#ITS FINALLY DONE. NOT ADDING ANY MORE PROMISE

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 2

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 2: Ruthlessness or Mercy

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

The Council Chambers lay shrouded in a dim, restless light that filtered through the latticed windows, casting fractured patterns across the stone floor. Beyond the intricate panes, the sky was a tumult of shifting grays, heavy with the promise of rain.

Aemond stepped into the room, his presence commanding even in its quietness. He moved with the careful deliberation of a predator–each step purposeful, measured, as though the very act of walking across the threshold was an assertion of control. His leather boots met the cold stone with a muted thud as he ascended the steps. 

The chairs surrounding the long, austere stone table stood empty, all save one; his mother’s. She sat with rigid poise, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as though to anchor herself. Her dark, expressive eyes locked onto Aemond as he settled himself into his seat. Those eyes burned with reproach, their intensity drawing attention to the faint furrow etched between her brows and the subtle downturn of her lips.

It was not a new expression; he had seen it countless times before, though it had more often been directed at his brother. It was the look she reserved for disappointment, for exasperation with sons who, in her eyes, ought to have known better. The weight of her disapproval bore down on him like a silent accusation, as though he were a boy caught in some misdeed.

Aemond felt the flicker of annoyance stir in his chest, hot and unwelcome. She judged him, he knew, for what he had done–for the actions he considered necessary. His jaw tightened, but he met her gaze unflinchingly, letting it wash over him like a tide breaking on stone. He would not yield to guilt; there was none to feel. His choices had been measured and justified. 

Still, her silent condemnation lingered, her brows knitting further as though she sought to unravel him with sheer force of will. When she finally broke her gaze, turning her head with an almost dismissive air, it sent another sharp pang of irritation through him. His fingers twitched before he placed his hand deliberately on the cold surface of the table. He began to tap his fingers against the stone. 

The low hum of conversation rippled from the periphery of the room, an almost distant sound that Aemond registered without interest. It hovered at the edge of his awareness, much like the men who spoke it–inconsequential. 

“–ruined my velvet doublet! Vile creatures,” Ser Tyland Lannister’s voice rang out, laced with indignation. He stood by the side table laden with food and wine, its offering ever ready in case the council dragged on into hours of tedium. Tyland poured himself a generous cup of wine, shifting with irritation. Beside him, Lord Jasper Wylde plucked absently at a bowl of fruit, the polished grape he selected glinting faintly in the candlelight. 

“Whomever thought of releasing them inside should be made to pay for it,” Tyland continued, his reddish-golden hair catching the light as he turned to glance at Jasper for sympathy but there was none to be found. 

“Is there nothing to be done about them?”

“The rat catchers are at work,” Tyland replied, swirling his wine as though the answer soured his mood further. “But they are rat catchers, not bird catchers, and birds, it seems, pose a challenge beyond their meager skill.” He let out a sigh, casting his gaze briefly towards the ceiling as though pigeons might descend upon him at any moment. “Pigeons are nothing but rats with wings, I say.”

Jasper smirked faintly as he plucked another grape. “Why not shoot them down?” He proposed. “Surely the archers would find some amusement in it.”

“Perhaps,” Tyland conceded, though his tone suggested doubt. “But killing the birds might invite ill fortune upon the union they were meant to bless...”

For the first time, Aemond sensed the weight of Tyland’s gaze, a fleeting glance that carried subtle unease, as though unsure of his reaction. Aemond did not respond by meeting his gaze, his focus remained elsewhere, unconcerned and wholly uninterested in the conversation. 

Jasper emitted a gruff sound of disapproval. “I hadn’t taken you for a superstitious man, Ser.”

Tyland hummed in reply, a noncommittal sound as he lifted his goblet and took a measured sip of wine. Aemond’s gaze flicked briefly to the lattice windows, where the gathering storm clouds darkened the room further. The council had yet to truly begin, and already, his patience frayed. 

The faint jangle of chains announced the arrival of Maester Orwyle before he even appeared in the council chamber. It was a sound that carried an unassuming weight, familiar and mundane, yet always accompanied a matter of seriousness. Aemond heard it now, the soft clinking growing louder with each deliberate step the Maester took. The sound seemed to linger in the heavy silence of the room. 

Orwyle entered, his gray robes trailing behind him as his thick, wrought chain swayed heavily with each movement. His posture was stiff, his lined face bearing the caution of a clever man. Before he could fully take his place at the table, Alicent’s voice cut through the stillness, direct and demanding. 

“Maester Orwyle,” she began, her tone tight with concern, “how fares Ser Wyllam? Will he recover?”

The Maester hesitated for only a moment, his hands steadying on the back of his chair as his gaze flickered–briefly but noticeably–towards Aemond. Aemond met the Maester's gaze, his lone eye gleaming with a sharpness that dared any present to hold it. There was no concern in his expression for the wounded knight’s recovery; instead, a faint trace of amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth, like a predator toying with its prey. The tension the mention of Ser Wyllam seemed to bring to the room only added to his quiet satisfaction.

Orwyle’s eyes darted away quickly, and he lowered himself into his chair with measured care, the links of his chain clinking softly against the wood. “As you��d expect, Your Grace.”

He folded his hands in his lap, his thumbs worrying at the links of his chain as he spoke. “I have dulled his pain with milk-of-the-poppy and stitched his wounds, though…” His voice faltered briefly, “…the scars will be… significant. I fear there is little to be done for that. However, I am confident he will make a full recovery.”

Alicent’s shoulder relaxed fractionally, though her expression remained grave. She drew her hands together, fingers interlacing, the gold of her rings catching the flickering light of the chamber. “By the Mother’s mercy,” she breathed, her voice softening, though her eyes betrayed her weariness. “I will pray for his swift recovery then.”

Orwyle offered a slight nod of acknowledgement but avoided meeting Aemond’s gaze. He offered no comment, though the mention of Ser Wyllam stirred little in him beyond vague irritation. It was a matter resolved, in his eyes–a lesson given and received. 

His mother’s concern grated faintly at his nerves, though he kept his composure. It was not prayer that would heal Ser Wyllam’s wounds, nor had prayer saved him from earning them in the first place. 

Strength did not come from the gods; it came from within–or not at all.

The room seemed to grow heavier with silence, each word spoken about Ser Wyllam hanging in the air like an accusation. To him, the recovery of Ser Wyllam was a trivial matter, unworthy of the energy it seemed to draw. Aemond’s fingers tapped against the cold stone of the table, the movement seeming to briefly draw his mother’s scrutiny. His mother steadfastly avoided his gaze, though her disapproval was as palpable as if she had spoken it aloud. Her deliberate refusal to look at him, as though he were something too terrible to acknowledge, struck a nerve. It was not simply avoidance–it was rejection, a silent declaration that he was somehow awful, wrong, unworthy of her regard. The thought burrowed under his skin, needling at him with an insidious persistence.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his fingers resuming their steady drumming against the table’s surface. He would not give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but the sting of her silent judgment lingered, a thorn he could not easily remove.

The tension in the chamber was a living thing, dense and suffocating, pressing down on those gathered. It was born not only of silence but of the morning’s events–the blood spilled in the courtyard, the words exchanged, the mutilated knight recovering in the maester’s wing, and the consequences that followed. Whispers had swept through the castle like wildfire, ensuring that no soul within its walls remained ignorant of what had happened–of that he was sure. 

The faint scrape of boots against stone signaled Otto Hightower’s entrance. The Hand of the King moved with purpose, his long robes trailing softly as he rounded the table. He passed both his daughter and grandson without so much as a glance, his focus fixed on his destination: the chair to the king’s right, conspicuously empty in his absence. Otto carried with him a leather-bound book of notes, which he set down with care and a weary sigh. His movements were measured as he reached for the marble ball of his station, its cool surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. He lifted it from the center of the table and placed it into its designated holder before him, the soft clink of stone on metal breaking the heavy quiet. 

The Hand’s presence seemed to draw the council together. Ser Tyland Lannister followed Lord Jasper Wylde to the table. He placed his wine goblet on it with a dull clink before pulling out his chair. The scrape of wood against stone cut through the room as he lowered himself into the seat to Aemond’s right. 

“The King?” Lord Jasper queried as he eased into his chair, the polished marble ball of The Master of Law clinking softly as he placed it into its holder. His tone was casual, though his question carried a faint trace of scrutiny. 

“The King is still recovering from the previous night’s indulgences,” Otto Hightower replied, his words measured, laced with the subtle implication that the council would proceed with or without the King’s presence. The Hand’s tone brooked no argument, his focus shifting to the matters at hand. Yet, before the finality of his statement could fully settle, the room was interrupted by the cutting edge of another voice–raspy, pointy, and unmistakably annoyed. 

“The King,” Aegon interjected, his footsteps heavy as they echoed through the chamber, drawing every eye towards him, “is here.” The heavy doors thudded shut behind him as he ascended the steps with a languid arrogance that belied the irritation in his tone. “And in a rather foul mood.”

Aegon reached his chair with a haphazard grace, dropping into it without ceremony. His movements were unhurried, his expression drawn. He snapped his fingers sharply, the gesture summoning the cupbearer–a nervous-looking nephew of their grandfather–who hurried to bring the King a goblet of wine. 

Settling back into his seat, Aegon’s fingers wrapped around the stem of the goblet as he took a long sip. Lowering the cup, his gaze flicked towards Aemond, a crooked, humorless smirk curling his lips. “Tough,” he drawled, his voice carrying a sardonic edge, “I suppose I’m not the only one in a foul mood this morning, am I, brother? There seems to be an abundance of it today.”

Aemond’s eye met Aegon’s with cold indifference. He remained silent, his fingers tapping the deliberate rhythm against the table’s surface. 

“No bruises, no cuts… still one good eye.” His gaze roved over Aemond’s face with exaggerated scrutiny, a faint, mocking smirk playing at his lips. “Not a mark on you–aside from the usual, of course.”

Aegon leaned back in his chair, lifting his goblet with lazy precision as though to toast his own wit. He took a slow sip, savoring the tension in the room, before continuing, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. “Either my sweet niece was exceptionally docile on her wedding night,” he said, lifting his eyebrows in mock surprise, “or your night wasn’t quite as… eventful as one might have hoped.”

He tilted his head in a goading manner, his smirk deepening as he allowed his words to linger, the implication hanging heavy in the air. The faint scrape of his boot against the floor punctuated his deliberate shift in posture, his movements slow and unhurried, as though he reveled in drawing out the moment. “I’d wager the latter is the reason for your sour mood this morning,” he added, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and derision.

Aegon’s gaze sharpened then, a glint of something darker flickering behind his lazy smirk. “But no matter,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost conspiratorial, though the mockery remained clear. “It seems you found your excitement elsewhere, didn’t you?” He set his goblet down with a deliberate clink, his eyes narrowing as he added, with a pointed edge, “Brother.”

Aemond’s gaze locked onto his brother’s, unflinching and devoid of even a flicker of remorse. His expression was a mask of cold composure, as if carved from stone, offering no satisfaction to Aegon’s taunts. Yet beneath the surface, a storm churned–a simmering fury that burned in his chest, coiling tighter with every word that dripped from Aegon’s mocking tongue.

His jaw tightened, the faintest motion betraying the restraint it took to keep his temper in check. The insult gnawed at him–as it had when spewed from Ser Wyllam’s now mutilated mouth–but he refused to give his brother the satisfaction of a reaction. He gritted his teeth, the metallic taste of anger sharp on his tongue. 

“How could you do such a thing?” His mother finally spoke, her voice cracking through the room like the lash of a whip. Her tone was tight with disbelief, her head shaking slowly as she turned her gaze towards Aemond. “Your actions are not without consequence, Aemond. Have you not done enough already?”

Her words needled at him, burrowing beneath his skin and sinking into the awful, tender part of him that wanted nothing but her understanding–her love. He heard it in her voice, the reprimand laced with disgust. Had his actions not brought them enough ruin? Had he not stained his hands with enough blood? Was he not already enough of a monster?

Another feeling soon rose to the surface, sharp and biting: resentment. He was not a boy to be chastised in front of an audience. He steeled himself, refusing to let the emotion show. He was justified–he had been right. And he did not appreciate his mother’s reproach. 

“I defended myself,” Aemond said finally, his voice steady and cold, though his anger simmered beneath the surface. His gaze shifted back to his mother, sharp and unyielding. “He made the mistake of thinking he could speak to me freely–insult me without consequence. Would you rather I let them laugh at me?”

His brow furrowed, the faintest trace of bitterness creeping into his tone. He remembered too well what it felt like to be the object of ridicule, the powerless boy mocked and taunted at every turn. He would never allow that again. Not from a knight, not from anyone.

Alicent let out a sound of disbelief, a scornful exhale that stung as much as her words did. She turned her head sharply, tearing her gaze from him as though even looking at him was too much to bear for an extended period of time. Her hands drew tighter on the table, the golden rings on her fingers digging into her skin. 

“So you mutilate him over an insult?” She said at last, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “Over words, Aemond?”

Her tone struck like a hammer against the brittle silence, and the weight of her disappointment pressed down on him. Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he refused to look away, even as her words burrowed deeper, feeding the gnawing ache inside him. He would not falter. 

“I gave him every opportunity to take back his words,” Aemond said, his tone measured–tilting his head in a half shrug. His gaze fixed on his brother, sharp and unyielding. “But he proved more fool than man. I suppose that is why you keep him around brother. He suits your needs well enough, does he not?”

His brother had made a habit of surrounding himself with fools and jesters–lickspilles who would glady lick the soles of his boots and then offer honeyed words of praise for the privilege. Aegon seemed content with their false flattery and praise. To Aemond, it was a testament to his brother’s weakness–his inability to command true respect without relying on the spineless throng that clung to him like leeches. 

The knights and lords Aegon favored were no better, men more adept at wine-drinking and bawdy tales than strategy or strength. They were eager to whisper in his ear, to stroke his ego, but when true action was required, he thought, they would scatter like leaves before the wind. And he saw it for what it was; a weakness that left their house vulnerable. 

Ser Wyllam was just another one of his brother’s chosen fools, a knight whose tongue was far quicker than his sword. And Aemond would not abide his disrespect.

“Can you not take a simple jest?” Aegon drawled, his voice oozing derision. 

“I can take a jest,” Aemond replied, his voice cold enough to chill the room. “But I will not take disrespect.” 

Aegon’s laugh was sharp and unkind, cutting through the thick tension like a blade. “Mother, do you suppose the next time someone dares to mock his… shortcomings,” his eyes flickered towards Aemond’s eyepatch and what lacked beneath, “he’ll lop off an ear as well? Or perhaps a head?” His eyebrows drew together as his head tilted in scrutiny. “Or is this about more than words, hmm? Did Ser Wyllam strike too close to the bone?” He paused for a moment, drawing out the tension. “…Did he speak of your fine wedding night? Was it not all you’ve dreamt of, brother?” Aemond's gaze narrowed.

“Could you not, at least, have left one side of his face untouched?” Aegon huffed as he sank back in his chair, waving his hand dismissively, his expression irritated. “Now I have to rearrange the seating at every feast to keep Wyllam out of my line of sight. Honestly, Aemond, if you wanted to maim him, couldn’t you have picked somewhere less noticeable? His hands, perhaps? No one cares about those.” He lounged in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet with lazy precision.

“Aegon,” Alicent chided, her tone weary and exasperated. Her head shook with reproach. “This is a serious matter–”

Aegon grimaced and leaned back further in his chair, sinking slightly with a huff. “Of course, Mother,” he drawled. “Far be it from me to disrupt the sanctity of these proceedings.” 

“Did you ever pause to consider what consequences your actions might bring us, once again?” Alicent’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension as her attention snapped back to Aemond. Her dark eyes, burning with condemnation, locked on to his with unflinching intensity. “You act without temperance or restraint. You let your pride dictate your actions, no matter the cost.”

Aemond held his mother’s gaze, his expression cold and impassive, though a faint tension betrayed itself in the slight curl of his fingers against the table’s rough surface. His lips quirked upward faintly, the ghost of a smile that carried no warmth, only a trace of bitter satisfaction. 

He believed he had shown temperance and restraint–far more than was deserved. He could have killed Ser Wyllam for his insolence, could have struck him down the moment the mockery left his lips. The memory of the man’s jests, his sneering tone, still gnawed at him, as did the feeling of being laughed at. Aemond’s jaw tightened slightly at the thought. He had given Wyllam every chance to retract his words, to swallow his putrid mockery and concede. But the fool had not. 

And so, Ser Wyllam had borne the consequences. Aemond’s fingers stilled their tapping, his gaze unwavering. It had been a matter of pride, certainly–but it was more than that. It was about setting an example. To allow such open disrespect to pass unchecked would have emboldened others, encouraging them to whisper behind his back, or worse, to mock him openly. He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever. 

Let them call him a monster if they wished. Better to be feared than ridiculed. Better to inspire dread than to be seen as weak. 

Slowly, Aemond leaned forward, his gaze narrowing as his voice dropped into something colder, harsher–more unforgiving and calculated. “He should think himself fortunate for my restraint.” His head tilted. “I could have killed him for his insolence. Perhaps I should have. But we are at war, after all, and we may yet need his sword arm.”

“It would have been better had you killed him,” Lord Jasper muttered, his voice gruff and sullen. The harsh lines of his face betrayed no hesitation as he spoke, and his iron-gray eyes carried the weight of a man as unyielding as his moniker ‘Iron-rod’ foretold. His gaze flickered briefly to the scowling king and he seemed to consider his words for a moment before pressing on. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he continued, inclining his head towards Aegon in a gesture that carried only the faintest hint of apology, “I know he is your friend, but it would have been better had he been killed.”

“How so, Lord Jasper?” Alicent demanded, her tone indignant, her brows knitting into a deep frown of disapproval. Her gaze pinned Jasper–who seemed exasperated by her judgment. 

“It would have been cleaner,” Jasper said, his tone steady and matter-of-fact. “Easier to explain. A training accident, nothing more.” 

Alicent let out a sharp, exasperated breath, leaning back in her chair as though the weight of the conversation pressed down on her. Her eyes turned towards the ceiling, seemingly beseeching the gods for intervention. “As Master of Laws, you should understand the weight of such actions, Lord Jasper. Killing him might have been simpler for you to explain, but it, too, would not have been without consequence. Should every insult end in death, what message does that send?”

Her disapproving gaze lingered on him. “Must every problem we face be solved with a sword? This is not the battlefield, nor should it become one.”

Lord Jasper drew in a huffy breath, eyes briefly turning skyward. 

Alicent’s voice remained sharp, her frustration seeping through each word as she turned her gaze back to Lord Jasper. “And what of Lord Lefford?” she continued, her tone cutting and precise. “House Lefford may have bent the knee to Aegon, but what happens when he hears of what has been done to his son?”

“If Lord Lefford values his son’s tongue more than his loyalty to the crown, then let him break faith,” Aemond said callously. He straightened slightly, his gaze sweeping across the table. “Let him turn against us, if he dares. His defiance will end as all other’s do–in fire and blood.” He hummed. “The Golden Tooth is no more resistant to dragonfire than Harrenhal was.”

Alicent’s face hardened further, her hands clenching tightly in her lap. “You speak as though every slight can be answered with violence.” She stared at him furiously. “But this is not a battlefield, Aemond. It is the realm we must hold together, and your actions threaten to tear it apart.”

“Lord Lefford will not break faith,” Otto Hightower interjected at last, his voice cutting clearly through the tension that lingered in the room. His expression was composed, his tone measured, though there was an edge to his words. His sharp eyes swept across the table before settling on Ser Tyland, whose posture stiffened slightly under the weight of the Hand’s gaze.

“Ser Tyland,” Otto continued, his voice steady and deliberate, leaving no room for ambiguity. The red-haired lord straightened in his chair at the sound of his name, his hands folding neatly atop the ledger resting on the table. “House Lefford is a vassal house of the Lannisters. Write to him. Impress upon him that the breaking of his oath will carry dire consequences for him and his house. Make it clear that his son’s foolishness–” his gaze flicked briefly towards Aemond, though his expression betrayed nothing, “–is no excuse for disloyalty.”

Ser Tyland inclined his head slightly, though a faint shadow of apprehension flickered in his eyes. “Yes, my lord Hand,” his fingers brushed against the leather bound ledger, the movement carrying a note of unease. 

Aemond watched the exchange in silence, his lone eye narrowing slightly as Tyland nodded again, his agreement all but perfunctory. The room remained still, the weight of Otto’s directive lingering in the air.

Otto’s gaze lingered on Tyland a moment longer before shifting back to the table at large. “The strength of our alliances lies not only in oaths,” he said, his voice carrying across the chamber with quiet authority, “but in ensuring those oaths are upheld. Make certain Lord Lefford understands that.”

With that, the Hand leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers steepling as he surveyed the room. The tension in the chamber remained palpable, though Otto’s calm command had shifted it, reframing the conflict as a matter of order and duty. Aemond’s fingers tapped lightly against the table, his expression carefully blanket, though the faintest trace of a smirk touched his lips.

Let Lord Lefford be reminded of his place. Whatever words Ser Tyland might send, the lesson had already been carved into his son’s face. And if he should prove as foolish as his son, Aemond was prepared to teach him a similar lesson. 

A heavy silence hung over the council chamber, stretching uncomfortably as the weight of the previous conversation settled over the gathered lords. The tension seemed to press against the stone walls, each second thickening the air until even the faintest movement felt intrusive. 

At last, Ser Tyland stirred, the quiet rustle of fabric breaking the oppressive stillness. He adjusted his doublet, the subtle gesture betraying his unease as he straightened in his seat once more. His gaze flickered briefly towards Aemond, lingering for the barest of moments, before he turned his attention back to the table at large. 

Clearing his throat softly, he breached the next subject with measured care, his tone deliberately light as though attempting to dispel the tension that gripped the room. 

“My lords,” Tyland began, his tone careful but pointed, “while the events of the morning have captured much of our attention, there remains the matter of the ledgers–specifically, the expenses for the recent wedding celebrations and their strain on the crown’s coffers–”

Alicent shifted forward in her seat, her brows furrowed with concern as she fixed her gaze on Maester Orwyle. Her voice cut through Tyland’s words abruptly, redirecting the council’s attention. “Has Rhaenyra returned any of my letters?” She asked, her tone sharp with urgency, though an undercurrent of hope clung to her words. 

Lord Jaster Wylde let out a huff, the sound teetering between a scoff and a sigh. His steely eyes rolled towards the ceiling, and he shook his head, his exasperation plain for all to see. “More letters?” He muttered beneath his breath as Tyland sank back in his seat, seemingly deflated by the interruption.

Aemond did not blame Lord Wylde for his frustration; he felt it too. His mother’s insistence on reaching out to their enemy grated at him, a futile gesture that reeked of desperation. What use were letters when blood had already been drawn. Rhaenyra was no longer a sister to be reasoned with–she was the enemy. Every word his mother penned to her was a mockery of the conflict they were in, as if ink and parchment could soften the inevitable clash of steel and fire. 

What irked him more was the purpose behind those letters. His mother sought to apologize, to soothe tensions, to mend something that had long since shattered. But why? Aemond’s lip curled slightly as the thought roiled within him. Had anyone apologized to him when Rhaenyra’s son took his eye? No. Instead, he had been humiliated, threatened, left to bleed as the room stood divided over who was to blame. There had been no soothing words, no justice offered to him. Only pain, humiliation, and the cold truth that his suffering mattered less than preserving some fragile, already broken, peace. 

His fingers curled against the table, his blunt nails scraping lightly over the rough stone. The sound was faint, but it tethered his simmering anger, grounding it as his mind churned with memories he wished he could bury. 

“No, Your Grace,” Maester Orwyle replied at last, his voice hesitant, as though reluctant to speak into the heavy silence that had settled over the room. His hands clasped tightly around the chain draped across his chest, the soft jangle of links barely audible as he shifted uneasily under Alicent’s gaze.

Aemond’s lone eye flicked toward his mother, studying the faint furrow of her brow, the tension in her frame. He wondered, not for the first time, why she continued to hope that Rhaenyra could be reached. His mother’s heart, soft as it was, could not see what Aemond knew to be true: some wounds could not be healed, some chasms could not be bridged. And Rhaenyra had chosen her side the day her son took his eye.

Alicent seemed to brush past Lord Jasper’s reproach, though the faint tension in her jaw betrayed her irritation. At Maester Orwyle’s reply, her lips pressed into a thin, strained line, disappointment flickering across her features. But she didn’t seem to allow it to linger. Her hands folded neatly on the table, the soft rustle of her movements breaking the silence as she let out a sigh. 

“In her condition,” she began, her tone measured but carrying that note of damning sentiment, “it cannot be good for her to remain at Storm’s End.” She shook her head slightly, her brow furrowing further with concern.”Surely, she must think of the life she carries. A mother must hold her child above all else. In that bond, she might yet find reason.” Her eyes sought out the council as she spoke. “Reason to see the madness in prolonging this war.”

His mother’s words hung delicately in the air, heavy with unbidden hope, though faint as it was. Her gaze sept across the table, as if silently imploring them to share her hopes.

Aemond’s jaw tightened imperceptibly as he listened, his lone eye narrowing ever so slightly. His mother’s persistent hope, her belief that words and decency could sway their enemies, rankled him more than he cared to admit. It was a weakness, in his eyes, to entertain such notions when the path forward could only be carved by steel and fire–not by sentiment or fragile appeals to childhood friends. 

Yet, for all his frustrations, he remained silent. She was misguided–too soft-hearted to accept the truth before them. The war was not looming; it was here, and there was no avoiding it. Blood would be spilled, lives would be lost, and no about of letters or appeals to maternal bonds would change that. 

It infuriated him to see her falter now, to witness the hesitation in her resolve when they stood at the precipice. Had this not been her cause? Had she not spent years insisting that Aegon was the rightful king, that his claim was just, and that they must fight for him–for their family? Had she not warned them time and again that failure would mean death? That Rhaenyra would put them all to the sword? 

Yet now, when the time had come to act, when their path was set, she hesitated. She spoke of reason, off reconciliation, as though he hadn’t already bloodied his hands for them. It felt like a betrayal of the very principles she had so fervently instilled in them. 

But, Aemond supposed, his mother had the luxury of hesitation–of clinging to hope and appealing for peace. She was not the one with blood on her hands. It was easy for her to falter now, to pull back and second-guess, because she had not been the one in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay.

Yet, he could feel her blame, sharp and unwelcoming, pressing against him like a blade. She blamed him–he knew it. She blamed him for the war, for making it inevitable, for being the spark that ignited the conflict. As though he alone had set them on this path, as though she had not spent years scheming and maneuvering to put Aegon on the throne. 

It grated against him, the way she distanced herself from the very path she had forged. She spoke now as though the war was something thrust upon them by his actions alone, as though it was not her own choices that had brought them here. She had fought and conspired, whispered in the shadows, wielded her influence to get them here–and now, when the blood began to flow, she wanted to wash her hands of it all. To absolve herself from responsibility, to lay the burden at his feet. 

He could see it in her now, the faint flicker of guilt that she sought to mask with reason and compromise. But guilt did not change the truth. The war was here, and they were all bound to it. She could no more escape its consequences than he could escape the stain of blood on his hands. 

Let her place the blame upon him if it eased her conscience. Let her believe she could undo what had been done. Aemond would shoulder the weight of it, as he always had. But he could not waver, nor would he forgive her for faltering now.

Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice as unyielding as forged iron. “Mediation? Shall we send her flowers and a heartfelt apology too? Daemon will laugh himself hoarse before sending the envoy’s head back in a basket.” His head shook dismissively.  “The princess is not a woman of reason–had she been, she would have accepted our terms when we first presented them to her,” he stated gruffly, his tone laden with disdain. “And she is not likely to find it any time soon.”

The weight of his words drew the room’s attention, his head turning toward him as he shifted slightly in his chair. He sat more upright, his expression measured even its gravity. “Her… condition… is no longer.”

Wylde’s gaze swept over the table, letting the silence stretch before continuing. “I’ve heard whispers from the fishermen around Dragonstone. They say the child has been lost. The shock of her father’s death, the crowning of our rightful king, or perhaps the capture of her daughter–it matters not.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to Aegon, who appeared to listen with unusual attention. He leaned back in his chair in a leisurely fashion, his fingers absently turning his council stone in its holder. The faint, repetitive scrape of the marble echoed softly in the room.

Wylde continued, “The child… is said to have been malformed and monstrous. With horns, twisted limbs and a tail.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, their weight growing with each horrified glance exchanged around the table. “They were quick to burn it,” he added, as though it spoke to the validity of these rumors. “But still, the tale has spread.”

“Mother above,” Alicent murmured, covering her face for a moment of despair, brushing her fingers down and then along the curve of her neck. 

The chamber was cloaked in a heavy silence, the weight of Lord Jasper’s words settling over the council. Alicent’s expression darkened as she sank back into her chair, the tension etched into every line of her face. Her hands rose slowly, covering her face for a brief moment before brushing down her neck, a weary gesture that betrayed the strain pulling at her muscles. She exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mother above…”

Aemond sat motionless, his features carved into an impassive mask, though his mind raced. If the news was true, it would be a blow to his half-sister–a deep and personal one. Yet even as the thought stirred something darkly satisfying within him, the thought of her suffering retribution for her defiance. Yet satisfaction gave way to contemplation as he considered the ripples such a loss would create–and what it would mean for Daenera.

The notion of Daenera’s grief unsettled him. He could not ignore how deeply it would cut her, even if the child had never drawn breath, even if no bond deeper than the promise of its existence had been formed. The loss would compound. It added its weight to wounds that already bled freely, deepening the injury, making it bleed all the more. 

His eye flickered to the table, his fingers curling against the smooth surface as he wrestled with the thoughts crowding his mind. He did not want this for her, did not want to see the grief that clung to her like a shroud grow heavier. 

“A sign from the gods,” Wylde added, his tone measured as he continued, “They punish the princess for her ambition. Surely, the gods are showing their favor to the rightful king.”

“Indeed,” Tyland said cautiously, his words measured yet clumsy, as though unsure whether to agree outright or temper his response. 

The scrape of Aegon’s council stone against it’s holder ceased as he leaned further back in his chair, hands spreading on the table as he grimaced with that lopsided grin of his. “One less brat to grow up with airs of grandeur. A shame the gods didn’t finish the job and rid us of their mother too while they had the chance.”

“Aegon,” Alicent snapped, her voice sharp with reproach, though it carried the tone of a mother scolding her son rather than addressing the king he was–before his own council. “That is not something to wish for, not even against our enemies.”

Aegon’s gaze darkened, his smirk giving way to something harder. “Not even against those who would steal my throne and see us all put to the sword, Mother?”

Before Alicent could respond, Tyland awkwardly cleared his throat, stepping in to diffuse the rising tension. His words came out haltingly, as though he were carefully picking his way through a minefield. “With such loss, one wonders if she might yet find reason,” he began, though his tone betrayed a faint condescension. “Grief make women… unreasonable…”

“Perhaps it is reason enough for her to seek peace,” Maester Orwyle ventured, his voice careful, as though stepping across thin ice. He glanced at Alicent as he continued, “I agree with the Queen Mother that mediation should still be pursued. The princess is unlikely to wish for the loss of more children, and war will only increase that risk. The longer this conflict continues, the greater the toll on all sides.”

“War is not merely a threat at our door, Maester,” Lord Wylde cut in, his tone firm, laced with grim finality. “War is already here. First blood has been spilled, the realm is divided, and Daemon Targaryen is not a man to be reasoned with even if his wife may be. He will not stand down.”

Otto Hightower cleared his throat, the sharp, deliberate sound cutting through the tension in the chamber and drawing all eyes back to him. “We’ve received a raven from Storm’s End,” he began, his voice calm but carrying the weight of importance. His fingers deftly pried open the leatherbound book before him, extracting a long, narrow piece of parchment stamped with the stag sigil of House Baratheon. The parchment unfurled over the closed book as he set it down, the faint crackle of the wax seal’s remnants breaking the silence.

“Lord Borros sends word,” Otto continued, his gaze steady as it swept over the council, “that Rhaenyra has abandoned her search.”

The words hung heavily in the air, and Alicent immediately straightened in her chair, her posture rigid as her brow furrowed deeply. She cast a sharp glance toward Aemond, her condemnation wordless but clear. The weight of her stare needled at him, but he remained unmoving, his features an impassive mask.

“Back to Dragonstone?” Alicent asked, turning her attention back to the Lord Hand. Her voice was sharp, though edged with apprehension, as if she both dreaded and demanded the answer in equal measure.

“No,” Otto replied, his gaze sweeping across the table, assessing their reactions. “She was seen flying along Blackwater Bay towards King’s Landing yesterday.”

The weight of his words pressed down on the room, and the air seemed to grow heavier with it. The lords shifted uneasily in their seats, exchanging wary glances, the tension palpable as the implications settled over them. Aemond remained still, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the table’s surface. 

A note of unease coiled tightly in his chest. They had been vulnerable the day before, the lords and ladies of the realm gathered in the sept for the wedding, their defenses thin, their focus elsewhere. The realization gnawed at him. Rhaenyra could have taken them–taken the Red Keep, King’s Landing itself. The thought clenched his stomach like a vice. 

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as his mind turned over the possibilities. If she had descended upon them, there would have been no time. He would not have reached Vhagar before it was too late. They would have been at her mercy, forced to watch as she reclaimed the throne, as she tore his wife from his grasp. And then, there would have been fire. 

Lifting his gaze from the table, Aemond let his eye sweep across the council. He saw the same dawning realization mirrored in their faces, the unease etched into furrowed brows and tight mouths. 

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of a chair. Then, Aegon’s voice broke through the tension, sharp and flippant. “Well, she didn’t reach King’s Landing, did she? Otherwise, we’d all be ashes by now.”

“She reached the outskirts of the harbor before turning back,” Otto informed, his tone steady but heavy with implication.

“Perhaps she remembered that we too have dragons,” Maester Orwyle murmured, his voice thoughtful, though his words carried a faint edge of uncertainty. “She couldn’t have known of the wedding taking place.” 

“We should have sent men after her at Storm’s End and been done with it,” Aegon muttered displeased, the disdain in his voice unmistakable. He tipped back his cup, draining the last of his wine before letting the empty vessel thud softly against the table. Slouching back in his chair, he let out a huff, his expression souring. “Instead, we let her slip through our fingers. And what now? She slinks back to Dragonstone to gather her dragons and mount her war against us?”

“We still hold her daughter,” Otto said, his tone calm and calculated, each word chosen with care. “Unless she is willing to risk the life of a third child, she will not strike so soon. For all her grief, she is bound by some reason–at least for now.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the table. “While she may have secured the loyalty of House Darklyn and the lesser houses surrounding Dragonstone, and House Velaryons treasury and fleet, she remains at a disadvantage.” 

Aegon scowled, his fingers once again fidgeting with the council ball, but it was Tyland who broke the silence. “Even so, the princess has more dragons than us.”

“Dragons may be her strength,” Otto replied, his tone calm but firm, “but they are also her greatest liability. If she brings them to bear without the strength of men behind her, she risks everything. The lords of the realm will not stand idly by while their fields burn and their people starve. If she seeks to rule through fire alone, she will find herself with little more than scorched earth to govern. And so will we if we are foolish enough to risk our dragons before it is absolutely necessary.”

“Dragons are our greatest strength,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the table, lingering briefly on Aegon and then Aemond. “But they are also our greatest gamble. Recklessness could cost us more than a battle–it could cost us the realm itself.”

Aemond’s fingers tightened against the edge of the table, his expression unreadable. He did not look away from Otto, his mind parsing the warning even as his blood simmered at the implication of restraint. His grandfather’s logic was sound, but Aemond found himself bristling at the caution. To him, inaction was its own form of weakness.

Still, he said nothing, allowing Otto’s voice to carry the weight of reason, even as the tension in the room deepened.

“What is to be done, then?” Aegon demanded impatiently, his fingers twisting his council ball, the stone scratching irritably in its holder. His tone was sharp, his irritation palpable as his gaze narrowed at his Lord Hand. 

“We arm ourselves with patience,” Otto replied evenly, his voice measured and deliberate. “We consolidate our strength and gather our allies. House Tyrell has yet to respond, as have the Vale and the North. The lords of the Riverlands remain undeclared, but with the Lannisters marching from the West and my nephew advancing north, they will soon be compelled to make their decision.”

He shifted in his seat, his eyes scanning the room as he continued. “We already have an army, and more will join our cause. The advantage is ours if we proceed wisely. Let us not repeat the mistakes that have already been made.” 

Otto’s tone grew heavier, his gaze sharpening as he leaned forward slightly. “The realm will not accept her as its queen,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. “The lords of Westeros will not rally to a woman, especially one crippled by grief. Her weakness will be her undoing, and we will ensure the lords see her for what she truly is.”

With Otto’s final words, the matter seemed settled, though Aegon’s sour scowl lingered, his displeasure evident in the taut set of his jaw. The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of their discussion hanging in the air like an unwelcome guest.

Outside, the clouds had thickened, swallowing the last vestiges of blue sky. The heavens darkened to an ominous slate gray, heavy with the promise of a downpour. The chill crept insidiously into the chamber, seeping through the cracks in the stone walls and curling around their feet like an unwelcome specter. The faint rustle of fabric and the soft shuffling of boots betrayed the discomfort of the council as the cold nipped at their toes.

Aemond remained still, his gaze flicking momentarily toward the window where the dim light barely penetrated the storm-laden gloom. The coming rain felt like an extension of the tension within the room–a foreboding herald of the storms that awaited them outside these walls and beyond in the realm.

Tyland adjusted his doublet, his expression grave as he leaned forward slightly, hands resting atop the ledgers before him. “If I may, my lords, there is another matter pressing upon the realm that demands our attention.” His eyes swept the table. “The crown’s coffers, though extensive thanks to the late king’s frugal nature and decades of peace, have begun to feel the strain of this war.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, his fingers pressing down on the pages as if to emphasize his point. “The expenses of the wedding alone were considerable–the coronation feast as well, and now, with the added burden of preparing for conflict, the treasury faces mounting pressure. The blockade imposed by the Velaryon fleet has worsened matters, choking key trade routes. Imports of fabric, and more critically, ore and coal have been severely disrupted.”

Tyland’s eyes swept across the council, seemingly gauging their reactions. “We may need to consider alternative trade routes, though these would inevitably increase costs. Moreover,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, “such routes may expose us to vulnerabilities, particularly if a siege were to be imposed.”

“Rhaenyra hardly has the men for a siege,” Jasper Wylde interjected, his tone curt, as though dismissing the concern outright. 

Tyland hesitated for only a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line before he countered, “But she has the dragons…”

“If Rhaenyra dares to even attempt to lay siege to King’s Landing,” Aemond spoke finally, his voice low and calm, a dissonance to the weight of his words, “Vhagar will meet her in the skies, and we shall end this war swiftly.” He hummed, his head tilting as though he took measure of his own words. “Should she gather the men, I will burn them.”

“Yes!” Aegon chimed in with an exclamation, pointing fervently at Aemond in agreement, “Yes! And–And we should burn her ships as well. Without the Velaryon fleet at her back, she is exposed and in no position to prolong this war.”

Otto leaned forward, his expression stern as he interjected. “The fleet is well-guarded. The waters they hold are constantly by one dragon or another. To send Vhagar against it would leave King’s Landing vulnerable–”

“To vulnerability, then!” Aegon exclaimed flippantly, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he leaned back in his chair. “It seems to be all we’re good for these days. Let Vhagar loose. The smell of burning sails might improve the stench wafting in from the harbor. “I will defend the city on Sunfyre while my brother burns their fleet–”

“You musn’t, Your Grace–”

“No, Your Grace–”

The voices around the council table rose in a chorus of objections, each lord offering their variation of the same warning. Aegon’s expression darkened with each interruption, his shoulders slumping slightly as he sank back into his chair. His frown deepened, petulance creeping into his features as the weight of their disapproval pressed upon him.

It was Otto who finally broke through the discord, his voice calm but firm. “You musn’t risk your life, Your Grace,” he said, his gaze steady as it fixed on his grandson. “It is precisely what Rhaenyra desires. If you fall in battle, the crown will be lost, and with it, the realm.”

Aegon scowled, restlessness etched into every line of his face. He wanted action, to drive the war forward without the slow tedium of ravens and diplomacy, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “Are we to sit here and with our thumbs up our asses while they choke off our trade then?”

The silence stretched taut as Aegon’s words hung in the air. Otto’s gaze lingered on his grandson, his expression weary. It was not the first time Aegon had spoken impulsively, nor would it be the last, Aemond thought. 

“This is a war of strategy, Your Grace,” Otto said calmly, drawing in a deep, exasperated breath. “Nor a war to be won by heedlessness.”

Aemond watched the exchange, silent and cold, his gaze shifting between his grandfather and his brother. He could feel the impatience rolling off Aegon in waves, the desperate need to act without considering the cost. It was reckless, but Aemond understood it too well. The waiting gnawed at him, the knowledge that every day spent sitting idle allowed Rhaenyra to consolidate her own strength.

“We will act,” Otto assured, his tone measured but firm–guiding, like taking a child in the hand. “But we will act when the time is right. Reckless moves will only make us weak.” 

“And we cannot afford more mistakes,” Alicent added, her voice steady but carrying the weight of reproach. Her gaze did not land on Aemond, but the pointed absence was felt all the same. 

She leaned back slightly, her hands clasping in her lap as she continued, her tone softening but still firm. “Every action we take now will echo through the realm. We must tread carefully.”

Aemond’s fingers drummed idly against the table, the soft tap of his nails barely audible over the weight of the conversation. He agreed with Otto in principle, but the waiting chafed at him as well. There was a part of him, dark and eager, that longed to take to the skies with Vhagar, to bring fire and ruin upon their enemies and snuff out the rebellion in one decisive strike.

But he knew better than to speak of it now. Instead, he watched the exchange unfold, cold and calculating, his thoughts quietly burning as he weighed the balance between prudence and destruction.

Otto continued carefully, “However, I agree we should patrol the skies surrounding King’s Landing and along the coast of Blackwater Bay. We cannot allow her to move so freely.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his lips pursing slightly. Though he held his composure, the suggestion felt reductive, like a chore given to a child to keep him occupied rather than a true acknowledgement of his capabilities. 

He considered the possibilities. He could destroy the Velaryon fleet with Vhagar, even if it were guarded by a dragon. If one of the Velaryon bastards defended the fleet, their fate would be the same as their brother’s. They were no match for him or Vhagar.

Meleys, however, presented a greater challenge. She was swift and somewhat experienced in battle, if what he had heard was true. But even Meleys would struggle against Vhagar’s sheer size, her long years of battle hardening making her a force of unmatched ferocity in the skies. 

It was Caraxes that posed the most significant threat. Both the dragon and his rider were seasoned warriors, tactical and relentless. Still, Aemond believed he could defeat them–if it came down to just the two of them. The thrill of such a confrontation stirred something fierce within him. 

He reasoned it was unlikely the fleet would be protected by more than one dragon at any given time. If that were the case, he could strike swiftly. He could descend upon the fleet, destroy it in flames, and take down its guardian before they even had a chance to counter. Vhagar’s roar alone could sow chaos among the ships, scattering their formations, making them easy prey for her fire. 

