#Lamb t-bone

[watcher-bones]

I want to draw that one idea

Brain: if NariLamb was in a prom drama, it would be that convoluted Narinder catching Tyren asking Lambert out, getting pissy about. Thinks Lambert said yes. More pissy about it. Lambert is confused and goes through those hoops of trying to ask Narinder to prom only for problems. Ends with an argument and angry confessions.

Narinder has this "wait wait i thought you were going with Tyren?"

Lambert stopping their angry tyraid, "who the fuck is Tyren?!"

<Tyren is owned by Bamsara>

[spock-smokes-weed]

Idk yall I feel like wolves have a point.

Lamb is delicious.

[dark-and-kawaii]

Lovely Little Thing

Summary: You moaned as Sukuna’s cum pumped into your depths, the tip of his cock planted firmly against your cervix, not allowing a single drop to escape your rapidly swelling womb.

With one final thrust you slammed your hips down on Sukuna’s ridged fat cock, driving his cockhead against your cervix, “s’kuna~♡ mn’youre sho’ deep~ c-can feel you in m-my womb~♡” you mewled.

Sukuna just laid there on his back, two arms folded under his head, the other two holding your hips with a bruising grip. His head was tilted back slightly, but his eyes gazed up at you through hooded eyes. The king of curses gave a slight chuckle, a smug smirk pulling at his lips, “And how is this my fault, little lamb?”

Your cheeks flushed the prettiest of pink as your much smaller body continued riding him like a bitch in heat, your tits bouncing, jiggling, with each rise and fall of your hips. His massive, muscular body spread out under you, sweat glistening and muscles taut… he was the perfect picture of strength and power, and he was all yours.

“S’kuna~ bully my tummy~ mn’make me all mushy n’messy ♡“ you whined.

A large hand found its way to your tummy and pressed down, a lewd moan falling from your parted lips… you could feel his cock so perfectly against his hand, it was making you all dizzy.

Sukuna chuckled again, his thumb rubbing the small bulge his cock created, “Such a needy thing, so cute and pathetic, my little lamb, what am I to do with you hm? You want me to wreck you? Then let me see those delicious tears and fucked out smile.”

His grin was sharp, eyes wild… He wanted to break you, to make a blabbering mess of you until you were nothing more than his perfect little cocksleeve.

Keeping his hand pressed to your belly, feet firmly planted on the bed, Sukuna started snapping his hips up, his cock slamming into your cervix repeatedly, bullying that forbidden area until you were a sobbing mess on his lap.

Your eyes tear filled with pleasure, a dumb, fucked out smile on your face, your tongue lolled out, drool dribbling down your chin, “Ah-h-aah~♡ f-feels s-sogooood ♡♡ S-so big in m-me, f-feels like y-youre makin my t-tummy all swirlyyy ♡♡♡”

Sukuna’s thrusts didn't slow, in fact they got harder, his hips now a blur as his cock drove itself home with each snap of his hips. Your thighs trembled and shook, a tight heat coiling in your tummy, you could feel it, you were gonna cum, gonna cum from having the King of curses use you like a toy.

Your back arched, your eyes widened, your screams went silent, and your body spasmed uncontrollably. It felt as if only you and Sukuna existed in this world, your senses focusing on a white hot singularity of endless pleasure in your womb.

You nearly went limp, left weak by the intense climax, your muscles still spasming around the monster seated deep inside you.

Rope after rope of thick, white hot vitality deep into your spasming cunt, pumping straight into your womb. You moaned as Sukuna’s cum pumped into your depths, the tip of his cock planted firmly against your cervix, not allowing a single drop to escape your rapidly swelling womb.

When his last of his milky seed spilled into your needle little body, a warm, pleasant afterglow settled over his body. Opening his eyes, Sukuna saw that your once normal sized stomach was just perfectly bloated... Your overstuffed womb making you look as is you were already carrying his child.

