint of raspiness.

She released a small breath through her nose, nodding silently as her lips pressed into a thin line. The sound of her voice, soft yet carrying, echoed faintly in the hushed atmosphere of the library.

A sharp pang from her soulmate mark caused her to flinch, her grip on the book slipping slightly, resulting in a quiet thud as it landed on the table.

Remus, also flinching in response to the sensation, raised an eyebrow at her, his eyes widening when he caught a glimpse of a faint glow beneath her shirt.

Soulmate marks were known to glow when one was in close proximity to their soulmate, accompanied by the corresponding aches.

His own mark pulsed within him, causing a subtle ache, yet she seemed oblivious to its presence as she scowled at the table and gingerly touched her mark.

Deciding to let it slide, Remus settled himself in the seat opposite her, placing his book on the table and running a hand through his hair, further tousling its already disheveled state.

Leaning in closer to his book, he realized he had forgotten his reading glasses, causing him to squint slightly as he immersed himself in the pages.

And so they spent the remaining time engrossed in their respective books, losing track of time until the librarian sternly reminded them of curfew.

Reluctantly, they gathered their belongings and prepared to leave, Remus offering the girl a warm smile while she only responded with a curt nod.

As Remus settled into bed, his mind couldn't help but linger on the possibility that he may have found his soulmate. The thought brought a mixture of excitement and curiosity, leaving him with a newfound sense of hope as he drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, the girl, Finn, retired to her own bed with a sense of annoyance at the persistent throbbing of her three soulmate marks. She couldn't help but wonder how she ended up with multiple soulmates, finding it both puzzling and frustrating.

With a sigh, she tried to push the thought aside and closed her eyes, hoping for a peaceful night's rest, away from the incessant reminders of her complicated soulmate situation.

[linasofia]

Since I apparently can no longer go near a church or candles without thinking of a certain priest... I'm throwing this to your muse, in case she sparks anything.

My dear @sweetestgbye, thanks for leaving your confession in my ask box. ⛪️ and🕯you say? I hope you'll like what my muse came up with. 💛

Burning Desire

Fandom: The Man from Rome

Relationship: Father Quart x OC Lucia

Warnings: 18+

The wax is warm and soft under her fingertips, and Lucia gently squeezes the top of the candle. The edge bows to her will and collapses in the already melted wax. She smiles as the flame seems to take a deep breath and then returns to its original shape.

”You should not play with candles.” A dark and slightly intimidating voice, coming from behind, sends a shiver down her spine. She can tell the man is standing close to her—too close to be considered a coincidence. ”You might get burned.”

Lucia doesn't have to look over her shoulder, she knows the deep, alluring voice belongs to the man she spent over an hour to both seduce and ignore at the same time.

The church was packed when she finally found a spot for herself, and when she looked out over the ocean of faces, she instantly noticed him. A bit taller than the people seated next to him, he really stood out from the crowd. Not only by his looks, even if he is incredibly handsome, but an unusual calmness appeared to surround him. The enigmatic man was seated a few pews behind her, and every time she turned her head, their gazes met. When she tried to focus on the choir and the beautiful Christmas songs that seemed to float through the air, she could feel his piercing gaze burning the skin on her neck. Her long, blond hair was arranged in a messy bun, leaving her neck fully exposed. When she made her scarf slip on purpose, she instinctively knew he took notice. And she loved it.

She squeezes the candle again, and this time the melted wax drips down the length of the slim candle. With great fascination, Lucia watches how a beautiful pattern takes form, but eventually, the heavy candlestick stops the wax from continuing its journey.

”I don’t mind the heat from the wax, it can be controlled.” The words slip from her, and she bites her lower lip. Why did she say that? Lucia moves her fingers to the slightly taller candle, second in line at the altar. She repeats her small assault on the new candle, but as it starts to give in, she doesn’t remove her hand. The warm wax slowly drips over her fingers, but she doesn’t flinch nor withdraw. Instead, she closes her eyes and breathes through her nose. It’s hot, yet not unbearable, but the smell from the burning candles is abruptly replaced by an unfamiliar, musky scent that makes her knees weak. Suddenly a large hand clasps around her wrist and pulls her fingers away from the candle. She spins around and meets the man’s cerulean stare.

”Inflicting pain on yourself is a sin.” If he spoke louder, his voice would roll between the stone walls in the church like thunder, but now, as he speaks in a hushed tone, his words find their way under her skin and make her heart beat faster. The man is much taller than she expected, and he towers over her as he gazes down at her hand. His hair is dark, kissed by age at his temples, and in his stubble she can read the traces of experience and sacrifice. He wears a dark suit, an aegean shirt, and around his neck—the evidence of his calling—a white clergy collar. Lucia swallows hard; he looks even more handsome up close.

”Is it still considered a sin if I ask someone else to inflict pain upon my skin?” she whispers, too overwhelmed by his appearance to be able to command her tone.

”It depends,” his voice drops even lower, and it makes her tremble. ”Is the pain for penance, or simply your own satisfaction?” Lucia gasps at his words. Who is this man? He is not a usual priest, and something in his eyes reveals that he has seen far more than the average man. And yet she can’t deny it; the quite intriguing look in his eyes gives her a thrill unlike anything she has ever felt.

”Both,” she lowers her gaze but registers the change in his eyes. A storm is approaching, and she's without shelter. Against his demeanor, she stands defenseless. She should have known; she felt the raw attraction when seated in the pew, and now, as he exposes his true self, Lucia is struggling to keep her feelings under control.