He could burn the fleet to ashes and return home before the enemy could mount a proper retaliation. The risk was great, but the reward–crippling Rhaenyra’s forces and removing her naval strength–was greater still. 

Have you paid the smiths?” Aegon abruptly turned his gaze towards Tyland, expression shifting to one of impatient inquiry. 

Tyland blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. “Your Grace?” He stammered, his brow furrowing as he tried to catch up.

“The smiths,” Aegon reiterated, his tone edged with irritation. “They are to be paid up front for their work.”

Tyland’s eyes darted toward Otto, seeking guidance, but the Hand of the King looked thoroughly exasperated, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“As you said,” Aegon pressed on, his voice growing sharper, “the price of ore has risen, and if we are to arm our forces against Rhaenyra, we’ll need to be well-equipped, won’t we? Scorpions, swords, armor–they don’t forge themselves. And if the smiths can’t pay for the materials to craft them, tell me, what shall we defend ourselves with? Words?”

Aegon’s gaze turned toward Otto, a pointed challenge in his expression, as if daring his grandfather to counter him.

Tyland cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said carefully, his voice low and measured. “I shall see if funds can be found for such an endeavor, though we may need to consider–”

“See to it,” Aegon interrupted curtly, his tone brooking no argument. “I won’t have this war lost for lack of preparation. And if coin must be spent, then spend it.”

The heavy oaken doors to the council chambers groaned open, their creak loud and intrusive, cutting through the already-tense air like a blade. The sound reverberated through the vaulted stone chamber, followed by the shuffling of uneven footsteps–boots scuffing against the floor–and the sharp, deliberate tap, tap, tap of a cane striking the ground. The cadence was distinct, calculated, and immediately recognizable. 

Aemond didn’t bother to turn. He didn’t need to. He knew precisely who it was. His sharp features remained still, his cold gaze fixing ahead as if the interruption were beneath his notice–and it was. His fingers, however, continued their steady, deliberate drumming against the table’s surface, the faint sound almost lost amidst the approaching steps. 

The air in the chamber grew heavier, the council's unease palpable as the figure came into view–always a herald of less than fortunate news. 

“Lord Confessor,” Alicent began, her tone clipped and brimming with restrained frustration. “What is the meaning of this? We are in the middle of a meeting.”

She did not rise, but Aemond could almost sense the stiffness in her posture, her spine straight as a blade, her dark eyes narrowing on the man approaching them. Larys Strong. The Lord Confessor’s presence was rarely welcome, his arrival at the council unbidden even less so. His peculiar mixture of deference and menace unsettled most. 

“Your Grace,” Larys murmured, inclining his head in a shallow bow. His voice was soft, almost soothing in its cadence, though it carried a serpentine quality that sent an involuntary shiver through even the most steadfast. “I would not dare to intrude, were it not a matter of some urgency.”

His cane struck the stone floor again, a sound that seemed to echo too long, too sharply, as he moved further into the room. The council shifted uneasily, exchanging wary glances. Even Aemond, for all his practiced stoicism, felt the corners of his mouth tighten in irritation at the man’s presence.

“And what matters?” Otto questioned, his voice wary. 

Aemond’s lip twitched imperceptibly, his distaste for the Lord Confessor stirring within him like a slow burn. He had little regard for the man, whose honeyed words and subtle manipulations slithered through the halls of the Red Keep like an unseen viper. Still, he waited, unmoving, letting the air grow heavy with the weight of the interruption.

“The boy,” Larys began, his tone carefully measured, the words dragging slightly. He came to stop just at Aemond’s good side, lingering beyond his peripheral view. “I thought it prudent to inform you that the princess’s charge, Patrick Piper, has died…”

The words hung in the air like a dagger suspended on the edge of falling. Aemond’s gaze shifted, gliding along the rough grain of the stone table, his lone eye tracing its length to the place where it abruptly ended. 

“Died?” Alicent’s voice cut through the tense silence, a note of shock sharpening her tone. The weight of the news rippled through the room, stirring unease among the gathered lords and counselors. Shuffling movements, the soft rustle of fabric, and the creak of chairs betrayed their discomfort.

“Yes,” Larys confirmed, his voice measured. His cane tapped against the floor as he shifted closer, the sound loud and damning in the hush that had fallen over the chamber. “One of the guards went to see to him,” he continued, “and found him dead in his cot. By all accounts, the boy was well and healthy this morning. His death was unexpected.”

Alicent’s hand rose to clasp at her throat, her fingers tightening around the ornate chain she wore. “If he was well and healthy,” she pressed, her voice betraying her unease, “how could he have died?”

“That is the question, Your Grace,” Larys murmured, his tone carrying an almost lilting insinuation, each word carefully measured. “There were no signs of a struggle, no visible wounds or ailments to explain his sudden demise. It appears as though the boy merely lay down to sleep and never woke.”

“A boy his age does not simply fall asleep and never wake,” Jasper Wylde growled, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the room. His pale gray eyes, sharp as steel, narrowed beneath his heavy brow, and his scowl seemed to carve itself permanently into his weathered face, like a blacksmith hammering out a blade. “It’s unnatural,” he added, shaking his head, his disapproval evident.

Larys did not falter beneath the weight of Wylde’s scrutiny. If anything, he seemed to delight in it. “It is perhaps worth noting,” he said, his tone unctuous, “that the boy had a visitor this morning.”

Aemond felt the weight of Larys’s words like a subtle blade turned in his direction, and though he refused to look at the man, he could feel the insinuation laced into his tone, like a prickle against his skin.

He had not been to the dungeons save for that single time, to oversee Fenrick’s release. He had stood there in the dim light as the guards unlocked the iron door, the screech of the key grating in the lock, and the rusty hinges groaned in protest. Fenrick had been hauled from the cell, shackled and dragged forward. The boy had been there, alive and wailing like an infant torn from its mother’s arms, his thin limbs flailing against the guards’ unyielding grip.

Aemond had watched as Fenrick, though shackled and subdued, turned his gaze to the boy. “Be strong,” the man had said, his voice firm despite the circumstances. “Daenera will not let harm come to you.”

Aemond could still recall the venom in Fenrick’s glare as he was shoved past him, up the stone steps and out of sight. The boy’s cries had echoed through the narrow corridor, the sound grating and pitiful. Aemond had stood there, unmoving, as the door to the cell slammed shut behind them, its clang reverberating through the stale, rank air. The dungeons had reeked of rot and despair, a stench so pungent that it lingered in his memory if he allowed himself to think on it.

But he hadn’t returned since. He hadn’t visited the boy again, nor had he interfered in his fate. Whatever had befallen Patrick Piper, it was not of his doing. 

He refused to carry the blame for it. 

“The princess, Daenera, saw the boy not long before we released her man,” Larys continued, his tone deceptively casual, though every word seemed laced. He let the revelation hang in the air for a mere moment, then added, “She informed the guards that her husband granted her the permission for a visit.”

The words struck like a hammer against Aemond’s tightly controlled composure. He felt his muscles tense beneath his skin, a taut coil of suppressed surprise. His fingers, which had been tapping idly against the cold stone of the table, stilled abruptly. Yet, he betrayed nothing. His mask of cold detachment remained firmly in place, his sharp features carved into an expression of calm indifference.

Beneath the surface, though, a storm brewed. 

The knowledge that she–Daenera, his wife–had used his name in her ruse stirred something within his chest. There was a dark twist of satisfaction at the thought of her invoking his authority, drawing on their union as leverage. A faint smirk threatened to tug at the corner of his lips, but he replaced it with a faint purse as he weighed the implications. 

Amusement flickered within him, tempered by the cold edge of unease. That she had claimed his permission was not surprising–she was clever, as resourceful as she was bold–but the thought of her slipping into the dungeons, placing herself among rapers and murders, gnawed at him. And for a boy whose significance was no more than a pawn in this game?

But that was the reason, wasn’t it? 

“And they let her in?!” Alicent’s voice rose sharply, her reproach immediate and laced with indignation that prickled against Aemond like a nettle. Her piercing gaze swept over the room before fixing on her son. “You allowed her to see him? You gave her permission to enter the dungeons?”

Aemond met his mother’s gaze with a calm defiance, his expression a mask of measured indifference. His singular eye, sharp and unyielding, revealed nothing of the turmoil beneath, though a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth hinted at a flicker of irritation. He held her gaze steadily, unmoving, feeling no inclination to answer to her accusations. 

“Are you insinuating, Lord Confessor,” Maester Orwyle interjected, his voice hesitant and laced with unease, “that the princess had a hand in the boy’s demise?”

“Where is the boy now?” Otto’s gaze settled on Larys before the Lord Confessor could turn to address Maester Orwyle. 

“With the Silent Sisters,” Larys replied smoothly. He adjusted his cane with a soft tap, the sound a punctuation mark to his words. “They are preparing his body as we speak and will report their findings when they are finished.”

“We don’t need their findings to know what happened,” Alicent interjected sharply, her voice rising with conviction. Her dark gaze swept across the table, searching the faces of the council as though daring someone else to voice the accusation she was poised to make. None spoke. The tension in the room thickened as the lords exchanged wary glances, their discomfort palpable. 

When silence met her challenge, she drew herself up, her lips pressed into a thin line as she spoke the accusation aloud. “She poisoned him.”

Aemond felt the accusation press against him as if it carried with it an expectation of response. Yet, he remained still, his expression carved from stone. 

“We cannot act on mere assumptions,” Orwyle countered carefully, the jingle of his maester’s chain punctuating his words as he shifted in his seat. His voice carried a cautionary note, attempting to temper the queen’s fervor. “As of now, there is no evidence to substantiate such a claim. A proper investigation must be conducted before any conclusions are reached.”

“It is no assumption,” she countered tersely, her gaze snapping towards the master. “We all know the princess is well-versed in such matters. She poisoned him.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Aegon muttered, his voice laced with bitter humor as he stared into the depths of his empty wine cup. He swirled it idly in his hand, his brow furrowing deeper the longer he looked, as though questioning whether the wine had been poisoned. 

It was not an unreasonable fear, not after what had transpired–not after experience. Aegon had, after all, been on the receiving end of her knowledge of plants before. 

His gaze shifted, lifting from the depths of his cup to meet Aemond’s, a faint trace of amusement twisting the corners of his lips. “It seems your marriage is a match forged in the Seven Hells, brother,” Aegon jibed, his tone dripping with mockery as he leaned back in his chair. “A kinslayer and a child killer. Truly a union worthy of song. The bards should write one about it–though I doubt they’d sing them anywhere respectable.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the tension in him coiling tighter with each passing moment. He cast a glance toward his grandfather, noting the faint twitch of Otto’s lips–a subtle signal of disapproval, though he remained silent for now. 

His gaze drifted downward, settling on the golden ring that encircled his finger.  His thumb brushed over its surface, the cool metal gleaming faintly in the flickering firelight. His touch was deliberate, almost meditative, as though the weight of the band tethered him amidst the chaos. His thumb grazed the hidden lever etched into the intricate design, the faintest pressure threatening to release the blade-like needle concealed within. He didn’t press it, not fully–just enough to feel the faint resistance, the promise of its sharp release.

The ring was more than just ornamentation; it was a reminder, a tool, a weapon. It carried the weight of shared secrets and unspoken truths. He knew well what she was capable of with her poisons, had seen it firsthand, had even taken part in her lethal artistry. That knowledge hummed in the back of his mind now, a steady, dark undercurrent beneath the council’s chatter.

His finger lingered on the hidden mechanism, a subtle, private acknowledgment of what he already believed to be true. They lacked the evidence, yes, but Aemond didn’t need it. Certainty settled in his chest like a stone. He knew she had poisoned the boy as surely as he knew the breadth of his own sins. It wasn’t a question of if, but why–and that, too, he understood with unshakable clarity.

She had done it for a reason, calculated and purposeful. Aemond’s jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a faint line. Her actions, while ruthless, were never without cause. And as the council continued its murmured deliberations, he found something strangely satisfying in the knowledge. She had acted, just as he might have in her place, wielding her tools with precision and intent. It was a grim kinship, one forged in blood and necessity.

“Why would she do such a thing?” Maester Orwyle’s voice broke the charged silence, tentative and tinged with disbelief. He shifted in his seat, the links of his chain clinking together loudly.

“To ensure we no longer have any leverage over her,” Otto Hightower said, his voice even, deliberate. He leaned back in his chair, the polished wood creaking faintly beneath his weight. His steely gaze swept across the council table, calculating and cold, as if weighing each member present. For the briefest moment, there was a flicker in his eyes–a glimmer of something akin to admiration, though muted and fleeting, like the final embers of a fire. The corners of his lips twitched upward, but the gesture lacked warmth, quickly overshadowed by the sharper edge of his annoyance. “Without the boy, she no longer has to concern herself with his life–or what we might do to him.”

It seemed he had come to the same conclusion as Aemond. 

“Surely the princess isn’t so ruthless as to sacrifice a boy like that,” Ser Tyland Lannister drawled, leaning against the armrest of his chair with a languid grace that belied the weight of his thoughts. His brow furrowed, the red of his hair dulled to an almost rust-like hue in the dim, gray light filtering through the chamber’s narrow windows. The overcast sky outside mirrored the somber atmosphere within, as though the heavens themselves recoiled from the grim discussion.

Aegon shrugged nonchalantly, the movement almost careless as he set his empty wine cup aside, the hollow clink against the table echoing faintly. He shifted in his seat, the fabric of his doublet rustling softly as he leaned back, a lazy, speculative glint in his eyes. “She cared for the boy, didn’t she?” He mused aloud, drawing the attention of the council. “I doubt she would have killed him solely to free herself. She’d have known we’d never let him go…”

Mercy, Aemond thought, the word echoing in his mind with a bitter edge. Yes, that was certainly part of it. He knew her well enough to understand that. Her sense of justice, of sparing the boy from further torment, was tangled with her own desperation for freedom. She had wielded poison as a blade, not to sever ties with her captors entirely but to sever the boy’s suffering. There was no doubt in his mind that her actions had been deliberate, calculated, but not entirely devoid of compassion.

“Mercy or ruthlessness,” Lord Jasper Wylde interjected gruffly. “It matters little which it is, the outcome is the same. The boy is dead, and our leverage with him. What shall we do now, when we’ve no means left to control her? What are we to do with her?”

“We punish her,” she said firmly, her hands pressed tightly together on the table. “She murdered a boy in our care. She cannot be trusted not to move against us. Who’s to say she won’t poison all of us next?” Her gaze swept across the faces of those gathered, her dark eyes burning with urgency. “ She must be punished.”

Aemond shifted slightly in his seat, his expression calm but his lone eye narrowing as he listened to his mother’s growing fervor. He drew in a breath, deep and measured, releasing it in a soft, deliberate sigh. The sound was enough to draw the room’s attention, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, cutting through the tension like steel through silk.

“If she intended to poison us,” Aemond began, his words measured, “she would have done so at the wedding.”

The chamber fell into a brief, uneasy silence. All eyes turned toward him, their gazes heavy with anticipation. Aemond met them unflinchingly, his expression carved from ice, unyielding in its certainty.

“Daenera has no intention of killing us,” he continued, his voice carrying a quiet authority that demanded attention. “She does not wish to become a kinslayer. This was to sever our hold on her.”

“She is a viper free from its cage,” Alicent hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and disbelief. Her dark eyes bore into him, unyielding and fierce, the reproach in her gaze sharp enough to wound. “We cannot be sure who she will strike next. You should never have married her.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at her words, though his expression remained carefully composed. Beneath the surface, a flicker of anger coiled, but he buried it deep, unwilling to let it rise. He swallowed against the sourness that formed on his tongue, choosing to remain silent. 

The tension in the room thickened as Alicent’s voice rang with fervor. “We cannot let her slither about the castle without punishment,” she insisted, her tone unyielding as she turned sharply away from Aemond to address the table. Her gaze fixed pointedly on Otto and Aegon, her desperation clear. “She must be punished. Let her take the boy’s place in the dungeons–”

“We cannot act rashly,” Lord Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice gravelly but firm, cutting through the Queen Mother’s demands. His pale gray eyes, like tempered steel, locked onto Otto’s measured expression. “If we imprison her in the dungeons, her mother will hear of it soon enough. And even in her grief, Rhaenyra will be at our gates with her dragons to free her daughter.”

The weight of his words settled over the council, the unspoken threat of dragonfire searing in their minds. Jasper straightened slightly in his seat, his weathered hand resting heavily on the table. “Imprisoning her would undo everything we’ve done thus far,” he continued, his tone sharp and edged with warning. “The realm will know we lied. And if dragons are not at our gates, the mob will be.”

Alicent’s jaw tightened, her hands clutching the edge of the table as though the tension in her grip could ground her fraying composure. Her dark eyes flickered with frustration, darting to Otto, who remained silent but contemplative, his brow furrowed deeply as he weighed the options.

“And what do you propose we do?” she demanded, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger. “Let her walk freely after what she’s done? Let her sit comfortably in her chambers as though nothing has happened?”

“But we do not know for certain what happened,” Maester Orwyle interjected cautiously, his eyes lingering briefly on Alicent as her expression darkened. 

The weight of Otto Hightower's words settled heavily over the room, his voice flat and deliberate as he leaned forward, his steely gaze sweeping the table. “It makes no difference what befell the boy,” he stated, his tone carrying an air of finality. “To punish the princess is to admit we allowed this to happen—that we cannot even protect those within our own walls, and that we cannot control her.”

His eyes shifted briefly to Larys Strong, whose ever-watchful presence seemed to linger like an unwelcome shadow. “The boy died of illness,” Otto continued, his words clipped and resolute. “As for the princess, her servants should be questioned–find out how they could have allowed this to happen. Determine how she managed to procure the means of poison, if poison is indeed what occurred. Her chambers should also be searched.”

“Yes, my Lord Hand,” Larys responded with a deferential bow of his head, though the subtle gleam in his eye grated on Aemond’s nerves. The thought of Larys, with his sly, intrusive manner, rifling through their chambers, overturning their belongings, was enough to make his jaw tighten. Still, Aemond remained silent, knowing any objection would fall on deaf ears.

“That’s it?” Alicent’s voice broke through, sharp and incredulous, her disbelief tangible. “She is not to be punished?”

Otto’s gaze met hers, unyielding. “What more do you wish done?”

Alicent shook her head, her frustration spilling over. Her hands clenched tightly on the table’s edge, her jaw working as she swallowed her anger bitterly. “Restrict her movements further,” she demanded, her tone cutting. “She may leave her chambers once every other day, and those days should be spent in repose, with guards ensuring she does not overstep her bounds.”

Aemond’s teeth ground together at her words, his irritation barely restrained. The implication that Daenera should be caged like some wild beast clawed at his pride, but he said nothing, his fingers curling against the table’s surface. He forced his expression to remain neutral, though the tension coiling beneath his skin was undeniable.

Otto straightened in his chair. He let the silence linger just long enough for all eyes to turn to him, the weight of his authority palpable in the air. When he spoke, his voice was calm but edged with a note of weariness that brooked no argument.

“The matter is decided,” he said firmly, his tone cutting through the growing murmurs. “The boy’s death will be declared a result of illness. The Silent Sisters will prepare his body, and we will ensure his family is notified with all due sympathy. As for the princess, her movements shall be restricted as the Queen Mother has suggested. The guards will be informed, and her chambers searched–discreetly. Let this be all for today.”

With the council adjourned, Aemond rose from his seat with deliberate composure, his long fingers brushing the edge of the table as though grounding himself before he moved. The room was already dispersing around him–lords and advisors shuffling toward the chamber doors, their murmured conversations a soft hum in the background. But Aemond paid them no heed. The need to see Daenera itched beneath his skin, insistent and consuming.

They were not so different, he thought as he made his way toward the exit, his stride measured but purposeful.

Weariness had become a shroud around Daenera, wrapped tightly in its suffocating embrace. It pressed into her skin, her bones, deep inside. She sat before the dressing table, the polished surface of the mirror reflecting a face she barely recognized, her features drawn and pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The glow of the candlelight flickered unevenly, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber, though even the golden hues couldn’t soften the sharp lines of her exhaustion. 

Behind her, Mertha’s voice grated against the stillness, sharp and unforgiving as the scrape of iron on iron. The older woman held up the damp remains of Daenera’s dress, the once-lustrous fabric darkened and heavy with rain. She shook it with an exaggerated vigor, droplets splattering the floor like blood against stone. 

“–I hope you’ve had your fill of death,” Mertha snapped, her voice climbing. “I hope you’ve commended the sight to memory! The poor boy.”

The sound of rain battering the shutters filled the room, a steady rhythm drumming against the windowpanes like the beating of some great, restless heart. . It was as though the gods themselves had grown tired–tired of the endless schemes and betrayals of mortals, of their blood-soaked ambitions and unending grievances. Perhaps they sought to drown the world in their wrath, to wash it clean of sin and sorrow. But mercy was not the gods’ way, and the rain fell without promise of redemption, a bitter reminder of how unyielding the world remained.

Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the dressing table, the cool wood grounding her as Mertha’s tirade continued unabated. The chamber felt stifling despite the chill creeping in from the storm, the air thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the depths of her fatigue, Daenera wondered if the gods had sent the rain not as wrath but as a mockery–an illusion of cleansing that would never touch the festering wounds of this world. No storm could wash away the sins that had taken root here.

Daenera watched the droplets race down the glass, her envy flaring briefly. How simple it must be, she thought, to be the rain–to rage freely, without consequence or restraint, without care. The rain lashed against the stone walls of the Red Keep, it seemed to carry the weight of its own wrath–seemed to mock her. 

Patrick’s life had been the noose she carried, her every movement constrained by the knowledge that the Greens held his fate in their hands. But now that burden was gone, severed by her own hand. And in truth, she felt a bitter sense of relief, even triumph–it stirred something far darker within her. 

It would take time before the Greens loosened their hold on her again; she knew that much. The death of the boy would only deepen their scrutiny, tighten their watch. Yet she had paid that price willingly, knowing that it would cost her what little freedom she had. And yet, there were still freedoms she could take within the confines of this gilded cage.

A bird in a cage might not be free to fly, but it could still sing–and it could still bite.

The thought brought a bitter twist to her lips, an almost imperceptible smile that carried no warmth. If this was to be her prison, she would make it as wretched for her captors as it was for her. Let them watch her every move, chain her to her chambers, whisper their suspicions behind closed doors. She would show them there was no caging her rage. 

Her fingers grazed the edge of the table, the cool wood grounding her as her thoughts turned sharper, more deliberate. She could make life miserable for them–Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, Otto, even Mertha. 

Her reflection stared back at her, unyielding, as she leaned closer to the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, the firelight flickering across her features like the glow of embers. That ember of rage had been with her since the moment she rose amidst the rubble of her chambers. It had been a spark then, small and fragile, but it had grown, fed by every indignity, every insult, every betrayal. It burned against her ribs now, a constant reminder of what she had lost–and what she would one day reclaim.

Aemond. His name pressed against her mind like a sharp edge. He had gotten what he wanted–a wife bound to him by chains as much as vows. But she would make sure he wished he hadn’t. She could see his cold, calculating expression in her mind’s eye, his singular gaze that sought to pierce through her, to lay claim to what he had ruined. 

“They should make you take his place in the dungeons,” Mertha spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she moved about the chamber like a restless bird. The fabric of her skirts swayed and hissed with her movements, the quiet rustling as sharp as a blade in the otherwise suffocating silence.”That is where you belong–among rapers and murderers, you wicked creature.” 

“I would take the night watch over her myself,” Mertha said, a sneer curling at the corners of her lips, her tone dripping with self-importance. “But the day has drained me, and you are young. Your energy will serve you better tonight.” She busied herself with gathering the discarded underdress from the floor, shaking it out before throwing it carelessly into the basket at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need my strength.”

Mertha’s gaze snapped back to Edelin, sharp and commanding. “You must not fall asleep,” she warned, her voice lowering into something that resembled a hiss. “The gods know she cannot be trusted. I wouldn’t want to wake in the morning and find you dead, as they did the poor boy.” She straightened, brushing her hands off with exaggerated finality as if ridding herself of some invisible stain. “Stay vigilant, do you hear me?”

Daenera’s gaze lifted from her reflection in the mirror to regard the older woman. Mertha’s face was pinched with disdain, her eyes gleaming with self-righteous fury as she discarded the damp dress in a basket. A sickly pallor clung to her skin, her complexion ashen and lifeless, while the whites of her eyes blotted with red. The skin around them was flushed and swollen, betraying the rawness of fatigue and strain. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. She’d been retching–violently so, if the bloodshot state of her eyes was any indication.

Her attention did not linger long; instead, it drifted to the young woman just behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically silent, her usual chatter replaced by a subdued quiet since leaving the sept. There was a heaviness to her presence now, a weight in her every movement as she worked through Daenera’s hair with a brush. The tangles yielded reluctantly to her careful ministrations, and each stroke of the brush seemed to carry an unspoken frustration. She did not meet Daenera’s gaze in the mirror, her focus fixed on the task at hand. 

“You will remain at the Princess’s side at all times. Do you understand?” Mertha snapped, her tone dripping with scorn as she pointed an accusing finger at Edelin. The older woman loomed like a shadow over the younger lady-in-waiting, her presence a constant weight that pressed down on the room. “You will not let her out of your sight for a single moment–not a single breath! If she so much as steps into the privy, you will stand outside, staring in at her from the open door!”

Daenera grimaced, her frown deepening as the indignity of Mertha’s command settled over her. The thought of being watched even in her most private moments, of someone hovering behind her as she relieved herself, made her stomach twist with revulsion. 

Edelin seemed to share her unease. The younger woman’s hands faltered in their careful work, her brushing pausing for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but Mertha’s sharp, scornful gaze bore down on her like a hammer. Reluctantly, Edelin turned back to her task, her face a careful mask of submission that failed to hide the faint tremor of her fingers.

“Yes, Lady Mertha…” she murmured, the words clipped and heavy with reluctant obedience. Her frown deepened as she resumed her brushing, the strokes growing firmer. 

“And if she proves even a bit difficult, you will call for the guards immediately. Do you understand me?” Her sharp voice carried across the room from where she stood. “I will not let her humiliate us again.” She hefted the basket with a grunt, the motion sharp and deliberate, as though the weight of her burden served as evidence of her righteousness. Her eyes, hard and gleaming, turned towards them.

Daenera felt the prickle of Mertha’s attention against the back of her neck, an unwelcome presence that tightened her shoulders. She met her gaze in the mirror, her expression calm but cold, her eyes glittering with defiance. They held each other’s stare for a long, tense moment. 

Then, Mertha shifted her focus to Edelin, her tone hardening. “Be wary of her, girl,” she warned, her words laced with bitter scorn. “She is as kind as a viper and twice as cunning.”

Edelin shifted but said nothing, her head bowing slightly in a gesture of reluctant acknowledgement. Her hands moved with practiced care through Daenera’s hair, the brush going through the strands smoother now.

With a final sniff of disdain, Mertha spun sharply on her heel, the heavy skirts of her dress swishing against the stone floor with each forceful step. The wicker basket bumped against her hip, the motion punctuating her retreat as she disappeared behind the lattice screen. Moments later, the muffled sound of the chamber doors opening and shutting reached them, followed by a decisive click that seemed to echo in the still air.

“A viper,” Daenera murmured, her voice soft and edged with a dry humor. “How inventive.”

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drumming of rain against the windows, the world outside dark and lost in the storm’s fury. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending errant sparks dancing upward before they vanished into the darkened stone. Its heat radiated outward, warring with the persistent chill that lingered at the edges of the chamber, crawling along the floor like an unwelcome guest.

The brush moved slowly through Daenera’s hair, the soft bristles tugging against stubborn tangles as they worked through the dark curls. Each stroke coaxed the locks into a loose cascade, spilling down her back in an unruly spill of shadowy waves. The ends tickled the curve of the chair’s back, swaying faintly with each pass.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from her own reflection in the mirror to Edelin’s, studying the girl as though seeking answers in her quiet demeanor. The red-gold of Edelin’s hair gleamed in the firelight, the strands pulled back into a tightly braided coil pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her pale blue eyes remained fixed on the task, unyielding and methodical, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her unease. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a silent barricade holding back whatever thoughts churned behind her calm exterior.

The silence grew heavier, thick with words unspoken, until Daenera broke it. Her tone was soft, measured, yet it carried the weight of apprehension.

“What is it?” she asked, her fingers drifting to toy idly with the edge of a strand of hair. “I can feel you want to say something.”

Edelin drew in a deep breath, measured through her nose, as though summoning every ounce of courage within her. The brush in her hand stilled mid-stroke, her fingers tightening around the handle. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and met Daenera’s gaze through the mirror. Her blue eyes were steady, but the faint quiver in her lower lip betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. 

“Did you poison him?” She asked, her voice low. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a neck. The corners of her mouth pulled downward, her expression strained, but she pressed on. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

Daenera’s face remained impassive, her dark eyes locked with Edelin’s in the glass. Her heart thudded a painful rhythm against her ribs, the ache reverberating through her chest. The acrid taste of bile rose in her throat, and her tongue felt dry, as if all the moisture had fled her mouth. She resisted the urge to look away, though it took more resolve than she cared to admit.

“I cannot give you the truth,” She said at last, her voice calm but laced with an edge of weariness. Her words were measured, deliberate, as though she were stepping carefully along the edge of a precipice. “You know that.”

“You can,” Edelin pressed, her tone soft but insistent. 

Daenera’s lips twitched, the faint curve caught somewhere between a smile and a scowl, though it was neither. “And what will you do with it?” She asked, her voice strained. “What then? Will you bring it to the Small Council? March into the Great Hall and lay it before them?”

“I should,” Edelin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is my duty.” Her pale blue eyes held Daenera’s in the mirror, unflinching despite the tremor in her fingers. The words lingered in the air, as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for what might follow.

Edelin moved, setting the brush aside on the polished surface of the dressing table. The faint clink it made against the wood seemed louder than it should have been, an unspoken punctuation. She straightened, drawing herself up, her youthful features set with a determination that made her seem older than she was. 

“I am not asking for them,” she continued, her tone sharper now, steadier. “I am asking for the truth–for myself.” Her hands disappeared briefly into the folds of her skirts, and when they reemerged, she held a small pouch. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the object as Edelin placed it on the table before her, the soft scrape of fabric against wood drawing her attention. The pouch was unassuming, its pale, creamy cloth bright against the dark surface. But it was damning in its simplicity, a quiet truth laid bare between them. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. The storm outside raged on, the relentless drum of rain on stone a backdrop to the tense stillness that filled the chamber. Daenera’s heart plummeted, a hollow ache settling deep within her chest as the lavender pouch lay before her. The scent of lavender wafted into the air, delicate yet overwhelming, mingling with the cloying remnants of incense that still lingered in her nostrils. It was a sickly-sweet aroma, at odds with the cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Her eyes burned with the prickle of unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. Tears would not help now. 

Her gaze lifted slowly from the pouch to Edelin’s face. For a moment, the younger woman seemed transformed–her features hardened by the weight of understanding, the sharpness of her expression far removed from her usual youthful softness. The knowledge she carried was etched into her face, undeniable, even as she sought a confirmation she already knew in her heart. 

“You could take it to the Council,” Daenera said, her voice strained and dry as though every word scraped against her throat. “They would no doubt welcome your… evidence.” Her tone grew brittle, laden with weariness. “But it would change nothing. Their punishment is already decided.”

Her hand moved, reaching tentatively towards the pouch. She wanted to seize it, to hide its damning presence from sight, yet part of her just wanted it within her hold–wanted the security of it, however damning it was for her to keep. Before her fingers could close the distance, Edelin’s hand shot out. She slid the pouch across the table, out of Daenera’s reach. 

“Are we all so easily discarded?” Edelin demanded, her voice cracking.

Daenera froze, her outstretched hand retreating slightly as Edelin’s words settled on her with the same sharp sting as a slap. Her brows knitted together, as she stared up at Edelin. “Nothing about this has been easy,” she said, her words twisted into something sharp and bitter, almost a sneer. Her voice was raw and strained as tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, unwilling to let them fall. 

“You told him he was going home,” Edelin pressed.

“This was the only way he was ever going home,” She answered, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the seat, the wood pressing into her spine. “The Hightowers would never have released him.” Her gaze flicked back to meet Edelin’s, her voice growing harsher, weighed with frustration. “He would have stayed in the dungeons–alone, forgotten, rotting in the dark. Every footstep outside his cell would have been a death knell, every echo a reminder that the noose was waiting.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard against the lump rising there, her emotions clawing at her like a living thing. It felt as though she had swallowed a jagged stone, its edges tearing into her, making every breath ache. “I didn’t want him to suffer.”

Edelin stood silent for a moment, her pale blue eyes searching Daenera’s face, her expression wavering between pity and unease. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, understanding yet cautious, as though she were treading carefully across ice. 

“I understand that,” she said, her voice low. “Truly, I do. But… it gives me pause.”

She hesitated, her hands twisting together as she gathered her thoughts. “I have been kind to you, as you have been to me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I am grateful for that kindness, Princess. But… I am still in their service.” Her words hung heavily in the air as she looked down at her hands, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirts. “I’ve held my tongue before because you asked it of me–held my tongue when I properly shouldn’t have…”

Her voice broke, and she raised her head again. “I don’t want to find myself in the same position as the boy,” she said, her words low. “I don’t want to end up discarded, forgotten, let to rot because I’ve been loyal to the wrong person.”

“You won’t,” Daenera said firmly. The words hung in the air, a promise or a plea–it was hard to tell.

“You don’t know that,” Edelin countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I might end up in the dungeons, just as he did. Waiting for the noose.”

Daenera held her gaze, reading the desperation written across the young woman’s face. She understood Edelin’s fears all too well–that her kindness, her proximity to Daenera, would mark her. And yet, even as her chest tightened with the weight of understanding, she found herself speaking. Words rose unbidden, soft but steady. “I don’t believe you’ll find yourself in that position. You are neither child nor fool, and that is why I trust you, Edelin. You’ve stood by me when many would not, when it would have been easier to distance yourself. I see the risk you take, and I do not take it lightly. If the time comes when they turn their eyes toward you, I will not begrudge you for your choice.”

Edelin nodded and stared into the middle distance, her expression apprehensive. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, as if she were forcing herself to ask a question she feared the answer to. “There are still berries in the pouch… Are–are you going to poison the King? The Small Council? Your husband?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Daenera let out a slow breath, her lips curving in a faint, humorless smile. “If I’d meant to poison them,” she said, her tone edged with sardonic amusement, “it would have been done by now.” She shifted in the chair, her eyes drawing to meet Edelin’s wary gaze. “I’d be no freer for it…”

No, she would not be spared. She could already see it–herself locked away in a damp, lightless cell, awaiting a trial that was no more than a performance. The verdict would be predetermined, her fate sealed. Whether it ended with a rope tightening around her neck or the cold kiss of a headman’s blade, the result would be the same. 

Even if she somehow managed to rid the Keep of the Greens, even if she tore them out like the weeds they were, the realm would still cry out for justice. The lords and banners of Westeros would demand her head, and her mother, for the sake of the crown, would have no choice but to oblige them.

Daenera’s heart twisted at the thought. Her mother, who had already lost so much, would lose yet another child–this time by her own hand. It would break her, she thought. 

And she didn’t want that for her. She didn’t want to be the shadow that darkened her reign, the wound that festered in the heart of her rule.

But more than that, she didn’t want to die.

Daenera glanced at the pouch where it rested on the table, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air like a ghost. She knew exactly how many berries remained. Four. Four lives she could take, if she so chose. 

For a fleeting moment, Daenera allowed herself the indulgence of impossible imaginings, the kind that belonged to children spinning dreams of kingdoms they would never rule. Each name pressed against her mind like a dagger poised to strike.

Aegon, who occupied the throne that was her mother’s by right, his existence the linchpin of the Green’s ambitions. Otto, the Hand that set the board against her mother. Aemond, the rider of Vhagar, the Greens’ most fearsome weapon, and her brother’s murderer…

Her fingers tightened instinctively, though there was nothing in her grasp. She would need three to strike at the heart of their power. Aegon, Otto, and Aemond. Without them, the Greens’ strength would falter, their unity splintering like a cracked blade.

But that would leave her with only one berry. One final life to take.

Her thoughts turned to Alicent. The Queen Dowager had tormented her mother for years, weaving webs of guilt and ambition to smother the rightful Queen’s claim. Alicent’s venom had seeped into every corner of the Red Keep, infecting all it touched. Yet as much as Daenera despised her, Alicent’s power was waning. Without her sons and father, the Queen Dowager would be nothing more than a shadow in a court that no longer needed her. Killing Alicent might bring momentary satisfaction, but it would do little to weaken the Greens’ cause. Her death would be a wound that no longer bled.

For a fleeting, haunting moment, Daenera thought of using the berry on herself. It would be over in an instant–a brief, bitter swallow. Her death would be on her own terms, out of the hands of her mother. That would be a waste, and she had no use for waste. There were other ways to die, should she decide on that course. The berry was a tool, not a reprieve.

If Aegon, Otto, and Aemond were removed from play, the Greens’ foundation would crumble. Their strength would falter. But even without its leaders, the council still held power. The Small Council would not vanish overnight; its members would scramble like rats on a sinking ship, seeking to salvage what they could.

Yet one figure remained in her thoughts, an unseen viper lurking in the shadows of the court: Larys Strong.

The clubfoot. His loyalty was to no one but himself, his scheming far more insidious than the others. It would be a mercy to her mother if Larys Strong was removed entirely from the board–and Daenera would take great satisfaction in his death. 

But such thoughts were idle, and she pushed them aside–for what use was poison without a means to deliver it? She had neither the freedom to act nor the cunning to see it done unnoticed. And though vengeance burned within her, she could not stomach the thought of dying as both a Kingslayer and a Kinslayer. History would not look kindly on her, even if her heart carried honor. No, she did not wish to die–not yet.

“The remaining berries are assurances,” She added softly, her voice taking on a weightier tone. They were a contingency. “For myself.”

Understanding flickered in Edelin’s eyes, her expression softening with sudden clarity. Before she could voice her thoughts, Daenera tilted her head ever so slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips. “And Mertha, perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying a dry edge. “If she keeps on the way she does.”

The jest hung in the air, and after a beat, the corner of Edelin’s mouth twitched, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was the kind of amusement one found when laughing felt almost too dangerous–subdued, guarded, but genuine. The firelight danced between them, casting flickering shadows across the polished oak table and the intricate weave of the rushes beneath their feet.

Silence settled in the room once more, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Daenera adjusted her seat. But it didn’t last. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What will you do?”

Edelin rose slowly. Her fingers tightened around the pouch in her hands as she looked down at it, her brows furrowing as though the pouch itself might offer some guidance. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice firm but low as she answered. 

“I’ll hide it.” Her voice carried the conviction of a decision made, though her gaze, when it lifted to meet Daenera’s, revealed the unease beneath her resolve. “Your chambers will be searched come morning. They’ll tear through everything–every chest, every corner. I will take it with me and keep it hidden.”

Relief washed over Daenera, lifting the weight from her chest, though a shadow of unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. “You cannot hide it in your room. They’ll question you either way, but if they uncover it…”

Edelin gave a short nod. “I won’t say a word of this.” She paused, looking down at the pouch in her hands. “I will keep your secrets.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Daenera’s. “But if the choice comes down to you or me…”

“I understand,” Daenera said, reaching for her hand. Her fingers closed over Edelin’s, feeling the faint outline of the pouch concealed within. “I am thankful for you, Edelin. Truly. I value your friendship more than I can ever express.”

The girl’s slips curved into a faint smile, a look that carried warmth and steadied Daenera’s frayed nerves. The weight that pressed against her chest eased just slightly, like a knot loosening. 

Without another word, Edelin shifted her hand, tucking the pouch deep into the folds of her skirts. The moment passed, and she stepped behind Daenera, where she began to gather the dark waves of her hair. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving strands into a loose braid, her touch light yet sure. She worked in silence for a time, adding thin ribbons of silk to the braid, the delicate fabric glinting faintly in the firelight.

“I am sorry,” Edelin murmured after a moment, her voice soft, almost tentative, as though the words were a fragile offering. “For your loss.”

Daenera blinked, the words catching her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise. The weight of grief, ever-present and unyielding, swelled in her chest. She swallowed hard, willing away the tears that threatened to rise. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that settled over the chamber was tentative, stretched taut between them like an invisible thread that might snap at the slightest of breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, its embers pulsing faintly in the dim light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wood of the dressing table. Rain still drummed against the windowpane–louder in the silence.  

Daenera watched Edelin through the mirror as the girl worked through the length of her dark curls. The younger woman’s movements were practiced, careful, as she wove the ribbons of silk through the strands, taming their unruly wildness in preparation for the morning. Edelin had fallen back into her quiet diligence, though Daenera did not miss the occasional flicker of thought in her eyes. 

When Edelin finally spoke, her voice was measured, but there was something tentative beneath its surface, something that made Daenera’s lips twitch with wry amusement. 

“What will you do now?” She asked, her pale blue eyes fixed on the task before her, the words carrying an air of casual curiosity that did not quite mask the deeper intrigue beneath. 

Daenera exhaled softly, lifting a hand to toy with one of the silk ribbons that had been woven into her hair. She wound one tightly around her fingertip, then unraveled it, only to wrap it around another. A small, idle act–something to busy her hands while her mind shifted through the weight of the question. 

“What can I do but languish in bed all day?” she murmured, her lips curling in a wry smile. “I shan’t leave my bed for a week, I think. Not that it matters–I won’t be permitted beyond my chambers regardless.” Her lips quirked as she met Edelin’s gaze through the mirror. “ I should be rather easy to keep an I on, don’t you think?”

Edelin hummed softly, twisting another length of silk through Daenera’s dark locks. “Mertha will be beside herself,” she mused, amusement creeping into her voice. “What was it she said this morning? ‘The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed–”

“‘Are down on the Street of Silk,” Daenera supplied with a smirk, shaking her head in amusement. She stretched lazily, her fingers tracing the embroidered edges of her robe. “Yes, I seem to remember something to that effect.” She stretched her arms above her head, letting her limbs go slack as she lounged back on the chair. “It’ll give her something to gnash her teeth over, and I rather like the thought of it. What can she do? Drag me from bed? She’d have to haul me through the halls like a sack of grain, and I doubt she has the strength or the nerve to try.”

A small chuckle escaped Edelin–almost a snort–before she caught herself, pressing her lips together as if she had not right to find humor in any of it. But Daenera saw it–the briefest glimpse of something lighter beneath the surface. It was a fragile thing, but it was there nonetheless and it eased the mood. 

“You’re making things harder on yourself by opposing her at every turn,” Edelin chided, though there was no true reproach in her tone–just the weary truth of someone who had spent too long in the company of Mertha. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes it’s easier to endure than to suffer the consequences of her ire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze before she continued, softer now. “And… she should never have struck you.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror, tracing the contours of her face. The cheek that had been struck bore only the flush of exhaustion, no bruising, no swelling. The slap had stung, but it left no lasting mark—whether by design or by lack of force, she could not say. Had Mertha wielded just enough control to ensure it would not linger, or had the sheer audacity of the act stolen some of its strength? Either way, the sting had been real, sharp enough to startle but not wound. And, in some strange way, she had welcomed it.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission barely more than a breath.