With your body a wreck, you slumped forward resting on Sukuna's chest, your bloated tummy pressed against the warmth of his body lulling you to sleep, “S’k- s’kuna~luv you…” you slurred out.

Sukuna was caught off guard, he wasn't expecting such soft words, yet here you were, a soft smile on your pretty lips, telling him how much you loved him…

Raking his fingers through your hair, he gave a soft hum, a rare moment of tenderness, “Rest.”

The warmth and comfort of his muscular arms were like a castle made of skulls and bones, a comfort only you knew.

He looked down at your sleeping form, and a soft smirk pulled at his lips, “Love…” his eyes narrowed, “Such a human emotion,” his hand cupped your bloated belly, giving a slight push, drawing a sleepy moan from you, before settling his hand on the curve of your hip… it was such a pitiful emotion, but… it was one he may be willing to accept for you, his sweet little lamb.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Bad Guy x Reader

I am currently in my Natural Born Killers nostalgia, and so I'm borrowing its vibes and bringing you this: a bad-to-the-bone, rock-and-roll attitude yandere who constantly makes you question your own morality. Featuring an old OC!

Content: gender neutral reader, violence, murder, male yandere

He fell in love with you at first sight. A goody two shoes, quiet and obedient. Shy. Oh, terribly shy. You couldn't even meet his eyes. He knew you were the kind others would step on, take advantage of. But there was more to it, much more to uncover.

Who was it? A relative, a friend, a coworker? You know, that person holding you back, keeping you in your place. The one who'd always make you feel small and insignificant. The one who would always find something to criticize. How did it feel when you found them on the ground, bashed in and bloodied up? He was standing above the lifeless body, catching his breath, a cocky smile plastered on his face. His way of courting you.

He looked so tall in that moment, towering above your hesitant self, his gaze of a confidence and intensity you'd never known before. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get in", he said, gesturing towards a convertible he most likely stole earlier that day. What possessed you in that moment to join him without delay? Was it his charisma? Or did you know in the depth of your soul that he wouldn't take no for an answer?

You see, he's known it from the beginning. Someone like you needs someone like him. You’re a sweet little lamb lost among the wolves. The world would eat you right up if you were left by yourself. But now you have him. And he won't let his precious prey get away. Oh, dear, no. If he wants something, he gets it. And he's never wanted anything more than you.

"You didn't...even tell me your name", you sheepishly spoke up from the passenger seat, trying to keep your mind away from the crime you'd just witnessed. "Just call me Tig", he said casually with a yawn, speeding away. "Won't you be in trouble, Tig? Why would you even kill-" you tried to reason. "What kinda question is that? They treated you like shit and it pissed me off." He glanced at you with a frown, taking another drag off his cigarette. "You're mine now, so whatever happens to you is my business. Got it?" You just stared. Was that his way of asking you out?

Tig lives by his own rules, as you quickly learned from becoming his companion. Always on the run, indifferent to the world. For the most part, to your surprise, he's well-behaved. If people don't mess with him, he doesn't mess with them. Simple as that.

Anything involving you, however, sets him off terribly. Like a rabid, ferocious guard dog, he's ready to pounce on whoever approaches you the wrong way. Last week you stopped at a highway diner for coffee, and on your way back to your table, you jokingly pulled a clumsy dance move to the song playing from the speakers. Tig observed you with an amused smile, sipping from his cup. A passerby joined you, resting his arm on your waist flirtatiously. Tig's smile dropped in an instant, and next thing you knew, the whole place was splattered in blood. No one made it out.

"I didn't even finish my coffee", you whined, already used to the occasional massacre. The man hopped behind the counter and threw on a bloodied cap. "What will it be, sir/ma'am?" he pretended, dangling a takeaway cup and starting the espresso machine. "I never told you, but I used to be a barista", he declared proudly. An entirely different person from the unhinged killer you witnessed minutes ago. "What? You said you were a mechanic", you questioned with raised brows. "That's also true. I'm a jack of all trades, I suppose. You know what I'm best at, though?" He lowered himself until his forehead touched yours. "Pleasing you."