”Why these candles?” His voice is sharp, but she senses a curious question behind the scolding tone.

Lucia lets her gaze fall back on the candles standing on the altar. They flicker as a result of her disobedience.

”They are beautiful.” Her answer is simple—too simple to be the whole truth. She didn’t expect to have this conversation, at least not here, so soon, and she is not yet ready to reveal the real reason behind her act. ”And I like to push my limits.” Her last words are only a soft whisper, even if the last visitors left the old church a while ago.

”That can be done in many other ways.” His remark surprises her, and she turns to face him again.

”I know.”

A long pause follows, questions lurking in the silence between them, and Lucia perceives how she’s physically drawn to the man, as if he’s the strongest magnet and she a thin needle.

”How long has it been since your last confession?” Another surprising question, and she lowers her gaze, slightly embarrassed.

”Too long I assume,” Lucia mumbles. It’s the truth. She was raised catholic, but as an adult, she struggles to feel included. Still, she enjoys visiting church, but when she does, it’s mainly for the music and the possibility to admire the grand architecture and the paintings.

”So it’s pleasure you’re seeking then, not penance.” Something in his words ignites her inner fire, and she lets out an involuntary, longing sigh.

”May I ask your name?” She can hear her own voice tremble slightly.

”Quart.” His reply is instant and harsh, like the crack from a whip being wielded in the air.

”Tell me, Father, why are you asking me all this? What are you seeking?”

Father Quart ponders over her question; he’s not really sure himself. Recently he has questioned his choice in life. The sometimes shady work he does for the Vatican comes with a high price. He knows Monsignor Spada expects him to carry on, but there are many nights when Father Quart dreams of another life. A life without a vow of celibacy.

The woman before him is beautiful, yet something tells him she might not realize it. She is almost a head shorter, with a golden glow in her blond hair, which reminds him of a burning match. Her neck is long, and her skin pale. But it’s not her features he finds irresistible; it’s the depth of her eyes. She’s a seeker, but not only for spiritual guidance.

Without even thinking of it, Father Quart lifts his hand and strokes the collar around his neck. For some reason, it feels heavier now than it did when the sun broke free from the night, but not even the smallest muscle in his face reveals his inner struggle as he speaks. ”I have found my place.”

Lucia watches him in silence and nods. It makes sense to her, but she can’t shake away the feeling of a growing bond between them—unspoken yet undeniable.

”My name is Lucia,” she then says and smiles warmly at him.

Father Quart smiles back, but it’s a restrained smile, forced upon his lips, for her mouth moves sensually when she speaks, and he can’t hinder his own thoughts. In fact, he doesn’t want to. He watches her hand, the one he pulled from the candle, as she reaches out and strokes the altar.

Lucia looks around in the empty church and back at the man she now knows as Quart. Father Quart, she corrects herself.

”Will you hear my confession, Father?” Her voice is once again only a seductive whisper.

Father Quart closes his eyes briefly to gather his thoughts. It has been a long time since he helped a parishioner in confession, but he can’t refuse. When he opens his eyes, she looks straight at him with an expression he has not seen in many years.

”If that is your wish.”

She smiles and makes the sign of a cross. ”Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been so long since my last confession, I can’t even remember when it was.”

Father Quart chooses to stay silent and allows Lucia to find her own pace. Soon, a stream of words start falling from her lips, spoken calmly and detailed. She doesn’t hold back when she explains her lust and desire. How she needs a man who can satisfy all her needs. Father Quart remains silent and listens to how she carefully changes her focus toward the candles, the melted wax—and the altar. Her admiration for their beauty becomes very clear to him, and the strange feelings they awake in her. She doesn’t have to say it out loud. He can still read the forbidden fantasy in her eyes; Lucia, lying naked on the cold altar with a man standing beside her and painting her body with dripping, warm wax. And Father Quart has a good understanding of who that man should be. Then she falls silent, as if lost in her own thoughts. He waits, but when she neither continues nor ends her confession, Father Quart decides to speak.

”Lucia, your confession doesn’t sound like you’re truly regretting your thoughts.”

She doesn’t respond, but a sweet blush caresses her cheekbones, and Father Quart notices the smallest shift in her eyes. He recognizes that look—guilt—and it only confirms his suspicions. ”I don’t think it's the Lord’s forgiveness you want, so what is it? Why are you telling me this?”

She captures his gaze and holds it steadily. ”Can’t you feel it? Or are you just too afraid to acknowledge it?”

Father Quart knows exactly what she’s talking about, for it has been on his mind ever since he grabbed her hand. Her soft skin against his was enough to wake his desire. He’s drawn to her, a powerful attraction—yes—but also on a deeper level. He senses they are more alike than he’s comfortable with. Her needs mirror his own, only he has spent years suppressing his carnal lust. He takes her hand in his and holds it closer to the candle. No red marks or traces of wax can be seen on her delicate fingers, and Lucia is standing completely still, as if waiting for something. At that moment, Father Quart realizes he wants to see the melted wax drip down on her again. And he yearns to see those beautiful eyes in front of him burn with passion.

”You want me to do this to you, don’t you?” His voice grows thick when he meets her gaze, and the strong need in her eyes almost makes him lose control. Almost.

”Yes,” she breathes. ”More than anything.”

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