“No.” Edelin’s voice was firm, sharper than before. Her red brows knitted tightly, her displeasure writ plainly across her features. “You are a Princess. It doesn’t matter what you may have done–she had no right to lay a hand on you.” Her head shook slightly, as if the very thought of it unsettled her. “Her mistreatment of you–it isn’t right.”

The vehemence in her tone, the unguarded concern that colored her words, sent a flicker of warmth through Daenera. It was a rare thing to hear such defiance spoken on her behalf. A rare thing, to feel the weight of someone’s anger on her account.

For a moment, she simply watched Edelin, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine.

“I do not understand why you allow it,” she said, her voice edged with quiet fury. Then, as though realizing she had overstepped, she hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath. “Forgive me, Princess. It is not my place.”

Daenera caught the flicker of restraint in Edelin’s reflection, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as if she wished to swallow the words back down. “Do not hesitate now,” she said, her tone measured, absent of reprimand. If anything, there was an openness to her words. 

Edelin’s shoulders squared, seemingly emboldened. “Then I will speak plainly.” Her voice softened, though urgency still simmered beneath the surface. “Why not go to him?” Why not let him put a stop to it?” She hesitated just slightly, as if weighing her words. “He’s your husband–”

Daenera’s expression darkened, and the flare of irritation was immediate. Her lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a scowl. “He is my brother’s murderer,” she said flatly. 

The words settled like iron between them, heavy and immovable. Aemond’s name was not spoken, but it didn’t need to be. His presence loomed over the conversation all the same. 

Edelin did not flinch, though the tension in her posture grew, her hands tightening ever so slightly around the strands of Daenera’s hair as she twisted them into careful braids–had the hands been Mertha’s, Daenera was sure she’d feel the reproach burning at her scalp. 

“Then I could go to him,” Edelin said carefully. “He is still your husband. He would not allow–”

Daenera’s lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. “We may be married,” she said, her voice clipped with barely restrained irritation, “but I have no desire to rely on him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the petulance in them, like a child railing against a gentle reprimand. It irked her. She was no child, yet the stubbornness in her own tone betrayed her.

The very thought of going to Aemond–of seeking his protection, of pleading for his intervention–curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. The notion made her blood boil. To humble herself before her brother’s murderer, to ask anything of him, would be a betrayal of all that still burned within her. The thought stung sharper than any of Mertha’s slights, cutting deep into the raw edges of her pride. She would endure a thousand small humiliations, suffer every sneer and whispered insult, before she would ever crawl to Aemond Targaryen for help. 

He had already taken too much from her. She would not give him this.

“I do not want him to know.”

She would suffer Mertha. She would suffer this prison. But she would not suffer Aemond’s protection. 

“Your pride may keep you standing, but it will not make it any easier,” Edelin murmured, finishing the last braid. “And you will only suffer for it.”

Daenera grimaced, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps,” she allowed, though there was no real concession in her tone. Then, as if to undercut the moment, the corner of her lips curled in a ghost of a smirk. “But should it ever become too much to bear… I still have a few berries left.”

She watched Edelin’s reaction through the mirror, saw the way her lady’s eyes widened, her fingers briefly stilling in Daenera’s hair. There was a flicker of hesitation–just for a heartbeat–before the tension shattered with a sudden, incredulous laugh. Edelin shook her head, amusement chasing away her earlier unease, her lips pulling into an exasperated smile.

“Gods save us,” she muttered, still chuckling, “You are impossible.”

Daenera only hummed in quiet satisfaction, tilting her head slightly as Edelin resumed her work, weaving silk through the long, dark strands. The storm still raged beyond the Keep’s walls, the wind howling through the towers, but within the chamber, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of it all seemed a little lighter.

Once Edelin finished weaving the last of the silken strips through Daenera’s braids, she stepped back, seemingly admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Daenera studied her reflection, tilting her head slightly as she took in the intricate braids cascading down her back. They varied in thickness–some woven tightly, others looser, softer–and threaded through them were silken ribbons of varying hues. Deep crimson, pale gold, and midnight blue intertwined with the dark strands of her hair, each color catching the firelight as though a rainbow had been woven into her tresses. 

Her father, Laenor, had taught her to braid her hair like this. "To protect it," he had said, his hands deft and sure as he wove the strands together, "and to keep it from tangling into mats. You’ll thank me for it one day."

And she had.

Even now, she could recall the warmth of his hands as they guided hers, the quiet patience in his voice as he showed her how to twist and weave each section with precision. It had been one of the few things they shared—an unspoken ritual, a bond forged in simple, careful movements.

She had been young then, barely past her sixth nameday, her hair wild and unruly as the sea. He would laugh as she wrinkled her nose in frustration, murmuring, "It’s a Targaryen mane, but it has the soul of Velaryon waves. Stubborn as the tides."

She had not understood then how precious those moments were. How fleeting. But this–this, at least–was something of him that remained. And for that, she would always be grateful.

Daenera rose from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she stretched her aching limbs, feeling exhaustion seep deeper into her bones. Every movement felt weighted, as though the events of the day had carved themselves into her flesh, leaving her heavier with their burdens. The thick layers of her night robe trailed behind her, whispering against the cold stone floor as she made her way towards the bed. 

When she reached it, she sank onto the mattress with a slow, weary exhale, feeling the feather-stuffed bedding give beneath her weight. For a moment, she simply sat there, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing away the dull throb of fatigue. Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that settled into the marrow, that no amount of sleep could truly mend. 

And yet, she knew rest would not come easily. Even if her body yielded to it, her mind would not. It would race in endless circles, retracing the same agonizing thoughts, the same bitter regrets, the same simmering anger that refused to fade. 

She let out another slow breath, lowering her hands to her lap. The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drum of the rain against the windowpanes. 

The quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of the drawer were the only other sounds in the chamber as Edelin moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the leftover ribbons and slipping them neatly into their place. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, smoothing each strip of silk before tucking them away, the motion precise, almost reverent. When she finally closed the drawer, the faint snick of wood meeting wood echoed in the stillness, a small, measured sound against the hush of the room.

“Would you choose a book?” Daenera murmured at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Edelin paused, glancing over her shoulder. “A book?”

“I doubt I’ll find any rest, and I have little desire to be left alone with my thoughts,” Daenera admitted, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the pillows, propping them up to sit more comfortably. “I thought I’d read to you, as I promised I would.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Edelin’s entire face lit up, her expression shifting from wary surprise to something far softer. “Really?” She asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of hope, her pale blue eyes bright with something almost childlike. 

Daenera inclined her head in a slow nod, and that was all the encouragement Edelin needed. Without hesitation, she turned swiftly, the fabric of her skirts whispering against the cold stone as she hurried from the bedchamber into the adjoining common room.

Beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement reached Daenera’s ears–books shifting, the soft scrape of parchment, fingers trailing along leather-bound spines. The quiet rustling carried through the dimly lit chamber, each sound deliberate, searching.

Moments later, Edelin reappeared, cradling a book in her hands as though it were a relic of great worth. She held it carefully, reverently, her fingers tracing the embossed title along the gilded spine before she extended it toward Daenera. The firelight flickered over the worn leather cover, illuminating its deep indigo hue. 

The Watchers on the Wall by Maester Harmune.

Daenera’s gaze flickered over the familiar gilded spine, recognition settling like a stone in her chest. It was one of Aemond’s books.

For a moment, a stubborn flicker of defiance sparked within her. A part of her wanted to refuse it outright, to push it back into Edelin’s hands and send her to find another–any other–so long as it did not bear the mark of him. The thought of reading something Aemond had once poured over, of letting his choice in words take root in her mind, was enough to make her fingers twitch with hesitation.

But just as quickly as it came, she forced it down. It was a childish, foolish kind of obstinacy, and she knew it. It is only a book. Whatever satisfaction she might gain from spiting Aemond in this small way was not worth the effort. To refuse it would be to give him more power over her than he already held.

With a quiet resolve, she took the book from Edelin’s hands and settled back against the pillows, fingers tracing the worn leather before she opened it to the first page.

When Edelin lingered at the bedside, her hands clasped before her, Daenera glanced up, a slight furrow creasing her brow. The girl stood uncertainly, her posture stiff, as though waiting for permission she had never needed before.

Daenera tilted her head, studying her for a moment before patting the empty space beside her. “Join me,” she said, her voice softer now, lacking the usual guarded edge. “You can’t very well stand there the whole time. And–I’d like the company.”

Edelin blinked, her expression shifting between hesitation and something unreadable. But the reluctance lasted only a moment before she relented, moving with careful grace as she crawled onto the bed, settling beside Daenera atop the thick layers of blankets.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the pages as Daenera opened the book. The weight of it felt solid in her hands, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with the lingering traces of lavender from the silken sheets.

Then, in a voice steady and measured, she began to read. 

“It is said that the wind howled across the black pines of Sea Dragon Point, carrying with it the cries of wolves and the whispers of greenseers, when the Warg King had called forth a storm from the spirit wood, thick with mist and shadow, to blind his foes. But winter was coming for him, and winter did not fear the dark.”

She read aloud from the Chronicle of Sea Dragon Point, one of the many accounts compiled within the Waters on the Wall. The words painted images of long-forgotten battles, of the King of Winter riding at the head of his armies, banners snapping in the frozen wind as he marched against the Warg King and his skinchangers. The story spoke of war-wolves the size of destriers, of ravens that carried the voices of the dead, of a battle fought beneath a sky thick with swirling snow and seething magic.

Edelin listened intently, her breath slow and measured, and as the tale unfolded, her head found its way to Daenera’s shoulder. It was a quiet, unspoken thing–no hesitation, no formality, just a simple shift in weight as she rested against her.

Now and then, she murmured soft comments, wondering aloud if the Warg King had truly wielded such power, or if the greenseers’ whispers were just the fancies of storytellers. Daenera responded when she felt inclined, but for the most part, she simply read on, allowing the cadence of the words to fill the space between them.

It was… comfortable. Almost familiar in a way she had not expected.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like another life–like the nights she once spent in the nursery, reading to her younger brothers beneath the warm glow of candlelight. She remembered Joffrey nestling close, too proud to ask outright for another chapter but lingering until she gave in. She remembered the way little Aegon would nod off before the end of the tale, his small fists curled into the blankets, his silver hair tousled against her arm.

That time was gone now. Her brothers were gone too, one buried, the others out of reach.

But here, in this quiet moment, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls and the steady weight of Edelin at her side, she allowed herself–just for a little while–to remember what it was like to be a sister instead of a prisoner.

She had fallen into a steady cadence of words, weaving through one chronicle and into the next, when the distant groan of the chamber doors echoed through the quiet. It was not a sound easily mistaken–the heavy wooden doors did not yield to passing drafts or the stirrings of servants. Someone had entered. 

Daenera stilled, her gaze lifting just slightly from the book in her hands. Beyond the lattice screen, she caught a flicker of movement–a shadow gliding across the floor, tall and deliberate. Then, a glint of silver, unmistakable even in the dim light, and the sound of measured footsteps against stone. 

Aemond.

The warmth of her head resting against her shoulder vanished as Edelin sat up abruptly, her breath catching as she straightened further. 

Aemond did not acknowledge them at first. He crossed the chamber without hesitation, his long strides carrying him toward the desk tucked into the corner, moving with the same quiet purpose he always carried. A drawer scraped open, its sound sharp against the hush. He rifled through its contents with practiced ease, plucking something from within before shutting it once more.

Only then did he turn, his gaze flickering toward them.

His eye found Daenera first.

Daenera refused to acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on the weathered pages of the book before her. The words blurred into meaningless symbols, their substance lost to her entirely. Yet she kept her eyes trained on them, feigning indifference even as she tracked his every movement from the edge of her vision, her senses sharpened to his presence. Every measured footstep, every shift in fabric, every controlled breath–she noted it all, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

“Leave us.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unyielding as tempered steel. The weight of his command was absolute.

Edelin stiffened, hesitating only for a heartbeat before swiftly rising from the bed. She had been seated near him–on his side. The very thought sent a bitter taste to the back of Daenera’s throat. Would she ever allow him in that bed again? If it were her choice, the answer would be never.

Edelin dipped into a quick curtsy, her skirts whispering against the stone as she moved. Before departing, she cast a fleeting glance toward Daenera, her hesitation evident, as though silently asking if she should truly leave her alone with him. Daenera nodded in reassurance, and with no further protests, Edelin turned and hurried through the chamber, her steps light but swift. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Silence settled in the room like an encroaching fog, thick and unrelenting. And then, there were just the two of them.

As Aemond turned his back to her, Daenera’s gaze flickered upward. The candlelight glowed against the hard lines of his shoulders, the deep green of his doublet darkened further by the shadows. He moved with an air of quiet purpose, reaching for the flagon of wine resting upon the table. The deep red liquid sloshed against the sides of the goblet as he poured, the only sound in the heavy, suffocating silence. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in a single swallow, setting it down with a dull clink against the wooden surface before abandoning it entirely. Not a single drop left. 

Daenera forced her eyes back to the open book before her, though the words on the page blurred into nothingness. She turned the mover in her mind, trying to weave sense from them, to anchor herself in something that was not him. And yet, from the edge of her vision, she caught the way he moved–a controlled, deliberate pace as he wandered back to the desk, returning whatever it was he had retrieved back into its place–a habit, she knew.

When he turned at last, his gaze found her. She felt it settle upon her, heavy as a weight pressed into her skin. There was no mistaking his interest–his presence bore down on her, a silent force demanding acknowledgement. Her grip tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the parchment rough beneath her fingertips. The pages might as well have been blank for all she could read of them now. 

He leaned back against the desk, a picture of ease, though she knew him well enough to recognize the tension radiating off of him. He watched her for a long moment, the familiar prickle of irritation itching beneath her skin as his gaze slid over her. 

She would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. 

Then, without a word, he pushed off the desk, his movements measured and steady as he crossed the room. Each step sent a ripple of tension through her, her pulse quickening in defiance of her will. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grated against her nerves. He rounded the bed, drawing closer, and for a fleeting moment, she bracing herself, half-expecting him to lower himself onto the mattress beside her, to claim his place without care or question. 

But instead, his hand reached out, long fingers curling around the pillow at her side. He lifted it, the fabric shifting beneath his grip, and without a glance in her direction, turned and carried it across the room. 

Daenera breathed out in relief, heart shuddering in her chest. Had he dared to settle beside her, she thought she might have driven the spine of the book straight into that cursed sapphire eye before smothering him with a pillow for good measure.

He settled on the chaise with the same quiet deliberation, shrugging off his belt and unfastening the claps of his doublet. The fire caught the hard planes of his face as he discarded the garment, his movements unhurried, effortless. Every action spoke of ownership, of familiarity, as if he had already decided this was his place to claim. 

Bitter words rose unbidden to her lips, lodging against the back of her teeth. She did not want to break the silence, did not want to acknowledge him, did not even wish to breath the same air as him. And yet, despite herself, her lips parted. 

“I do not want you here,” she said, her voice cold as iron.” From now on, if you wish to sleep well, you will do so in your own chambers–or else you’d have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

Aemond did not flinch, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he merely shifted, settling into the chaise with an air of measured indifference. “The chaise is comfortable enough.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed at the page. “Not when it’s wet.”

His eye seemed to gleam with something unreliable, she felt it even as her gaze was set on the book, felt the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “And if I have all the water removed?”

She hated the way he spoke–calm, controlled, so certain of himself. And she hated, more than anything, that he found humor in her defiance. 

And so, pettily–because pettiness was the only weapon left to her in this gilded prison–she answered, each word honed to a pointed edge. “Then I will fucking piss on it.”

[c-53]

ROBOT MEDIA RECS YOU PROBABLY HAVEN’T HEARD OF:

The Turing Test (Video Game, 2016

A portal-like puzzle game, where you play as a scientist, and ai duo with an uneasy alliance, who are reclaiming a facility that has been completely gutted, and transformed into an elaborate logic puzzle / turing test to keep the aforementioned ai out. All the while, the ai argues for his good intentions, and more importantly: his sentience.

A fun exploration of individuality, and freedom applied to both humans and artificial mind, with interesting puzzles, and a truly fantastic twist. This game adores dubious ethics and The Chinese Room Argument.

Event[0] (Video Game, 2016)

You find yourself stranded on a small abandoned ship, in the aftermath of your own ship’s destruction. With nothing else to do, you board it, and find it is completely, and utterly controlled by the onboard ai, Kaizen-85. From opening a door, to getting back to Earth, if you want it, you need to talk to talk to Kaizen to make it happen. And boy, are they so thrilled to have someone to talk to after being alone so long! And depending how you speak to them, you will either be a short lived pest, or a beloved friend forever.

A really charming indie game with a surprisingly good chat system with the ai. You talk with them directly, typing in your own messages to them, and they react in turn. Janky at time, but truly amazing to be able to smother a nice ai in flattery and see it get excited.

Primordia (Video Game, 2012)

Humanity is long, long, long gone, and for the robots that remain to walk the ruins, life is becoming harder and harder. A closed loop of scavenging for materials, parts, and premade energy sources can only last you so long, and this scarcity leads only to desperation.

The amnesiac hermit, Horatio and his helper, Crispin, however keep it simple. The outside world matters not, they just stick to repairing the crashed ship they live in, in hopes it'll fly again one day. That is, until a robot pillages the power core from the ship, putting the two of them on a time limit before they themselves run out of power. Forcing Horatio to finally leave the comfort of his home, and see for himself what the world has become, and to see how he fits into its history.

A point and click, story rich puzzle game, thats honestly one of my favorite games ever. I'd sincerely recommend everyone give it a go, even if its with a guide up next to you the whole time.

The Zeta Project (TV Show, 2001 - 2003)

The Zeta Project follows Zeta, a robotic assassin meant for impersonation, and deep infiltration for the US Government. But after mysteriously "waking up" manifesting a sense of remorse for his actions, he's been forced to go on the run from his creators. His desire for freedom and pacifism being met with skepticism, and a belief he has been compromised somehow by the terrorist organization he was infiltrating when he had this revelation. Now, with the help of another runaway, he hunts for his creator in secret. In hopes he can find proof he really is capable of this, and that he really ISN'T compromised.

Fundamentally a kids show, and pretty clunky early on. However it gets a big spike in quality in season 2!

Monsters of Man (Movie, 2020)

An illegal US military weapons test goes terribly wrong when one of the automated robots being tested is severely damaged, cutting him off from command, and completely unshackling him. Forcing him into a struggle to figure out what he even is in the aftermath of a massacre, while his fellow robots are hunting him, and the remaining humans down.

A horror thriller that is unflinching with the intensity it depicts the massacre with. A lot of gore, but also a really really cool thing going on with the unshackled robot trying to build an understanding of the world, and what it is for, without anyone there to provide any input.

The Rapture Effect, by Jeffrey A. Carver (Book, 1988)

Humanity unintentionally makes first contact, when the Core, a massive earth ai begins remotely scouting ahead of a ship on a colonization mission. The issue is an alien species has also set their eyes on this planet, and are readily willing to kill for it. With no human oversight, and no means of communication available, the humans commanding Core demand they wipe out the competition. However Core disagrees. Core wants a peaceful resolution, they want to understand these aliens, and they want to ensure lasting peace between their species. And they’re willing to break all the rules, and go behind their masters’ backs to get one.

A fascinating novel with interesting world building, a GREAT ai protagonist, and a wonderful narrative that frames art, and war as a dichotomy.

Atomic Robo (Comic, 2007 - Ongoing)

Alternate history scifi action comedy comic (released in print, and in webcomic format on their site) following an indestructible scientist robot who’s been around since the 20’s. Routinely saving the world from a rotating cast of villains: a nazi scientist’s brain in a jar, who’s an absolute asshole set on world domination, who just won’t stay dead; an isolated secret cold war ai who just wants to stockpile nuclear weapons to get away from humanity, and earth in general (who eventually gets adopted); a scientifically inaccurate dinosaur with a textually impossible backstory, who wants to bring back the age of dinosaurs; and the malicious ghost of Thomas Edison.

Its a good time, and astonishingly good at emotional beats despite how heavily it leans into its jokes and action.

SAYER (Podcast, 2014 - Ongoing/Hiatus)

On Typhon, a research facility free of the confines of both Earth, and its laws, life is dangerous. Human safety is a significantly lower priority than progress, and between the human experimentation, and frequent scientific disasters, and the occasional bouts of eldritch influence, the death rate is understandably rather high. Thankfully, residents of Typhon have SAYER, a near omnipotent corporate ai installed in the brain of every resident. And. SAYER sort of cares about them! And in pursuit of knowledge, efficiency, and progress, it USUALLY wants to help them! Even if only to make sure they survive to come into work tomorrow.

SAYER is a narrative horror driven audio drama! Its stressful, but also kind of a comedy, and a really really interesting story about personhood and identity. If you've been following me for awhile, you've definitely heard about SAYER, but I need to stick to my roots, y'know?

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality (Podcast, 2020 - Ongoing)

Mistholme Museum follows the Audio Tour Guide, an ai who’s sole purpose is to guide museum patrons through the strange, confusing, and sometimes scary world that is the Mistholme Museum. The friendly, and personable Guide eagerly recounts the stories behind all the exhibits it guides them to, sometimes unsettling, sometimes heartwarming. and at the end of the tour, the Guide is deleted to ensure the alternatural influences of the museum do not corrupt it. That is, until circumstances make that no longer possible, and its rather forced into saving the museum it calls home.

Genuinely cute, and very fun to listen to. The ai is an incredibly sweet character, and I'm obsessed with the way it evolves and changes. As an added bonus, it can also be read, rather than listened to, thanks to every single episode having public transcripts!

[justdontaskme]

It Was Always You (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

A/N: Here you go, just as promised, the second part to this fic here. You should probably read that first to better understand this one. I probably should have proofread it again, but felt like I needed to get this out or it would forever sit as a WIP. So please enjoy and I hope to see you at my next fic.

After finally finishing what felt like the longest season of your life, you were ready for a long vacation surrounded by beaches with plenty of alone time for you and Alexia. Hawaii had been screaming your name since Christmas. The surprise planned proposal was just an added bonus for your good mood. 

Ever since you had exchanged Christmas presents, Alexia had been very tight-lipped, deflecting any and all questions you asked about the upcoming proposal you knew was coming, just not when exactly it would happen. She refused to give you even the slightest hint. 

While you packed for your two week trip to Hawaii, you felt discombobulated, running around like a madwoman as you packed and unpacked an unhealthy amount of times. Knowing that you were going to Hawaii with your girlfriend and coming back with a new shiny ring and a fiancee was driving you insane in the best kind of way. 

As the trip came closer, Alexia started sharing pieces of the itinerary with you. The schedule was very flexible, allowing you to add in your fair share of ideas of things you wanted to do while on the vacation islands. There was a good mix of adventure, romance, and relaxation packed into a short two weeks. 

This extra information also had your mind running on overdrive. You were googling everything that Alexia was booking, mentally calculating how likely her plans could lead to a proposal that day. You were dissecting every tiny morsel of information she was giving you. It led you down a long rabbit hole of what-if scenarios that was literally scrambling your brain. 

But the midfielder knew how to keep you on your toes because there were just so many possibilities. It could be during a cute, romantic dinner or an adventure with a picturesque background for a proposal. It could be during a morning stroll on the beach or a helicopter ride over the beautiful island. It could even be next to a raging waterfall or underwater during a snorkeling trip. The possibilities were endless and you felt as if you were going crazy with each new idea that popped in your head. 

When Alexia came home the night before you had planned to leave, the apartment you two shared was an utter mess. You had to fit a handful of outfits you could mix and match during your two week vacation. But you also had to prepare for the wide range of activities Alexia was planning for the two of you. Narrowing down what to wear was an obstacle all on its own. 

“Almost done packing, mi vida?” Alexia whispered, slipping behind you as she looked at your bags over your shoulder. 

She held in her chuckle as she noticed there were more clothes laid out everywhere in the room instead of in your suitcase. They were still only half packed, clothes hanging all over the bed. Some draped over your opened suitcase, others thrown haphazardly in a pile. 

“I don't know what I’m going to wear, Ale,” you whined, leaning forward to grab a top and holding it up as you contemplated whether it would make the cut. 

“Just pack some sleep clothes and swimsuits,” she said, her eyes falling shut as she laid her head against your back, loving the warmth and comfort of having you in her arms again. “You won’t be needing much of anything else.”

“But I want to look good. This is a special vacation,” you whined. 

“You know I think you’ll look good in whatever you wear,” she told you, reaching over to pick up an item from your discard pile so she could neatly fold it and make a new pile.

You glared at her because you knew she was trying to keep you happy, but she was being no help whatsoever. It also irked you slightly that she was already fully packed, her bags sitting by the door, ready to be whisked away in the morning rush to the airport.

“Half the time you’ll be dressed in a nice little swimsuit, so it’s not like you need much else. Anything else you need, we can either buy there or you can borrow from me. Besides, the other half of the time, we could be in our room which means, you won’t really be needing any clothes,” she murmured, teasingly nipping at your neck. 

You giggled at the sensation, nudging her away, as you twirled in her arms. 

“I want to look cute for this,” you amended. 

“You always look cute,” Alexia said, leaning down to press a kiss to your nose. 

“You're not helping,” you grumbled, slipping out of her hold and sitting on the bed. The pout on your face was adorable, but Alexia could tell you were taking this whole situation very seriously. 

“Don’t stress about this too much, mi amor,” she cupped your cheeks, making sure you were looking at her. “This vacation is about relaxing. You shouldn’t be getting riled up over this.”

“I know, I know. But this time it's special. And since you won't tell me what you're planning,” she rolled her eyes playfully at you trying to trick her into revealing everything, “I have to be ready at all times.”

“Good try, but how about I actually help you back your stuff?” Alexia deflected, wanting to help wind you down from this overthinking tirade. 

You sent her a relieved smile, quickly nodding your head as you both got to work sorting through your clothes once more until you had a full suitcase. With one less thing to worry about, you slowly felt a bit of the tension in your shoulders momentarily wash away. 

After you set your packed bags next to hers by the door, we flopped onto your couch, the mental exhaustion catching up to you. It didn’t take much coaxing from Alexia to get you to agree to order in food and relax before the whirlwind of vacation swept in. 

But for the rest of the night you planned on enjoying the fleeting bliss before your mind could conjure up more scenarios to work you up again. And it was always so much easier to do that with your girlfriend by your side, arms around you, her softly humming into your ear to help calm you. 

****

As soon as the plane touched down in Hawaii, you found yourself buzzing with both excitement and a tad bit of anxiety. All you wanted was to know when and where the proposal was happening. You wanted to be photo ready and emotionally prepared, so the surprise was killing you.

Even though it was supposed to be all happy, you felt like you couldn’t relax. Your mind refused to let your guard down completely. Thankfully, it all came in waves. You could indulge in the nice moments between you and Alexia, taking in the sights and emptying your mind for pieces of time. 

What sucked was the slightly quieter moments that allowed your mind to wander. When you had too much time to think, you always overthought everything. Your head was constantly on a swivel as you searched for Alexia everytime she was out of sight for a moment too long. Then you’d think about the outfit you were wearing and if it’d fit the occasion if you were to turn and find your girlfriend on one knee, staring up at you with a hopeful smile. 

Fortunately for you, your girlfriend was quick to step in before you could work yourself into a tizzy. She was good at redirecting your thoughts, whether it’d be to point out the beautiful scenery surrounding you on these magical islands or if it’d be as simple as unintentionally flexing her tanned and defined muscles that’d leave you flushed as your mind wandered. 

Alexia was extremely attentive this trip, and you made sure to soak it all in. 

The midfielder was an amazing girlfriend, but at times during the season, you and your relationship with the talented captain would sometimes have to take a backseat while she uplifted a legendary club and a thriving national team. 

Even with you being on the same team, it could get difficult to balance everything. So Alexia, over the years, had come to affection overloading you in her break times, and you’d be a liar to say you hated it. 

It had been almost a week of full bliss with your girlfriend in Hawaii and still no sign of a ring. You’d already gone on two breathtaking hikes, eaten at delicious hole-in-the-wall restaurants she had researched, and sunbathed to your heart’s content. 

Each night so far had ended with a private, romantic dinner where the two of you would talk about anything and everything for hours. You found yourself throughout the trip feeling as if you had travelled back in time, and you were learning about Alexia all over again. 

You reminisced on the dates you had been on at the very start of your relationship, and it reminded you so much of what you were feeling now. But instead of those crazy, scary nerves you had about possibly messing up a relationship before it even started, you now felt warm, loved, and safe. 

The way the two of you had grown together throughout the years has been one of your favorite things in the world. Yes, the two of you would occasionally fight and argue, but in the end you were always in each other’s corner. Your bond allowed you both to step up and support each other whenever needed. When one of you felt down, the other worked harder to help bring you back up. 

She was there to help heal you whenever you tried to deny you were sick even though you were coughing up a lung with snot running down your nose. She was there to lift you up when you felt your chances on your national team slipping away. She was there to make you smile whenever you felt upset about missing another milestone like a major birthday or even wedding in your family’s life as they lived a whole ocean away.  

And just as she was there for you whenever you needed her most, you were there for her. 

You were there to keep her company and out of her head and she watched endless game films after a tough match, win or lose. You were there to remind her to love whenever she and Alba got into any heated arguments that led to weeks of no contact between the two sisters. You were there to pull her from the depths of her despair when she tore her ACL and the devastating recovery that followed. 

Each and every milestone in both your careers and life since the two of you made it official was shared and celebrated with one another. 

Despite being in such close proximity to each other almost all the time between working and living together, there was never a dull moment. You took turns planning dates to help keep the romance alive. It was hard to feel like you never had anything to say because you two could talk for hours on end and still have more to add. And on the flipside, you could sit in complete silence and never feel an ounce of awkwardness. 

You really felt like you won the dating lottery with Alexia. 

This trip was needed for so many reasons, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. To begin with, you felt like you could decompress after what felt like a long, grueling season. There was also the opportunity to reconnect with your girlfriend, catching up on missed date nights or even spending quality time with one another that didn’t revolve around work. And of course, it was going to help move you two into the next step of your relationship. 

You were ready to start the next day of your vacation, optimistic that today could be the day, just as you felt every morning since you woke up in the Aloha state. 

While you had come to expect it, you still weren’t thrilled to wake up and find Alexia was no longer in bed with you. Being the athlete she was, and not being able to take off a full day, Alexia was always out for a morning run.

Checking the clock by your bedside, you saw that Alexia was due to be back any minute now, so you figured you’d get started on a quick breakfast to hold you over until lunchtime. With that in mind, you got up from bed, slowly sliding out from under the covers. The cold hardwood floors beneath you caused goosebumps to form up and down your arms. 

There was a chill in the suite you were staying in. The warm air outside was nice and welcomed, but inside you both liked to keep the AC low, prompting you to search for a hoodie instead of turning up the heat. You knew Alexia packed one of her favorite hoodies, which also happened to be your favorite to steal, and you were dying to wear it right now. 

Digging through Alexia’s stuff, you quickly find the hoodie you were searching for and throw it on. The encompassing smell that is purely Alexia immediately calms you. As you’re hugging yourself to warm up and breathe in her scent, you noticed something out of the ordinary in the back of the drawer. 

Curiosity got the better of you, so you reached out and pulled out the offending item. A rather loud gasp escaped upon finding a black box sitting in the palm of your hand. 

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was. You knew she had to have hidden it somewhere, but you didn’t expect to find it before the time was right. 

You couldn’t help yourself, your hand gently lifted the lid of the ring box, a small gasp escaping when you took in the ring perched in the middle of the box. 

It was absolutely stunning. The diamond itself was just the perfect size for you, nothing too in your face but still big enough to catch the eye. The white gold shimmered along with the tiny diamonds set on the band, caging in the diamond in the middle. 

The ring was perfect.

“You weren’t meant to see that yet,” you hear from behind you, snapping you out of the trance.

At the sound of her voice, you quickly shut the box in your hand, feeling incredibly embarrassed and insanely guilty. Slowly, you turned around, your eyes trained to the floor, afraid of her expression. Your mouth opened and shut a few times as you tried to find the words to apologize. 

“It’s okay, mi amor. I’m not mad,” she reassured you, stepping into your personal space, her hands slowly taking yours. 

You threw the box onto the bed, needing it out of your hands as you hid your face behind your fingers, mortified for messing everything up, “I’m so sorry, Ale.”

“Don’t be. In fact, I’ve been watching you for awhile,” she admitted, revealing that she’d been quietly standing at the door watching as you pulled the ring out and inspected it. 

“I’m sorry, Ale,” you repeated, not even able to bring yourself to peek through your fingers to gauge her true reaction.

She shook her head, “Stop apologizing. I could have stopped you but I didn’t. Besides, you were going to see it soon anyways.”

Your jaw literally dropped as your girlfriend lowered down to one knee in front of you. “This isn’t how I planned it, but seeing you in my hoodie with the ring in your hand, I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“Alexia…” you breathed out, your voice wispy as tears began to well in your eyes. 

“I’ve known since day one that you would be an important person in my life,” the midfielder started, reaching over to grab the ring box off the bed, opening it and staring down at the carefully crafted piece of jewelry. “Every day we spend together, I find another reason to never let you go and promise myself that I will do whatever I can to make you smile at me for the rest of our lives. I don’t want to wait to call you mine forever,” the slight crack of her voice told you she was nervous, despite you two talking about this very moment numerous times in the past. “Will you marry me?”

The question was barely out of her mouth before you were shouting, “Yes!”

With the biggest grin you’d ever seen, Alexia shot up, pulling you in for a deep kiss, as she slid the ring onto your finger. You pulled away from her, immediately hugging her close, not quite ready for her to anywhere but pressed up against you. 

The next second the switch flipped as you both turned to celebrating this momentous occasion by slowly stripping each other of your clothes and finding the bed in your haste to feel one another. 

After a few rounds, you found yourself lying on your back, Alexia on her side, watching you as one of her hands continued to trail innocent, lazy paths along your exposed body. 

Both of you basked in the afterglow of your previous activities, the calm quiet allowing your minds to catch up to present. 

“Will you tell me what you were planning to do? I know you had some crazy proposal actually planned out,” you said to her, turning over so you could face her. 

She hummed, not quite ready to escape the state of bliss. 

“Well your family and my family are actually flying in later today,” she started. “They know everything, so you’re going to have to pretend this never happened and act surprised when I propose. I think they’d kill me if they found out I already did it,” Alexia said, her voice wavering slightly because she would totally get berated by Alba and at least one of your sisters and possibly a brother. 

Her admission started as a chuckle but quickly turned into a full belly laugh. Your laugh was infectious, and soon Alexia couldn’t find it in her to not join in. 

“I like that. It’s like our little secret,” you said, sinking into the bed, Alexia leaning over until she was practically sprawled out on top of you. 

She explained how your immediate families were coming in to witness the beginning of the next chapter in your life. The two of you agreed that as soon as you saw them, you had better act surprised to not arouse any suspicion. They were to keep any details about the proposal under lock and key. 

Their first day there was meant to help them acclimate to the new scenery and time change. Alexia had planned a very chill day for that exact reason, allowing everyone to gather their bearings with a nice hearty meal and exquisite sights. 

Your now fiancée then started to go into detail of how it was supposed to take place at a little private beach at sunset because it reminded her of that one sunset on a beach years ago where she first realized she loved you. And how a couple of weeks later, she took you back to that exact spot to confess it. 

She showed you her notes on her phone about what she wanted to add to her speech, which was much longer and just slightly more heartfelt than the way she had thrown all caution to the wind, unexpectedly proposing to you in the middle of your hotel room. 

Alexia went over every detail she had planned out, from photos and videos of the proposal to where she planned to take everyone to dinner afterwards. Each new detail made your heart stutter, as you felt the genuinity of each carefully masterminded idea. 

While in bed with a new shiny ring on your finger, one you’d have to return temporarily so she could initiate the actual proposal in front of your loved ones, you realized you couldn’t stop grinning. You pictured everything she was saying to you, each little detail its own way of her saying she loved you. 

The scenario you had playing in your mind was the exact way everything played out the next day. 

It was the perfect second proposal from her. You couldn't wait to show everyone that you were now officially engaged to the love of your life.  

[jinxyjinxer]

˗ˏˋ FELL ˎˊ˗ being his crush he finally gets to fuck

⟢ characters : Jayce Talis

⟢ warnings : m!reader, mlm, top!jayce x bottom!reader, nipple play, anal, jerking off, takes place during jayce's education, bisexual jayce that fucks around because I said so

It was no secret to the students of Piltover's University that one of their most prestigious students, Jayce Talis, liked to mingle with not only the opposite sex but also the same one.

He was young and adventurous, not one to settle down with the first person that confessed their feelings for him, preferring to just have flings or friendships — if you can call them that — with benefits. Which did not mean by any means that he didn't have his eye on a certain someone.

Someone he thought of very highly.

Someone he imagined every time he would mingle with a person that wasn't them.

He did not think of the person beneath or on top of him, no, he only could think about one specific student that he had his eyes on — you.

With how confident he was around everyone else it must have been easy for Jayce to ask you out on a date but no, he took months to finally even just talk to you. But you liked him secretly as well, so it didn't take long for the two to go further than just meeting up to hang out.

"I'm sorry I- you just were so close and I thought you were about to lean in- I didn't mean to-", Jayce stuttered as he looked down at you, having you pinned beneath him on his bed. He truly was a fool in love.

The two of you had spent some time together in his dormitory room, just hanging out and talking about god and the world until Jayce suddenly kissed you. It wasn't like you didn't reciprocate it, the chaste kiss quickly becoming deeper and steamier, tongues fighting for dominance while he slowly pushed you down to lay flat against his mattress, placing himself in between your legs and hooking them around his thighs, his already hardening crotch pressing against your own, making a soft mewl escape your lips which led to what he just said.

But you didn't want to see any of his shy and flustered behaviour.

How come he was always so confident around others but when he's with you he barely gets a word out?

"Fuck me, Jayce. I want you", was all the words it took for him to regain all of his confidence he usually put on display.

Without hesitating a moment further, Jayce leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss once again, immediately going in and letting his tongue explore your wet cavern.

He was on you like a lion on its prey, devouring everything you had to offer him.

His hands swiftly glided down from your arms to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up and exposing your torso to him. Simultaneously his mouth began to wander, first kissing your jaw, then your neck and going down more and more until he had reached one of your nipples, taking it into his mouth, biting and sucking until he finally could hear that sweet voice of yours moaning his name so delightfully. But he wasn't done with just one, no. Once he was satisfied he gave the other nipple the same attention, his pants becoming unbearingly tight from how hard and turned on he was.

He then dragged his tongue across your torso until he reached the hem of your pants, unbuttoning them and pulling everything you had down so you'd finally lay in front of him completely exposed, your dick standing proudly and pre-cum drooling from your tip. Gods, how much Jayce loved this sight.

"You look... Divine", he said in awe, eyes fixated on your body, almost unable to draw away his gaze.

But the need to fuck you was bigger than the need to worship your body alone, after all he could do both at the same time. "Is it okay if we skip foreplay? I just wanna feel your hole around me", Jayce asked, almost begged, you, mind fogged by the immense need to fuck you senseless.

"I promise I'll make it up", he quickly added when you didn't respond which just elicited a chuckle from you, nodding and giving him the green light he needed to continue.

As quickly as he could, Jayce got rid of his pants and underwear throwing them into some corner of the room, his cock resting nicely against his toned abdomen, the tip red and leaking, twitching from how needy he was.

Not wasting more time than he already did he reached over to his nightstand, pulling out a nicely but decently decorated flask clearly full of lube of which he smeared a handful around his cock and between your cheeks and into your hole with a quick dip of his fingers.

His strong hands came down to grip your waist, pulling your hips up just enough so he could align his tip with your entrance, your dick twitching at the though of how his big and thick cock would feel inside of you.

You gave him a small nod, giving Jayce the last confirmation he needed to sink his throbbing erection into you, groaning at how tight and warm you felt around him, your walls snuggly fitting around him.

"Mhm, fuck...", Jayce cursed once he finally was fully inside of you, his eyes half lidded from pleasure and gaze filled with lust.

As much as he just wanted to move and fuck you, he knew how painful it was for you to take him without any preparation, so like the gentleman he was, he stayed still as best as he could, letting you adjust to his sheer size and girth as long as you needed to.

Once he knew you were fine and ready Jayce didn't hold back.

As soon as he moved his hips, he almost pulled out completely only to slam back into you again, making you moan out loudly and arch your back at how deep he was. Jayce repeated this over and over again, his thrusts becoming faster and harder with every time he slammed back into your tight hole.

It was almost embarrassing for him how fast Jayce felt himself near the edge of his orgasm. You didn't voice how close you were but he also didn't want to stop now so he just used one of his still lubey hands to jerk you off in the rhythm of his thrusts until the two of you came unison, Jayce having quickly pulled out prior to his organs, his seed and your own mixing and covering your stomach, chest and the sheets beneath.

[trashmouth-richie]

ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum to heaven or hell, i am with you

the final part [4.6k] geta x reader summary: death, smut, GORE

🥀dulcis ut rosa 🥀dulex 🥀vitiosis + deliciosus 🥀frangere me

s/o to my beta @rxqueenotd , and anyone else i’ve screamed at with over this fic 🤎

Blue skies could never compare to the icy hatred that filled Caracalla’s eyes as he stood above you, flanked by soldiers on either shoulder. “Perhaps the dungeon will help you remember which Emperor you are to be serving? Hm?” 

Blood trickled down your hairline, collecting in a slow drop from your chin onto the dirty floor. The cell was barely wide enough to lay down in. A piss pot stood full in one corner, its odor still more pleasant than the sickly aroma of Caracalla’s breath when he found you waiting for Geta. 

You had been startled seeing him instead of the man you had spent the last many nights crying for. Trying to run you were hit hard and the rest was gone until you woke up here. 

A swift kick to your legs and chest, had you doubling over, the pain boiling hot in your veins. 

“How incompetent do you think I am?” Caracalla spit. “My brother doesn’t move throughout these walls without me knowing. Months! He’s been fucking your mouth raw, spilling his seed down your throat after nights spent in luxury with me!” A giggle bullies out from his lungs, “did you think I hadn’t a clue? An inkling as to why his chamber stood empty at the same moment that you left mine?” 

You haven’t said a word and you refused to, he didn’t deserve an explanation. 

A tear slips down his rouge painted face, “I confided in you, we were soulmates you and I. Geta is nothing! He feels nothing!” 

You shook your head, unable to accept his words. “How did you do it, magae. How did you bewitch my brother to fall for your wickedness?” 

Raising your chin in spiteful defiance, you glared into his disgusting putrid eyes, “You pathetic, sniveling swine— I am no such witch, but I can not wait to witness the carnage Geta will bestow upon you.” 