The man is romantic in his own way. He twists the key, and the engine stops. You follow him out of the car in confusion. "Why did we stop here?" He briefly lifts himself up onto the tall fence securing the bridge, and inhales deeply. "Isn't it a nice view?" he says, nodding ahead. It is a scenic sight, sure. The river slithers along the lush valley, and the setting sun gives everything a dramatic tint. "Give me your hand", he suddenly demands as he goes to grab it himself. Before you can ask for an explanation, he quickly drags a blade across your palm, and you wince in pain. He repeats the gesture with his own hand, locking his fingers with yours over the rail. You watch as fresh blood trails along your skin, eventually falling into droplets and vanishing into the river. "Now we're going to be everywhere", he remarks playfully. "Okay, but what was the point?" you insist, a little baffled.

"Isn't it obvious? Maybe this will help", he continues, procuring a ring from his pocket. "I'm saying I want to marry you, (Y/N)."

You open your mouth to answer, but he already slides it up your finger, eyes glimmering in excitement.

"You're never getting away from me, love."

[seijorhi]

Swallow it down

so a few weeks back i said to @iwaasfairy 'hey wouldn't it be fun to do a mini cannibalism collab for Trigun' and this is the result of that. you have been warned. Vash the Stampede x female reader x Knives Millions w.c 4.7k tw: yandere, cannibalism, non-character death, blood and gore, extreme dubcon, semi-forced feeding, horror vibes, very, very light smut, drugging, dubious medical care, faint psuedo-cest vibes, nsfw

He finds you crying in the dirt, broken, bleeding nails prying fruitlessly at the the iron jaws clamped above your ankle. 

“The lost lamb, abandoned by her flock.” 

He crouches by your side, arctic blue eyes studying the gruesome mess of your shin. Rivulets of blood ooze down your shin, the bone’s broken, you heard the fucking crack. You’re trembling, shivering like a stray in a downpour, and between the fire lashing up your leg and what you can only presume to be shock, you find yourself stubbornly shaking your head. “They’re coming back,” you rasp out. “They went to get h-help.”

His chin tilts, “Would that save you?” 

A few feet away, well beyond your reach, lies his crossbow and there’s a very mean looking knife strapped to his thigh. It wouldn’t surprise you any to find he’s got others hidden away on his person. Would help save you now, trapped like a beast and terrified, alone at the mercy of one madman, another stalking the woods around you?

“T-they didn’t leave me.”

Nai’s expression hardens, those glacial eyes pitiless. He straightens and takes a single step to your left–

Onto a hidden plate; the release mechanism for the bear trap. 

As quickly as it’d clamped shut, the springs snap open, iron teeth ripping their way back out of your flesh. The scream it pulls from you is inhuman, a shriek that echoes through the mountain, rattles deep in your bones. 

Your vision sways, darkness edging in, and in the moments before the tide of agony, shock and exhaustion pulls you under, you hear him speak again.

“No one’s coming.”

—

Awareness returns gradually, a slow, oozing drip. 

A door opens, closes. Footsteps tread across wooden floors. You hear a curtain being drawn and a shaft of sunlight cuts over you, warm and buttery. Bright. Something brushes against your hair, your fingers twitch and your brow wrinkles, and you realise that you’re lying on cotton sheets – a bed, propped up with pillows stuffed behind your back. 

A breeze flows into the room, carrying the smell of pine and sap, but there’s other scents too. Clean laundry, onions and miso, woodsmoke, a whiff of cologne that teases at the edge of your consciousness, familiar somehow. You decide you like it. 

Your fingers twitch, but there’s a grogginess that sits heavy on your chest, weighing the rest of you down. The mere thought of prying open your eyes feels like a gargantuan effort,  wading through wet cement. Better to stay here, you think, in this half-awake, cozy state. Although… your mouth is kind of dry. That sensation’s back, something fiddling with your hair, but when you go to wave whatever it is off, your arm won’t cooperate. That same arm itches, just below your elbow.