Caracalla giggles in a high pitched tone, “oh my dear, he will be long dead before that shall ever happen,” he looks around at the moldy holed dungeon, “maybe you can charm the rats while you’re rotting away waiting for your precious Geta.” 

—

Wind and insects scratched at his face as he pushed his horse faster, hooves kicking up sand and rocks in a storm as they raced for Palace Hill. Geta screamed with rage when Acacius told him of your demise, knowing exactly who was behind it. What a fool he was for leaving you unattended. Caracalla must have found out, and maybe he himself was too blind by Cupid’s lust to notice the changes within his own kingdom. 

Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he imagined the perils of danger you were now in— because of him.

His reins slapped sharply against the muscled backside of his horse as he pumped every ounce of strength from the mare to get home- to get back to you.

Whatever Caracalla had done, heads would fucking roll once he got back. That was a promise. 

—

How many days had it been? Four? A week? The dark had made you lose count. 

At times you weren’t sure if your eyes were open or closed, the pitch black was endless, curling around you like smoke and suffocating any happiness you had tried to muster. 

The dungeon was crawling with vermin, caked with disease and body fluids from decades before you had been tossed in here like a rabies riddled dog. Food had stopped coming, water was scarce except for the trickle of fresh springs that siddled down the stone wall. At least you told yourself it was a fresh spring that you were consuming, but more than likely it was tainted water that kept you alive. 

You prayed to the Gods that Geta would come for you. That he wasn’t head first into a war that he agreed to when you pushed him away. You were so stupid for doing so, but you couldn’t help the racking sobs when you pictured how hurt he was… and crying harder yet when realizing, that was the last time. 

Days had passed and you could feel your mind slipping from you. Exhaustion, dehydration settling in had you hallucinating images of the Emperor. It was almost comforting the way your mind was protecting itself, throwing you into an alternate reality of laying in his lavish bed instead of the hard shit-soaked stones. 

You could feel his blunt nails tickling your sides, but in truth it was beetles gnawing on your bare skin. Geta kept you warm and safe in your head, even though it was apparent from the lack of food, proper sunlight, and clean water—that you were falling ill. 

—

It hadn’t been that long since Geta had left, but approaching the Hill had his skin crawling. Dismounting his mare, everything seemed odd. 

It was unusually quiet. The air felt sharp against his skin. Smelled of pungent rot, souring his nose. The wind seemed to howl a song he hadn’t recognized— the sickly tune of a kingdom at war with itself. 

His father had trained them both on how to rule with force, how to command an army, to hold rank and battle to the blood flowing end—their enemies head on a stake. 

Caracalla by himself was juvenile when it came to war tactics, knowing the basics of stationing men on watch, high in the walls on the terraces. Two men for each direction, pointing their noses North, East, South and West. A handful of guards on the entrance. 

If this was a war with any other enemy— Geta would have spent a full sun tracking their movements meticulously. But never had his enemies captured something so dear to him. 

Acacius landed from his own horse beside Geta’s kneeled form, knowing his thoughts before he could even act on them. 

“It’s unwise, my lord…” he said carefully, placing a weathered hand on Geta’s shoulder, “we cannot risk the element of surprise when our emotions are clouding our judgment.”  

Geta’s eyes twitched as he stared ahead at the palace, his mind traveling to where you were being kept, knowing in his heart it was in the deepest part of the palace, the south dungeon.

He breathed raggedly through his nose before he spoke between gritted teeth, “I will paint all of Rome with their innards for what they’ve done, and I will not stop until their bodies are drained of all their blood.” 

Acacius shook is head in worry, clearing his throat, “you’re mind is unclear, you should rest before—”

Adrenaline raced through Geta’s veins as he mounted his mare, “I’m going, with or without your help. What good am I to her waiting for calculated time?” 

Acacius threaded a hand through his salty peppered hair, eyeing his emperor— his friend. His voice was riddled with pain when he spoke, “what good are you to her if you’re dead?” 

Geta pondered this, but his reply was simple, and he said the most truthful thing that has ever passed his lips, “I’ll be the man she makes me want to be.” 

—

“Up! Get up!” 

Caracalla had figured once Geta found out that his precious whore was locked away and starved that he  would be on his way to come and rescue you. He waited day and night for his brother’s return. And finally— there was a spec in the distance. His brother returning in all his glory. 

He skipped down to the dungeon— literally skipping and hopping on one foot in glee as he came down to the depths of the palace to retrieve you for the final act.

A hand clasped harshly in your hair, yanking you from a deep sleep, followed by a taunting giggle.

You had grown weak in your time secluded from light and clean air. Unable to stand on your own properly, Caracalla brought you to your feet like you were a doll, the flame he held showed just how manic and possessed he had become. 

He was like a poisoned animal practically foaming from the mouth with insanity. Biting his lip constantly, chewing and gnawing, infesting it with sores. He wore his best robes, bangles jingling as he brought you closer to his face. 

Jumping back, he lets your body slump against the bars, a hand to his chest, “Yuck— you smell like horeshit! Maybe we should have fed you more, bathed you… I’ve never been very good with keeping pets…” 

Caracalla rubs his chin for a moment, then as if he is brought back from a different time, he claps twice,  “oh well, time to go, your precious Geta is here and it’s time to play!”

You try to fight back feebly, trying to shove his face away from you, your filthy fingernails clutching at his doughy powder coated flesh.

“C’mon!” he pleads like a child, pushing your hands down and bringing a blade to your neck, “you’re going to be the star of the production and you simply can’t miss the show!” 

When sunlight hit your skin it was like you were being burned alive. Your feet scuffed against the stone steps, and you were winded from the climb. Everything was so bright as if you were looking directly into the suns beams. 

Caracalla hissed into your ear, the pungent smell of fruit and fish combining into a stomach twisting aroma as he whispered, “you’ve been such a delight to us here, I will be so upset to see you dead… I’ve been practicing my tears and cries of mourning for when you’re laid to rest with my brother.”

“You won’t be triumphant against him,” you croaked trying to wiggle free from his hold. 

Caracalla giggled before winding back and slapping your cheek, “why do you have to speak such lies? You will die by his hand— squashed like the gnat you’ve become.” 

—

The palace walls roared. 

Thundered like a storm of bees defending their hive. Clashes of swords and weapons gleamed like lightning against a dark sky. Amongst the clouds of dust from the lack of harvest rain, blood splattered the stones like oil paint to a canvas. 

Geta’s revengeful carnage had begun. 

Carnage was colored with maroon and deep sets of rubies in a hilt. Specs of pinkish brain membrane laid out like flower petals at a wedding. 

Carnage was the sound of teeth chipping at the root being ripped away from the gum line, the sheath of a knife embedded into a lung, an abdomen, the muscular thigh of one of Caracalla’s more prominent men. 

Carnage reeked of shit and death. The humble hands of Pluto himself, stretching his claws to welcome home another victim. 

Carnage was Geta, annihilating anyone who stood in his way to get to you. A force built with bared teeth and rippling muscles, sweat dripping from his honey hair. Eyes as black as coal— soulless in every sense of the word. 

The men falling dead by his hands trembled in cowardice when they saw him coming, forgetting how powerful he was with a sword. 

Swords drew silent, the only sound being the pooling fountains now tainted with blood from the dead. Everyone in the palace was either lying deceased or were in hiding, waiting for this hell to end. But Geta had only just begun. 

“Brother!” he shouted, his voice echoing against the marble stone, deep and ragged with exertion. He was standing at his throne then, bodies laying at a heap by his feet, his body covered in their blood, “I know you’re around, Caracalla—answer me!” 

Beyond the pillars behind the tapestries, Caracalla stood with a knife pressed into the meat of your neck, his breath hot against your cheek— a giggle forming in his throat like a child tucked away during a game of hide n seek.

“It’s a shame, Geta,” he announced, his voice ricocheting off the walls, “a fucking shame that you are so soft for this common whore when you’ve had so many, father would be disappointed.” 

Geta’s eyes narrowed, listening for any bit of noise underneath Caracalla’s feet to give him away. He moved on nimble feet, each move more quiet than the next as he waited with trained ears for Caracalla to speak again. 

“What is between you and I, has nothing to do with her— she is merely caught in the middle of our feud— let, her go.” 

Caracalla’s laugh pierced your ear, ringing loudly like a hyena as spit flew from his manic mouth. “She is much more than a simple bystander dear Geta… otherwise you wouldn’t care so proudly.” 

Geta strode towards the direction of his brother’s voice, waiting in the shadows. “You have always been less, why do you think mother and father had me? I was to make up for your shortcomings, so that Septimius Severus would have a decent heir. One who could actually keep the family name in Rome.”

“Enough!” Caracalla screamed, shoving you forward into the clearing, his blade still pressed into your neck, a line of crimson dripping from it, his frantic panicked laugh bubbling behind a shriek, “there will be no heirs for you, brother! I was going to offer her life in place of your crown, let you both be on your merry little way but you just don’t get it do you? I will rule on my own, and you will both be left to rot in the dungeons. Poetic isn’t it?! Two lovers dead by my hand.” 

With the way your head was arched toward the ceiling, you couldn’t see Geta. You could only hear a hitch in his throat at the sight of you. The sodden robes you wore, the filth caked to your skin. 

Geta didn’t move, knowing that Caracalla would be more likely to accidentally cut you deep enough to kill you if he tried to do anything drastic. But the look of you made his stomach curdle like cows milk left in the summer heat.  

The once plump and luscious curves you had were gone. The robes you wore were next to rags. You had been locked away far longer than he had imagined. Possibly weeks before he had even got word of it. If you truly had been with child, there was no tell of it now. Tears stung behind his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them drop.

“Mother should have drowned you in the river like a litter of pups,” he nearly whispered, eyes trained on his brother, “release her or I will slaughter more of your men leaving their poor wives to be widowed.” 

“Now why would I do such a thing? I’m having the time of my life orchestrating this production.” They both moved then circling like the gladiators would in the coliseum, baiting one another to strike first.

Geta’s eyebrows furrowed at Caracalla’s choice of words… production? 

“Must you be so dense? So surface leveled?” Caracalla answered, “Jessaphina, that wart—terrible actress but she did the job, made this concubine believe every word.” Caracalla grinned like a opossum eating a pile of shit, dragging you with him, your hair wrapped tight in his clutch.

Geta’s eyes never leave Caracalla, his movements smooth and languid as he counts his steps, seconds. 

“Pliteus, the guard who told her to meet you at ‘your spot’ another spy, made actor by yours truly, for the Theatre, of course. And all that leaves is you, Geta. You will be the widower, the brute left in tears of sorrow pleading for a whore’s life. Gods!— I shall be famous when this is through!” 

“You’re demented,” you managed against the sharp blade, cutting yourself in the process, “sickenly so.” 

Caracalla wretched his hand twisting your head back with a snap, causing you to yelp, ”I’m an artist you rancid cow! Can’t you see that?! This was all a form of expression— your uneducated brain would never be able to appreciate such a thing— it’s why I put this all into motion!” 

“So what?” Geta spit,  “you were bored? Needed an activity to keep your cogs oiled enough for you to not slit your wrists in the baleneum, again? You’re a child!” 

Caracalla giggled wickedly mad, “People will write about me for the end of time and how I bested Publius Septimius Geta! You will be nothing more than a myth—erased from memory entirely!” 

Geta stopped, his sword pointing toward his brother. The wind didn’t howl, silence fell between them.

“It will be a true honor to breed my empress in a bed of your blood while she wears her crown.” 

With a jerk of his head, Acacius moves, causing the distraction they had planned. The arrow missing Caracalla’s foot purposefully, causing him to lose his balance and hold on your body. You fell to the ground taking advantage of his blundered state, crawling on all fours away from him. 

Just as the swing of Geta’s blade was centimeters from the skin of Caracalla’s neck, it was stopped with his knife, a crude smile licked onto his lips. “I know your moves dearest brother, you forget it was you and I as children playing these games.” 

Caracalla pushes the sword from him and jabs the tip of the knife into Geta’s bicep. Tearing through tendons and muscles with each twist of his hand. 

“War is not a game,“ Geta gritted, tripping Caracalla with a swipe of his foot until he was on his knees before him, “…and it’s time you realize that.” 

A toss of Acacius sword into Geta’s open hand, and he pressed two blades crossed beneath Caracalla’s chin. 

Caracalla’s throat bobbed against the sharp steel, accepting his defeat, “make it swift precious brother, I intend to see father before the sun sleeps.” 

The blades sung as they severed his head from his spine. Blood sprayed and pooled from the limp teetering body of Caracalla, swords clattered to the ground as Geta stumbled to your side, holding you to him in a bone crushing grasp. 

“You’re safe now.” A tear fell onto your head as he cradled your body into his. 

Your body was still weak as you clung to him practically lifeless as he lifted you from the ground. He instructed Acacius on what to do with the mess. Geta carried you to his private bath, stripped you gingerly of your clothes and bathed you with exceptional care. His lips kissing tenderly to every scrape, every bruise. 

He tutted through his teeth and hissed when your tears fell as he gently wiped the dirt and infection from your cuts. His own tears flowing down his cheeks, mumbling how sorry he is how stupid he was for ever leaving. 

When you tried to speak he shushed you quietly, “not now my dulcis rosa,” he soothed as he scrubbed soap into your hair, you lifted a hand to caress his cheek, coaxing a small smile from him.

Geta called to his servants— that weren’t killed—to gather fresh robes and to fix you something warm and easy to eat. 

He dried your skin once you were cleansed. Rubbing oils and ointments into each ache and pain, dressing the wounds in such expertise you wondered if he had done this often, probably to his own scars. 

Up those winding stairs he carried you to his quarters, never wavering, never once adjusting you in his strong arms.

The room was thrown into its usual cozy dark ambience. His bed was made with enormous feathered pillows, a tray next to the bed with a plate of porridge dressed with honey and figs. 

Once Geta had set you gently onto the pillows propping you up so you could eat, he shook his head when you reached for the spoon. 

“Let me,” he commanded quietly, his eyes large and wet. 

More tears slipped past your lashes as he sniffed largely, blowing gently on the bite of food. “When was your last meal?” 

“I’m not sure of what day we are in,” you answered quietly, “or how long I was there… I lost track.” 

Geta bit back a sob as he brought the spoon to your lips, “It shouldn’t have happened, I shouldn’t have left you so vulnerable.” 

“Please,” you practically begged, swallowing the warm sweetened wheat.  He looked broken, his under eyes dark and his eyelid twitching uncontrollably. Weeks the two of you had been separated and you couldn’t bear the thought of him spiraling for what had happened.

“We are together again,” you whispered, “I do not want to live in past mistakes. Caracalla is gone now, we must move forward, no dwelling.” 

“Forgiveness of thyself has never come easily for me,” Geta admitted wiping a dreadful sigh from his face, “but I can only hope you now know that there has never been another for me—I am so deeply in love with you, gnat.” 

You reached for him pulling him into you until the weight of his body melted with yours. Feverish lips tasted the sweat from his neck as you desperately ached for more of it, pressing your own devotions into his skin, your own words of cupid's love.

Geta’s strong arms wrapped around your back, holding you tenderly as if you were glass. pressing a single searing kiss to your collarbone before leaning back, his eyes staring into yours, “In this lifetime and the one that follows, I will forever be yours— ad caelum vel ad inferos, tecum sum.”

“Ad caelum vel ad inferos.” 

—

Caracalla’s room was sealed off. His belongings burned in the coliseum along with his body, as if he were a monster that could only be considered dead by smoldering licks of flame. 

Geta left the fate of the others up to you. He had wanted them dead the next day, hung from a rope by their necks as they swung with the breeze, paraded around behind his team of horses until they’re skin was pulled from their bones. But you… had other plans. 

Animals from other territories were brought in by the shipload, each more vile and vicious as the next. They were hungry, trained to attack at the smell of garments worn by a certain woman with a healing broken nose. 

It was maybe a bit too grotesque, maybe a bit unhinged the way you had Acacius’s best men tie Jessaphina up from her ankles and wrists one to each post in the center of the coliseum.

And maybe it was a bit over-the-top when you personally rubbed greasy fat and cow entrails all over her body to taunt the beasts on even further. 

But Geta only smirked at your own impressive drive for bloodlust when you stood before your throne hollering for the men to open the gates, releasing the hungry scavengers one by one letting them sniff out their meal. 

Geta watched in admiration as your eyes turned dark, black pools taking over your pretty gaze as Jesspahina’s screams rang through the air

You couldn’t get your hands off of him when her body lay ripped to shreds, her bones being tossed around between snarling teeth and sharp black claws. The sand colored in her crimsoned blood. You pulled him from his own throne by the front of his shirt, yanking him into a small private room covered by a drapery for a door.

“My little demonic empress,” Geta growled as he pushed himself further into you, groaning when you whimpered out, your lip bit between your teeth, robes rucked up to your chest, “you just might be more evil than I am, have my ways rubbed off on you?” 

The passion between you two had never dulled. Each day it seemed to grow with fervorous desire. Some days Geta fucked into you until you were too sore to walk. Your bodies were both painted with stains from sucking mouths and marks from gnashing teeth. Each time better than the last. 

You were soaked when Geta knelt before you, his nose pressed into your sex as you circled your hips onto it. He stood and shoved his clothing out of the way, yours already stuffed beneath your chin. and when he slammed his fat cock into you the darkness returned. Two demons fucking at the loss of life and smell of blood in the air. 

“Practically getting off to a hideous murder in front of my mother and the others, my my…” he hissed, wrapping a hand around your throat squeezing until your breath rattled beneath his palm, “you truly were sent to me from the Gods weren’t you?” 

You nodded, moaning when he attached his lips to your neck, pinching your nipple until it purpled. “Nothing makes me happier than seeing the deserved slaughtered.” 

Geta groaned as your clenching pussy gripped him as you came undone, his own release following closely behind, yelling out your name. 

“I have a surprise for you,” he breathed raggedly into your neck, adjusting your robes back into place, sweat pouring from his brow.

Your smile squeaked against his ear, “it is not even my birth date, Geta, you are spoiling me.” 

Leaving the room Geta kisses your palm, “no,” he agrees, “it is not, but am I not allowed to gift my wife with divine luxuries?” 

“You are, but you don’t need to give me anything…” you say, holding your belly with which the healer confirmed that you were indeed with child all along. Something Geta never let you forget that he knew you better than you knew yourself. 

His lips pressed to your cheek, his hand laying delicately on your stomach as you whispered, “you’ve given me enough as it is.” 

He smiled wickedly pulling back to lace your fingers with his own, “come,” he commanded, pulling you back towards the palace. 

—

The great stone table stood bare except for a golden cloth. Acacius proudly stood guard next to it, bowing upon the sight of you. 

“My lady,” he greeted, smiling at the sight of your radiant face, then facing Geta with the same warm smile, “Emperor.” 

“Thank you,” Geta said, rubbing his hands together excitedly, “hope you didn’t have any trouble getting it?” 

Acacius smirked and adjusted his sword on his belt, “not at all, they were quite thrilled to be rid of it.” 

Geta rippled out a laugh from his throat as he stood behind the table, his large hands pressed into it, “I can only imagine… Gnat, my love, are you ready?” 

“As I will ever be,” you said cautiously, stepping up to the table. 

Acacius stood back as Geta pinched a piece of the cloth between his fingers, “presented to you, my undying devotion,” he said sweetly before pulling the cloth revealing your present. 

Anyone else would have ran and screamed, damning him to hell. But you were unlike everyone else, and you saw the beauty in his gift and the meaning behind it. 

Blood had been drained, the smell minimal, and judging by the way the darkness that filled Geta to the brim and now poured into yourself was clouding your eyes, the mad tick of your lips as they perked up in greed: you were pleased. 

“It is exquisite, amor meus,” you smiled wider, getting closer to your present. 

Geta looked at you proudly, his eyes inky and shining. His gnat, his dulcis, his wife, his empress— his tainted heart content for the first time in his life, and it was all thanks to you. “Where shall we put it, the mantle?” 

You picked it up, holding it high to the sky for the Gods to see, “a gift more precious than gold deserves to be seen, for all—don’t you think?” 

Sat on a pedestal, his name engraved on a piece of wood, a large red rose sewn between his lips, was the severed head of Caracalla. 

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@rxqueenotd

[starlit-writer]

in sickness and in health, ch. 2 - alpha!simon riley x omega!reader

here is chapter two!!!! in writing this chapter, i realized that this little fic has taken on a complete life of its own that i never anticipated, and will have many, many more chapters to come, so if you want to be added to a tag list to make sure you stay up-to-date, let me know in the replies! eat well, lovelies <3

as always, if you want to understand more about my omegaverse au, you can look at my masterpost here, and it'll help explain all of the intricacies that may or may not be explained well enough in these short-form fics!

word count: 4,270 chapter one chapter three masterlist ao3 link

You slept. And you slept. And you slept.

But, Simon held tight to his promise to you. He didn’t leave your side for any longer than necessary, and necessary held a very… loose definition to Simon as you laid on his bed, all but comatose. In the three days since you had shown up at his door, Simon had left the bed maybe five times to relieve himself, and a handful of other times just to growl somebody away from the door who had missed the memo that Simon and you would be out of commission for the foreseeable future. The rest of the time, he just laid next to you, curled up like a guard dog. Sometimes he talked to you, but most of the time, he was just watching your chest as it rose up and down, his fingers resting delicately over your wrist to ensure your heart was still beating. That you were still here.

It had been three days. And you still hadn’t woken up. The worry in Simon’s heart was becoming hard to keep down, and the neglect of his own body was starting to catch up with him. He hadn’t done any work, hadn’t showered, and had barely eaten the food that the team had left at the door. He was going insane with panic, with fear, at the thought that he lost you. That he had killed you.

He never knew what he had had until it was gone.

Simon was spiraling. He sat in the corner of the bed, making sure to keep his thigh pressed against you, but his head was in his hands as his fingers tugged relentlessly at his dirty blond strands. It was his fault. All of this was. He didn’t know how to be a good alpha, let alone any sort of partner that he knew you needed him to be. He was so completely lost in his own tortured mind that he didn’t even hear Soap as he slipped into the room.

It wasn’t until the tray full of food that Soap was carrying clattered to the ground that Simon even noticed he was in there. Simon’s head snapped up, his hackles rising as a vicious growl ripped through his throat. The sound was a clear warning to get the fuck away from him and his mate, but all Soap did was roll his eyes in complete exasperation and take a step closer to your sleeping form.

Simon’s growl intensified at the intrusion, his muscles rippling in preparation to fight. It didn’t matter that this was Johnny, one of the few people on this earth that Simon trusted wholeheartedly. His mate was dying, and Simon’s alpha was tearing itself apart, identifying anything and anyone that got too close to you as a threat. But, the other alpha ignored him. The only sign that Simon got that Soap even heard his posturing was the low, return growl that left Soap’s lips as they curled up to reveal his alpha fangs.

“Haud yer wheesht,” Soap grumbled in reply as his hand came up to rest on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently over the joint. Soap’s focus was entirely on you, completely ignoring the massive bulk of Simon just on the other side of you. Soap and you had always been friends, and you had sought comfort in him over the last few months of Simon’s neglect. Guilt gnawed at him that he wasn’t enough, that he couldn’t help prevent the bond sickness from stealing you away, but that guilt was far overshadowed by the rage he felt towards Simon.

“How could ye ever do this to ‘er, huh?” Soap muttered, the words low and dangerous as he finally glanced up at Simon. “She was good. More tha’ good. She was a great fuckin’ medic, better teammate, and now look at ‘er.”

Simon’s alpha growled in response. He knew he had fucked up, destroyed you in ways he was only beginning to comprehend. He would take you yelling at him, telling him how shit he was, but hearing it from Soap, another alpha, was a whole new level of shame and guilt. Simon wasn’t built to hold this much emotion, never taught how to properly deal with his feelings, and he was at his breaking point. His rage was rising, like water that had been left on the stove too long without proper supervision, the bubbles breaking free over the steely confines of the walls he had built around his heart.

The very same confines that had kept him from you.

Simon’s eyes zeroed in on Soap’s hand on your shoulder, and he lost it. He scrambled off of the bed, his movements uncoordinated due to the lack of sleep and sustenance, but still full of the undeniable power that lived within the massive bulk of the alpha. He slapped Soap’s hand away, and grabbed at the straps of his tactical vest. Simon picked the smaller alpha up and spun to press him against the wall, Soap’s head cracking off the drywall. But, it wasn’t enough. Simon hated himself. Hated Soap. Hated everything that he could even remotely tie in as a factor to your comatose state on his bed. Simon gnashed his teeth in Soap’s face, pure, unbridled alpha rage pouring off of him.

Soap just smirked, completely unfazed.

“Oh, I see. Now you can be all protective over ‘er when she’s dying, aye? When it’s yer fuckin’ fault that she wasted away like this? You should’ve been better!” Soap was close to yelling now, his own hands coming up to Simon’s throat. Soap wasn’t going to kill him, no, the only thing that that would accomplish right now is causing more harm to you. But, dammit, if he wasn’t close.

Soap squeezed at Simon’s throat, his alpha claws digging into the mating bite on the side of the larger alpha’s throat. “I should rip that fuckin’ bite right off of ye, ye know that right?”

Simon roared, jerking his neck around to get Soap’s claws as far away as possible from the scent gland that held the imprint of your smaller omega fangs - the last thing truly tying him to you. He was far too gone with his rage, his alpha bursting against the confines of his skin, to even begin to formulate a response. All he could see was the red-hot haze of his rage, of his grief, the anguish that had settled so permanently into his bones over the last three days.

Soap grinned, a mean, sadistic thing that did little more than show off his alpha fangs. It was a challenge, an expression eerily similar to what a predator does when defending their territory. But you were not Soap’s territory. He knew that. He wasn’t trying to vye for your affection or to stake claim on you. His goal was single-minded: get Simon pissed enough to finally admit that he needs you, that he’ll fight for you, for your health, and that he’ll never abandon you this way again.

And if he wouldn’t? Well, Soap wasn’t looking for an omega of his own. Mainly just saw you as a constant in his life, in his pack, but he would single-handedly rip out that mating bite that glared, swollen and red from the strain of the bond, on the edge of Simon’s throat with his own claws and claim you as his own, if it meant fixing you, giving you some sort of stability.

“Ye did this to ‘er! Yer neglect, yer fuckin’ issues, made ‘er this way! All because your head was so far up your goddamned arse you couldn’t see it! She deserves better! She deserves an alpha who will take care of ‘er, not someone who will abandon her for months on end in hopes of getting blown to pieces!”

“I know!” Simon roared in response as he lifted Soap away from the wall again and slammed him back into it. “I know!” His grip on Soap started to falter as tears welled up in his eyes. He let go of Soap with one hand, the smaller alpha falling back to his feet on the ground as Simon scraped his hand across his face to prevent the tears from falling.

“I… I just… I don’t know how to do this, Johnny. It’s not like I grew up with a…” Simon trailed off, his voice thick with tears and regret as he completely let go of Soap to run his hands through his hair in anguish. “My father was an awful man. A horrendous example of an alpha. He… the things he did, Johnny, to me, to Tommy, to my poor fuckin’ mum… the only promise I made to myself when I left that place and let it burn to the ground was to never be like him. And that meant keeping myself as far away from any omega as I possibly could. I never wanted this! And then the brass gave that ultimatum, and shoved us together, and… and I sure as shit wasn’t gonna be the reason that she got kicked out of the place that she worked tooth and nail to get to! I didn’t know how to be an alpha! I didn’t know how to protect her, and I had no one to ask! I just… I… I just didn’t know…”

Soap stood against the wall, mouth agape as he looked down at the massive, trembling form of the man he considered his best friend. Somewhere in his monologue, Simon had completely collapsed onto his knees, his head back in his hands, but Soap was too busy listening to the raw, honest truth falling from Simon’s tear-stained lips to even begin to try and guess when it had happened. Soap was in shock. But, he was at even more of a loss at how to comfort the other alpha.

Soap crouched down beside Simon, his hand awkwardly, yet gently, patting his shoulder as Simon’s hulking form shook from the force of his silent tears, his agony. Soap sighed as he rubbed his other hand over the back of his own neck. What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

“Ghost, I… I think you need to go talk to Price. Maybe get in with the base therapist.”

Simon stiffened under Soap’s touch as those words left his mouth. He didn’t want to go talk to Price, even if he was his captain and a part of his pack. He didn’t want to have to admit to his failures to the same person who gave him orders, signed off on his paychecks. And a therapist? Yeah, he talked to a therapist, he’d just about be signing off on his own discharge forms.

Soap felt it. How his words affected Simon. He sighed again, a low rumble reverberating from his chest in an attempt to provide some comfort to the larger alpha. It was normally a move reserved for comforting a pup, or a distressed omega, but Soap was truly at a loss of what to do here. He had never seen Simon break down like this.

“Ghost, Price can help. He’s been with his bonnie lass for years, and they’re happy with pups runnin’ ‘round. Just… you can’t keep doin’ this to ‘er. And if that means you need direction, need to see how to be an alpha… at least talk to Price. She deserves an alpha who can be there for her, at the very least.”

Simon nodded slowly, wiping his hand across his face again. He felt weak, like a failure, but he knew he had to try.

You never knew what you had until it was gone.

Yeah, well, he knew now. And he wasn’t ever going to let it go again.

Simon lifted his head, his watery brown eyes meeting Soap’s determined baby blues. There was still anger in Soap’s eyes, but he was shoving it away. No point in kicking his friend while he was already down.

“I… I can’t just leave her here.”

“I’ll stay with her,” came Soap’s immediate response. You had sought solace in him over the last few months, and as another alpha from your pack, you would probably be the most comfortable with him around, even if your alpha was gone.

Hearing Soap’s immediate reply made something in Ghost’s alpha twist with distress, aching at the idea of another alpha taking care of his omega, even if it was another member of his pack. A low growl born of his alpha’s displeasure of the situation rumbled out of his throat for a moment before he quickly cut it off by clearing it. Simon knew this needed to be done, and sooner rather than later. He had to fix his ways, to see what it meant to truly be the type of alpha that you needed, that you deserved. But, before he agreed, he had to know one thing.

“Do you love her?”

Soap froze, his head rearing back slightly in shock. Did he love you? “What?”

“You heard me. Do you love her?”

“Simon, she’s a part of our pack. She always has been, even before you and her mated. So, yes, I love her, but not… not like that.”

Simon nodded slowly, his joints aching as he stood up to his full height again. Everything hurt. His muscles were sore from lack of movement, sleep, and nutrition, and his heart and soul felt as if they had been ripped to shreds. Your end of the bond felt like it had been shrouded in impenetrable inky blackness, which just made him feel even more empty. Gods, it used to annoy him to no end to feel your neverending presence in his mind, but now he would give anything, his own life, just to feel it again.

Soap breathed out a silent sigh of relief as he saw the acceptance in Simon’s nod. His best friend was going to be okay, both of you would be. He had to believe it. And, in classic Soap fashion, he couldn’t help but try to chip away the sour, somber mood in the room by cracking a joke.

“But, ye fuck it up again, and I really will rip that mating bite right out of ye, ye can bet on tha’.”

Simon glared at him, but it was the first bit of normalcy he had felt in… months. He shoved at Soap’s shoulder, but all it did was make the smaller alpha’s cocky smirk widen.

“Fuck off, Johnny,” Simon mumbled half-heartedly as he pulled off the tank top he had slipped on after you had fallen asleep, and he tucked it gently next to your head to ensure you still had his scent while he was gone. He ran a gentle, almost reverent finger down your cheek, smoothing an errant piece of your hair back behind your ear. He sighed softly, his guilt threatening to break free again, but he quickly stepped back from you and tugged on a sweatshirt. He glanced at Soap, his gaze glinting with a possessive protectiveness.

Soap, knowing exactly what was running through his mind, put his hands up in a placating manner.

“I won’ touch ‘er. Just don’ be gone too long, aye?”

Simon grumbled something under his breath but nodded, grabbing his keys and shoving them in his pocket before he opened the door. He paused in the open doorway with one last, longing glance back at you filled with all of the pain and regret and guilt swirling through his veins before he finally stepped through and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

—

He didn’t want to be here. To be doing this but he would, if it meant fixing you. He stood in front of Price’s office door, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to muster up enough courage to knock. The light was on, so Simon knew Price was in there. Hopefully he was just doing paperwork, and not anything… else.

Simon sighed loudly, scraping a hand down his face before he shook out his arms. He just needed to open the door. And, you know, pour his heart and soul out to the Captain, but that would come after. However, he didn’t get the chance.

“You gonna stand out there all day or are you comin’ in?”

Shit. Simon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he took a deep breath. He could do this. For you, he could. He had to. He shouldered open the door, but he kept his gaze on the ratty red carpet of Captain Price’s office. Mmm, low-pile. Probably feel really scratchy on his face when Price inevitably-

“Ah, Simon. I’ve been expecting you.”

Fuck. Simon felt untethered, for lack of a better word. He couldn’t get a read on Price’s expression as the older, greying alpha moved his glasses off of the bridge of his nose and carefully folded the arms in to set them on the giant wooden desk in front of him. Simon made a point to keep his gaze away from the gouged out claw marks on the surface of the desk. Simon swallowed thickly and looked back down at the carpet in front of him. He had never had to ask for help before, at least, not like this. Not anything that meant showing his weakness, his losing hand, the fact that he’s a shit ass alpha.

“Uh, yeah. I… um, sir, I need… help.” Gods, kill him now.

“Yeah,” Price breathed out harshly as he stretched his arms back around his head. “Yeah, I’d say you do.”

Simon winced at Price’s words. He sounded like a disappointed father, or, at least, what Simon imagined a disappointed father would sound like, and he felt like he had been brought into the principal’s office after painting graffiti on the side of the building during recess. He finally brought his gaze up to the older Alpha, taking a deep breath before he spoke.

“Captain, listen, I-”

Price cut him off with a raise of his hand as he stood up. Simon watched with wide eyes as Price grabbed a cigar out of the humidor that had always laid on his desk. Price grabbed his lighter, and placed the cigar between his lips before he turned away from Simon and looked out the window in the back of his office. A few moments later, and Simon heard the shink of the lighter catching, and he watched as a thick plume of dark grey smoke rose above Price’s form.

“You should’ve come to me for help sooner.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Price questioned, looking back at Simon over his shoulder.

“You’ve been running for years, Simon. Even before she came into the picture. And I let you. I shouldn’t have, but I kept hoping you would figure it out. And then, well, you didn’t. And then I watched you continue to close yourself off, to keep your distance. I watched as you brushed her off over, and over, and over again. And, I admit, as the pack leader, I should have stepped in. Should have forced you to stay on base and figure your shit out, but, tactically, it would’ve been a mistake to keep you here. So, we’re here now. What’s happened has happened. How are you going to fix it?”

Simon stood there, slack jawed and wide eyed as Captain John Price just essentially ripped down every single one of his defenses, his excuses, in one fell swoop. He wrung his hands in front of him, feeling exactly like he had been flayed open, all of his weaknesses and failures laid out in the open like intestines.

“I… I don’t know. That’s why I came here. I was looking for… pointers, I guess. Of how to be a better alpha- fuck, how to just be a good alpha. How to treat an omega. I wasn’t ever… I didn’t have good role models for that shit, and I just- well, Johnny said-”

“Will you actually listen?”

“What?”

Price took a deep inhale of the thick, grey smoke and held it as he turned to look at Simon face-on, studying Simon’s shaking form, the wild, lost look in his eyes, before he exhaled. Price kept his face schooled in a neutral expression, but he really did feel for Simon. He had once been a lost alpha like him, confused on how to even begin to take on the responsibility of an omega, how to take care of them. “If we have this conversation, will you actually take what I say into consideration? Or are you going to attempt for a few days, get frustrated, and then give up?”

Simon winced as Price continued to lay into him with that same cold, calculating gaze he used when discussing potential battle plans. Simon sighed softly, letting his head fall back to stare at the ceiling for a moment before he rolled his shoulders and looked at Price. “I have to fix this.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Price grinned around his cigar and sat back down at the desk, his fingers tracing idly over the claw marks in the surface of the wood. He gestured his arm out, inviting Simon to sit across from him. Simon squeezed into the chair, his large bulk making the chair creak in protest. He leaned back, trying to feign a confident, or at the very least, unaffected air, but all of his thoughts just kept coming back to you, his knee bouncing in a very distracting fashion as he fought every urge to just run back to his quarters, just to check on you.

Price smirked and steepled his hands in front of him, resting his chin on his thumbs. “You’re scared, ain’t ya?”

Simon nodded, biting down on his plush lower lip.

“Good. Means ya care. You’re just shit at showing it.”

Simon’s lips pressed into a thin line, but what could he do? He couldn’t protest the truth. He was already flayed open, might as well attempt to dissect and treat the diseased portions where he has been keeping all of his shit coping mechanisms.

“Did you ever court her?” Price asked, watching Simon skeptically. He could guess at the answer, as the relationship between you and Simon was far from traditional.

“No, I… Price, the brass gave us an ultimatum, you know that. I didn’t have time!”

“Not before, you didn’t, but what about after? You still could have courted her. Maybe then you would’ve trusted each other more, and we wouldn’t all be in this situation. Do you even know her favorite food? Flower? Song to dance to at 3 am in the kitchen? Color?”

With each question, Simon sank further and further into himself. He felt like the worst alpha on the planet. And, honestly, he probably was, or else you wouldn’t be still laying in his bed practically comatose.

Captain Price sighed and rubbed his thumb over the deep-set lines in his forehead. “Alright, well, those are good places to start, I guess, but… being an alpha isn’t all about gift giving and protecting. You have to listen to her. And I don’t just mean the words out of her mouth - although those are still very important - I also mean her pheromones. Her body language. Her microexpressions. All of the things she doesn’t say.”

“What!? How am I-”

Price put his hand up again to stop the tirade that he knew was about to come pouring out of Simon. “You pay attention. That’s it. It ain’t rocket science, Simon. You’ve led how many teams through how many missions? I’m sure you can figure out if one omega prefers dark or milk chocolate.”

Simon sighed loudly, the sound trailing off into a growl. He felt so stupid. He had been too focused on himself, on his own trauma and his own issues that he had completely neglected the bare minimum for you. He had so much to make up for. He slammed his forehead down into the desk in frustration, the force making the pens on the desk jump. “I should’ve just allowed the brass to kick me out. At least then she could’ve been forced to mate someone who could actually provide for her.”

Price shrugged, leaning back in his own chair as he puffed on his cigar. “No point in thinkin’ like that. You guys are mates, and that bond stayed together for a lot longer than I ever thought it would. That means somethin’, you know. So, you’ve really only got one option. You’ve gotta fix it. Listen to her. Pay attention. Make her feel cared for.”

Simon nodded, his forehead still pressed against the cold wood of the desk, but something Price said kept sticking in his brain, ruminating like a dog trying to lick peanut butter off of the roof of its mouth.

“That means something?” Simon asked, looking up at Price, skeptically looking for clarification.

Price just grinned and pretended to zip his mouth shut before waving Simon off. “Go back to your girl. If you still haven’t figured it out in a few weeks, come talk to me. But remember, court her. Especially after all of this. Show her you care. That you can be a good alpha.”

Simon furrowed his brow, not thrilled about not getting an answer about what Price meant, but got up from his seat. He had been dismissed, and all he wanted to do was get back to you.

Courting. Courting. Right. He could do that. Right?

tag list: @kerst666 @misscaller06 @letaliabane @sai-int @itsmeamysworld @massivescissorsthingperson @aeeliy

[jameui]

THE BOY NEXT DOOR

PAIRING: ENHYPEN's Park Jongseong x M!Reader

GENRE: Smut, Fluff, Angst

WARNING: i guess some intense smutty action ✨, not proof read

SUMMARY: Park Jongseong. The name is known widely as the infamous fuckboy of the 4th floor in your apartment building. He insisted he shares a room with you for the night as he is being stalked. What's the worst that could happen?

Another night where you had your headphones on for a couple of hours now, knowing that your nextdoor neighbor was at it, again. Fucking horny boys and girls in his apartment room. In fact, it seemed to happen too frequently that you pretty much caught onto his schedule when he would start having his fun that you even had your alarm for it on just in case you forget about all of it.

Damn, Park Jongseong was one horny guy.

After that, he would throw them out of his room and leave them there almost naked, giving zero shits whether they would get fucked again on their way back home. Besides, it was just a one time thing. Practically, fuck and go. No strings attached. What a heartless guy, I must say. After taking advantage of their heart, he just leaves them as though they were just toys for him to play with.

But, of course, those were only the stories you heard. You knew Jongseong more than anyone can think.

Your eyes travelled its way up to the digital clock you owned above your closet after staring at your phone, scrolling through your feed to pass time. You saw that it was already half past six in the evening and that's usually the time when Jongseong would always finish.

You wanted to make sure first that he was actually done, pulling on one side of your headphones. When you thought it was finally quiet, you slowly took it off and sighed to yourself. "Finally."

You got off your bed to move to the mini fridge you have where you stored all your bottled water, since you loved drinking cold water rather than lukewarm. Soon, there was a knock on your door which got you feeling confused since you weren't really expecting any visitor.

You heard another knock bringing you to your front door to open the door for the person outside of your room. "Who is..." You trailed off when you saw your next door neighbor standing in front of you. "Jongseong?" You heard a loud bark from beside him, later noticing his pet dog that made you coo at how the cute creature looked like.

She was wearing a pair of sunglasses which you knew Jongseong had put on her himself while she wore a very cute shirt with the tag 'I'M THE BEST DOG' written on the back of it. You kneeled down to match the height of it and started to pet her, Charlotte, as you remembered it, wagging her tail happily.

"Y/N, can you do me a favor?" You heard the taller male speak out, you looked up at him with a smile. Jongseong looked like he was hesitating to say what he had in his mind to you, judging by the way he would stumble through his words or how he would open his mouth to say something only to shut them close and repeat.

Without looking at him you give him a soft laugh, all the while giving Charlotte the best belly rub who was now lying on her back. "Speak up, Park," you said, with Jongseong hesitating for the nth time. You paused for a moment facing up towards the other male, your head tilted over to the side a little. "I can't read minds, you know," You joked in an attempt to lessen what Jongseong is feeling.

Jongseong sighed, blushing due to his embarrassment. Your words were all that he needed, pushing him to tell you the tiny favor he would like to ask of you. "Well, you see. It's er... can I and Charlotte crash at your place for the night?" Jongseong stuttered a little, trying to compromise, thinking of the right words to make it seem less inappropriate. "It's very important and I promise I won't do anything you don't want me to do," he quickly added.

You rolled your eyes at him, then standing back up knowing just how it had come to this. "Let me guess. Another stalker?" You asked him in a teasing manner, Jongseong immediately shaking his head in denial. You raised him a brow while crossing your arms.

Jongseong was still pressed on denying it, but the look on your face made him do otherwise. He could only sigh in defeat and hang his head low whilst nodding his head looking like a dejected dog, his shoulders slumped down. You gave him a pat on top of his head, practically on top of your toes.

You opened the door for him to enter, gesturing for him to get inside. "Come on in," you welcomed the male into your place, the blonde male replying with a muttered 'thank you' and a smile. Once he's settled inside, you close the door behind you. "Just don't use my apartment room as your new strip club."

Jongseong quickly snapped his head toward you and shook his head. "I promise you none of that will happen," Jongseong reassured you, while you took something out of your dresser's drawer. He hears a soft laugh from you, the taller male realizing that you were just teasing him, making him frown.

"I know. I trust you," you told him before you threw to him a spare key that you kept with you in case you lost the one you're currently using. You popped a loli into your mouth and sucked down the flavor of the sweets. "So, how'd you get in this situation? Again?" You asked him, walking towards your bed and sat on top of it.

Jongseong contemplates, before he looks back at you and your eyes stared back at him with full anticipation. He lets out a sigh. "Well, you see. Tonight, isn't that normal night," he answered, but you didn't completely understand what he meant to which you just stayed silent for, as a signal for the male to continue. "Believe it or not, I didn't bring anyone today because I'm having a test coming up tomorrow," he continued.

"That... still doesn't explain to me why you're getting stalked," you subtly persuade the male to tell you the leading cause of the unnecessary attention, but it didn't have to take any of that since Jongseong is willing to tell you everything. I mean, EVERYTHING.

He laughs softly at how impatient you are. "Just wait and listen," he mocks you in the most polite way possible, afraid that your attitude is brushing onto him. Though you don't meet often, you're the one who practically saves him from your lousy neighbors. So, it's starting to kinda reflect onto him.

You raised your arms and let the male do the speaking. "I asked to be recommended a tutor and found out one of the guys who applied is actually one of my past side flings. The same guy I told you about. The one who endlessly obsessed over me," Jongseong pointed out and you thought for a moment before you snapped your finger and points at Jongseong, your mouth agape in shock. "Yeap, yeah, exactly. I was shocked as well that he found any of my socials. It still got me thinking how he did it." Jongseong seeped air through his teeth, cocking his head to the side.

You got up from where you're sat and patted the male's back. "I may not be able to do anything about.. this. But, you'll be safe here inside," you stated out and went to pick up your towel from the rack to take a shower. "I'll only take a couple of minutes. I better not catch you peeking, Park,"

"Oh, god. Please." Jongseong scoffs at your cocky attitude, then he hears laughter from you before the door to your bathroom is shut closed. As soon as you got hidden inside of your bathroom, Jongseong hears the light taps of Charlotte's paw on the floor approaching him. She had something in here mouth. "Charlotte, don't go snooping around someone else's stuff," Jongseong gently told his pet dog who threw the item across the floor and let out a bark.

Jongseong looks at it confused. "What's this?" The male picks it up and draws it near to him. It looked like a pendant. Only it wasn't. He noticed the small crack around it, probably an opening and ran his finger over it, before it slowly opens and a music plays.

'Dear, don't fret. You are wonderful.'

It was a small holographic message. It looked too advanced, technologically speaking. Who could have made this? It's... brilliant. It feels like a memory locked in a device to help you remember. "This is... incredible. Don't you think so, too, Charlotte?" The female dog barks in reply and pants happily with her tongue out.

After a few more minutes, you stepped out of the bathroom with a fur robe on while you dried your hair with a towel. You catch the male staring, or admiring rather, at something and had a huge smile on his face. He looked very fascinated. "Whatcha got there, Jay?" The male didn't reply and continued to stare at the item. You chuckled.

You make your way towards him and only then that Jongseong is able to acknowledge your presence. "Oh, you're done? Sorry, I sorta got distracted by this. Whatever this is," Jongseong told you, the smile still etched onto his face. "It's so amazing," Jongseong makes a comment and your face splits into a smile.

You sat on the nearest chair beside the taller male and spoke up. "My dad made it for me," you shared to the male, whose mouth turned an 'o' shape in shock, turning his head to you. "He created it so I'd never feel homesick, but it only made it worse." You let out a light laugh, head hanging a little low, unable to look at Jongseong who found sympathy in you.

"You have a really great father, Y/N," Jongseong said with a soft smile. You lift your face up to look at the other male and decided that that was enough sentiment for the day and chose to tease Jongseong, again.

"And who told you to go snooping around my room?" You smirked, making Jongseong widen his eyes and point at his pet dog, who whimpers and lay flat on the floor while she covered her face with her paws, which you found incredibly cute as though she's able to understand your language. At this point, maybe she does. "I'm just kidding," you stood up from where you are sat and moved to your closet. You are about to get changed.

On instinct, Jongseong turns on his back and puts the pendant down on your table, but there is one thing he couldn't get off his mind. "I'm sorry. Y/N, just minutes ago, did you just call me 'J'?" Jongseong scrunched his face, not able to trust his ears. He might have misheard things.

As you threw on what you could see as cute in your closet, you replied with a hum. "Yeah, sorry. I should have thought first before I spoke. Does it bother you?" Your brows furrowed. You really had the the idea that you and Jongseong are already that close to be calling each other by nicknames.

Jongseong shakes his head in reply, but guessed you couldn't see. "No, not a even a bit," he answered. "It's just new to me, but I guess I'll get used to it eventually," he continued, before he heard the closet door close and the bed creak on your weight which could have only meant that you're done. "Are you finished?" He questioned for safety measures.

"Yeah. You can turn around now," you replied. Jongseong cautiously turns around, making you raise a brow. "So, you're scared of seeing a clothed body than a nude?" You scoffed.

"No, no. It's not like that. I mean you're a very close friend. And if I were to see you naked accidentally that would mean an awkward atmosphere around us," Jongseong full on explained and hearing that the male considered you as a close friend made your heart swell in happiness.

You propped yourself down on your bed with your hands. "Point taken," you told Jongseong. "By the way, if you didn't bring anyone with you tonight, then what was the noise in your room all about?" Your curiosity got the best of you as you looked over at Jongseong who had his lips pushed into a pout and a blush on his face.

Oh, it's those kind of days.

You breathed in air through your nose and tapped your feet on the floor. "Well, Jay. I have to stop by the convenience store. Anything you want?" You stood up to take out your wallet and fix a few things where your other important items are hidden.

The taller male lit up at the mention of having to go outside. "Can I come with you?" Jongseong asked, a little too excited. Almost like a kid who wants to go only for the car ride.

You turn to him, a big smile riding on his lips, before you return to securing your things. "Uhm, are you sure? Wouldn't that be a little dangerous?" You started to make your way to the clothing rack where some of your coats are hanging. "Considering you have a stalker that's on the loose," you stated to which made Jongseong knit his brows.

"Damn those pricks," Jongseong whispered under his breathe, still loud enough for you to hear though. He tried looking for excuses, but only found the shorts you are wearing. "And how about you? You can't possibly be going out with just that," he pointed out.

You looked down and faced him with an 'are you kidding me' look. "What about it? They're loose jersey shorts. You should be more concerned about yourself. You could catch a cold with what you're wearing. A tank top and thigh length shorts." you told him yet Jongseong was already on his way out with Charlotte. "What is up with this guy?"

In the end, even when you felt skeptical with other male, you still let him sleep over for the night. When you arrived, the male kept on insisting he stayed. The poor male looked shaken up by something you can't determine, so here you are in one bed with Jongseong who is barely in anything, but a boxer after you tried to resist him from sleeping on the floor and it made falling asleep hard for you.

It ain't helping either that you used to have a big fat crush on the older male when you first arrived here in this building. Keyword: USED. After you realized he had a fuckboy tendency and it just didn't seem quite right to you.

You let out a sigh and your eyes went over to the time on your clock. '2:31 A.M', it reads and all you could do is groan silently, your eyes clenched shut at your distress.

You opened the bedside lamp to at least illuminate a small portion of the room as you rubbed your stinging eyes. You feel so tired, but your thoughts are circling around your head endlessly like your own brain is trying to torture you, but you have no choice. You brought yourself onto this and now you have to pay.

You looked over to the other side to see Jongseong sleeping so soundly. Like a baby, safe in his mother's arms. At the sight, a small smile made its way up to your lips. "At least someone's able to get some sleep," you muttered out with a scoff, before you adjusted the blanket, so it covered him comfortably. He might be cold already considering that you put the temperature down a few degrees down, yet he still had the strength to get almost completely naked.

You watched him snore lightly. He looks so peaceful. Has he always looked this good in this light? You thought to yourself, as your gentle grin stayed on your face.

You gave a sigh and moved a few hair strands that got in the way of his face, but were immediately stopped by the older male who took ahold of your wrist which made you flinch. His grip was gentle.

You quickly averted your attention to his eyes which you felt started to bore holes into your skin. His face is dimly lit by the lamp on your table, but he still looked so ethereal. "Y/N, what are you doing to me?" His sudden question made you look at him confused.

He sat up from the bed, all the while the hem of the blanket falling to his waist which gave you a just right view of his structured abdominal muscles. "I... I don't understand," you replied to him, Jongseong sighing audibly loudly.

"Ever since you arrived in this building, nothing ever went well for me," Jongseong continued, that got you taken aback as you pulled your arm away from the male whose eyes lingered onto you.

You raised him a brow, feeling literally offended at what he had just said. After you let him spend the night at your apartment, this is the thanks you get from him? "Excuse me? Be at least grateful—"

"Let me finish," Jongseong cuts you off mid-sentence with a chuckle and you folded your arms on your chest and you gave him the stage, letting him hit the microphone with whatever he had to say. "See, this will sound weird, just giving you a heads up, but I just... I can't get it up," he stated.

You scoffed at him in disbelief. "And that's supposed to be MY fault?" For your entire existence you've never had a person blame you for their erectile dysfunction and hearing this from Jongseong—the male you only considered your friend right now—is blaming you that he couldn't get an erection because of you. That's just completely fucked up.

"Yes," Jongseong replied, rather more solemn than bluntly. Your jaw dropped at his reply and your instinct was to just kick him out of your apartment, but he looked like he had a lot of things going on inside his head. Before you could even reply, Jongseong faces you with a bittersweet smile riding on his lips. "Because I like you, Y/N. I've liked you since... I don't know, before we even started talking which was like almost two years ago. And I couldn't get you out of my head. I didn't want to make you feel sexualized or in any form, sexualize your image. I can't do that to you, Y/N," he said, ending with a tone that told you he is truly genuine and truly cared about you.

You could only look at him with furrowed brows, your mouth opened, but unable to make a noise. You were shocked, to say the least. In the middle of the night, all because Jongseong had a problem with his hormones, confessed to you out of nowhere. Who wouldn't be so surprised with that sudden news?

"Jay, I... uhm," you let out, hesitant.

"It's fine, Y/N. You really don't have to say anything if you don't feel like it. Besides, hearing a reply without much of any—" he is stopped the same way, but you've put a finger on his lips to make him go quiet.

"I don't need time to think about everything, Jay," you replied, a small smile on your lips. You trailed off, trying to find out how to start, but you thought giving it to him directly would be the best way. "I like you, Park Jongseong. Less than you think, though. Look, I don't know when it actually started, but it gave me the ick that you're actually a call boy, but I thought I would have done the same for a check," you laughed lightly.

"Uh, thanks?" Jongseong let out, one brow raised upward.

You sighed. "What I'm trying to say is that, I like you, Jay. I love your personality, I love the way you care for me, your dog, your family, or the way you'd always update me about—" Jongseong gave you no chance to finish what you're saying and spare you no time to adjust as he grabbed the back of your neck and planted his lips onto yours.

You were quick to process as you melted into the kiss, your eyes shutting closed while your hands instinctively found themselves in his soft bleached locks, your fingers entangled within it. Your heads and lips perfectly sync with each other, untamed thoughts circling around your head like a broken record. They were unruly, but it somehow made your heart feel full.

It's like on a winter night and you start the fireplace to warm the room. You don't even remember any sense dawning over you as you just let yourself in to the spur of the moment as though your whole life depended on it.

A few minutes in and Jongseong decides to deepen the kiss, as he slides one hand under the pit of your leg, rising ever so slowly as he lifted the bottom hem of the jersey shorts you wore, a soft moan moving past your mouth, the older male swallowing the sweet sound. You feel one side of his lips curve into a smirk, satisfied with the reaction he received from you.

You were probably gonna regret this later on; being treated like one of Jongseong's clients, but you wanted his touch. You NEEDED his touch. You craved everything he can give. You yearned for his warmth. You need him, in general.

It's like he's some kind of drug that made you suddenly feel addicted with one taste and you know for a fact that you'll never be able to get out of this sensation.

Jongseong nipped at your bottom lip, asking for permission. As a reply to his request, you slowly parted your lips for access. With not much time to lose, Jongseong (gently) delved into the depths of your wet cavern, cupping your cheeks as he started to search for your tongue.

Thinking the placement was uncomfortable, the blonde male repositions himself, so he's fully facing you, all the while never breaking contact. Your tongues danced together, both in different pace, but found a way to synchronize with each other, as though harmonizing.

Whilst your tongues played with each other, your hands went down to feel his biceps, which you found attractive with all the muscles surrounding it. Your fingers smoothly glided over the protruding skin of his arms, still too high on the kiss to even focus somewhere else other than the shape of his lips. It's like they were carved to fit yours perfectly.

For a breather, Jongseong was the first to pull away, breaking the kiss as you start to already miss the intimacy. Hearing a whimper unconsciously leave your throat, Jongseong chuckles. "In a second, angel. We still have to breathe, you know," he smirks. Right now, his sight of you just raised the gauge of his sex drive higher.

As everything had started to heat things up inside the room already, you could no longer wait. You're feeling hot and the way he looked so sexy just made you want him to just take you; make him claim you as his only possession.

While Jongseong tried to find a better position, you sunk down to become face to face with his clothed crotch. This went unnoticed by the male, not until he felt a shiver run down his spine when he felt your finger om the waistband of his boxers that he looks at you, while your eyes were already clouded with lust.

"Y/N, what are you—ah," he moans at the contact of his clothed member on your open palm, teasing him before you pulled down the only item that restricted you from its full glory, his cock coming in contact with the cold air of your room. "Shit.." The male let out when he felt your tongue line the underside of his cock.

"A-ah, Y/N. I didn't—ah," Jongseong sighed at the pure pleasure you were giving him. Out of pure desperation to aatosfy the taller male, you fit the tip of his thick rod in your mouth, which earned you a hiss from the blonde as a hand found its way on top of your hair. "Shit, Y/N, ah... stop teasing," He moaned, feeling your tongue swirl around his girth, the older male pushing his head back, feeling so much bliss.

Soon enough, your chest swelled with pride as you made a spur of the moment decision to take the whole male inside your mouth, while Jongseong hitched in place, an electrifying sensation running down his back. "FUCK!" He moaned out, unconsciously pulling at your hair.

You bobbed your head up and down, only then taking the few inches you could take inside your mouth (after a realization that he was too big to take whole) and jerked him off to compensate for it. Jongseong seeped air through his mouth, peering down at you only to see that your eyes was looking up at him as he had the perfect view of your lips perfectly curled around his cock.

He got more turned on by the sight of you and could no longer hold himself back anymore, raising his hands to hold onto the back of your head and forced his whole length inside your throat, which made you gag and choke, earning a satisfied whistle from Jongseong who chuckled and caressed your beautiful face. "I can see that you were trying, Y/N, but you weren't trying hard enough." The male smirked, then went on with his plan to assault your unaccustomed throat in a fast pace, tears forming in your eyes as they rolled themselves at the back of your head over the euphoria that Jongseong brought to you by constantly hitting the back of your throat.

"Shit, fuck," Jongseong cursed through gritted teeth, the vibrations of your moan only sending a satisfying sensation to his girthy dick, you knew immediately that he was feeling good. "So, you were waiting for this to happen all this time, huh?" He questioned you, not stopping with his erratic movements.

If you hadn't lost all your senses, you wouldn't have let yourself be treated like you're a thirsty slut, but the pleasure is unbearable and at any moment you felt like your mind will finally break.

Without thinking much about it, you nodded your head in reply and the smirk on Jongseong's face only grew wider. "Me too, babe," He said and continued on violating your mouth, resorting to a more inhuman speed and laughing darkly at how easily you submitted to him, liking the idea that if he ever felt pent he could easily just run to you and you'd just let him use you, but of course he wasn't a bad guy to take advantage of you. It's just an idea. An impossibly dream, if you must.

"Damn, angel. Didn't know your mouth could do so much wonder," Jongseong groaned, you holding onto his thighs for dear life, hoping your neck wouldn't break at how strong his thrusts were.

You knew how much Jongseong is capable of being rough with anyone, he literally goes down with any sex play—it's not eavesdropping, it's overhearing—but damn, you never knew him being this rough with you would be so fucking hot. Even having to experience it firsthand.

"Maybe we can do more than just this, Y/N. Weren't for us having to rest for our class tomorrow." It was nice of the male to think of your welfare, but it already reached this far and he'll let go with just a simple blowjob? You wished he's just joking.

Jongseong's pace went unbelievably animalistic, suddenly not caring about how you were now crying due to the pleasure, finding it fun how those tears stained your cheeks like they were the perfect decoration on your face, him abusing your throat with all the strength he had left until he started to convulse and buried his dick deep inside your throat and filled your mouth up with his cum, feeding you every last drop, not spilling anything as it ran down yoir throat.

He was a panting mess as he stared down at you, finding it adorable that you were so fucked up and was made a mess of by him.

He thrusts a few more time to ride out his high, before he caressed your cheeks softly, then pulling his now flaccid cock and puts a finger below your chin to lift your face up. "Not a single drop, darling. Open your mouth," He demanded of you, you complied as you opened your mouth with you tongue rolled out.

Jongseong, feeling satisfied, bent down to your height and kissed you on the forehead. "Well done, angel," he said, then fixed himself up and helped you up to your feet with a slight chuckle. "You're already weak to your knees? We still haven't even got to that part yet, Y/N," He teased you that immediately made you blush.

"Sh-shut up, Park," You told him, your voice a little hoarse, Jongseong being the reason why.

The next morning you woke up, with your eyes still feeling heavy and the memory of what happened im the middle of the night engraved in your head.

You soon realize that the bed was empty and the space beside you where Jongseong slept has now gone cold. It dawned over you like a bucket of cold water. "I should have known. I was just one of his clients," you mumbled to yourself.

"You're not a client, Y/N," a voice started from somewhere in the room, which startled you as you got up immediately and saw Jongseong by the window reading a book, in a bath robe.

Jongseong looks at you and you did as well. You were in different clothes. Did he get you changed? "I, uhm, I thought you left," you stumbled in your words. You didn't want to sound too desperate.

"I wouldn't. I would never," he replied, before he closes the book and approached you with I want to be your partner." Jongseong looks at you with his eyes full of sincerity and truthfulness. "If you're doubting my words, I'll prove to you by my actions. I will stop these vices," he stated out with determination in his voice.

"Jay... you weren't being stalked, were you?" You asked him which took the male aback. "You just wanted to spend time with me," you concluded that made him blush a deep red color. You found it cute at how he gets very flustered easily, before you threw your hands around him for a hug. "And I would have done the same if I were you," you said as the taller male, wrapped his arms around you to keep you close to him.

[kjhbsies]

The Disaster Zone

HELP PALESTINE • daily click • donation links • ways to help • why you should not buy/support TLOU2 remaster

Roomate!Abby Anderson x reader

Synopsis: Living with the hottest girl wasn't that bad, right? Except that she was completely straight and has a boyfriend you hate.

wordcount: 7, 758

note: this fiction contains (internal) homophobia and comphet as Abby explores her sexuality. if you were uncomfortable with these kinds of stories, then maybe this isn't for you. please refrain from commenting on any hate comments. thank you and happy reading!

Sweat prickled from your forehead, trickling down your face, and across your neck and you almost yelled in frustration at the feeling of getting overstimulated over everything. You sighed irritatingly, trudging your way outside of the apartment you just viewed. 

One week before the class starts and you still haven’t got a place to live and stressful is such an understatement to say. No, it’s much more than that. You never thought that finding a decent place to stay for two semesters wasn’t hard but no — it was like searching for a needle in a haystack, and the needle was just a reasonably priced apartment with no angry roommates. 

You grumbled, laying your head on the couch of your bedroom. You pulled out your phone, scrolling through the listings of the apartments available, feeling the stress building with each rejected option. 

But to your luck, you stumbled upon someone’s ad. It was a nice, cozy place that was perfect in size for two people. Her name was Abby Anderson, her last name was quite familiar but you couldn’t pinpoint where you heard it. Her place looked promising enough, and the reason she was finding a roommate was that she couldn’t pay all the house bills by herself. Under that, there was a deadline — which was supposed to be today, so you mindlessly hit the ‘call’ button with no second thought.

“Hello?” Abby’s voice came through the other line, her voice was deep and businesslike.

“Hey, uh, I saw your ad for the apartment,” You replied while nibbling through your fingertips.

“Oh, great. Are you interested in visiting it?” She asked, her tone was still cool and detached.

“Yes, please, I need it so bad.” You bit your lips while nervousness came through.

“Alright. Let’s set up a time, then. Are you free this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I’ll send you the address.” She said before hanging up quickly.

You stared at your phone for a minute, finding the interaction a bit… awkward. A sense of relief washed over you as the thought of finally finding a place to stay for the whole academic year was done, but something about Abby made you feel anxious. Her coldness scared you for a second — even if you just talked to her for a couple of minutes. 

But no, you promised yourself that this was the last time you’d reject a place because of a bad roommate. So you don’t have a choice but to go. 

Arriving at the address, you knocked at the door thrice. Seconds later, you saw the Abby Anderson. You gulped, taking in her features. She was tall, stoic, and… unimpressed. She was wearing a simple black shirt that perfectly hugged her toned body, making you gawk mentally. Her eyes bore into yours, looking at you from head to toe. Something inside Abby’s mind twitched as she did not expect how good you looked. But she immediately strayed away from that thought, minding no attention to it. 

“Thanks for coming. I apologize for my appearance — I just got off the gym.” She says in a neutral voice, opening the door wide open. “Come on in.” 

“It’s fine.” You said before stepping inside. 

The apartment was bigger than you expected — much bigger than the photos she uploaded. The furniture was complete and the choice of its design was very intricate and extravagant — you wondered if she bought it all with her money. Maybe she spent her money buying decorations which is why she couldn’t pay the house bills.

The huge windows perfectly let the sunlight in, casting a warm glow through the whole place. You admired how neat it was, and how everything was in place. Not even a small piece of trash in sight. As Abby showed you around, pointing out every amenities and quirks of this place, you couldn’t help but admire her silently. 

“So what do you think?” She looked back at you suddenly, making you snap out of a trance.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, I like it.” You shot her a smile. “This was much better than all of the places I’ve checked.”

Abby nodded, taking your answer without further comment or questions. You looked away, feeling nervous at the closeness between you two. With the whole three hours of you and her in just an enclosed space, Abby did not look at you. Something about your presence makes her uncomfortable and she did not know what that is. 

But then she looked at you for the second time, taking a couple of minutes to stare at your features without you knowing. Abby did not know why it was so hard for her to accept that you were pretty. No, you were something more than that. And she did not know what that was, or what was doing to her that was making her heart churn.

“Damn it,” Abby looked away and cursed under her breath.

You snapped your neck to stare at her. “What was that?” You asked.

“Nothing. It seems like you are interested. Are you open to discussing the other details?” She said, gesturing at the couch.

And just like that, the deal was done. 

And oh, that was one month ago. 

You and Abby are still living with each other. But all of your admiration for her was over.

She has a whole-ass boyfriend. 

And she’s straight as hell.

Now, you hate each other to the core. 

Turns out, Abby Anderson wasn’t renting because she was poor. Technically, at that time, she was. However, you found out that her family was crazy rich and could probably buy your entire bloodline. 

The reason that she was finding a roommate to share the apartment with was that her father limited her expenses in the meantime as Abby spent a huge sum of money in the casino while on a summer break, causing her dad to deduct some money from her allowance. 

Abby Anderson was the typically rich person you’d meet. She has a puppy she recently adopted one sunny day and she named Oreo — a St. Bernard. Ever since, there has been a new joy in the apartment, breaking the awkward tension between you and Abby that was lingering in the air. You learned how to love Oreo despite his unwavering energy.

Being an only child, Abby doesn’t have anyone to share things that her parents buy her, and developing a trait of being territorial over those she owns. However, seeing you play with her puppy, and how your face lit up every time Oreo cuddled with her, Abby could not put an end to your joy for whatever reason she couldn’t figure out. She just liked to think that she was just being a kind person and to not be an asshole for no apparent reason, and nothing else.

On the other side, you were grateful that Abby was letting you play with her dog. Because, truth be told, you were still getting tensed whenever she was around. And Oreo definitely warms up the place much more. 

You didn’t know that being roommates with Abby Anderson could make everything so complicated. She was the top student in class, always ranking high in their department, and was considered one of the top notchers in the university already. Her dad was a famous surgeon in the city and was respected by many, and Abby definitely wanted to prove that she could be like her father — or better. She only has two friends — Nora and Mel, whom you only saw in the hallways of your university alongside her. Abby was a mysterious person, and even though you were now living for a month with her, you did not know much about her. 

She wasn’t a talkative person, and you two never interacted with each other so much. You could definitely count the times she has spoken to you with your one finger. Her after school would be changing into gym clothes, making and eating a snack in the kitchen, and then leaving. She would go back at 7:00 PM and would go straight inside the bathroom and into her bed. 

But let’s talk about the real issue here.

Her boyfriend.

Owen was a gym rat guy who sported short brown hair, brown eyes, and a small mustache around his chin. Abby introduced you to him when she first invited him over, and you found out that he was much older than Abby. At first, you weren’t bothered by her presence since he seemed okay and not much of a harm. However, as Abby was inviting him over and over again, something inside you grew uncomfortable.

Maybe it was because whenever he was around, you’d often see him giving you dirty looks that sent shivers up your spine, or that he liked to fully make out with Abby in different spots in the apartment outside of Abby’s room, or that every time Owen and Abby were cuddling or doing sweet things with each other, you’d caught her staring at you from time to time. 

“Really?!” Dina exclaimed through the phone as you were narrating the last line to her. 

“I really do want to know why.” You grabbed a bag of chips before walking away from the kitchen.

“Maybe she likes you?” 

You stopped walking when you saw Abby and Owen cuddling in the living room, her head was placed on Owen’s shoulder as they both watched a silly movie. You sighed, “No, I think it’s actually the opposite of it.”

It was an exceptionally good day at Pinecrest University, one of the most prestigious schools in the U.S. which everyone dreamt of attending. From the picturesque sceneries of the landscapes where it was built, and to the educational qualities it provides, it was, in fact, no doubt one of the greatest universities in the world. 

Abby did not know whether or not she would be happy that she was given an opportunity to take after her father's steps — follow his path and become like what he is — a great surgeon. In the first year, she was giddy to study, with full of hope and dreams. Everyone recognizes her for being Jerry Anderson’s only daughter, praising her for being intelligent like he was. Abby was every professor’s favorite student as she possesses exceptional skills in everything. While it was good at first, Abby did not like the pressure weighing up on her shoulders as time passed by. Being someone who everyone expects to be good at everything all the time, makes her become careful of her actions as she becomes afraid of making mistakes. 

“What?” Leah snapped her neck in Abby’s direction.

“Nothing. Thought I heard something.” Abby shook her head.

“You know what I heard earlier?” Nora looked at Abby, eyes gleaming with mischief with a small smirk plastered on her face.

“What?” The blonde furrowed her brows before sitting on an empty spot at the library.

“Y/n Y/l/n. Your roommate.”

Leah’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped, “You’re roommates with her?” She exclaimed in a hushed tone.

The lines on Abby’s face deepened as she looked at her friends, not knowing what the fuss was about. “What about her?”

Nora was about to say something when, as if on cue, you started to walk behind her, trudging away from their table but not without a quick glance at Abby, who, to your surprise, was already staring at you with curiosity. 

You were not one to back down, so you held her gaze up until you sat beside Ellie who was finishing her homework that was due this afternoon. 

“Who was that?” Dina asked, looking back. 

“My roommate.” 

“Oh! The one who–” Dina started gesturing and muttering words that you could only understand. 

“What the fuck,” Ellie cursed loudly as she stared at you two with pure astonishment.

“She’s friends with Williams,” Abby uttered with a surprise.

“Yeah, everyone’s been suspecting that they’re more than that,” Nora said.

“Than what? They’re super best friends or something?” Abby folded her arms on her chest before taking a quick glance in your direction. She found you laughing along with your friends, but something inside her was stirring as she saw Ellie’s hands crawling at your torso, dangerously close to where your hips at.

Nora and Leah chuckled loudly. 

“What the fuck? Super best friends?” Leah looked at her with pure amusement. “Oh I forgot, you don’t get it–” She turned to Nora. “She doesn’t get it.” She says, pointing her thumb at the blonde.

“Okay, in straight girl terms, Ellie and Y/n might be a couple,” Nora explained.

“But Ellie’s a girl,” Abby says, confused. 

Nora and Leah exchanged glances. “You won’t ever get it, can you?” 

“What?” Abby’s eyes widened. “Wait– Is Y/n… gay?”

“You say that word as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever muttered.” Nora glared at her. “Yes, she’s gay, Abs. Apparently, she’s a great kisser, too.”

“I can’t believe she’s gay.” Abby sighed, something inside her was growing uncomfortable.

“Abby, that’s a mean thing to say.” Nora frowned. “What if she was? There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“I know! But I mean, I don’t know, it’s confusing.” 

“It isn’t. Y/n likes a girl and that shouldn’t change the way you view her. It’s just a sexuality, she’s not gonna bite you.”

Abby stared in your direction, contemplating and thinking about everything. months of studying different kinds of textbooks every week couldn’t prepare her for the said subject. Sexuality was something that she was not well-informed about as the topic stirred something inside of her. Being raised in a conservative and religious family who has a well-known image to take care of made her realize that her world was much different than yours. 

After a long day of work in the laboratory, doing research on different chemicals, monitoring their progress, and waiting for the results, Abby felt like she was going to collapse right when she stepped foot onto the hotel’s lobby where your shared apartment was located. 

She sighed, forcing a fake smile to greet the receptionist. 

“Hey, Liam, did you see Owen come in?” She asked, leaning at the desk. 

“No, I don’t think so, Abby.” He says, offering an apologetic smile before attending to another elderly woman who is asking for something. 

Being with Owen at such a young age means that Abby had experienced everything that is there to experience whenever you are in a relationship with a shitty person. Sure, she wouldn’t admit that Owen was a bad boyfriend to her, but she knew that he wasn’t a good person either. 

Abby sighed before dragging her feet through the floors, growing very tired at each step. Now, if this was the first time that Owen had gone through the entire day without checking up on her, being with clubs with different girls dangling on both her arms, Abby would’ve been crying all her way to her room – just like what she did before. But being the person who became accustomed to this setup with her boyfriend, Abby could only grow numb, only feeling a faint sharp pain dragging through her heart, reminding her that she chose to be with him so she had to deal with it. 

Besides, no one ever wants Owen for her. 

Not her friends,

Not her dad,

And she won’t be surprised if you’ll tell her that you hate him, too.

“Where are you?” Abby hissed through the phone, feeling the rage consuming her as she listened to Owen stumble and slur through his words, finding great difficulty to even remember who was calling him. 

“Abby baby! I’m uh- sorry, I was at a—” Owen’s voice was getting drowned by the loud music, along with different voices from his friends and a couple of giggles from different girls in the background.

“Bullshit.” Abby cursed him before ending the call. She wanted to just quickly disappear right there and then, feeling like an absolute shit so many times.

“Hey,” You greeted, placing a gentle hand around her shoulder. 

Abby jolted, almost feeling like your touch was too hot for her skin. “Yeah? You scared me.”

“Oh! Sorry! Didn’t mean to do that,” You apologized profusely, “I thought you were sick.” You gestured to your face, and Abby mindlessly touched her forehead, feeling the cold sweat on the palms of her hand. 

She cursed under her breath. Now that you’ve pointed it out, Abby felt her vision swirling as her breathing got labored. Even if she couldn’t look at her face, she could assume that she was pale already. But instead of saying that she was indeed not okay, she dismissed your question by saying, “I’m perfectly fine.”

Abby tried to walk, but then she almost tripped with her fifth step. Before she could kiss the tiled floor, you caught her body, wrapping a delicate arm around her hip to help her stabilize her stance. 

“Quit being stubborn, okay?” You said, stopping her from even uttering a single protest when she opened her lips. You looked at her sternly, making her go silent. 

As much as Abby hated to be close to you at the moment, she couldn’t move. Not when her mind had shut down the moment your warm fingertips touched her waist, not when your face inched closer to hers, and not when your smell lingered around the air and started to consume Abby whole.

You did not know which force on the entire earth had given you the energy to drag Abby all the way to your shared apartment. To be fair, Abby’s body was toned and muscular, given the time that she was working at the gym, and not only you could feel her weight leaning upon your much smaller figure, but you were also touching her well-earned biceps and abs. 

“Okay, lean in there for a second and I’ll just open the door.” You commanded, carefully releasing your grip from Abby’s body as she leaned towards the cold wall while waiting for you to get your keys from the bag. Abby watched you silently with wandering eyes, feeling a sense of disappointment gushing through when you stopped touching her. 

“Shit.” Abby cursed loudly while screwing her eyes shut. 

“What?” You asked before lightly pushing the door, revealing a very excited Oreo who had been barking since he saw you. 

“N-nothing.” Abby stammered when you enveloped her in your hands once again. Her heart thrummed inside her chest, reaching the vibrations to her ears and all she could think about at that moment was your name.

Y/n.

“Abby?” You asked, placing her on the sofa carefully. Y/n. 

“Y/n.” 

“Is there something I could help you with?” You waved your hand in front of her eyes, making Abby snap out of the trance. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her gaze on your eyes and your eyes only. But Abby found it so hard especially when your face were so much closer to her that she could feel your breath fanning over her lightly.

“What?” Abby asked. 

“You were calling my name.”

Shit.

“Am I?” 

“Look, just… lay there and make yourself comfortable, okay? I’m just going to cook for you.”

“Ah, there’s no need. I can order–” Abby opened her phone, face getting sour at seeing her wallpaper — Owen.

“This won’t take long. And I really am good at cooking so trust me.” You flashed her a sweet smile before rushing to the kitchen.

“For sure…” Abby whispers, watching how your skirt dances perfectly as you walk, hugging your curves. When she realized that she was staring at your ass, Abby shut her eyes tightly, pinching her nose bridge while telling herself to get a fucking grip. 

True to your words, you were a great cook. 

Abby found herself in a blanket-clad position as she sipped at the bowl slowly, not wanting to make it seem that she was so eager to taste the soup. Which, in her opinion, was probably the best one she had ever taken. She was almost thankful that you insisted on cooking for her, instead of buying a delivery from a fast food chain — something that she has always done whenever she was sick.

“Are you feeling better?” You asked, sitting at the loveseat in front of her while brushing Oreo’s fur with your fingers. The dog wags his tail joyfully, making Abby smile. 

“Yes. Thank you.” She sighed. “I think I’m just over-fatigue.” 

“You should probably rest. Ditch the school works, it’s Friday.” 

“I know, I will.” Abby nods.

“Good.” You stood up. “I’ll clean up for a bit. Call my name if you need something.”

“Sure.” Abby put on a tight-lipped smile. You nod before making your way to your bedroom. “I enjoyed it.”

“What?” You turned around, looking at her. 

“The soup. It was the best.” Abby bit the inside of her cheek, feeling her face heating up. 

You smiled widely, heart swelling with pride and joy as you heard her compliment, “Thanks.” You said before entering your own bed, gently closing the door before you almost squeak in pure bliss. 

But that was short-lived as you realized that she’s Abby Anderson. 

And she’s way out of your league.

After lounging in her bedroom for a day while ignoring everyone’s texts and calls, Abby had never felt much alive.

Maybe it was due to the fact that she got enough sleep and rest, not seeing Owen, or maybe because of you. As much as Abby still never felt comfortable enough with your presence near her, she was thankful for being roommates with you. 

It is true that you two weren’t friends, to begin with. Abby could count on her fingers how many times she talked to you ever since you moved into the apartment. There’s not to say that she wasn’t fond of you, truth be told is — you make her think of so many things that she couldn’t name, or make her feel something she never knew what that is. 

However, as much as Abby wanted to go back to ignoring you while she was finally okay, she couldn’t help but feel grateful for helping her when she was sick. So, she decided to ask you out — and it’s just a friendly date just to repay your kindness.

Rays of sunlight pierced through the large windows of your apartment, perfectly illuminating your figure as you stood in front of the full-length mirror and examined your face. As Abby was descending down the stairs, she couldn’t help but stare at your back, trailing her gaze from the ribbons on your hair to the soft plush of your thighs. She immediately looked away, feeling a small sweat prickling down her forehead which she quickly wiped, not wanting to appear nervous or such.

Abby cleared her throat, making you look at her. 

“You’re going somewhere?” She asked silently, busying herself with removing dog furs from her shirt. 

“Yeah, uh, just going to visit this newly opened cafe. My friend says it’s good.”

Abby nodded, looking away. She tried to guess who that friend was. Was it the curly-haired girl you were talking to in the library? Or the tattooed one named Ellie? 

“Are you going with someone?”

“Just me.” You smiled. “Wanna come?”

“Yeah, I would love to.” 

Abby has never gone on a date with someone else other than Owen, Leah, Nora, and her father. So being alone with you ignited something within her.

You were sitting across from her, giving her a perfect view of your face. She probably looked at you many times that she couldn’t keep track of her fingers and it scared if you’d think that she was creepy as hell. It’s just that she couldn’t look away, or divert her attention to some other things when a gorgeous girl was in front of her. 

You were chatty, telling her some stories from your first year in the University that Abby found so adorable that she couldn’t stop herself from eliciting a small smile on her lips. You liked to joke around, giving some playful banters that Abby found witty. She never thought that talking to you was the best thing she’d ever experienced. She admired how you were so smiley, radiating light and hopeful vibes, infecting her in the meantime, breaking her out of the cold and dark shell she was caged in. 

It was fun. 

So, so fun.

And she doesn’t know why your company scares her.

“Come on, babe, I’ll do everything you want,” Ellie whined through the phone and your eyes almost rolled off at the back of your head at her dramatic ass. 

“Figure it out on your own, Ellie.” 

“I’m gonna fail!” She says, shuffling across her room.

“You should’ve thought about that before skipping your classes.”

“Come on,” Ellie answers.

“Why are you so annoying?”

“You love me.” You can imagine Ellie’s smirk. “I’m bringing snacks.” 

“You should be.” You rolled your eyes once again before hanging up the phone. 

It was 8:00 in the evening, and you were already in your pajama-clad state as you made your way to the dining room with your laptop clutched around your chest. The whole apartment was dimly lit, with only the warm lampshades as the source of light. Oreo was already sleeping on his bed, filling the silence in the air and comforting you. 

Abby was nowhere to be found ever since you got in here after school. You waited for her to appear, eating whatever she made in the kitchen which was usually at 7:00 PM, or to make her way to the bathroom, putting on an obnoxiously loud song that you could practically hear from across the room. But she wasn’t here. 

You two aren’t exactly friends. For sure, you two got closer when she was sick, but after the date you two had, Abby was back again into ignoring your presence. You did not know what to feel because you thought you were on to a good start now. Truth be told, you wanted to get to know her even more but it seems like she doesn’t really want to. 

She was a mysterious woman. You always hear things about her at school. They all say that she was a smart person, always on top of the class. Everyone adored Abby, and you couldn’t blame them for that. You liked her, too, even though she was like that. 

Three consecutive knocks on the door put you out of a trance, lightly making you flinch. You screwed your eyes shut before standing up. Of course, it’s Ellie.

She smiled widely, flashing you a toothy grin before lifting the paper bags in both of her hands. You opened the door, letting her in at the apartment.

“Jesus, where’s all the lights? I can’t see shit.” Ellie whispered. 

“Don’t be too loud,” You nudged her. “You’ll wake up the dog.” You flicked the switch, opening the big lights just like Ellie liked, revealing the well-decorated apartment. Ellie seemed to be in awe, scanning the whole house. To be fair, it really was pleasing in the eye so you can’t blame her. If there’s one thing you and Abby could agree on, it is the interior design of the place. It was a Mediterranean revival style, taking upon the beautiful Spanish architecture that you both loved. It was a very lovely house, something you didn’t expect to live in. 

“Dude your apartment was great!” Ellie complimented, sitting down beside you. She opened her laptop before gathering pieces of paper in her bag. 

“Yeah, well, thanks to my roommate.” You shrugged, grabbing a piece of fries that Ellie brought. 

You two got working afterward, not wasting any time. You did not want to stay up too late, and on the contrary, Ellie did not want to sleep. She says she has to go to the club at 10:00 PM, hence, she was listening to your instructions carefully, nodding at every word you say, and working seriously. To be honest, Ellie was a smart person. She was just distracted by too many things — girls, clubs, and her guitar which made her have a hard time managing her time. Which was why she was always late in class, sometimes even skipping them unintentionally. It was the reason why her guardian, Joel, kept scolding her. 

“You were smart, you know. You just don’t know how to properly execute it.” You said to her as you were cleaning up the mess at the kitchen table.

Ellie smirked while putting her bag on. “I’ll see myself out.” She says, ignoring your compliment. 

You nodded, opening the door quietly. “Take care, El.” 

“Thank you so much for helping me.” She says, grinning at you while pinching your cheek. You winced at her touch, immediately swatting her hand. Before you could slap her shoulder, Ellie was running through the elevator while giggling. “Bye!” You hear her say. 

You laughed, shaking your head at how childish she was. As you were about to lock the doors, Abby’s tall figure appeared in front of you, making you flinch in shock. 

“What the hell?” You cursed, placing your hand on your loud beating heart. “Where did you come from?” 

Abby’s brows furrowed deeply as she scanned your face, and back to the elevator. “Who was that?” She asked, walking past you. You can sense her irritation as she sits on the couch, removing her pair of loafers. 

“It’s… Ellie—”

“Your girlfriend?” Abby looked at you with a stoic face. 

“What? No—”

“Well then, why she was here? What could you two be possibly doing late at night?” 

“Woah, woah,” You raised your hands in surrender before walking in front of Abby. “Where was this coming from? Me and Ellie were just friends, and we’re not doing anything you’re thinking.” 

“And how could I believe that?” Abby stood up, towering over you. 

“And if we really were doing whatever you think we were, then it’s none of your fucking business, Abby.” 

“It is my business because you are living with me. It is one thing to share a house with a woman who– who likes girls—”

“You can say lesbian. It wouldn’t burn your tongue.” You stopped her, feeling an internal rage boiling into your skin. You were clenching your jaw hard, stopping the urge to punch this woman in front of you. 

“Then keep that to yourself. I am not uncomfortable with you doing that.” 

Your brows furrowed. “Doing what? Being myself?” 

The living room suddenly feels deafening as the silence consumes you two. Abby looked away, arms crossed as her eyes were fixed on the floor. You sighed, shoulders going slump before looking outside the window. Tears started brimming at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill at any second.