Buried beneath the heavy fog in your mind, a warning bell starts to ring. You’re not where you should be. Something is missing. Something glaring. Something you need to remember–

Thinking requires energy, though. Much easier to roll over and succumb to the sleepiness that coaxes like a lover on a cold winter’s night. 

“Can you open your eyes for me?” The voice is… gentle. Sweet. You recognise it, know how it sounds when its owner laughs, yet when you try to draw up a recollection in your mind, it fades before it can fully form, smoke on the breeze. “C’mon, lemme see those pretty eyes. Please?”

Your visitor, with his teasing, pretty voice, touches your cheek – strokes it with the back of his knuckles – and the bed you’re propped up in dips. 

It takes more than you expect, prying your sleep crusted eyes open, and then even more not to shut them immediately. Light fills your vision, momentarily blinding you, but you blink a few times and your pupils adjust, the details of your situation – and your visitor – swimming into focus. 

Behind amber glasses, his eyes are slightly bluer than his brother’s, the top part of his hair a warmer shade of blond. Nai hadn’t smiled, but Vash beams at you, the expression as natural as breathing, and says, “There she is. How’re you feeling?”

In the space of an instant, it all floods back. The four of you camping in the woods, running into the two of them on the trail that first afternoon, the boys going fishing the next morning. You remember Kumi’s blood splattering across your side, the wide-eyed, gaping look she’d worn, falling to her knees. You remember running through the woods, and the metal trap that snapped over your ankle.

You remember screaming in the woods while the other two ran.

Comfort, coziness, all those pleasant feelings curdle like spoiled milk in your stomach. Warmth leeches from your blood. Dragging your attention from Vash and the quaint, cabin-esque room around you, you finally notice the IV sticking out of your left arm, and below that, the lump beneath the sheets where your broken leg lies.

There’s no pain. Nothing but a fuzzy heaviness that grows more disconcerting by the second. Your throat constricts, your pulse quickening. All you can manage are shallow, wheezing breaths, and Vash’s eyes widen as a terrified whine slips out, like the noise physically pains him. 

“Hey, hey, calm down.” His palms come up before you, a gesture of peace before he reaches for your wrist, turning it to ease out the needle and discard it safely out of reach. “You’re okay, we’re taking care of it– of you. I fixed up your leg, and we had to put you under for a little while just to keep–” 

His attempts at reassurance only serve to make things worse, and when you choke on something that might be a sob, his expression grows even more stricken.

“No, no, it’s okay! It’s okay. We didn’t have a choice. You could’ve hurt yourself badly and seriously screwed up your recovery, I wasn’t gonna take that risk with you.” He moves to touch your face again, maybe pet at your hair, but second guesses the decision when another whimper escapes you. In the end, he winds up settling for awkwardly trying to plump up the pillows behind you. “Might not look like it, but I was a med school student once upon a time,” he laughs sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. His expression swiftly sobers, “Me and Nai, we’re gonna take such good care of you. The best, you’ll see.”

“Please…”

Your voice sounds terrible, dry and rasping, but Vash beams at you all the same.

“It’s okay if you wanna nap for a bit. It’ll take maybe a half-hour or so ‘til the drugs completely wear off. Nai’s working on dinner and I’ve got nowhere else to be. Just lemme know if the pain gets to be too much, I can give you something to help.” 

Your stomach pitches. 

“Where…” you break off, swallowing down a wince at the stab of pain in your throat. “The others?”

Vash’s expression falters for a split second, quick to smooth over. “I’ll go get you some water. Maybe– you should probably try and rest your voice a while. You did some damage with all the… yeah.” 

He pats your hand and rises to leave, throwing one last, tight smile over his shoulder before he exits, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Tears, big, fat, rolling dollops, slide down your cheeks. Nai should’ve killed you in the woods, slit your throat and left you for the animals to scavenge. That, at least, would’ve been a swift end to things. The logical conclusion. 