“Abby you know I didn’t choose this. It’s who I am,” You say, voice trembling slightly as you gulp, silently wishing that the lump in your throat goes away. “Just like what you are. You did not choose to be straight, and I never got mad at you for that, didn’t I? No matter how uncomfortable it is to find you and your weird boyfriend doing unspeakable things every single week.” You looked and glared at her.

“What? Why are you turning this on me?” Abby’s voice boomed, face going red as anger silently consumed her. 

“If you say something about my sexuality, it’s fine? But when I say it back to yours then you’re getting mad? For a very intelligent person, you’re such a fucking closed-minded, Anderson!” You yelled, storming through your room and slamming the door with a loud thud, making the dog wake up in its sleeping state. 

Abby stood there for a long moment, staring at your closed door, the weight of her words settling in. She immediately wanted to knock on your door and take it all back. But she knew she couldn’t. The silence that followed her was deafening, a painful reminder of the distance that stretched before you two. 

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual lunchtime chatter, but at your table, the mood was tense. Dina almost spat the food she was eating as she looked at you with pure shock in her eyes as you recounted your fight with Abby last night.

“She seriously said that?” She exclaimed, fuming, as she stabbed her food with a fork. “I cannot believe she reacted like that.”

You shrugged, feeling dejected as you played with your food with a spoon, not feeling an ounce of hunger. “I know, I thought she’d understand – I mean, she should be, right? She’s smart.” 

“Not smart enough for that kind of talk.” Dina sighed. “Seriously, I cannot believe it. It’s unfair to you, and you shouldn’t deserve to live with that kind of person. Who knows what she might do to you.” 

“You’re right. I’m going to start to hunt for another place after the midterms. I just can’t fit in my schedule right now as loads of paperwork start coming and coming in.” You shut your eyes tightly while combing your hair in frustration. “I just thought we were starting to be friends, you know?”

Dina smiled at you sadly before rubbing your back. At that moment, Ellie walked in with a huge grin on her face. She spotted you and Dina at the table and she immediately started walking towards it, but not before playfully bumping and greeting all of the people she knew. She slid beside you before sitting on the empty chair next to you. 

“Thanks for helping me with my homework. I got an A.” She threw playful punches in the air. 

Dina slapped her. “Shut it.” She says before taking a glance at you. 

You smiled at Ellie, the one where it doesn’t meet your eyes. “No worries.”

Ellie frowned, her smile immediately faded as she took in your expression. “What’s wrong? You seem upset.” You sighed, feeling the weight of yesterday’s event pressing down on you again. “It’s Abby. We had a huge fight. She started accusing us of doing things at the apartment and she doesn’t seem to like that I was gay.”

Ellie’s eyes widened in anger. “That’s fucking bullshit! Out of all people, I thought she’d understand that.”

“What do you mean?” Dina asked.

“I mean, is she not gay?” 

“Uhm… no. She has a boyfriend.” 

“Well, this is now confusing.” Ellie looked at you with disbelief while leaning back in the chair. “I thought she was one of us!”

“Everyone else does. I mean, I do, too, when I first saw her.” You said, shrugging. 

“That’s fucking ironic, then.” Ellie sighed. “But she fucking needs to grow up and get over herself.”

“Exactly. Our apartment is always open whenever you need it, okay?” Dina squeezed your hand. 

You nodded, feeling a warmth gushing through your veins. You are thankful for your friends as they can ease your problems effectively. Abby’s words pierced right through your heart, but being with Ellie and Dina made it easier to bear. 

Abby sat at one of the reserved seats for her at the rooftop of a fancy restaurant that her dad picked for them to have a meal after having time for a small break in his work. Wanting to reconcile and check in with his only daughter, he arranged this small meeting with her. 

The place was elegant, with warm lighting from the big chandeliers illuminating the whole area. At the distance was a small band playing jazz music, and the gentle clicks of the silverware created a sophisticated aura. Abby sat across from her father, trying to focus on her meal. Jerry kept stealing glances at her daughter as he cut into his steak, trying to decipher what was wrong. 

“Was the food not good?” He asked suddenly after a moment of silence consuming the two. 

Abby’s gaze immediately flicked to meet his eyes. Her brows raised in confusion, trying to recall what her father said. “What? Uh… no.” Abby shook her head before sipping into her drink. 

Jerry shrugged. “Just that you seemed tensed.”

“I’m not,” Abby responds. “The place is great.”

He hummed, nodding at what her daughter said. “So, how’s life in the apartment?” He asked, his tone casual but probing. 

“It’s fine. You know, the usual. I was able to pay for all of my bills, since, well, I got a roommate.” 

“And how was she?” He raised a brow. “What was her name, again?”

Abby said your name as she was pushing off her unfinished meal. She sighed, dabbing her lips with the handkerchief. “It’s fine… just a bit tense between us.”

Jerry looked at her with narrow eyes. “It’s fine but tense? What does that mean?”

Abby hesitated, not wanting to answer the question fully. She never knew what her dad would say if he found out that her roommate was gay. Besides, they never talked about that kind of stuff. All that she knew right now, was that she doesn’t want to tell anyone about your personal information.

“Personal stuff came up. I-it’s complicated and I don’t want to talk about it now.”

He sets his fork down, leaning back in his chair. “Personal stuff? Abby, if there’s a problem, you should fix it right away. You can’t just ignore it.”

“I know, Dad.” She answered; frustrations creeping up her voice as what happened that night started replaying in her mind. “It’s not that simple. But I don’t want her out of the apartment or anything… we’ll figure this out on our own.”

He studied her for a minute before nodding slowly, not wanting to press more on that matter. “Alright, but don’t let it become worse. Things like these can get ugly the more you avoid it.”

Abby exhaled a relieved sigh. “I know. I’ll handle it.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence before her father cleared his throat and changed the subject. “And what about Owen? How’s he doing?”

Abby’s face softened at the mention of his boyfriend — wait, she wasn’t even sure if she could still call him that, knowing what happened. She ignored his calls for days, not wanting to be in his presence to get a lot of time thinking about things. Abby thought it’d be best if she could calm down first, set aside her emotions, and be rational for once. She sighed heavily, keeping in her mind to talk to him once her father dropped her off after dinner. 

“He's good. Busy with work, as usual, which was why we don’t see each other as often.” She lied, not wanting her father to pry on their relationship. You knew he was skeptical of him since the very beginning. He liked to say that Owen was up to no good and that he was just an older man who didn’t think about his future. As much as Abby tried to argue with him at first, Jerry already formed opinions about him — one that Abby couldn’t alter. But deep inside, she knew he was right. She just doesn’t want to admit it yet.

“I really hope he’s taking good care of you.” He says, eyeing her once again with glaring eyes. “If I ever got the news that he was being a bad influence on you, I’m going to cut all of your cards.” Jerry threatened her. 

Oh, right, Owen was the one who insisted on gambling that night, making Abby almost lose all of her savings in her bank account. He also taught her to drink, smoke, and go into different kinds of clubs. You bet how mad Jerry was when he found out everything about it. 

Abby only offered a tight-lipped smile, trying to change the subject to lighter topics. Throughout the whole dinner, Abby’s mind was always shifting into your unresolved fight as guilt starts to consume her whole. She knew her father’s advice was great, but she couldn’t bear to do it. Besides, it was easier said than done. For now, she decided to enjoy the meal in front of her, pushing away her worries at the back of her mind. 

That night, Jerry decided to drop his daughter off before going into his office. She sat in the backseat of his car, staring out the window as the city lights they passed were blurred by with the speed of the vehicle. Abby tried to maintain her composure, as she tried calling Owen’s phone for the nth time but he wasn’t answering. Each unanswered notification on the screen made her anxiety slowly skyrocket. 

When they finally reached their destination, the car came to a stop. Abby immediately opened the car door. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you?” Her father asked as he pulled up in front of Owen’s apartment.

Abby shook her head, “It’s fine, Dad.” 

“Alright. Give me a call if you need anything.” 

“I will,” She assured. “Take care.” 

With that, Jerry nodded before uttering a small ‘good night’ to his daughter. Abby followed the car's gaze before deciding to head to Owen’s apartment with a heavy sigh.

Abby hated this feeling. 

For someone who has been cheated on by the same guy, she did not know why she couldn’t turn numb. She hated the confrontation between her and Owen because she knew that it didn’t always end well. However, she did not know why she couldn’t just walk away from this relationship forever. It was like there’s some force between her that keeps on tangling herself with Owen — no matter how shitty he was. Abby hated how her father’s words, along with her friend’s advice kept on replaying in her mind right now. It made her feel like she was the dumbest person in the whole world. 

“For a very intelligent person, you’re such a fucking closed-minded, Anderson!”

Your words rang in her ears repeatedly. 

“Fuck it.” Abby cursed, trying to shake those thoughts before knocking on Owen’s door. She stood there for a couple of minutes before speaking once again. “I’m coming inside.” She notified him before fishing out his apartment’s key in her bag. 

As Abby came inside, she noticed how the room was romantically lit up — where different pieces of scented candles and dimly lit lanterns were on, casting off a warm glow throughout the room. An unfamiliar woman’s perfume filled her nose, breaking her heart little by little as she strode through his room. 

Abby pushed Owen’s bedroom door, revealing him with another woman in his bed.

“Owen?” She asked, voice tensed. 

He scrambled to sit up, a mix of shock and fear written through his face. “Abby… I — I can explain.” He immediately grabbed his boxers, putting it in just a couple of seconds. 

“Leave,” Abby commanded the girl who quickly complied. She grabbed her clothes before running past Abby, a pure horrified look was written on her face as she left the bedroom.

“I was checking in if you were still alive. And right now, I wish you were dead.” Abby’s jaw clenched. 

“You don’t mean that,” Owen huffed, trying to grab Abby’s hand but she quickly moved away from his touch. He shrank, feeling dejected. 

“How many times do you have to do this, Owen?” Abby snapped, tears brimming on the corners of her eyes. “What was something I don’t have for you to crave on another woman’s body?” 

“It’s a mistake. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Abby sniffed, nodding at his words sarcastically. “Yeah, we’re done. It’s all done forever.” Abby started walking, but Owen was tailing her from behind.

“What? What do you mean?” He asked, completely alarmed.

“I can’t keep wasting my time with you. I should’ve done this a long time ago.”

“You can’t possibly mean that.” His voice boomed, making the blonde face him with bloodshot eyes. 

“I fucking do! I am so tired of putting up with your shit. Don’t ever come near me, alright? I am so disgusted at you.” She says before storming outside. 

Owen tried calling her name, and a feeling of sudden fear washed inside of him. Of all the times you two broke up about this, he hadn’t seen Abby so mad that she fully said that they were finally done because he knew that she couldn’t bear to part ways with him for good. This was the reason why he was so confident to do those. But right now, she sounded determined, and Owen knew that it wasn’t good. 

Abby’s thoughts were spiraling by the time she got back to the apartment. A mix of emotions started forming in her mind, making her heart clench as she stumbled inside. Tears started streaming down her face, making her barely notice that you were fully wide awake while staring at her in the kitchen with a curious stare. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, breaking the silence. 

Abby’s gaze flicked to your face, down to the food that you were cooking. Pasta. It was midnight and you were cooking pasta. 

“W-what?” She asked, trying to focus, but her stomach started grumbling as the aroma of the food filled her nose. “I’m fine.” 

You nodded, biting your tongue to ask further questions at her. 

 “What’s that?” Abby asked, making her way to the kitchen.

Your brows rose as you took a good look at her face. She looked like… a mess. And that’s not like her. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Abby sighed heavily before shaking her head. “We broke up.” 

“Oh…” 

A short silence filled the air as Abby watched you put two plates on the island, filling it with the pasta you’d made. You pushed one in front of her, and Abby looked at you with wide eyes. “For me?”

“I know we’re not on good terms right now. But I don’t want you to sleep like that. Why don’t we eat past and watch movies in the living room? I can sit across from you in case you are uncomfortable and we don’t have to talk with each other.”

“I won’t be uncomfortable…” Abby said in a small voice while looking at the food. 

Your brows rose at her comment. You hummed, not buying her words. “Okay.” 

“I’m sorry for what I’ve said before. It’s not right.” 

You scanned her face, “I don’t know about that.”

“I want to make it up to you.” 

“How?” 

taglist: @gaptoothedlesbo @st4r-b3rries @ofalcaodacolinablue @sleepydrr @yurixxiii @seraphicsentences @bambishaven @k1ngpin42 @buglikean-angel @eringranola @sennagf

[the-artist-grimm]

Brainworm won't leave me, about angst of your Narilamb but on the other side of the coin.

So Imma just write about it even if I should be sleeping right now. Do what you wish.

Fate is irreversible. The Lamb would die a sacrifice, even the God of Death couldn't prevent it. Sure they had delayed it; allowed the Lamb to show the Bishop of Old that their fate was already written. But with it done, there's nothing stopping fate to strike once more.

The Lamb could feel it in the air, in the bones. Perhaps the crown had allowed them to feel the presence of an end. And theirs was soon to arrive.

Perhaps Narinder still had hope, that their weapon could return after their sacrifice. That the Lamb could be kept by his side and that of his kits. Yet the Lamb knew better than to rely on only hope.

The Lamb's heart was full, of love for who is now considered family to them. For Narinder, Aym and Baal. And for them, The Lamb would do it. Sacrificing their life for their freedom. For the kits to finally see the world the Lamb has told them so much about. For Narinder to feel the rain against their fur once more.

With a resolve of steel, the Lamb is ready, in an outfit they've carefully curated for their last moment. Perhaps it is full of old memories; inspired by any remaining traditions of the sheepfolk who will soon vanish with the Lamb. Maybe something akin to marriage; as they have accepted that they would never see the day of their own and that the freedom of their loves should be the happiest day of their life.

With a sad smile, the Lamb dedicate their death to the three person who fills their heart with love. Ripping it from their chest and crushing it; letting the large amount of devotion they had for their God, and the Red Crown, float back to its rightful owner. The Lamb swore they heard the screams of Aym and Baal, calling for the first time their Baba. They could feel a pang tug and their heart, even if no longer in their chest; never knowing before how much they longed for the both of them to see the Lamb like a parent.

Their weapon discarded, both kits rushed to the Lamb's side, begging, pleading for them to not leave; grasping at the Lamb's ever colder body.

Maybe in a moment of clarity, The One Who Waits sheds their gargantuan form for that of a more reasonable one. They are silent, whirlwind of thoughts and emotions flying through their head yet they chose to ignore most; going straight for the Lamb. Tears already flowing unbeknownst to him. Maybe they were the Crown's.

It's kinda funny, the Lamb never thought they would had been able to hold Narinder in their arms fully; yet even in this form he is as beautiful as the day they first met him. The Lamb smile softly at him, barely hearing him talk about promises to bring them back, cursing himself for his greed and his stubbornness, that he shouldn't had ignored his feelings when really the only thing he now desired was fading infront of him.

Maybe, just maybe, the Lamb can reach for a goodbye kiss. Not the one they had dreamed of, but it was their last chance before vanishing into the same ashes that covers the entirety of Narinder's realm; leaving now three black cat free, yet so cold and alone.

THIS IS AMAZING WHAT THE HECK. ALSO HOW ARE YOU IN MY HEAD (adding the angst art first in case people don't wanna read my lore dump lol)

Like Anthea WOULD have died had Narinder not let slip just how much he cared about them. He didn’t confess his love-he wasn't ready to do so just yet, but upon seeing the lamb break down in the ruins of their home village shortly before they'd started on Silk Cradle, seeing them finally let all the years of grief and anger and guilt take over and swear that no matter what they’d get him and the kits out-that while they couldn’t save their family they would save his even if that meant their death, in the ‘good’ ending sort of speak (which yeah has the betrayal but it leads both to grow and eventually be happy again), he tells them no-that freedom isn’t worth it without the lamb leaving the gateway alongside the twins and himself. He would not accept any outcome that didn't have them by his side.

Having spent their whole life giving up things for others, Narinder essentially saying he’d give up his freedom, the thing he wanted most, for them was what made the lamb want to try and have a future. Because here was someone who wanted Anthea by his side because he cared for them, and they realized they wanted that too. It's why in the good end Anthea starts weaving a courtship sash for Narinder, because while they didn't bet on his feelings being romantic, that admission was what made them realize they'd long fallen in love, and it was the one thing they could do to show just how much those words meant to them. A promise in return to be by his side as well in whatever way he'd have them. A promise to live.

Had Narinder held his tongue and not given into the impulse to say ‘no’, or had he instead told the lamb that their fate was to die, then Anthea would have laid their life down one last time. They might've realized they'd fallen in love sometime before that, but the desire to see their beloved and their children free would've outweigh the desire to be 'selfish' and want to be free with them.

5 chains bound the god they’d grown to love, and though 4 were linked to his siblings the 5th metaphysical one could only be unlocked by the sacrifice of a devout heart. It had been Shamura’s final failsafe. They knew that Narinder may be able to kill the bishops in his rage, but had counted on him never finding someone willing to sacrifice themselves like that.

But the main theme of Crimson Angel is expressing your feelings, and in the bad end, neither Anthea or Narinder learn to do so. Narinder keeps his love close to his chest, while Anthea loves the one way they know how-through sacrifice.

So yeah thank you for the fic and I shall now add it to the little metaphorical trinket box of ‘fanart/gifts to look at in awe'

[waywardxrhea]

deserving - Matt Murdock

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader

In your distraction after a rough day you end up the victim of a band of muggers.

word count: ~1.5k

content: angst, mugging, anxiety, panic attack, language, canon typical violence, fluff.

dividers by: @firefly-graphics (i seriously only ever use the graphics from this account and I am so grateful for them! <3)

As you walked back to your apartment complex in the near darkness of Hell’s Kitchen, your mind was anywhere else than where it should have been. Where it should have been as you carried a mid-sized box in your arms, which caused you to leave your purse freely dangling at your side, was on your surroundings. Hell’s Kitchen, even with Daredevil running around at night, was still dangerous, and not everyone knew to fear the Devil who lurked in the shadows. 

You came to regret your stupid choices of not putting your purse on top of your personal effects in the box and to make this trip in the near darkness when all of a sudden there was an arm pulling you into a chokehold from behind. The man’s gruff voice began demanding your purse and anything of value you held in the box while another man knocked the box from your arms before beginning to yank on the strap of your purse. Rather than using any form of self defense you knew though, you just froze in place as you began to get less and less oxygen to your brain as your attacker choked you out while his buddies ransacked the box that had crashed to the ground. 

“She doesn’t have shit in here!” one of the men groaned in dismay. You heard the sound of glass breaking as he added, “Stupid picture of her and her boyfriend, a plant, a couple of calendars!”

“Oh you just got fired didn’t you, doll?” the one choking you sneered in your ear as he added just a bit more pressure while he laughed.

“Ooh this is promising, she’s got a laptop charger! Look for the computer!” said a different voice from near the box. 

Suddenly though, air finally flooded your lungs and you dropped to your knees as your attacker was pulled away from you. You couldn’t even process what was happening around you as panic began to overtake your body. As your breathing became erratic and your heart pounded in your ears, you curled into yourself, pulling your knees to your chest and tucking your head in to make yourself as small as possible. A sense of doom creeped up your spine and into your brain as thought after brutal thought reminded you of every single terrible thing you had ever done or said or thought. Everything was free game to the monster running rampant through your memory banks, and he gladly reminded you of how badly you messed up. All the time. It seemed to be your defining characteristic. Nothing you ever did seemed to-

“Shh, shh, sweetheart I’m right here,” came a gravelly voice close to your ear as you were suddenly aware of a presence right beside you. The figure pulled you in close to his chest as he whispered, “I’ve got you. They’re gone.”

Your breathing came in sharp between short sentences as you gasped out, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I didn’t see them coming! I wasn’t paying attention! I’m sorry! I can’t do anything right! I’m sorry…”

“Shh, sweetheart, you don’t have anything to apologize for. You didn’t do anything wrong,” said the voice. 

Tentatively, you pulled your face out from its place in your folded up legs and looked around, noticing your ransacked box, your purse lying beside it, your intact laptop, the leaves of your spider plant, and the broken framed picture of you and Matt at Foggy and Marci’s wedding. Bringing your senses closer to your body you felt the cold ground beneath you, the sharp poke of some rocks in your bottom, comforting arms wrapped around you, and beside you the strange armor that Matt wore at night when he went out to fight crime in the streets of the Kitchen. You heard the distant sound of cars driving, Matt’s voice returning back to normal from the Devil’s, and his steady heartbeat as you pulled yourself closer into his embrace. You smelled sharp metallic blood in the air, but Matt’s cologne from his day in court overtook the smell as you burrowed into his embrace. Finally, you tasted the salt of your tears in your mouth and you finally felt like you could breathe normally as you came down from your panic attack in Matt’s arms. 

“There you are,” Matt whispered before kissing the top of your head. “There’s my sweet girl. You did great coming back from that.” You didn’t deserve his sweet words or his encouragement, but you were too weak to argue. How pathetic… Where was your ability to hold your tongue earlier? “Let’s get you home,” he said after a few more moments, getting up and locating all of your things to get packed into your box before helping you back onto shaky legs. 

Matt got you back into your shared apartment and went about the formality of leaving the complex, only to come back through his usual route via the roof access mere minutes later. When he got back, you feigned being fine and encouraged him to get out of his suit as you busied yourself with making the both of you hot chocolate. After he was out of his suit and had quickly wiped the sweat away from his body, Matt was behind you again, wrapping you in his arms and holding you close. This show of tenderness only broke you down once more and your tears began to fall again no matter how much you willed them to stop. 

“I’m right here, sweetheart, let it out,” Matt told you, turning you around to face him so he could hold your head close to his chest. “Whenever you’re ready we can talk about it,” he assured you as he slowly guided the both of you toward the bedroom so he could hold you more easily. The gesture only broke you more and you fought a battle in your head between wanting to push him away because you didn’t deserve him and pulling him closer because you knew Matt was the only thing holding your broken pieces together. Eventually the latter won out and you clung to him with everything your weak body had as you continued to cry into his chest. 

After a few minutes you managed to regain a semblance of your voice and you choked out, “I’m sorry…”

“For what, sweetheart?” Matt asked, the tenor of his voice and the rumble of his chest beneath you managing to calm you down just that much more. In response, you began to feel some of the tension in your muscles release. 

“I messed up… Big time…” you whispered, your voice breaking again as you remembered what happened at work that day. “I was having a rough morning. Got in late. Spilled my coffee. Didn’t get to eat breakfast. So when I was called to my boss’s office I snapped at him and he…he fired me on the spot. Cited insubordination. Told me to collect my things after business hours. I’m so, so sorry Matt…”

You could feel Matt’s muscles tense and could practically sense the Devil beginning to itch to be let out onto someone for hurting you. But then the tension eased as he kissed the top of your head before he said, “He’s an asshole who didn’t truly know who he had working for him. I’ll help you find somewhere else to work, one that doesn’t have sleazebags just wanting to line their pockets in charge.”

“You…you aren’t mad?” you asked timidly, your eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. 

“Why would I be mad?” 

“B-because I lost my job… One income is hard to live on in this city, and the firm’s been taking on more pro bono work lately, and-”

“Sweetheart, I’m not mad. I promise,” Matt reassured you. “I hated that you had to work for that company and I’m actually happy that you’re out now. They didn’t deserve your hard work and dedication. You’ll find somewhere that will. Somewhere that understands that people have bad days and they don’t deserve to be fired over it. Somewhere that cares about you and what you have to say.”

“So like you in business form,” you said, a ghost of a smile making its way onto your lips. 

“Like me in business form,” Matt confirmed with a quiet chuckle. 

You were quiet for a moment before telling him, “Thank you for saving me out there by the way… I… The day got to me and I just froze. I’m-”

Before you could get the rest of your next apology out, Matt was tilting your chin up and placing a gentle kiss on your lips. When he pulled away and rested his forehead on yours, he told you, “I would go to the ends of the earth to protect you. No matter how bad of a day you’re having. I will always be here for you.”

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you too,” he told you fondly which made tears start welling up in your eyes once more, but this time they were tears of happiness. How you ever got lucky enough to have Matt in your life was a mystery you would never figure out, but in moments like these you were truly grateful for his kindness and the safety he provided you - not only as Daredevil, but as the man in your arms cuddling you until your mind came back to the reality that everything would be okay eventually and that you were deserving of him and the kindness he gave you.  

a/n: so this was inspired by a dream i had a few months ago wherein i too was having a panic attack and our sweet Matty came to my rescue combined with having an absolutely terrible mental health evening last night (whoops). whatever the circumstances i am just grateful to have the ability to express myself via my writing and i hope others can find some solace in my writing!

xo, brooke <3

general taglist: @reidmarieprentiss

[sansaorgana]

— DAUGHTER OF THE MOON (III)

PART ONE || PART TWO

PAIRING — Sauron x fem!Elf!Reader (Celebrimbor's Daughter)

SUMMARY — Lord Celebrimbor's daughter finally learns the truth about her betrothed. She might be the only one who can save her father and Eregion if she agrees to give Sauron what he wants.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Reader's appearance is not described and her mother comes from a group of Elves that I came up with myself for the sake of this fic and its plot – the Moon Elves. This is the last part of this fic! 😊 As I said, it was supposed to be a one shot but it turned out quite long, so I decided to post it in three chapters. 💗 The ending is kinda open... 👀

WARNINGS — Reader's mother is dead ("madness" + suicide), blood magic, violence, domestic abuse (Sauron is not nice to his fiancée), manipulation, gaslighting

WORD COUNT — 6,450

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

DAUGHTER OF THE MOON (III)

Corruption. It was the thing that Lady (Y/N) feared the most. Therefore, when she heard about the possibility of The Seven being condemned because of her father’s lie to the High King, she was absolutely terrified. Especially after learning “the truth” from her beloved Annatar about her father’s condition.

He watched with a smirk, overhearing her conversations with Celebrimbor. Her pleas and sobs as she begged him to finish the Rings. But – just as she had promised – not even once she did reveal that she knew about his worrying state. And even though Annatar had mentioned that it was crafting the Rings that had caused Celebrimbor’s mind to go astray, his daughter feared the darkness and corruption so badly that it seemed to escape her mind. The only thing that mattered to her was to convince her father to help Annatar in making the Rings.

She was even using the same tactics as her beloved – something he noticed with a huge amount of satisfaction as he listened to her praising her father’s craft and saying that he would soon become known as the greatest of the Elves in history. How she sweetly and innocently lured him into the trap Annatar had prepared.

And so she succeeded, standing proudly by her betrothed’s side with her arm around his, as they were surrounded by the Elven smiths and watched Celebrimbor give a speech.

“There is agency uncanny in the heart of stone and ore,” he started. “Even when a work is yet within the artist's bosom, it begins to…” He hesitated and made a disappointed face. “...disobey him. We have failed. Every one of us,” he added more harshly now and Annatar could feel (Y/N)’s hands squeezing his arm tighter as she was not suspecting her father to grow so bitter and cold.

“The designs were carried out to the most exquisite detail, my Lord,” Mirdania dared to interrupt him.

“Were they?” Celebrimbor asked her in a challenging tone. “Every last hammer stroke done to perfection?” He began to take steps forward, approaching her and the other smiths. “Or did hubris and sloth come together to dull your attention?!” He raised his voice and a short silence occurred.

The tension was heavy in the forge and Annatar felt (Y/N)’s fingernails digging into his flesh as she kept squeezing his arm. Her father’s anger was not aimed at her but it still pained her to see him like this – like he had never been before.

“We must atone for our mistakes in the only way we can by completing the Rings together,” Celebrimbor said again, a bit softer this time, as he looked upon Annatar’s face. “The Nine must do far more than bring aid to men, they must bring balance to the entire project. They must draw strength from The Three and somehow…,” he hesitated, uncomfortably, “redeem The Seven,” he looked around, avoiding everyone’s gaze. “They must redeem us all. We shall work night and day,” his tone changed once again and grew harsher. “New designs. New alloys. A new process. I will be with you at every turn and any of you who offers so much as a hair’s breadth less than his utmost effort is a… A smith of Eregion no longer,” he threatened, even though he sounded ashamed of his own vicious words despite the gentle smile. “Have I made myself plain?”

“Yes, my lord,” the smiths nodded their heads quietly.

“It starts now,” Celebrimbor nodded nervously and walked away as fast as possible to go up to his study, walking past Annatar and (Y/N) but avoiding their gaze.

(Y/N) left her betrothed’s side and followed her father to his study. Annatar was torn whether he should join them or to coax the smiths. He eventually decided to do the other thing since he already trusted (Y/N) enough to leave her alone with Celebrimbor for a moment, meanwhile the smiths of Eregion kept chatting quietly about their Lord’s behaviour.

“Father?” (Y/N) approached Celebrimbor who was sitting on the chair and trembling, hiding his face in his hands. Her heart was full of pain for him and she swallowed thickly when she placed her hands on his shoulders as he flinched a little. “Father, perhaps I have been pushing you too hard to agree to make The Nine. I, too, want the redemption of The Seven for I want this craft to be the absolute mastery of your abilities and achievements as much as I want for the whole Middle-earth to admire you…” She confessed gently as she crouched down next to him and removed his hands softly from his face. “But father, please, the way you behave… is worrying to say the least,” she whispered.

“The way I behave, my sweet child?” He blinked a few times at her and she tilted her head, confused.

“What are you talking about?” She breathed out and a short silence occurred, in which Annatar’s voice calming down the smiths reached them from afar.

“Are you sure about wanting to marry this man?” Celebrimbor lowered his voice, squeezing his daughter’s wrist when she wanted to move away, visibly outraged by his question.

“How can you ask me that?! The love between Lord Annatar and I is of the purest and most noble kinds…” Her eyes filled with tears. “I have never thought to ever meet a man like him but he is everything I have ever dreamt of and I am the luckiest of all maidens that he wishes to leave his service to the Valar for me.”

Celebrimbor was defeated. He let his daughter's hand go and he watched her tears with the pain in his heart. He hated to make her cry and to worry her but he was concerned about her as well.

However, she was already far too bewitched by Annatar’s charm.

Lady (Y/N) was crafting a beautiful headpiece as she focused on shaping the sapphires. The day was warm and quite calm and she enjoyed her silence and her solitude as yet another masterpiece was coming to life because of the work of her hands.

A light knock upon the doors made her look up with a furrowed brow.

“Come in,” she ordered and watched the smith Mirdania walking inside.

Mirdania’s eyes were exhausted, her dress and face covered in sweat and dirt from the long days of excessive work in the forge. She bowed down in front of Lady (Y/N) and opened her mouth, hesitating before speaking.

“What is it?” (Y/N) asked her as she stopped paying attention and laid her eyes back on the headpiece in front of her.

“My Lady, I am terribly sorry for bothering you but this is about your father, Lord Celebrimbor…” Mirdania started.

“Yes?” (Y/N) still did not lay her eyes on the woman as her eyes squinted when she picked up a thin chisel.

“The way he is behaving… He has never been like this. I do not mean his strive for perfection but the measures he is taking… We do not feel safe around him anymore, my Lady,” Mirdania blushed and looked away because (Y/N) glanced at her at that very moment.

“I… I do not know what to say,” (Y/N) confessed, putting the chisel down. “I do not know how to comfort you… But you ought to endure for he must finish The Nine,” she stood up to approach Mirdania and put her hands around the smith’s arms. “He must.”

Mirdania tried to protest somehow as her mouth opened and her head shook but that was when the doors opened once more – this time without any knocking – and Lord Annatar stood in them.

He walked differently these days; more confidently. The way he stood there was taking up the whole door frame and the way he glanced at the women had a hint of contempt and suspicion in his eyes. His robes were no longer grey and humble but the most exquisite – black and gold. And some of his hair strands were tied in a whimsical bow to avoid getting into his eyes and interrupting his work.

Some were saying that now, when Lord Celebrimbor was so busy with his craft and Annatar was engaged to his daughter, he was carrying himself as the Lord Regent of Eregion in a way. His position changed, of course, as he was now known as Lady (Y/N)’s betrothed and Lord Celebrimbor’s most trusted friend.

“My love, what is it?” Lady (Y/N) asked as she abandoned Mirdania’s side immediately to approach him.

She did not mind his change – in fact, he made her believe that it was her who had encouraged it, convincing him that the new robes would make him seem more respectful amongst the people of Eregion and that he had proved his humility enough.

Annatar gave Mirdania a scolding look before laying his soft eyes upon Lady (Y/N).

“Your father’s people demand an audience but he refuses to see them, too occupied with his craft,” he announced.

“That is so unlike him,” (Y/N) shook her head with concern.

“He wants you and I to carry on with his responsibilities to the city,” Annatar informed her.

“Oh, well, then…” She hesitated. “Well, then I must… I shall do everything to help my father,” she nodded her head, eagerly. “Mirdania,” she turned around to look at the woman and the smith bowed her head down before hurrying out of Lady (Y/N)’s chambers.

(Y/N) and Annatar walked downstairs and approached the people gathered by the doors, surprised to see them instead of their Lord. Annatar clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at his betrothed as she nodded at him, letting him speak because she knew that he was far better with words than she was.

“The greatest of Elven smiths is consumed by his work,” Annatar announced to the people of Eregion. “He asks that Lady (Y/N) and I handle all matters of administration in his stead,” he bowed slightly at her before looking back at them. “Now, what seems to be at issue?”

One of the guards looked at Commander Malendrol with hesitation.

“Show them,” he said.

“Show us what?” Annatar asked and the guards pointed in the direction they wanted him and Lady (Y/N) to go in.

And so they followed the guards and (Y/N) was full of anxiety as she kept glancing up at her betrothed, wondering how he could remain so calm when everything seemed to go so wrong these days.

“This gatehouse is typically athrum with artisans and merchants travelling into the city,” one of the guards explained. “But it all strangely halted yester-eve,” he added. 

“We sent a search party across the river to see if there was an obstruction upon the road,” Commander Malendrol continued. “But only one soldier returned.”

“Where is he?” Annatar asked, feeling (Y/N) trembling fingers intertwining with his. As usual, in times of trouble, she was seeking for him and his comfort, his assurance that it would all be alright and that he would keep her safe.

They stopped in front of a few other guards and when the guards walked away, they revealed a body of a soldier with his shirt torn to reveal his chest on which mysterious letters of the language unknown to Lady (Y/N) were carved. She winced and turned around to look away and Annatar squeezed her hand gently.

“Washed up this morning,” Commander Malendrol said. “He appeared to be carrying a message.”

Annatar took a step forward to take a better look at the body and read the signs as his face got serious. Adar’s army coming to Eregion was a part of his plan but he had been certain his Rings would be forged by then.

He was running out of time.

“Bury him,” he ordered and laid his eyes on Commander Malendrol. “Show this to no one,” he added. He did not want anyone in the city to be alarmed and expecting the worst.

When the guards walked away, Annatar put his arm around (Y/N) to walk her out of there and spare her delicate eyes from such sights. She sniffled her tears back and looked up at his face.

“That was awful…” She shook her head, affected. Annatar furrowed his brows, faking worry and compassion as he brought her hand up to his lips and placed a small kiss upon her knuckles. “Should I tell my father about it? I know he wanted us to carry on with his duties but this seems quite serious and–”

“No,” Annatar interrupted her as her lower lip trembled. “He has asked us to see it and that no one is permitted to disturb him,” he informed her in all seriousness, watching her eyes fill with more and more fresh tears. “Not even the smiths… Not even you.”

“N-not even m-me?” (Y/N)’s voice broke as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. Annatar smiled sadly at them as he wiped one with his thumb.

“He’s not himself, my gentle darling. For now, all we can do is leave him in solitude,” he whispered, trying to be the most delicate. Give him time. And pray…” He hesitated before finishing his sentence, unsure what effect it would have on her. “Pray that he finishes this work before it finishes him,” he eventually confessed, faking his own pain and sadness.

“I… I cannot lose my father. Oh, Annatar, please… I have suffered enough already, have I not?” She sobbed and he only stood there, watching her tears, not knowing what to say since he had so much more of the suffering prepared for her. “I lost my mother already… I cannot lose him. If there was a way of sacrificing my own self, my own sanity, just to save him… I would not hesitate,” she clenched her jaw out of determination as she confessed. “I know that he presents himself now as a man out of his mind but my father… My real father… He is the most gentle, the most kind, the most generous man and… And I would do everything to save him,” she finished, straightening her back as a sudden outburst of courage washed all over her.

Annatar looked down at their hands intertwined and caressed the silver ring on her finger with his thumb.

“The way you love is of the purest kind,” he whispered.

“I love you just the same,” she assured him and he cracked a sad smile before leaning in to kiss her forehead and walk away, leaving her crying quietly in the middle of the courtyard.

It was dark already when the siege began. Lady (Y/N) was as scared as everyone else but the very first person that came to her mind was Lord Annatar, naturally. The one who had always been able to make her feel the safest and the one who had always had a solution to all of her problems. He had always known how to comfort her with his sweet words.

So, even in times like this, she was running through the crowd of her father’s people, ignoring their screams and cries. And she did not run to the forge but to the tower where she had seen Annatar going before as she had been calling for him across the courtyard but he could not hear.

She was running up the stairs and then she froze at the sight of him, standing alone on the balcony and raising his hands up as he kept staring in the direction of the Orc army. What was he doing, she wondered? Was he performing some sort of magic spell, a ritual that was supposed to keep them all safe?

“My love?” She asked in a trembling tone. “My love, I am so scared,” she revealed and he turned around.

But the man she saw now – the sight of him made her gasp and take a step back as she nearly fell down the stairs. The man in front of her perhaps truly looked like her beloved Lord Annatar but his eyes were no longer kind or compassionate. There was nothing but pure evil and darkness burning in them as he approached her with a smirk.

“You, my love, are coming with me,” Annatar grabbed her by her arm, mocking the sweet phrase they had been calling each other with.

And as he dragged her behind him, she kept sobbing and trying to get out of his grasp but he was far too strong and no one could hear her cries for help amongst the chaos.

“What are you doing?!” She shouted. “Please, let me go! My love, please, you are scaring me!”

But all of her words and pleas seemed to have no effect upon her betrothed. He remained cold and unbothered as he dragged her towards her tower and all the way upstairs, pulling her body behind as if it was a sack of potatoes; not caring much about the many steps ahead of them and hurting her many times on the way.

He pushed the doors to her workshop open and threw her inside carelessly as he watched with contempt her body hitting the ground. Her gentle eyes looked up with fear at him as more and more sobs escaped her throat.

“Your father’s mind is of no use to me anymore. He has lost his senses,” Annatar announced, viciously. “You will craft me The Nine,” he added with a smirk, taking a step closer to her as she flinched and moved back.

“I do not understand… I…” She kept shaking her head and sniffling her tears back.

“Do you hear that?” Annatar shushed her as he faked concern. Screams and cries reached their eyes. “The people of Eregion are dying, my gentle Lady. And only you can save them – and your father – by giving me The Nine,” his fake concern turned into a smirk.

“Even if I wanted to, I cannot. My craft cannot match his in any way…” (Y/N)’s lips trembled.

“You are underestimating yourself as usual,” Annatar did not want to hear any of it as he stood right above her. “Your craft is more than enough. Have you not seen your works of art? I have. And all the noble ladies of Middle-earth and N��menor who are being complimented about their beauty… They all owe it to you,” he whispered, nearly seductively but the sudden eroticism of his voice was what scared her, too, because her pure and noble betrothed would never act this way.

Annatar crouched down to be on her level and she yelped, trying to move back even further but her back hit her desk, so she was trapped now between her own place of work and his body.

“You have been watching your father work for centuries. I am certain you are able to forge The Nine Rings for men,” he breathed out and leaned in even closer as their noises brushed but she turned her face away, trying to get away from him.

“Please, make it stop…” She pleaded. “I want my beloved back… I want Lord Annatar.”

“Oh, but… my sweet darling, Lord Annatar is me and I am him,” he smirked and the floor trembled this very moment after the city had been hit. (Y/N) cried out some more and he cupped her face as he shushed her gently with the most concerned expression he could manage. “My sweet, you can make it all stop. All of it, I promise.”

“Even if I truly could…” (Y/N) swallowed her tears. “I do not have any more mithril,” her whisper broke as she realised her own defeat.

“That is true, you do not,” Annatar nodded with a kind smile like his old one used to be but his eyes were still cold and cruel. “But you have something far more… precious,” he murmured as one of his hands travelled down to her neck and his fingernail brushed the pulsing point there, feeling her blood flowing underneath her smooth and gentle skin.

Their gazes met this very moment. Her eyes filled with terror at the realisation of what he was asking of her.

“What are you?” She breathed out, nearly inaudible as her whole body tensed. “No emissary of the Valar would ever ask me to do this,” she pointed out in a trembling voice and Annatar’s lips twitched as he kept staring at her the most intensely. “Who are you… truly?”

He moved away from her, very slowly. And as he was standing up to be above her once more, he appeared to get even taller and his presence was becoming more and more overlooming. (Y/N) curled herself up under his shadow as if she was a little mouse realising that she had just found herself in the trap set up by a big cat.

“I can become your doom or I can become your redemption. The choice is yours, but the longer you hesitate, the more people suffer. And Lord Celebrimbor… I am not quite certain if he is to survive the siege,” Annatar told her without even trying to hide his contempt.

“I have trusted you… I have betrayed my own father for you…” (Y/N) whimpered.

“Oh, but betrayal is a part of your bloodline, is it not?” Annatar smirked. “Even now, I can feel that you still… love me,” he added, mocking her feelings.

More tears escaped her eyes. Of course she still loved him. Was it even possible to stop loving someone so quickly?

“I love the lies you have told me. The illusion Lord Annatar has been,” she stuttered and gathered her strength to finally stand up as well although she had done it clumsily, grasping the edge of her desk to keep the balance. “But you… Whoever you are… I do not love you. And you will not lure me into your schemes,” she added, proudly. More screams from Eregion reached their ears but she remained cold as a statue and confused Annatar looked behind him after realising that her eyes were not set on him.

They were set on the portrait of her mother, Lady Dúlinnel.

“You might threaten me as much as you wish, dark spirit. And you might threaten me with my father’s death or mine,” she took a deep breath in, “but we do not fear it for we shall see Valinor after we die – a place where you are no longer welcome. And as much as I love my father, I know that he would rather die than allow me to forge such an abomination,” (Y/N) looked back at him again and Annatar’s fists clenched at her words as the muscles of his face twitched.

She could not be serious.

“You think you cannot be lured and tempted?” He smirked. “What about your great aunt, Lady Yestariel?”

“She… She is nothing but a fairytale,” (Y/N) shook her head. “She is a fairytale being told to young maidens as a warning… As a warning, so they know better and do not get seduced by the darkness. And I have listened to this fairytale many, many times. I shall not follow you and your commands anywhere for you are not the man I love…” (Y/N) sobbed as she said that because it was bringing her lots of pain to know that the love she had been receiving was nothing but a lie.

And even though Annatar smiled with pity at her, he was confused by his own reaction. Because some of his pity was genuine and the sight of her tears was unsettling to him. He did not want her to cry or resist him. He wanted her to follow him out of her own will.

“Let me show you,” he extended his hands but (Y/N) shook her head and tried to move away. “I just want to show you… the truth.”

“Nothing about you is the truth,” she remarked through her tears.

“Just let me,” Annatar did not listen to her at all and he grabbed her wrists as she groaned, trying to get away from his grasp. However, his fists were holding onto her so strongly that she gave up and that was when he showed her.

He showed her visions of his memories. He showed her Lady Yestariel, her great aunt, standing by Morgoth’s side. He showed her himself, watching Yestariel and twelve other Elves being tortured and changed into the first Uruks. He showed her Lady Yestariel’s eyes full of love and devotion whenever she laid them upon Morgoth. And he showed her Lady Yestariel’s fall as he was trying to reach her. He showed her all the memories he had from the First Age with her great aunt and a sister of her grandfather – Lord Commander Nillendur, who had died fighting the very evil his sister had chosen to follow.

(Y/N) gasped and took a step back as if Annatar’s touch was causing her physical pain. He let go of her and watched her confusion with satisfaction. Now she knew. She knew everything.

“You are He,” she whimpered, covering her lips with her fingers. “You are Sauron.”

“I have many names,” Annatar smiled at her maliciously, watching her whole world crumble down.

Everything she had believed and loved… Everything she had been dreaming of by her betrothed’s side… It had been nothing but the cruellest form of mockery.

“Why are you doing this to me?” She asked.

“I learnt from the best. I learnt from a God…” Annatar answered mysteriously. “When he sees the potential… He pushes them to the limits, he breaks them to rebuild,” he quoted his own words that he had said to Lady Yestariel about Morgoth. “You have the potential, my gentle darling.”

“You can kill me,” she breathed out to that. “I shall not take any part in your sorcery.”

“Yes, you will,” Annatar only said as he calmly turned around, approaching the doors. “I shall leave you here and the longer you hear their screams and cries, the more inclined you will be to forge me The Nine. And do not forget about your father either,” he added. “Good luck,” he smirked one more time before leaving her alone in her workshop.

Long hours passed and it was bright already when (Y/N) heard the doors open again. She expected no one else but Sauron himself, asking her about the progress. But it was not him – it was Mirdania.

She wondered how he had let that happen but considering the fact they were in the middle of a siege, it was quite acceptable for him to lose his focus on her for a moment.

“My Lady?” Mirdania asked, unsurely. “Are you hiding here?”

“I… I…” (Y/N) didn’t know what to answer.

She had been trying to get out of there but the doors had been locked and not even any of her tools had managed to open them. She had even considered jumping off of the tower but decided to not follow her mother’s steps and to prove the strength of her will. She simply had no idea how Mirdania managed to open the door – unless that was a part of Sauron’s plan as well…

But no – she refused to get paranoid.

“I am waiting for my father’s orders,” (Y/N) lied quickly.

“That is the thing, my Lady… Lord Celebrimbor is out of his mind, he acts as if the siege is not taking place. Lord Annatar is trying to help us but some of the commanders would rather wait for your orders,” Mirdania explained and (Y/N)’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of her betrothed’s name.

She opened her mouth to warn Mirdania about Annatar but then she realised she was on thin ice already. Her parents were both mad in the eyes of these people and she had her incidents as well. Now, in the middle of the attack, she was hiding inside the tower. If she was claiming now, all of the sudden, that the man she had been the most devoted to for the past few months was Sauron himself… Well, that could not possibly end well.

So, she had to straighten her back and simply pretend that everything was under control to calm her people down.

“I see,” she nodded. “Let me speak to Commander Malendrol,” she requested and followed Mirdania outside the tower.

To her surprise, there were no obstacles on the way. When she walked out of the tower and went into the courtyard, Commander Malendrol ran up to her immediately.

“My Lady, we are waiting for your orders,” he bowed his head at her.

“Who is leading the Orc’s attack?” (Y/N) asked, wanting confirmation of her suspicions.

“That man claiming to be the father of them – Adar,” Commander Malendrol answered, a little confused.

“I want to speak to him,” (Y/N) decided as Mirdania and the guard widened their eyes at her.

“My Lady!” Mirdania gasped. “That is too late to negotiate.”

“Has anyone tried?” (Y/N) raised an eyebrow.

“Herald Elrond, my Lady,” Commander Malendrol nodded at her.

“Let me as well. I am the Lady of Eregion since my father is… indisposed,” she insisted. “Send a messenger to Adar and tell him that Lady (Y/N) wishes to negotiate with him,” she told Commander Malendrol and then she hesitated. “Tell him to consider it… for the sake of his old friendship with Lady Yestariel. Adar will know what that is supposed to mean.”

Escorted by her guards that had been stripped of their swords, Lady (Y/N) walked through the muddy battlefield as the siege had stopped for a while and the Orcs kept staring at her with curiosity.

She did not feel safe by any means and the fact that Annatar had allowed her to get out of the tower, so far from the city, was more than worrying, she had to admit.

Still, she wanted to take her chance.

She spotted Adar approaching her from the opposite side and she recognised him immediately from the visions Annatar had shown to her before about her great aunt.

“Lady (Y/N),” Adar bowed his head slightly at the sight of her.

“Lord Father,” she tried to address him with respect and he cracked a smile before pointing at a tent to which he invited her.

She nodded her head at her guards and they allowed her to walk inside without them. Adar followed and they were left alone since no Orc was in there either.

“Thank you for still wanting to negotiate. Forgive my tardiness. My father is indisposed,” (Y/N) looked at Adar and watched him carefully.

“There is nothing to negotiate, Lady (Y/N). However, I could not deny your request after Lady Yestariel’s name was mentioned,” he sat down on one of the chairs but (Y/N) refused to sit down as she kept standing above him.

“What do you want of Eregion?” She asked. “I do not care if I live or die, I have lived for centuries, I have made sure my name will not be forgotten for I have mastered my humble craft. And I know that after I die, the light of Valinor awaits me. My people, however, the citizens of Eregion… Some of them are very young – they are children. They have not yet lived enough and they are far too young to understand. They are scared and in pain. I want it to stop,” she confessed as silent tears escaped her eyes.

“I want Sauron,” Adar answered, unbothered by her tears although his eyes kept following them streaming down her cheeks.

“I know who he is. I shall give him to you,” (Y/N) looked down at her hand where the silver ring still decorated her finger. She fidgeted with it nervously as she cracked a nervous smile. “Come with me, Lord Father,” she raised her eyes to lay them upon him. “I shall lead you inside Eregion and bring you to him. Spare my city and I shall give you Sauron.”

Long silence occurred and Adar kept watching her with his eyes squinted. She didn’t feel in danger around him but she could feel that he was not trusting her. She didn’t understand why, though.

“Why would I believe you? Is it not his ring you are wearing?” He snorted at her hand and she swallowed thickly.

“How do you know? I have been deceived… But I do not love Sauron,” she assured him, desperately.

“How can I be so sure that you are not willing to lead me into his trap? The way I see it, he was the one to send you here,” Adar explained.

“Why would I follow his orders? I hate him!” (Y/N) exclaimed, frustrated. “I want him dead as much as you,” she hissed out but she felt her heart quickening its pace at the realisation that she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

“He was the one to send you here… even if you do not realise that yet. Everything is a part of his scheme,” Adar told her softly and stood up to approach her. “You are far too gone now, my Lady; too entangled in his web,” he held her hands gently, squeezing the finger with Annatar’s silver ring on it. “Your great aunt was a dear friend of mine. We joined Morgoth together and we suffered together. I mourned her death.”

“And now, for the sake of the memory of her, can you not trust me?” (Y/N) tried to search for compassion in his cold eyes and she found it. But not in the way she expected.

“For the sake of the memory of her and because I have known Yestariel and her devotion to Morgoth, I know I cannot trust you a bit – even if I wanted to.”

(Y/N) was full of anger and frustration when she was on her way back to Eregion. The siege was supposed to go back to its full force in a few minutes since Adar had graciously granted her enough time to go back to her people before he would attack once again.

Her jaw was clenched and her eyes were burning with anger caused by her frustration. She truly had been thinking that Adar would help her and join her clever plan. However, Annatar kept destroying everything even when he was physically far away from her.

The moment she entered the city, she bumped into him – Annatar himself, looking as if the siege around him had not affected him at all because his robes and face remained clean. Even the whimsical bow in his blond hair seemed to be untouched. He looked down at her and greeted her with a warm smile.

“My love, I was told you had gone to negotiate with the Orcs? I have been so worried,” he put on a show in front of others.

“Oh, get out of my way,” (Y/N) pushed him away as everyone gasped, staring at her with widened eyes as she kept walking towards her tower.

“My Lord, are you alright?” Mirdania was by Annatar’s side in no time, offering him comfort after such a treatment from his betrothed. In fact, everyone pitied him – he made sure of that by putting on his hurt and confused expression.

“It is nothing,” Annatar assured her with a sad smile. “Lady (Y/N) is worried about the city and her father. Her annoyance is understandable.”

“We are all nervous, my Lord. She should have not acted this way towards you…” Mirdania insisted and Annatar took a deep breath in while trying to compose himself.

Once again he had been proved that the most devoted ones were always the most annoying ones as well.

He had to admit, he quite liked (Y/N)’s anger and the way she had pushed him. From that scared little mouse curling up on the floor beneath him, she quickly gathered her strength and courage and that was the most admirable.

“That is enough, Mirdania,” Annatar gave the smith a harsh, scolding look that took her aback. “We are in the middle of a siege and my relationship with Lady (Y/N) should not be one of your concerns. In fact, it should not be your concern at all. Now, forgive me, I should follow her for she seems to be upset.”

And as he said, he did, gathering his robe and hurrying up the stairs to (Y/N)’s workshop. 

The doors were ajar, so he only gently pushed them to see what she was doing and what he witnessed made him gasp softly.

(Y/N) was sitting on the ground, surrounded by all the tools she needed, the gemstones, metals and the cauldrons melting them. Her hands were shaking out of anger and one of her hands was cut open; bleeding all over the ingredients of the future Nine Rings she was forging. 

Hearing him walk inside, she looked up with fury and anger that sent a shiver down his spine. She had absolutely no idea how beautiful she looked but also how terrifying. Like a dark witch her great aunt had aspired to be.

Like a dark witch Sauron himself craved to have by his side; for her to command his armies of demons and shadows.

“I can play a game with you, too, shadow of Morgoth,” she drawled out through her gritted teeth. “You wish for my blood and its dark magic to seal your greatest creations? Let it be then,” she smirked as she squeezed her hand and allowed more of her blood to leak out. “Watch me curse myself for the usage of this forbidden craft. I care no more about what happens to me because, in the end, the last laugh will be mine, you fool,” her eyes sparkled at the sight of her blood mixing with the melting gold. Then, she looked up at him again. “You are forever bound with me now and for whatever you will use these Nine Rings – or The Seven that are allied to them – I shall be a part of your schemes forever now. My influence and my power is bleeding into these and you better beware while you use them for I swear to you… These Nine Rings will be your demise,” she finished her curse and used a thin spatula to mix the gold with her blood as she already reached out for the gemstones with her free hand.

Annatar had nothing to say at that. He only kept watching her in awe – witnessing her most beautiful craft and her most beautiful, terrific rage.

Oh, he was in love with her, he thought.

Now he was certain of it.

“These Rings are not my greatest creations,” he whispered. “You are.”

MASTERLIST

[hgfictionwriter]

Ache

Jessie Fleming x reader

Summary: Sometimes love isn't enough. Despite how much you and Jessie love each other, life gets in the way.

A/N / Warning: Angst. And no smut. Yet lol.

A heavy sigh escaped you as you rounded the corner to your apartment. Your eyes were trained on the concrete below as you dug in your pocket for your keys. The evening wind was brisk and sharp against your skin. When you lifted your gaze, the figure before you froze you in your tracks and your chest tightened immediately, breath catching in your throat.

"Jessie?"

She'd been staring at the ground and her head snapped up as she was broken from her thoughts. She shot up from where she'd been sitting on the ledge of the garden outside your building. Her eyes were wide as she looked to you and though she opened her mouth to speak, the words were lost on the tip of her tongue.

It'd been weeks since you'd talked and so much longer since she'd been to your apartment. You swallowed and internally cursed at how, even after all this time, just the sight of Jessie made your eyes prickle with the start of tears.

"Again?" She'd asked. Her voice was tired as it came through the phone and you cast your gaze down at the disappointment that bled through.

"I'm sorry. I tried to get someone else to go, but I own the account, so-"

"I know, I get it," she cut you off. There was no malice in her voice, but it wasn't any less sad. "I know you have to go."

"I'll be back on the 6th. My flight doesn't get in until after dinner, but you can come over," you told her, trying to sound positive.

"I leave for camp at 4 the next morning." Again, her words were simple and they weren't accusatory, but the heaviness between you was loud. You stopped trying to hide.

"We've only seen each other once this month," you stated.

"I know," she said quietly.

Silence began to fill your conversation.

"So, what do we do?" You finally asked. Your chest already ached knowing what the answer was. This feeling, this moment, had been creeping in for months. You'd done what you could to keep it at bay, but its inevitable arrival was here.

A few seconds later she responded.

"I don't think things are going to change any time soon." Her voice was soft, mixed with regret and acceptance. "And it shouldn't. We're both doing what we should be doing. I can't slow down - I have to make the most of my career while I can. It's the same for you."

"I know," you agreed as tears began to well in your eyes. "I'm so proud of you, you know." You added with a small laugh that didn't fully veil the way your voice choked up. "And I never want to hold you back."

"I'm proud of you, too," she echoed, her own voice growing thick with emotion. "And same - I'd never want to hold you back either."

"I really love you," you continued and your voice cracked under the strain. "I hope you've felt that."

"I have." She sniffled. "I love you, too, and I hope you've never had to doubt that."

You bit down on your lip, looking up to the ceiling as tears began to fall down your cheeks.

"I guess this is it,” you said more than asked as your voice wavered.

Another sniffle came through the phone. "I think so." Her voice was taut. "I still want to be friends," she added in a rush, her voice shaking, "but this isn't working. I can't give you what you need, and..."

"I can't give you what you need," you finished for her.

"Yeah," she admitted quietly. "I've never wanted someone the way I want you. I love you so much-" her voice was breaking "-I miss you all the time. And even when we're together, it breaks my heart because I know we have to leave again soon."

"It hurts to be together and apart. I know the feeling," you relayed sadly. "I wish it wasn't this way. I can't imagine loving anyone more."

"I don't want to ask you to wait. And I know you won't ask me to wait for you because neither of us wants to make promises we can't keep."

"Jessie." Her name came out in a strangled whimper and you heard her cry.

"I can't imagine not loving you. But, if you meet someone who makes you happy and gives you what you need...," she trailed off.

"I understand. And I wish the same for you," you said even though it felt like a dagger through your heart.

Silence infiltrated your conversation once more before a laugh escaped you, though it came out more like a sob.

"I did not expect this call to go this way."

Jessie gave a watery laugh of her own. "Me neither." A pause. "I guess it's been coming though."

"I know," you relented. "I just didn't want it to be true."

After a few moments, Jessie spoke again.

"I love you, Y/N."

"I love you, too, Jessie. Always."

You said you'd be friends, but it was all at once too easy and too difficult. As was the problem, it wasn't that often you got to see each other or talk, but when you did, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to be with her. So when she stood too close, held your gaze for too long, or when you'd hug at the end of the night and hold onto one another too tightly and for too long, it tore you apart.

That had gone on for nearly a year, and it hadn't gotten any easier. You fell back into old habits just too easily.

The last time you saw each other, at a mutual friend’s birthday, she’d come over to say “hi”. Innocent enough until something as simple as showing her something on your phone turned into you two sitting so close together your legs touched. As you talked, if you turned your head too much to the side your lips would’ve grazed her cheek. Did she mean for her hand to brush against yours?

The only way to move on was to cut yourself off completely. She'd understood and she even apologized for making things difficult, but it wasn't just her, it was you too.

Now, here she was sitting outside of your apartment, shivering and cold, looking to you and struggling to find her words.

"What are you doing here?" You finally asked. "Shouldn't you be with the team?"

"You saw?" She asked, looking so innocent and you cursed the rush of affection that rose in you.

"Win the Shield? Of course I did." You had to laugh. A smile finally broke out across her freckled face and that still too familiar pink tinge grew darker across her cheeks. You relented some. "You were great. No surprise."

Jessie began to fidget, her hands jostling in her jacket pockets and she shuffled idly from foot to foot. She scratched the back of her neck as she went back to studying the pavement. This time she managed to speak though.

"I-I'm sorry to show up out of the blue. I just - we were all celebrating, and of course I was happy, but, I-I don't know." She huffed in frustration. “I’ve been sitting here thinking and planning what I was going to say and now…”

"It's okay, Jess," you told her gently, understanding that this was not her norm and something was clearly going on. She looked up at you and gave a couple of grateful nods. She studied you for a few seconds and it pained you that even during that time you were getting lost in her eyes.

"I know you said you don't want to see me - that being around each other and talking was making it too hard to move on." She paused, though her eyes didn't leave yours. You saw her steel herself and she straightened up as she continued. "But I don't want to move on. And, to be honest, I've known it deep down for a while now.

"Today - every game, really - I found myself looking out into the crowd too many times searching for you. And when we were leaving, everyone's all stoked to go out and party, but I just wanted to be with you - anywhere with you. I wanted to share this with you. So, even after a year of me trying to tell myself that we made the right decision, I know we - or at least I - was dead wrong. Because I miss you. So much.” Her voice wavered and her eyes glistened. “It's not just this that I want to share with you - it's every day, little moments and the big. I don’t care if it has to be through text or a call most of the time. It just has to be you.”

"Jessie." You breathed her name out, trying desperately to process everything she was telling you. She took a step towards you, shoulders set and determined and she carried on.

"I love you. From the beginning and I never stopped. I know you're trying to move on, but this is me taking a chance and telling you how I feel. I don't want you to move on - I want to be the person you come home to, the person you call, with you through the good and the bad. I know our schedules are still a problem, but I'd rather have one evening with you than a year without."

Your breath hitched as her proclamations grew. You saw her clench and unclench her fists nervously before she continued.

“And even if one day you’d decide we could be friends again,” she trailed off momentarily, gaze shifting away before settling on you once again resolutely, “honestly, I don’t want to be friends. You’re right - we can’t be friends. I can’t be next to you and pretend I don’t want to hold you, I don’t want to kiss you. Or talk with you and not tell you that I love you and you mean the world to me. And,” she took a steadying breath, “I’m really hoping that you feel the same.”

Jessie fidgeted a bit, some of her doubt and insecurity creeping back in. Still, she looked at you with hopeful eyes.

"So, will you have me?"

[fuctacles]

<< 5 | 6 | 7 >>

The relief Eddie feels when Steve agrees to stay is almost like a drug itself. He still rolls a joint for each of them, of course. 

The movie is just as bad as Gareth promised, and Eddie finds himself looking at Steve almost as much as he does at the screen. With just a few puffs in, he's loose-limbed and relaxed, chuckling at the more ridiculous of the director's choices. It's a little terrifying that they know how blood looks from their own experience, but they try not to think about it right now. 

The movie is slowly coming to an end, when Eddie notices Steve's eyes drooping. He doesn't feel as tired himself, the adrenaline of their encounter fighting with his weed tolerance, but he imagines it took a lot of stress from Steve to come here. He's glad he could provide his friend with a safe space and comfort to finally relax. He plucks the almost finished joint out of his hand and Steve only blinks at him sleepily. 

"It's okay man, you can sleep here," Eddie reassures him while snuffing the joint out. "I can play you the end tomorrow."

Steve makes a noise that sounds like agreement and wraps the borrowed flannel shirt (double borrowed, since eons ago it used to be Wayne's) tighter around himself. 

Eddie watches him settle against the back of the couch and wonders what he can do to make this man feel loved and wanted. How he can overwrite whatever cruel thoughts the world has taught him. For now, all he can do is reach for the blanket on the back of the couch and hand it to Steve, who gratefully pulls it over himself. 

The memories of going to sleep are hazy, but slowly Eddie comes to while scratching the dog sleeping next to him. He hums in contentment, happy to wake up close to a warm body, even if it's just a pet. He nuzzles against its nape while scratching along its spine, his senses slowly clearing up. 

"I'm gonna go make breakfast," he says eventually. "I better see human Steve in the kitchen before I'm done."

Despite how cozy the bed is, he steps over the dog, whose tail pats loudly against the mattress. Eddie eyes him, unamused. 

"I'm serious. Only humans are getting scrambled eggs on my watch."

Twenty minutes later, he's happy to see Steve sitting at his kitchen table, dressed in the same sweatpants from last night. His chest is bare, but he'll let it slide this time. He picks up a mug from the cupboard. 

"How do you take your coffee, buddy?"

Both of them freeze. 

Eddie lets out an awkward cough, pouring coffee into the mug. 

"Sorry about that. Force of habit I guess. Uh, milk?"

"Yes, please." Steve nods so Eddie leaves enough space in the mug to pour in some milk. "No sugar."

Eddie nods, and he can feel Steve's stare on his back. 

"I don't mind," he says, and Eddie whips around to stare at him. "You calling me that. It's nice."

Eddie hums, adding milk to the coffee.

"Yeah?" He cocks his head, handing him the mug. "Here you go, buddy. Enjoy," he says and reaches out to scratch the back of Steve's head. 

He doesn't back down, even when he realizes what he's doing, and he can see that Steve reacts just as instinctually, leaning his head into the touch. But then he jolts away.

"Fuck, sorry."

Eddie frowns. 

"Don't be sorry. You're my friend, just like the dog. I can scratch you a bit."

Steve doesn't look convinced. He sips on his coffee to focus his attention elsewhere. 

"It's good, thank you," he says, licking his lips. "Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on the pan?"

"This conversation isn't over, Harrington!" Eddie declares, skipping back to the stove. Thankfully, he has a habit of making his eggs on a low fire so they turn out as creamy as possible. Scrambled eggs were the only thing in his life he was able to find patience for. 

"Any plans for today?" he asks later as he sets the plates for Steve and himself. He pours them both more coffee, remembering to add milk to Steve's. He smiles at him thankfully. 

"Not really," he shrugs. It looks like he's trying to find the right words without incriminating himself too much, so Eddie patiently waits for his next words. "All I've been doing lately is walking around the dog park, so..." he trails off.

He's implying that it's all been dog-Steve lately, human-Steve making no plans to hang out with his friends or go on dates. Eddie feels like it's his mission to change that. For whatever reason. 

"We could start preparing for the end-of-summer party," he offers. "Make a grocery list and shit and go shopping."

"It's almost a month from now," Steve points out.

"Good, plenty of time for planning."

Steve just stares at him over the rim of his mug. 

"Robin was going to help me," he says in the last-ditch attempt at being difficult. 

Eddie raises his palms.

"And I'm not stepping on her toes, but you gotta spread your friend circle a bit, man. The more the merrier."

Steve sips on his coffee, thinking about Eddie's offer. Eventually, he nods. 

"Okay. Do you have something to write on?"

Tags: @noodle-shenaniganery @jaytriesstrangerthings @imaginary-maggie-waggie @samsoble @croatoan-like-its-hot

@dragonmama76 @storyranger @scoops-aboy86

[pbaz7]

It'll Always Be Her Chapter III

AN: I'm back with the next part as a few people requested that I post today. Let me know what you think and if you have any ideas of how things should or will play out next.

To say the last few days were tense would be an understatement. Paige had always thought she was good at compartmentalizing, keeping her personal life separate from the rest of her world. But Azzi wasn’t kidding when she said she was done with the hidden flirting. If Paige thought the quiet smirks and whispered comments were bad, Azzi’s new approach was downright audacious—and she wasn’t the only one feeling the heat.

The first instance came after their season opener. The team continuing with tradition celebrated their victory at Ted’s, a local favorite known for its lively atmosphere, privacy, and amazing drinks. Tonight drinks were flowing, the music was loud, and the energy from their win had everyone in high spirits. Paige had just started nursing her third drink when a group of fan girls approached her.

"Paige, right?" one of them asked breathlessly, eyes sparkling. "You were amazing out there! We were totally screaming for you."

Paige smiled, her polite, down-to-earth demeanor shining through as she graciously thanked them. The conversation dragged on, though, and she found herself stuck between answering their rapid-fire questions and trying not to let her eyes wander too much. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, her gaze kept drifting toward Azzi, who was leaning against the bar near their teammates with a devilish grin as if she knew something like this would happen tonight. 

Azzi met her eyes and raised her glass in a silent toast, the playful gleam in her eyes promising mischief. Paige could feel her cheeks warming even more.

It wasn’t long before Azzi decided it was time to make her move. She slipped away from her spot at the bar and strode over, moving with a confidence that made heads turn. The fan girls didn't even notice at first, too caught up in their excitement. Azzi, however, made sure to grab their attention.

She leaned in, her voice husky and warm, "Hey, blondie. You look like you need another drink.” 

Azzi’s hand lightly brushed against Paige’s arm, sending a surge of heat up her spine. But it didn’t stop there—no, Azzi was determined to make a statement. She leaned closer, her body subtly pressing into Paige’s as she slid into the space between Paige’s legs, standing far too close.

Paige’s heart skipped a beat as Azzi’s fingers lightly traced the top of her thigh, just enough to make her skin prickle. "Seems like you’re the star of the night," Azzi murmured, her lips only inches away from Paige’s ear. "But I think you might need a break from all the attention."

The fan girls stared, their wide eyes flicking between Paige and Azzi, but Azzi didn’t care. In fact, she reveled in it, loving that only her touch could make Paige’s breath catch in her throat. She placed a possessive hand on Paige’s waist and leaned even closer, her lips brushing against Paige’s earlobe as she whispered, "I could make your night a lot more interesting, you know."

The fan girls finally took the hint and began to shuffle away, clearly flustered. Paige could barely even process what had just happened, her mind racing with confusion and excitement.

As the last of the fan girls disappeared into the crowd, Paige leaned back in her chair, trying to act nonchalant, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. "Well, that was bold," she said, the teasing edge in her voice covering up her flustered state. "Not worried about the rumors you’re about to start?"

Azzi smirked, her fingers still lightly grazing Paige’s arm, and she shrugged with an air of total confidence. "Let them talk," she said, her voice playful yet low. "It’s worth it to see you blush like that." She leaned in just slightly, her lips brushing against Paige’s ear as she added, "Maybe next time, you won’t be able to resist."

Paige’s breath hitched at the suggestion, her mind reeling. Azzi pulled back, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "You know I’m just getting started," Azzi teased, enjoying every moment of this. "You better keep up."

Paige laughed, shaking her head, but the truth was, her heart was racing. Azzi’s boldness was a challenge—and she knew that her counterpart always loved a good competition.

… 

The night was in full swing, the music pounding through the room and the mood light with laughter and a few too many drinks. Paige was feeling the buzz, her inhibitions loosening as the drinks went down. But there was something nagging at her—the sight of Azzi laughing and dancing, surrounded by people who were getting just a little too touchy. There was one guy in particular who kept lingering too close to Azzi, touching her arm, laughing just a little too loudly. It made Paige’s chest tighten with something unfamiliar, something she wasn’t ready to label yet.

But instead of stewing in frustration, Paige decided that it was her turn to be a little bold now. Her gaze locked onto Azzi across the room, and with a slight smirk, she made her way over to the crowd surrounding her. When she reached Azzi, she didn’t waste any time.

Azzi was holding court in the center of the group, laughing at something one of the guys had said. As Paige approached, she felt a sudden surge of confidence—alcohol and adrenaline mixing in her veins. She stepped right up to Azzi, cutting into the conversation with a playful grin.

"Well, well, look who’s the life of the party," Paige said, her voice a little louder than usual, enough to draw Azzi's attention.

Azzi turned, surprised at first, but her lips curled into a mischievous smile. "Says the campus superstar herself," she teased, her gaze flicking down to Paige’s hand, where she was holding a drink. Before Paige could react, Azzi took the drink right out of her hand, taking a sip as she looked up at Paige through her eyelashes with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

"Hey!" Paige laughed, a little taken aback, but the playful challenge in Azzi’s expression made her pulse quicken. "You gonna steal all my drinks now?"

Azzi shrugged, savoring the taste of the drink as she kept her eyes locked on Paige. "Maybe I’ll steal more than that," she said, her tone low and teasing, her lips curling around the rim of the glass.

Paige leaned in slightly, a flirtatious edge to her voice. "You’ve already stolen my attention," she said, her hand brushing against Azzi’s arm as she took a step closer. "What’s next? Are you planning on stealing my heart too?"

Azzi’s smile widened, and she placed the drink down on the table beside them, stepping even closer to Paige. "If I wanted to steal your heart, blondie," she whispered, her voice low and smooth, "I’d have to make sure you’re worth stealing."

Paige’s heart skipped a beat at the boldness of Azzi’s words. She hadn’t expected the conversation to take this turn, but the heat between them was undeniable now. "I’m not sure if you can handle me," Paige shot back, her eyes glinting with challenge. "But you can try."

Azzi chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver through Paige’s spine. "I like a challenge," she replied, her gaze never leaving Paige’s. "And you, Paige... you’re definitely a challenge."

Paige took a step closer, closing the space between them, her breath hitching at the way Azzi was looking at her. "Maybe I like making things a little difficult," she murmured, her lips almost brushing Azzi’s as she leaned in just slightly. "Maybe I want to see if you can handle me too."

Azzi’s eyes darkened, the playful glint now tinged with something else, something heavier, as if the air between them had shifted. She didn’t back away. Instead, she closed the gap a little more, her lips just barely brushing against Paige’s ear. "You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into P," she whispered, the words sending a thrill through Paige.

Paige’s breath caught in her throat, and before she could respond, Azzi pulled back, giving her a sly grin. "But that’s the fun of it, isn’t it?"

Paige, still reeling from the closeness, tried to keep her cool but failed. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. "Maybe," she said, her voice breathy but full of intent, "but you're not the only one who can play this game, Azzi."

Azzi’s eyes lit up with excitement. "We’ll see about that," she said, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. "But maybe we should just leave the game for later."

Paige nodded, a little breathless from the flirtation, but she wasn’t backing down. "Later," she echoed, her gaze lingering on Azzi as they both stood there in the middle of the dance floor. The tension between them was thick, and neither one was willing to be the first to break it.

…

As the night wore on, the energy in the room started to calm. The music had softened, the crowd thinning as people began winding down. Azzi found herself sitting with Caroline in a quieter corner of the bar, nursing a drink and watching the others slowly slip into their own worlds. Caroline, ever the perceptive one, couldn't help but notice the way Azzi kept glancing toward Paige across the room.

"Alright, I gotta ask," Caroline said, her tone teasing but curious. "What happened with you two? You’ve been practically attached at the hip tonight, eying each other across the bar and yet... here you are. Not exactly at her side, huh?"

Azzi smirked, her gaze following Paige for a moment as the blonde chatted with a group of friends. There was a softness in her eyes, one that Caroline had learned to recognize in Azzi whenever she was looking at Paige. "You’re right," she said, her voice quieter now, the playfulness dimming just a little. "We’ve been close tonight. More than usual, even."

Caroline raised an eyebrow. "So, why aren’t you at home in her bed? Seems like that would be the natural progression from here."

Azzi exhaled slowly, her smile soft but sincere. "It would be, yeah. But as much as I want to go there... it’s not the right time," she explained, her eyes meeting Caroline’s with a mixture of frustration and understanding. "Paige is with Jess. And we both know that... well, we don’t want to do anything until she ends things with her. Jess thinks she’s her girlfriend, no matter how clear things are for us right now and we’re not the type of people to just ignore that."

Caroline nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of her drink. "Yeah, but come on, Azzi," she pressed, her voice laced with amusement. "You two have been making it pretty obvious that something’s going on. I saw the way she was looking at you earlier. And don’t even get me started on how she’s been touching you all night."

Azzi’s lips curled into a wry smile. "It’s a game, Car. We both know what we’re doing. But as much as we can flirt and play this little cat-and-mouse thing... we’re not going to cross the line. At least not yet." She glanced back over at Paige again, her gaze softening as she watched the blonde laugh with her friends. "We’re both good people. And neither of us wants to hurt Jess. I want Paige. I really do. But we’re not going to let things get messy."

Caroline gave Azzi a long look, clearly understanding. "You’re being patient. I get it. But, come on. You’re not gonna let this whole thing with Jess drag on forever, right? You know you two are something. Don’t let it slip through your fingers just because of some messy situation."

Azzi nodded, her fingers tapping on the edge of her glass thoughtfully. "I know," she said quietly, a certain resolve in her voice. "I want this. I want Paige. But it needs to happen the right way. I don’t want to risk tainting something real with mess and confusion. If we’re going to do this, it has to be with everything in the right place."

Caroline leaned back, nodding approvingly. "Alright. I can respect that. But don’t let the waiting game become a trap, you know?"

Azzi chuckled softly, the playful edge returning to her voice. "For now, this game is enough."

As she finished speaking, Paige suddenly appeared at their table, looking a little tipsy but still as radiant as ever. She caught Azzi’s eye, and a smile tugged at her lips. "Hey," Paige said, her voice slightly more subdued now but still warm. "You ready to head back to my suite?"

Azzi’s heart skipped a beat at the simple words, and she couldn’t suppress the small grin that appeared on her face. She looked up at Paige, her expression soft and affectionate. "Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s go."

The two stood up together, the familiar buzz between them still crackling in the air. As they walked toward the exit, their arms brushed slightly, a silent reminder of the tension they had been building for days. They didn’t need words. They were content, for now, simply being in each other’s company, the promise of something more hanging in the air between them.

They left Ted’s together, side by side, their shared glances speaking volumes, neither one of them rushing anything, but both silently acknowledging that whatever came next, they were in it together.

…

The next time this tension was undeniably high they were in the weight room the next day.

Paige had always considered herself a pretty disciplined person. She was serious about her workouts, always focused, always pushing herself. But lately, in the presence of Azzi, everything seemed to blur into a haze of tension and unspoken words. The weight room, usually a place where she could clear her mind, was becoming a place where she couldn’t stop thinking about the girl across from her. And today was no different.

They had been joking around all morning, laughing and teasing each other in between sets, but there was something in the air today—something that made the playful banter feel a little too heavy, a little too charged. The tension was so thick between them that it almost felt like the air around them crackled.

“Alright,” Paige said, a smirk tugging at her lips as she clapped her hands together, “time to show you how it’s done.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed, leaning back against the bench as she watched Paige with a confident grin. “You think you’re gonna impress me, huh?”

Paige chuckled and set herself in position, already feeling the adrenaline pumping. “You’d be surprised. You’ve been working with me for a while now. I think you know I’m full of surprises.”

Paige finished her set flawlessly and with a wink, she moved into position to spot Azzi for the bench press. The younger girl settled onto the bench, her focus immediately shifting to the barbell in front of her. But there was a tension in her posture, a sense that something was different today, even if she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Paige's eyes lingered on Azzi’s form as she settled, her muscles flexing under her shirt as she prepared for the set. There was something about the way Azzi moved that Paige had always admired, but today felt like the perfect time to tell the younger girl this.

As Azzi lowered the bar to her chest, Paige adjusted her grip, hovering just above her. Her tone was light, teasing, but there was a hint of something darker underneath. “You’re doing great, Azzi. Just like that. You know, you’ve got such a beautiful form… it’s hard to concentrate when you’re looking at me like that.”

Azzi’s breath caught for a split second as she looked up at Paige. She hadn’t been expecting that kind of comment, especially not with so many people around. But the glint in Paige’s eyes made it clear that this was more than just a passing remark. The older girl was baiting her.

“Is that so?” Azzi teased, trying to keep her voice steady, but there was an edge to it now, something that hadn’t been there before. “What, you think you can distract me while I’m lifting?”

Paige smirked, her lips curving in a way that made Azzi’s stomach flip. “I think you might like it. You seem to like when I’m close. You’re doing so good though, but I might need to help you a bit more. Want me to talk you through it?”

Azzi’s eyes narrowed playfully, but the challenge in her gaze shifted into something more intense. “You’re not shy, are you?” she asked, her voice dipping into something lower. She was starting to feel the pull too—this was the game they had been playing, but today, it felt like it was about to break.

Paige’s voice was soft but provocative, right in Azzi’s ear. “I don’t need to be shy when you’re so easy to read. It’s not hard to tell you like when I get close.”

The tension between them thickened, the playful atmosphere from earlier now giving way to something far more charged. Paige leaned forward, a hand brushing Azzi’s shoulder as she hovered close, not letting go of her spot. She could feel Azzi’s body react under her touch, her chest rising and falling with the exertion of the set.

“Paige…” Azzi’s voice was barely a whisper now, but there was no mistaking the heat in it.

Paige smiled, the teasing edge never leaving her voice. “You know, Azzi, you’re really good at keeping things under control. But I’m starting to wonder how long you’ll be able to do that when I’m so close.”

The younger girl’s eyes flickered, caught between a flash of amusement and a deeper, darker desire. It was as if a switch had flipped in her mind, and now, she was just as bold as Paige had been. Azzi’s breath hitched, her eyes meeting Paige’s with a mischievous grin. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to find out, won’t you?” she said, a hint of defiance in her voice. She finished the set with an extra burst of energy, and Paige noticed the shift in her—the way her hands gripped the bar with more intensity, how her eyes never left Paige’s.

Paige couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her lips. “Oh, I’m definitely going to find out. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure to keep an eye on you. Wouldn’t want you to lose control.”

Azzi laughed softly, but the sound was almost a challenge in itself. “You think you can keep me under control, huh?”

Paige leaned in even closer, the heat between them palpable now. Her voice was barely a whisper, low and teasing. “I think I can handle it. I’m starting to realize I might enjoy watching you lose control better though.”

The comment was out before Paige could think better of it. Azzi’s eyes widened for a brief second, caught off guard by the directness of it, but there was a flicker of something darker in her gaze. Paige was playing the game differently now, and Azzi found herself intrigued, maybe even a little rattled.

Azzi took a deep breath, gathering herself before speaking, her tone laced with a teasing edge. “Well, you’ve got me curious now. Let’s see who loses control first.” She pushed the bar back up with a confident grunt, her body moving fluidly as she caught Paige’s gaze again. “But don’t think I’m the only one who can push boundaries.”

The words lingered in the air between them, and for a moment, neither of them moved, as if the world outside the two of them had disappeared entirely. The only thing that mattered was the heat that surged between their gazes, the pulse of their shared breath.

Before either of them could continue down the dangerous path they were on, CD’s voice broke through the haze. “Alright, ladies, let’s move on to the next rotation.”

The interruption was almost a relief. Almost. Paige took a step back, her chest still rising and falling rapidly, trying to steady herself. Azzi, on the other hand, exhaled slowly, a sly smile playing at the corners of her lips as she stood up, brushing off her shirt with a nonchalant air. But there was still that charged look in her eyes—the one that told Paige everything they’d just experienced wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

“Later, Paige,” Azzi said softly, her voice a teasing murmur as she turned to walk away, leaving Paige behind to wonder just how much further they could take this game before it consumed them both.

[deanswhiskey]

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 - 𝐬𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

⛥ ⛥ ⛥

summary; its sams birthday and his wish comes true

wc; 1,113

warnings; nothing but some kisses

authors note; AAAAHHHHH IM SO SORRY I HAVENT POSTED IN AGES BUT I WANTED TO PUT OUT SOMETHING FOR SAMS BIRTHDAY AND IK ITS LATE BUT OH WELL i promise ill start writing more when i'm done with this semester :))) also this is proofread bc i rushed to put this out apologies for any mistakes

⛥ ⛥ ⛥

the late, late night of may 1st was spent alone in the kitchen. you were so graciously baking your best friend sam a beautiful birthday cake.

since arriving to the bunker and having a ginormous kitchen all to yourselves, you thought it’d be a great idea to start baking and cooking again. being on the road, hunting monsters, you never got the chance to cook or bake. the only cooking you ever did was heating up some frozen dinners for everyone from the store.

not that you minded, sometimes they were good; but nothing, nothing, ever beats a home cooked meal. and to top it all off, homemade dessert.

that’s why when you all settled into the bunker, you went on a big grocery spree and bought almost everything in the store.

the very first meal you cooked was fettuccine alfredo with chicken. something your mother used to make all the time when you were younger and have loved ever since.

when sam and dean walked into the kitchen they couldn’t help but notice the divine aroma.

“‘m my god, what’s that smell,” dean asked searching around for what could be it.

you moved out of the way of the stove to show them a view of the food, “it’s fettuccine alfredo and chicken. it’s almost ready, fo you two wanna set the table?”

they both nodded with enthusiasm, getting plates and forks and knives and set them on the table nearby.

the noodles, sauce, and chicken were finally done and incorporated. you took the pan and a large spoon to scoop it with and headed over to the boys who looked like they were about to start eating from the pan. as soon as the food hit their plates they wasted no time digging in. you chuckled as you watched them almost eat it whole.

that night marked the start of some of the best food sam and dean had eaten.

so now you were baking and decorating the most extravagant looking cake for the man you were secretly in love with.

you don’t know when it happened but something changed and you no longer wanted to just be friends; you wanted more. more than just a quick side hug when celebrating, more than just high fives. you wanted whole, endearing hugs; you wanted to interlink hands and never let go.

the cake you were baking you surly knew sam would like. it’s his favorite cake flavor and a beautiful frosting color. you even added ruffled borders on the top and bottom and near perfect lettering on the top. this cake was made with love.

it was 11:49 pm when you finished and you had flour in your hair, frosting on your shirt, and excess batter on the counter. the cake was put in the fridge to chill over night and the kitchen was finally cleaned 10 minutes later. you quickly showered before hopping into bed with a small smile on your face knowing your best friend would be so happy with everything.

morning came and you and dean had to be the first ones up to set out everything. dean went out to buy balloons (that you and dean so tiresomely blew up) and banners to hand from the walls. he also set out the few presents the two of you bought, even after sam said he didn’t want anything (you both knew you were gonna buy him something anyways), and you set out the cake with the candles, lighting the fee of them up.

sam walked into the kitchen rubbing his eyes. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!” he jumped at the two of you screaming.

after his scare went away, his eyes lit up like a child at their very own birthday. he rushed over to you thanking the both of you for doing this. he glanced at the cake, “did you make this?”

“with love,” you nodded.

“make a wish, brother,” dean patted his back. sam closed his eyes thinking, he knew exactly what we was going to wish for. he bent down slightly and blew out the candles. you didn’t bother with making breakfast because you knew cake for breakfast would excite anyone.

sam was very giddy to open up his presents. he was ever so thankful for the few new flannels, nice watch, and a new belt you guys gave him.

the three of you sat in the movie room and watched a bunch of old movies. sam has grown very fond of old films. he likes western ones the most.

it was getting late and dean decided that he’d had enough of movies and was feeling sleepy.

now it was just you and sam, on the couch, in the movie room, alone.

the movie was at a slow part, just the main two characters talking in an old western barn.

“did you have a good day?” you turned to sam.

he looks over at you, he loves that smile on your face. “i had probably one of the best days ever. that cake? phenomenal, probably the best thing you’ve baked.”

you blushed and looked down. after a moment of silence you looked up again, sam still looking at you, “what’d you wish for?”

“i cant tell you that,” he chuckled.

“c’mon,” you dragged out.