This is a fresh kind of nightmare.

Paired against his brother’s more aloof – bordering on antagonistic – nature, Vash was friendly when they came across your campsite. Bright smiles and an easy laugh, kind of awkward in a goofy, endearing way. Twenty minutes in, and he had you laughing along with the rest of them. 

Gun to your head, you would’ve picked him over the proverbial bear, and then you watched as his knife ripped through your friend’s guts like butter. 

The worst a bear could’ve done was kill you. 

You hiccup on a sob, teeth sinking into your quivering bottom lip. You don’t want to find out what the tender, loving care of a psychopath looks like. Your fingers dig into the sheets, slowly pulling them into a ball in your fist. Another sob warbles, too loud in the silence of the room, and within seconds, Vash is back in the doorway, the promised glass of water in hand.

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” he says, hastily setting it down on the wooden bedside table and reclaiming his seat on the edge of the bed. This time he doesn’t hesitate to throw an arm around your shoulder – mindful at least to minimize the jostling for the sake of your leg – and your heart drops into your stomach when he kisses your temple and tucks you into his side. “Please don’t cry. You’ve been through a lot in such a short space of time, I know, but I promise it’s all gonna get better now. We’ve got you.” 

You feel sick, a cold sweat breaking out over your body, but Vash is willfully blind to your distress, your feeble attempts to regain an inch of space between the two of you. 

He’s still holding you, mumbling reassurances in your ear when Nai appears in the doorway balancing a tray with three plates on one hand. The aromas from earlier, the onion and the miso, follow him when he steps inside, but they’re stronger now, richer, you can smell the meat, the caramelised notes of the sauce and mortifyingly, your stomach gurgles in eager anticipation. 

Loudly. 

Vash chuckles and the corner of Nai’s lips twitch, but neither passes comment, Vash unwrapping his arm from your shoulder to lean forward and grab the tray from his brother, settling it on his own lap.

“Feeling back to normal yet?” he asks. “I can help if you’re still woozy.”

You blanch. Not only does your stomach – despite its earlier rumbling – churn at the thought of consuming anything either of them give you, Vash feeding it to you himself brings the whole thing to a new level of disturbing. 

Pushing through the bite of pain, you whisper, “N-no thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Eat,” Nai says, taking one of the plates off the tray and dragging a chair over. His voice brooks no disagreement, those pale eyes narrowed and cool. “If we were going to drug you, the IV in your arm would’ve made more sense, don’t you think? Eat.” 

“You’ll like it, Nai’s a beast in the kitchen,” Vash says, offering you a set of cutlery.

You don’t take it, eyeing the two of them warily, like they’re a heartbeat away from exploding from their seats and ripping you apart, which isn’t altogether far from the truth. 

Vash pouts, having the nerve to look concerned at your lack of an appetite. “Please? You need to eat, sweetheart.”

A long beat passes, the tension in the room suffocatingly thick, pressing down on you from all angles. There’s a voice in your head – self preservation, probably – urging you to hurry up and do what you’re told, swallow it down like a good little captive. 

Play along, and maybe they won’t snap and carve you up into tiny pieces.

You nod, a short, jerky concession, “Fine.” 

But your hand shakes so badly when you reach to take the offered silverware that Vash visibly deflates, setting it back down on the tray instead. “… You don’t have to be afraid of us,” he mutters dejectedly, like a kicked puppy. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

Nervously, you dart a glance at Nai, watching the two of you with an indecipherable expression, waiting to see what you’ll do to fix this. 

You swallow tightly, turning back to Vash beside you with a plea. “Can– can you help me? My hands, I’m still not…” you trail off, hoping that he won’t make you say it in full. 

Instantly, he brightens. “Yeah! Yeah, ‘course I can do that.”