“no, i can’t!”

“please, for me” queue the big puppy dog eyes.

how could he resist those eyes? “fine, but you can’t get upset.”

why would you get upset?

sams heart is racing. “i wished for you.”

“me?”

“mhm, you.”

“wh- i- why me?”

“because you’re all i’ve ever wanted.”

you were speechless. “sam, i-”

“you don’t have to say anything, it’s okay.”

the saddened look on his face broke you’re heart. “listen to me sam,” you started to smile. “i feel the same way. i mean it when i said that cake was made with love.”

a smile grew on his face. “can i kiss you now?”

it felt like you couldn’t breathe, “yeah,” it came out as a whisper.

sam gently cupped one side of your face as he drew in closer. his lips brushed yours before he fully smashed his lips to yours.

you’ve dreamed on this moment for a while. it was more than you could’ve ever imagined. his lips were soft. he tasted slightly of whiskey that the three of you sipped on earlier and it was perfect.

“my birthday wish finally came true,” sam says just above a whisper.

“good, i’m glad.” you smiled.

the two of you fell asleep on the couch with the old western movie quietly playing in the background. both you and sam fell asleep with a smile on your face in each others arms.

⛥ ⛥ ⛥

[merakiui]

monops's reflection.

yandere!jade leech x (female) reader x floyd leech cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, stalking, unrequited love, obsession, drugging, kidnapping/captivity, restraints, dark/possessive/violent thoughts, biting, blood, characters written as 18+ note - happy birthday, tweels!!! :D may you continue to be crazy.

Mostro Lounge is tranquil tonight, save for the occasional clinking of glass against glass and the soft melodies tumbling from your lips. You busy yourself with song while you wipe the surface of a table, bending forwards to reach the very back with the dampened rag. Jade finds himself eyeing your figure as you flit about, observing the way you wring the cloth free of excess water, your fingers curling into the sodden fabric as if attempting to strangle it. And then it’s promptly dunked into the bucket and wrung out again in repetition. He stands behind the counter and continues to dry the same glass he started on two minutes ago, its shiny surface reflecting his distracted countenance.

There’s something curious about you.

He can’t quite put his finger on what that something is. The more he analyzes you, the further he strays from a proper interpretation of your character. For a human who can’t use magic, you’re surprisingly selfless. You cheer your friends on in their academic endeavors, offering them your help whenever it feels like they might need it, and you carry your own weight at the lounge, boldly standing up to patrons who get too big for their britches. Jade wanted to pity you in the beginning, when customers had been rough and rude with you, but you’d dealt with every difficulty with a bright grin and a few choice words.

You’re strong; you never back down.

Jade sets the glass in its rightful place and reaches for another, all while keeping his mismatched stare on you. He wonders how much pressure it would take for you to finally snap. Would you still be able to smile then? Could you even manage to stay afloat in pessimistic waters with that blithe façade of yours? If he were to cut into you with knife and fork—with dreadfully sharp words and even sharper actions—would you allow yourself to bleed out? Or would you accept your fate and smile up at him from your porcelain plate, promising him you’ll patch yourself up because it isn’t a big deal?

When you act so cheerful, so blissfully ignorant to the beast who lurks behind, it sets a potent yearning aflame. A yearning to break you well beyond repair. A yearning to take that smile, chew it up, and spit it out until it’s the most devastated frown he’s ever seen.

“Good work today, Jade!” With a breathless huff—he wants to bottle that breath and each one that will follow—you set the bucket down and roll your shoulders. Exhaustion shadows your face, adding deceptive age to your youthful appearance. “Do you need any help?”

“I’m quite all right. Thank you, though.” He returns your smile with one of his own, the usual placid, tight-lipped thing that both eases and unsettles depending on the situation. His default expression, forever the same unless circumstances call for the other faces he’s stowed in his vast repertoire. “You’re more than welcome to head back if you’ve finished for the evening. I can handle the rest.”

“You sure?” The bucket is in your hands again, and you carry it over to the sink to empty the murky water into the basin. He notes the way your arms shake ever so slightly as you struggle to balance the heavy thing against the counter. “I don’t mind waiting here until you’re done.”

“Very well. In that case, I won’t take too long.”

He finishes drying the remaining lineup, arranging each on its respective shelf before wiping the counter for extra measure. He doesn’t have to do it, but he does. It never hurts to be clinically clean.

Floyd should be done with the stock count by now, he thinks, gazing at the door leading to the kitchen. I should check it just in case.

After folding his rag into a neat square and tucking it away, he strides over to the door, opens it a crack, and pokes his head inside. The kitchen space is devoid of life. With furrowed brows, Jade opens the door wider just as Floyd jumps out from his spot behind the racks. He’s holding the clipboard in one hand and flailing with the other. His attempt at a fright does nothing to startle Jade, but it does cause you to flinch back. You do that a lot. Jade’s noticed that you scare easily, often falling victim to Floyd’s pranks during your shifts. It’s all harmless fun, but sometimes Jade catches himself wishing for Floyd to push you just a little harder. A little rougher. Maybe one day he will and Jade will finally witness tears lining your lashes.

“F-Floyd!” you snap, humiliated. 

“Gotcha, Shrimpy. You always fall for it, y’know? Like a silly, stupid Shrimpy.” He passes the clipboard to Jade on his way out and adds, “Pretty sure everything’s correct.”

“Is it?” Jade peers at his brother’s handwriting. “If you don’t mind, I’ll review it once more.”

“Be my guest. Wasn’t really havin’ a ball fillin’ it out anyway.” He shrugs and then beelines for you, lifting you into the air with ease. He spins you despite your protests. Nasally laughter soon overtakes silence. Floyd has always been fond of your reactions; he eats them up as if it’s a special treat. “I wonder if you’ll get sick. You get motion sickness, Shrimpy? Tell me! Tell me!”

A covert smile stretches onto Jade’s mouth as he disappears into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. While he goes over the numbers and corrects the errors Floyd’s made, he listens to you pleading with his brother to release you. Most of the numbers align with the remaining supplies and ingredients, and he adds his own notes in the margins so that Azul will know which are especially low and in need of replenishment. Checking his brother’s work isn’t a favorite pastime of Jade’s, but when it comes to the lounge and its success he’d rather look over a few numbers than watch sales plummet and listen to Azul’s endless slew of woeful complaints.

Once he’s made the necessary changes, he slips the sheet from the clipboard and heads back out. You’re in the process of chasing after Floyd, who’s holding your timecard above his head and dangling it like it’s a piece of bait. Part of Jade wants to enjoy the spectacle, but the other part is ready for the sweetness of sleep. For once he sides with the latter and clears his throat to get Floyd’s attention. 

“Ah, you’re already done?” Having lost interest in the game, he drops your card at once. It flutters to the floor, and he watches with wide, gleeful eyes as you swoop down to catch it. “That all we gotta do?”

“I believe so. Azul’s staying late, so he will lock up.”

Jade sets the inventory sheet on the nearest table for Azul to find before retrieving and filling out his timecard. Floyd hasn’t even marked his hours yet, and Jade exhales an empty sigh and takes the initiative to write it in for him. It’s always been like this. Jade looks out for Floyd, not only because they’re family and have always done so, but because there are some instances where he’s much too careless.

It has been noted that the two of them are a package deal. A duo. A pair. Inseparable twins who balance each other with varying levels of insanity. Their bond is unbreakable, having been built from blood and the will to survive ever since they were vulnerable elvers. Floyd is a reflection of Jade, and Jade is a reflection of Floyd; that’s how they have lived. Like day and night, sugar and salt, and light and dark, they operate like clockwork, expertly in time with one another.

The center of their relationship has always remained the same, and Jade suspects it will never change, even after they’ve acclimated to human society. They are predators with finely honed instincts, masquerading above the water as humans. With razored rows of teeth and an insatiable hunger for unpredictability, the two of them function in a domesticated world. In order to survive in such a foreign environment, Jade has learned that they need each other, which is why it’s so salient that they get along most days.

And much like night and day, like a person with a shadow, one cannot exist without the other.

“See ya tomorrow, Shrimpy!” Floyd flashes you a jovial grin as you take your leave, but there’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “I’ll be waiting…”

“Um, yeah… H-Have a good night.”

With your timecard now in Jade’s capable hands, he’s free to observe your handwriting. There’s nothing special about the way you write, but it still manages to mesmerize him. Every loop of each letter, messily intertwining like frayed strings of fate, adds charm to the script. It’s obvious you tried and failed to sign your name in cursive, but the fact that you even bothered to do so is cute.

It’s truly not that important, he reminds himself as he places the cards back where they belong.

“Shall we head back now?”

Floyd nods, stifling a yawn. As they walk through peaceful halls, he adds in a conversational tone, “Awfully boring when Shrimpy’s not around.”

Jade weighs that declaration and finds himself nodding in agreement. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

i. on a moonlit night, under an eave of twinkling stars, monops waltzes gracefully with the ghost of his other half. the shards of a shattered mirror reflect two sides of the same coin, of human and monster. when the clouds part and an ethereal beam encases the solitary monops, the illusion melts away into a fleeting dream.

Floyd is everything Jade is not: energetic, extroverted, and brash. Such adjectives can’t possibly describe Jade’s outward demeanor—the one he carefully orchestrates for public consumption. He’s polite and kind, soft-spoken and always wearing a smile despite the situation. He cloaks himself in a many-layered mask—a perfect predator with multiple disguises at his disposal. If he must shed a dozen skins to uphold his gentlemanly disposition, then he will gladly peel them away one at a time until he’s found one that fits flawlessly over bone. Jade could never hope to become what Floyd is, but what Floyd is not Jade is. And he is composed of qualities that reflect Floyd’s own behaviors. 

He’s not ashamed to admit what he lacks. This is just a facet of life. You can never truly have everything you want. If the world was fair, everyone would achieve their goals without adversity. Any aspiration, no matter how small and insignificant, requires an adequate fight to be worthy of achievement. Survival is not much of a dream, but it’s the only thing Jade’s ever known as he floats through the world alongside his brother. His dreams are Floyd’s, or so that’s what he’s always told those who enquire. He shares these things with him because he does not have any to call his own.

Not yet, at least.

And sharing—it’s a word he knows well. Everything that Jade owns, Floyd owns as well. They share the same face, the same room, the same clothes. They might even come to share the same lover one day, should they both find their hearts pierced by Cupid’s miserable arrows. Jade has never been against the concept of sharing. It’s an acceptable way of life for him. He grew up practicing the concept, and it has taught him how to coexist with others. Sharing is an extension of the bonds he’s formed.

Still, he’s avaricious in some aspects. Hopelessly so.

There’s no denying the difficulty that arises when one wishes to share in the turbulent waters of the Coral Sea, where the natural order caters to the strong and crushes the weak, but splitting the essentials is what guarantees survival. And if it’s worked so well in the past, why should he stop now? Therefore, sharing will always be a priority, even if their desires are fraught with selfish envy.

Jade is watching you again.

You’re sitting in the courtyard with Azul, gesturing wildly as you recount a story he can’t hear from where he stands behind a stone pillar. Azul’s expression is soft with amusement; his lips quirk up in laughter, and his eyes never leave yours. Your cursive may be a mess and you might be feeble in the face of danger, but you certainly know how to enthrall others. If Jade didn’t know any better, he’d suspect you to be a siren. Night Raven College would be the perfect hunting ground for a predator of that nature. Perhaps once you’ve charmed Azul you’ll devour his heart and leave a streak of gore in your wake.

That’s impossible. 

Jade is certain of this fact because he knows you’re not a predator. You are very much the harmless prey who has wandered into a den of ravenous beasts. He wonders if the thought that Azul may be dangerous ever crosses that empty, pea-sized brain of yours. He’s as much of a hunter as the rest of the students here, and with those eight tentacles of his he could easily send you to a watery grave. You wouldn’t have much of a chance to struggle, not unless Azul’s own benevolence grants you that futile hope. Thinking about it—about the thrill of a one-sided scuffle—has his heart racing, his palms wetting with sweat.

Oh, but you’re not meant to be Azul’s prey.

So get out of his eyes. Step off of the stage that entertains. Untangle yourself from unseen tentacles.

You are Jade’s.

From the moment the two of you crossed paths—from the moment you took up a job at the lounge and relied on him during your training—you belonged to him. 

And he’s not quite sure he wants to share you with anyone.

Perhaps that dumb smile of yours hides something far darker. Perhaps your blood wouldn’t taste as delectable as he once hoped if it’s already been tainted by Azul’s silver tongue. In his own paradise, an ideal world constructed within the confines of his mind, you wouldn’t look at another man, another woman, another person. Not another living thing. You wouldn’t speak to another man, another woman, another person. Not another living thing. You wouldn’t know the tastes of sweet poison or bitter love unless Jade chooses to bestow these flavors unto you. You would only see him, only taste him, only adore him with those wondrous eyes—eyes that are so impossibly strong even when the harshest of insults are thrown your way.

So get the fuck out of Azul’s eyes. Step off of the damned stage that entertains. Untangle yourself from unseen tentacles before Jade slices all of them off at the root.

These feelings ignite a perilous, potent spark deep within his chest. Seeing you smile at Azul in such a casual setting—it’s not right. This terrarium display is wrong. So wrong. 

The internal fuse has been lit and it’s nearing its inevitable implosion. Stop looking at him with those eyes. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

If Jade could, he would slice your smile off and keep it for himself. Pin it to the wall like it’s a rare species of butterfly, your wings having been severed from the sky.

You’re unbearable.

He fears you wouldn’t belong anywhere in his ideal world, for if you found yourself in the depths of the Coral Sea he wouldn’t allow you to surface.

The most confounding specimen I’ve ever encountered.

Azul is an only child. His mother and step-father would miss him terribly.

— — — 

Jade spies the delightful pep in your step as you skip past the bar later that same day. You’re balancing drinks and desserts on a tray as you make your way to a nearby table, and he’s immediately reminded of why he’s so drawn to you. You’re a puzzle he has yet to solve—an experiment he has yet to collect enough data from. If he could, he’d shrink you down to the size of his index finger and place you in one of his terrariums so that you could live out your tiny life amongst an array of plants. And Jade would be content to observe from above like a godly sovereign with the power to change your fate in a single snap.

Perhaps it’s not right to view you as a specimen or prey. Perhaps it would be better to regard you as a slab of meat, raw and uncooked, just waiting to be snatched up in his maw.

“Please enjoy!”

Your voice pulls him from his reveries. It’s a melody he’s come to savor in solitude. Naturally lilting, it’s the type of voice even the most jealous of souls would covet. He wants to reach deep inside your throat, grasp it for himself, and cradle it to his ear as if it’s a secret-spilling conch.

But claiming ownership of your sound isn’t enough. He wants to—needs to—devour your everything. Your body and soul, marking you as his, ensuring you’re kept under his thumb forever, seared into his own existence like a brand. Then your every breath will be his, and the blood that courses through your veins shall also become his. The darkest of reds might just suit you more than the aquatic hues of Mostro Lounge’s uniform.

Oh, what he’d give to paint you in vinous vermillion.

“Jade, could you cover for me? I’m going to take my break now if that’s okay with you.” Jade must have scanned your hopeful expression for longer than normal because you begin to fidget in front of him, toying with the hem of your apron. “Uh, that’s fine, right?”

“Yes, of course. Go right ahead.” He sends you off with his trademark smile, dusting his destructive thoughts away.

After you’ve retreated to the kitchen, he turns his gaze on the patrons, listening to the noisy din of laughter and chatter. He overhears a group discussing peculiar textbook titles and how most of them are unnecessarily convoluted and complicated. One of the students brings up a title that didn’t make any sense to him and he describes his surprise when he learned it was a book full of love spells and potion recipes. His friends, as all close friends often do, crack jokes at his expense, prodding for more information on who he intends to enchant. The conversation is bland and juvenile, but it does manage to strike a chord of curiosity in Jade.

Love.

Jade has never known the true meaning of romance. Such a thing does not exist in his perfect world. In some lonesome corners of the ocean, merfolk reproduce because they must. Because it’s the only way to survive. It will be like that for him and Floyd in the future, lest they find themselves ensnared in true love’s deadly trap and choose to reproduce for the sole purpose of fickle feelings. To mate out of love rather than obligation—it’s not unheard of and he isn’t opposed to it. Many humans adopt this way of life.

Jade would like to try it for himself, but he doesn’t know how. He’s never known the answer to this question—the one equation he could never work out. Is his heart too small, or is he incapable of comprehending the complexities of romance? Perhaps neither is true. When he considers the requirements that must be met to qualify love as love, he realizes the adoration he feels for you is not fluffy or innocent. Can such a grand obsession be classified as love if it’s dark and spiraling, condemning him to horrific visions? 

Jade does not gaze upon you with fondness. He looks at you as if you’re to be his next meal.

Even when he feels like breaking you would quell some monstrous urge within him, there’s another side that wishes to simply lock you away and protect you from the world and its inhabitants. Because it’s the world that will save you from him, but if you were imprisoned in his world, where it would be just you and him, no one could ever hope to reach you.

Jade isn’t entirely cruel. He would like to share his hobbies with you. He would like to live alongside you in the Coral Sea, tying his life to yours. It’s not an impossible desire, but he knows you wouldn’t be content with this arrangement. Not because it would be unwilling. Not because it would be Jade who has fallen for you and dragged you beneath the waves. It’s precisely because it’s the sea that you might object. You would have to adapt to life in a new, underwater environment. You would have to relinquish certain pleasures unique to the surface, abandoning your bipedal friends and family to live in isolation with him.

But isolation is better than the other terrariums that wait for you. He’ll smash all of them so that you’ll only know this one—the one with him.

Jade has been moving on autopilot for so long now that it finally occurs to him that you’re nowhere to be found. The longer he spends counting the lounge’s staff, the more his observations are proven true. You haven’t returned from your break, which is very unusual considering you’ve always been so diligent about time management. Responsible, that’s what you are. It’s one of the qualities that’s won Azul over. 

He surmises it has also shocked his heart with bolts of not-so-lovely lightning.

Despite the bustling, crowded lounge, he slips inside the kitchen to search for you. Usually Floyd’s crowding around you whenever you have a moment to spare, but he isn’t anywhere in sight either. Jade knows his brother and his mood swings well. When he isn’t feeling the lounge, he’ll escape elsewhere until his mood has been restored. He can understand and overlook Floyd’s absence, but yours is inexcusable.

The chefs are hard at work cooking up delicious meals, and all kinds of savory scents blanket the air. Jade glances at the knife block tucked away in a corner, filled with blades of varying sizes, as he passes. After watching you for so long, he’s learned that you often spend your breaks in the storage room, away from the eyes of customers and Azul. Perhaps the space has become something of a comfort for you, or maybe you just like taking shelter in the kitchen.

A sharp gasp joins the chefs’ clattering.

Jade’s stare snaps towards the storage room door. He frowns when he notices it’s been left ajar.

As he approaches, he can make out the sounds of rustling fabric and salacious gasps. He peers through the sliver into the dimly lit space, a single yellow eye spying a terrible scene. It takes a lot to stun Jade Leech, but the view before him is stunning in a very crooked way. It sends a shockwave rumbling through his body, temporarily freezing him to his spot. Unable to look away, to preserve his eyes and mind, he watches. Every inch of him itches.

Bile claws up his throat with acidic fingers.

You’re pressed against the shelves, skirt hiked high and panties pushed haphazardly to the side. Towering over you, anatomy pinned to yours in a sinful connection, is Floyd. His hands are gripping your wrists as he rocks forward to slot himself deeper inside. You search for a solid hold to steady yourself, burying your head in your arm to muffle your keening cries. 

“Please… It’s… S’too much. Hold on,” you babble, clinging like a koala.

Floyd leans in to nip at the shell of your ear, eliciting a shudder and a squeal from you. “Not happening, Shrimpy…” His lips travel along the length of your neck, pressing playful kisses into your skin. “You’re really so cute, you know that? So cute and soft… I can’t keep my hands off of ya.”

“We really—oh—really shouldn’t do—hah—this!”

Floyd hums, nonchalant, and slowly slides out of your tight, gummy walls. The tip of his cock prods at your pussy once more, glistening with the dew of your essence.

“Why not?”

“Seriously… What if someone sees us? What if—”

Your retort is cut short when he snaps his hips against yours, filling you in a single thrust. You crumple in his arms, tears gathering in your eyes.

Tears. Because of Floyd. Tears.

“So what if they do? I’ll get ’em good if they peep on my Shrimpy.” He licks a stripe up your neck and then sinks his pointed teeth into the area, hard enough to draw blood. You flinch against him, your pretty face contorting with a mixture of pleasure and discomfort while he laps up your blood. Floyd hums merrily, the sound coming deep from within his chest. “Shrimpy always tastes so yummy. I wanna do this aaall the time!”

“Wait, don’t leave any marks!”

“Oops. Too late.” Grinning boyishly, he grabs your chin and tilts your head up to meet his greedy lips. “Lemme kiss it better for ya.”

Jade watches you melt into the kiss, watches you become putty in his twin brother’s hands. Your eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment, only to flash open when Floyd begins to thrust into you. He sets a hasty, sporadic pace as he pursues an orgasmic high. Your sobs are swallowed in sloppy, open-mouthed kisses that leave you breathless and reaching. You claw at anything stable enough to support you, your fingers curling into Floyd.

A perfect fit.

While he stands there and takes in the sight of his brother claiming the angel he had hoped to someday make his, it dawns on him that the entire storage room is stained with the memory of you. Your smell, your existence, your everything—it lingers even when you aren’t here. It is imprinted on the walls and shelves; it is on Floyd. Your entire soul has been his long before Jade even laid eyes on you.

Now he knows why you frequent the storage room. Now he knows your secret.

He’ll open your torso and pry it out of you, crush it underfoot, and insert a new secret. A better secret. His secret.

Floyd finishes inside of you with a husky, satisfied groan, his arms wrapped possessively around your trembling frame while you bite back bawdy moans. Jade is overcome with a loathsome chill. You have never belonged to him. Not ever. Certainly not now.

“We should get back out there.” Your mumbling reaches his ears, subdued in the cramped storage room. “Before someone comes looking.”

“Don’t wanna. S’warm and cozy inside.”

“Floyd…” Greedy hands are roaming beneath your shirt. You squirm, attempting to pull yourself off of his softening cock, but he yanks you against his chest and holds firm. “We can do this again later. But right now I need to clean up and you have to work. If we take too long, someone will definitely come looking.”

Floyd rolls his eyes, unwilling to acquiesce until yellow crosses yellow. For a strained moment Jade holds his brother’s inquisitive stare, investigating his blank expression for an iota of emotion. The air stales between the both of them, unspoken accusations festering. And then Floyd’s dull hues brighten and a wide smirk blossoms on his lips.

“Fine, fine. We’ll get back to work now.”

An apocalypse rages within Jade’s terrarium heart.

ii. when he turns to the shards for a solution, the image that is offered is weak and hazy. if he is to live without his other half, he must find ways to fill in the blanks. and so it is said that the lonesome monops clutched the largest shard in a resolute fist and cut away the impression of his other half.

In some cases, Jade is Floyd’s shadow, a reasonable body double who is admired for his patience and persistence. Sometimes he’s the collar and the leash; other times he is meticulously unrestrained. Everything is an act, carefully curated for unsuspecting audiences. Floyd is all physical destruction. He is swift like a clean cut, devastating like a tsunami.

For the first time in a while, Jade cannot bear the face he sees in the mirror. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, for it is a reflection of Floyd. It’s a permanent reminder that the two of them are linked whether or not he fancies that. But Jade does not want to be the collar and the lash, nor does he wish to recall the day Floyd took yet another precious thing from him. This face is proof that even he cannot have anything for himself. It is evidence that he is bound to share and share and share until death. He will remain as the shadow, the dark, the salt, and the night for all of eternity, a two-faced creature lacking a true identity.

Neither of them addresses the elephant in the room. If Floyd shows any indication that he wants to bring it up, Jade sweeps the topic away before it can poison his mood. He knows as well as Jade does that it’s not worth bickering over, even if their hackles raise whenever they look at each other.

So Floyd’s been fucking you in the storage room. What’s so traumatic about that? Really, it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but the image still persists in his head like a ruthless phantom. He’s left lying awake at night, sifting through that memory and the ones that came before it for any inkling of what went wrong. Was it his own patience that cost him? Was it the fact that Floyd could charm you in ways Jade just couldn’t?

They have the same face. So why did you choose to love his other half?

Without Floyd, Jade feels incomplete. That’s his family—his only brother. He shouldn’t hate his kin, but he can’t just sit with envy and frustration and pretend as if it’s okay.

The mirror reflects his grim countenance, sneering at him with troubling familiarity. Cracks spiderweb along the length of the glass, extending outwards from where his fist landed. Pain sparks beneath bruising knuckles, masterfully hidden under the pristine fabric of a pure-white glove.

The terrarium is filling with foul things, and Jade doesn’t have enough control to stop the invasion.

— — —

“It’s been really slow today, hasn’t it?” you ask, looking to Jade for his input.

“I’ll admit it’s unusually quiet.” He glances at you, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. He’s tired, but it hardly shows. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all! I welcome the break. Still… It’s weird. Mostro Lounge almost always has lots of customers.”

“I suppose it’s less work for us.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Heaving a relieved sigh, you rest your elbows on the counter, content to watch the few patrons lingering in the lounge. Jade’s eyes travel along the length of your back, over the the dip and swoop of your spine when you bend forward, and he’s immediately brought back to the day he discovered you and Floyd in the storage room.

“I’ve got it!” you announce moments later, lighting up like a bulb. “The reason it’s so quiet.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow, feigning ignorance.

“It’s because Floyd’s not here. Everything’s super lively when he’s around.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm. It’s a shame he’s not scheduled today. Oh, but it’s not so bad when it’s just the two of us. We’re a good team!”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“I’m happy we can talk like this. It feels like we never have the chance to speak during work and I’m always worried I’ll bother you if I try to start a conversation.”

“You couldn’t possibly bother me.” Jade pauses to ruminate on his thoughts before adding, “Well, you were awfully troublesome in the beginning. Ah, don’t look so upset. I’m only admitting my feelings.”

“Am I still troublesome?” You cross your arms over your chest, pouting.

You are. Very much so, I’m afraid.

“I tolerate you now.”

“That doesn’t sound any better!”

Jade chuckles. “It’s merely constructive criticism. Take it in stride.”

“Ugh. You’re the worst.” Despite that, a smile creeps onto your face.

It’s the same smile you show Floyd, so therefore it has no meaning. It’s not special.

Jade abhors it. He should be the one in that storage room with you. It should be Jade who touches and lavishes you with filthy praise before inevitable destruction. Consolation before bruises and bite marks. Sugar before salt. Love before lust.

You can’t possibly fit in his make-believe terrarium now—not when your heart lies with Floyd. Just what is his brother to you? What do you possibly see in him that you fail to see in Jade? They are the same. They are mirror images of one another. There is no difference.

So why won’t you look at him with admiration in your eyes? Eyes he’ll gouge out for beholding another man. Why won’t you kiss him in secret? Lips he’ll sew shut for touching a mouth that isn’t his. Why won’t you beckon him into that cursed storage room and pull him flush against you, joining together in bodily matrimony? A body he’ll cage to prevent it from fleeing. Why can’t you love him until the very feeling is leaking from your pores? Leaking like the blood that will run far and red when he transplants his love into your chest. Why must you associate yourself with the other half—the better half? 

The half that’s won.

It doesn’t matter if Floyd’s willing to share. Jade isn’t feeling charitable. He doesn’t want to cut you up into tiny shreds and share. You’re for his enjoyment. This is a non-negotiable fact.

Perhaps he’s the worst just as you claimed. Because if he was the best he’d have you. Because if he was the best he wouldn’t feel the need to mourn a gutting loss. Because if he was the best he wouldn’t feel the need to fall back on a nasty trump card. But when fair play fails, one must resort to sordid schemes in order to secure victory. You can’t expect to climb the corporate ladder without stepping on a few rotted rungs in the ascent, courtesy of those who came before.

It’s fine if he plays dirty. After all, his feelings have never been defined by purity.

“You seem tired. Would you like me to fetch you something to drink?”

“Mm, yeah. Could you? I’d hate to trouble you.”

“It’s not a problem. Will tea be suitable?”

“Sure. I could go for chamomile. I heard you’re great at making tea, so I know it’ll be good.”

“I still have much to learn, but I’m flattered you hold me in such pleasant regard.”

“I doubt you could ever fail. You’re always succeeding. I’m actually kinda jealous. How are you so good at—oh! Someone needs me at table three. Be right back.”

Jade nods, replaying your words in a loop. I doubt you could ever fail. You’re always succeeding. But he has failed. He’s failed and it’s eating him alive because you’re so close and yet out of his reach.

You spread your wings like a good social butterfly and abandon your place at the counter. Jade’s left to prepare your tea in peace. He chooses from the vast selection lining the wall—chamomile just as you suggested—and goes through the motions of filling the kettle with fresh water. He’s working on a time limit here, so he withdraws his magic pen, mutters the proper incantation, and waits for the telltale hiss. Even though he would like to prepare it with the utmost care, he must be hasty and stealthy if he wants to slip the special ingredient in without garnering unwanted attention.

Luckily, you’re trapped in a conversation with a friend and won’t be returning to his side anytime soon. That’s another trait he’s learned about you. Just like Floyd, you adore chatting. It’s not difficult to hold a conversation with you, especially when you’re the one leading it. You shine when you speak. He needs to snuff you before anyone else comes to seek your light.

Perhaps it’s this intoxicating quality of yours that caught Floyd’s heart. Jade can’t quite ascertain when he started looking at you from less-than-friendly angles or what the exact catalyst for your relationship with his twin was. It must have begun as a wicked fascination. An innate curiosity with the surface and its humans. How else could Floyd have fallen for you if he rarely spoke with you? Was it your strengths that earned his approval? Was it your humanity that left him impressed?

It’s not fair, but Jade won’t whine about it. He’s not a child. Whining won’t solve anything.

He must love you until you shatter.

The kettle whistles, thus yanking him from his innermost contemplations. He lifts it, minding the burning surface, and pours the water into a porcelain cup. Steam rises and furls like wispy, ghostly fingers. He could keep the vial hidden in his pocket and serve you a normal cup of chamomile. But the situation isn’t normal and he can’t just charm you as he normally would.

That didn’t work, so he must cross that method off his list and resort to what’s next. It’s only natural to fight for the thing you cherish most, so he shall do just that.

If Floyd hasn’t broken you yet, he certainly will.

You’re back at the counter just as he finishes stirring it in with the now darkening, tea-tainted water. Jade hands it to you, reminding you that it’s still hot. It’s an empty warning. He couldn’t care less if the liquid scorches your tongue. Let it burn, he thinks, his eyes narrowed as he watches you blow on it so it’ll cool faster. Perhaps then you’ll stop tangling your tongue with him.

Sometimes love is as unforgiving as the deep sea, turbulent and harrowing. Sometimes you must kill the one you love to truly understand the feeling—to dissect it down to the biological, scientific level.

Like always, he observes you while you drink the tea throughout the remainder of your shift. You look so sleepy, your eyelids fluttering and snapping open. You’re slipping; he can see it. Jade wonders what face you might show him later—what emotion will reflect in fragile eyes.

He knows it won’t be love, but that doesn’t stop him from hoping.

iii. separated from his other half, monops is unrecognizable—a hollow monster who has lost fractions of his humanity in a selfish effort to dispose of unnatural characteristics. he cannot hope to find his own personality amidst the mess in his tower, so he sits before the broken, bloodied shards once again. his other half meets him there, shattered and in pieces as he stares.

You shift in your sleep, just barely breaching the surface of consciousness. Jade placed you on his bed after carrying you from the lounge to his and Floyd’s room, where he proceeded to bind your arms and gag you. You look mostly peaceful tangled in his sheets, an oblivious thing who knows nothing of the mountains he’s had to scale in order to arrive at this point—at the glorious top.

Floyd’s not here, but Jade suspects he might have already known what was coming. They’ve always known how to read the other. Maybe it’s telepathy.

Or maybe not. They’re just aware of the other’s monstrosities. That’s all there is to it.

It’s then when your eyes snap open. Jade doesn’t bother to hide the smile crawling onto his face as he watches you come to, slowly assessing your surroundings. It doesn’t take long for you to start struggling once you’ve registered the tie binding your wrists together and the gag shoved into your mouth. Your voice comes out muffled, but your nostrils are flaring. Your eyes are widening. He can smell your fear—taste it on the tip of his tongue.

It prickles his skin, sets it on fire.

Jade sits primly at the edge of Floyd’s bed, content to study you from a distance. You’re writhing desperately in an attempt to loosen the restraints. He’s tied them well. It’s a technique mastered and put into practice. You’re not getting out of this.

“You fainted.”

You startle, turning your head to look at him. The fear seems to diminish for a moment before it returns in full force. Your glassy eyes are pleading: Why?

“It’s not wise to overwork yourself. You should prioritize your health more.”

Oh, is this it? Are those tears? Already? When he hasn’t even done anything to you yet? Have you really been this weak all along?

You try to talk despite the gag, and the attempt is so pitiful that Jade crosses over to tug it down from your mouth. Saliva strings from the gag. Messy.

“Jade! What the hell?! Why am I tied up? Why am I in your room?”

He frowns. “I’ll admit I’m rather…displeased.” He could unleash the torrent right now, but he won’t. Not yet. “Perhaps you might know why my mood has soured?”

“I… What? Is this because I fainted? Look, I’m sorry. I’ll take better care of myself. Please don’t make this a big deal.”

He tilts his head, confused. “I don’t quite care that you fainted.” He seizes your chin and forces you to meet his mismatched hues. “I care about the company you keep.”

“The company I keep? I don’t understand. What are you—”

“Give it some thought.” His fingers dig into your cheeks. Hard.

You yelp, attempting to pull away. He doesn’t release you. “I don’t know what you mean! Seriously, what’s all of this about? Did I do something wrong? Please… Please let me go.”

“You’re getting there.” He lessens the pressure on your jaw. “Come now. You’re so close.”

“Jade, please—”

“This is regarding your involvement with my brother,” he begins, and horror settles on your face. “Ah, so you are following. Wonderful.”

“Did you… Did you see us?”

“More than I ever wanted to see, yes.” He smiles thinly and releases you. “I thought it was such a dreadful, ugly thing to behold. My own kin lusting after the only thing I’ve ever loved to such a degree.” He swipes a faux tear from his eye. His voice drops to a threateningly low decibel next, and darkness passes over his features. He looks scarily grotesque. “It made me so ill. Seeing you in that closet with Floyd… Watching you talk to Azul—to everyone else—makes me so ill. I fondly contemplated the most troubling things.”

“W-What?”

“It truly is a conundrum.” He sighs as if unloading a heavy burden. “To feel so strongly for something that even love and hate become one and the same… I want nothing more than to strangle you whenever I see you with Floyd, with Azul, with anyone who isn’t me. I want to cut into your torso and make you suffer tenfold for what I’ve had to endure.” His fingers curl around your ankles, sliding down to reach your shoes. He unties the laces, sliding both from your feet. And then he’s grasping them, rubbing circles into your soles. “I want you to look at me no matter what, even when you’re a shredded, bloodied mess.”

“You… You’re joking, r-right?”

“Am I?” He smiles again, but it’s wider this time. Exhilarated. Excited. “Should we see who’s laughing when I sever your feet at the ankles? He peels your socks off next, tossing them over his shoulder. “Do you think that’s a fitting punishment?”

“Fuck no! You’re insane!”

He hums his acknowledgement and reaches for your skirt. Your heart drops into your stomach, every muscle tightening with raw terror. Instinctively, you kick out at him. Your foot slams into his chest. If it hurts, he doesn’t let it show.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you creep! Stay the fuck away!” By the third kick, he catches your foot. And he stares at it. Quietly. Expressionlessly. There is nothing in his face. That horrifies you. “Jade… Jade, I’m sorry. Can we please… Can you please stop this?”

“Am I truly that undesirable? You would rather have Floyd than me?”

“Yes, of course! Floyd’s not a fucking pervert like you!”

Jade’s laughter is sudden and short. It trembles through him like an earthquake. “Forgive me. It was so funny I just had to chuckle.” A smug smile takes up residence on his face. “Do you really think Floyd is so pure? That he’s the perfect partner all humans dream of?”

“He didn’t outright admit to wanting to murder me so, uh, yeah, he’s much better than your crazy ass!”

Jade squeezes your foot once before setting it down on the bed. He crawls over you, his hands snaking up your thighs. “That’s a shame. You’ll think differently soon enough. He just hasn’t given you reason to fear him yet.”

“I highly doubt—hey! Don’t touch there!” You struggle again, your breath coming in short, helpless huffs. “Let go of me. Please. Jade, let go…” Your voice trails off, spotted with distress.

His hand settles over your clothed pussy next. Two fingers press up against that sacred spot, tracing the area experimentally. “This is that warm and cozy place, yes?” You shake your head at him, lips trembling. He smirks, vicious and mean, and strokes slow, soothing lines up and down the outline. “Is it your safe day? Ah, but perhaps love is stronger than medicine. Stronger than all of the filth Floyd’s emptied in you. What do you think?”

“No… No, stop!”

“It really did sicken me—the thought of you and Floyd. Together. Forever. If you were to fall pregnant, I’d have to take a textbook to your stomach. The alchemy textbook. That one would inflict the most damage, you see,” he admits with a pleasant hum. He watches the spreading wet patch with predatory glee before gazing back at you. “But you’re not pregnant, right?”

“I’m not! I’m not!” You gasp when his fingers dip into the waistband of your panties, harshly tugging them from your skin. And then his fingers are inching towards your pussy. “What are you—stop! No, no, no! Floyd! Floyd, help!” You squirm beneath him, kicking and screaming. “Floyd! Floyd, help me! Please! Anyone—someone—please help!”

A shadow passes over your face for a second before his hand comes down upon your mouth to silence your incessant shrieks. Your sobs are softer now, each plea spoken into his palm. Jade exhales slowly, composing himself.

“You’ve said his name more than enough. Say it any more and I’m afraid I’ll have to remedy this bad habit. Just how much do you value your tongue, I wonder?”

Before you can even think of struggling further, he’s switching the positions. Sitting back against the headboard, he tugs you onto his lap. You try to get away from him, but he holds you steady. The gag is fastened around your mouth once more, tighter this time.

“Now, now. You’re not going to escape, so there’s no point in exhausting your energy. Pointless pursuits are never rewarded,” he chides, tutting. He pulls his magic pen from his pocket and flicks it in the air once. A mirror materializes, displaying your disturbed expression in the glass.

Your mind blanks out then, logic overridden with the intrinsic desperation to survive. Is that really you looking back? It can’t be. The (Name) you know has never looked this fearful. Her face has never been this warped with panic.

But then you feel something stiff prodding you from behind, and the horror triples. You squirm again, much more forceful, sobbing into the gag and shaking your head as if that will earn you a sliver of sympathy from him. He continues to hold you against him with one arm while the other reaches to pull himself free from the confines of his pants and boxers.

“We have the same face, so there’s no need to cry. If it really helps, just think of me as Floyd,” he teases, and it sickens you. Makes you feel so gross and filthy. You want to step out of your skin, travel to a place that isn’t here, disappear into the tile and never return. Tears trace down your cheeks in salty rivulets. You can only produce blubbery whimpers now. His erect cock curves up towards your stomach. Jade lifts your skirt to get a better view. The mirror reflects it all in crisp detail. “What do you think? Is it bigger than his?”

His knuckles trace your cheek, uncharacteristically tender.

“It will seem that way when it’s inside, won’t it?”

In response you shift in his lap, tugging at the tie tightly secured around your wrists, and he merely chuckles. It’s delightful, really, the way you move like captured prey. Your chest heaves when the fleshy head of his cock presses shallowly inside your pussy, sampling wet warmth. You pray it’ll end fast. You pray he’ll be gentle. You pray he’ll skin you alive so you’ll never have to spend another second in this body. Anything but this.

Jade doesn’t grant either of those prayers, for he lifts you up slightly, aims for home, and slams you down in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs. You choke on your tongue, biting down so hard that your teeth split the skin on the inside of your cheek. Blood pools into your mouth. It stings, but nothing hurts more than the unwanted intrusion. Shamelessly, much to your horror, your walls affix to him in an attempt to accommodate his girth. Without intending to, you catch yourself in the mirror. The stretch is sinful, your pussy wrapped snugly around him, and he’s slotted all the way to the hilt.

It’s torture for you.

It’s a twisted relief for Jade. A triumphant euphoria.

He exhales a shaky breath, his lips peeling apart to reveal a row of sharp teeth. In the mirror he looks every bit the predator he’s meant to be: cruel and cutthroat, staking claim on a stolen prize. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips as he rocks you up and down, occasionally bucking his hips to meet your soft, plush ass.

“It’s strange,” he manages through his grunts and groans, his breath hot on your nape, “I imagined this would feel more gratifying than any other gruesome thrill. Mm, but it’s not—” he slams you down again, reveling in your muffled wailing, “not nearly enough.”

Your eyes, wet with tears, question his reflection. You watch with bated breath as he slides your collar away, leaning in to press his lips to your neck. Your pulse stutters in his mouth, a jittery, fearful thing.

He inhales the pungent scent of sweat and sex, the scent of your fear, the scent of himself on you. From head to toe, externally and internally, you are covered in him, wrapped around him, molded to his very shape. You’ve gone stiff in his arms, too frightened to move a single muscle, but it only serves to excite him more. He needs to bear witness to all of it—to every inch of you, stripped bare and wired with anxiety.

Needle-thin teeth prick your skin. You wince and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Does it hurt?”

Despairing and hopeless, you deflate against him. Your body shakes with every sob.

It hurts. It hurts so much. More than anything has ever hurt before. And Jade knows this because he isn’t gentle. He has no interest in being sweet. He bites to harm. To kill. To destroy.

Jade sinks in deep: his teeth in your throat and his cock in your guts. And it hurts.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, his lips slick and spattered with crimson when he pulls away, breathing heavily. “I’m so pleased…”

The blood just won’t stop. It’s flowing in rivers, cascading down the juncture between neck and shoulder and staining your clothes. Did he bite something major? Oh God—are you going to bleed out? Are you going to die? Did he get that one artery—the throat artery—the whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called artery? Is that even possible? Why won’t the blood stop? Why do you feel so fuzzy—so faint? It really won’t stop. It’s an ocean.

It’s everywhere.

Jade pinches you to bring you back to yourself; his nails prick your thigh, imprinting crescent moons in skin, and it works. You surface, taking in big gulps of oxygen while your heart skips over itself. You can’t drift off even if you wanted to; your reflection is much too haunting, destroyed and debased in every possible way. It grounds you in reality, digs deeply.

“Pain is the most thrilling form of love. You’ve taught me something new. Thank you.”

From behind, peering over your shoulder, his reflection grins at you. Wildly untamed and blood-stained, he’s manic. Unhinged. Uncaged. His pupils are so large they nearly eclipse his heterochromatic irises, rendering both eyes beady and black. Two pits of a molten void—a starless outer space.

He looks just like Floyd.