Clearly satisfied, Nai turns his attention to his own meal while Vash starts cutting into the meat, what looks to be pork loin, rolled, glazed and roasted, covered in a sticky miso sauce, stabbing the bite on the end of a fork and offering it to you. Wordlessly, you part your lips, ignoring the roiling in your gut, the sudden tightness in your chest.

When the meat hits your tongue, it melts. Rich, salty umami, a burst of sweetness. Vash already has another mouthful waiting before you swallow the last, an eager grin on his face. It doesn’t escape your notice that he hasn’t touched a bite of his own, all of his focus absorbed in feeding you.

“Do you like it?” Nai asks, though from the smirk he wears, it feels less like a question and more a challenge.

With your mouth full, you simply nod. You’d agree even if it tasted like dirt, but you’re discomforted to find that you mean it. The food is delicious, the flavours, while nothing new in and of themselves, combine beautifully on your palate. It tastes nothing like any pork dish you’ve had before. The plate alone is an artwork, the vegetables and sauce arranged just so around the pork, all with mindful consideration. It makes you think of those Michelin star restaurants you see on cooking shows, where the chefs use tweezers everything down to the garnishes are placed precisely. Perfect. 

He takes another bite, thoughtfully chewing, and after he swallows he says, “I’m glad. Tenderloin can be such an unforgiving cut of meat, but when you treat it properly, with care, the flavour and texture speaks for itself, wouldn’t you agree?”

An icy shiver rolls down your spine, but again, you nod, mouth opening to accept another forkful.

—

After he’s finished with feeding you and wolfs down his own plate, Vash leaves with his brother and returns a few moments later with four pills in his palm.

“The red and white ones are antibiotics. The round ones are painkillers,” he explains at your leery expression. “Your leg’s probably gonna start hurting soon. These’ll make you sleepy so we’ll take ‘em now, get you showered and then I can put you to bed.”

Your heart stops dead in your chest. “I–”

Vash powers on like he can’t hear you. “I managed to swing a splint for you, which’ll make it easier for us to keep an eye on your stitches, but they still can’t get wet. There’s a stool we’ve got for the shower and we’ll wrap your leg in some garbage bags to keep everything nice and dry. It’ll be easy, promise.” From the bedside table he retrieves the still untouched glass of water from earlier and holds it out for you to take. “To wash them down.”

Shakily, you pluck the pills from his open hand, accepting the water as well. After a moment’s hesitation you swallow them in two goes, washing the chalky taste down with a few mouthfuls of water.

“Good girl. You ready? Nai should have everything set up and ready for us.”

Vash doesn’t wait for the answer, tugging back the sheets to scoop you up into his arms. You’re too scared to look down at your leg and see the damage there, so instead you wrap your arms around Vash’s neck and bury your face in the crook of his neck, only to stiffen when you breathe in a whiff of his cologne.

You’d smelled it earlier, back when you’d first woken up. Your mind was too scattered then to pull the pieces together and remember why it was so familiar to you. 

Tom Ford. You’d gifted your boyfriend the cologne on his birthday last year and he’d worn it religiously every day since. Your brother had given him so much shit when he’d unearthed it in his camping bag while looking for the fire starter.

‘Well, ‘least we know we’ve got some animal repellent if things get dicey.’

Nails sinking into the back of Vash’s shoulder and neck, your stomach threatens to upheave, but if the blond notices, if it bothers him any, he doesn’t give any outward indication, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot and waltzing inside.

Carefully, he sits you on the edge of the vanity, dropping to his knees between your legs. Nai must’ve left the promised stool and the roll of garbage bags that Vash quickly unspools, ripping one off. 

“Can you take off your shirt for me, sweetheart?” he asks, blinking up at you with guileless baby blues. “I’ll tape up your leg and we can get you all cleaned up.”

Your head’s still spinning, a queasy, sick feeling sitting heavy in your stomach. The top you’re wearing isn’t yours at all, a few sizes too big, nearly hanging off your shoulder. Beneath, you’re not wearing a bra, you don’t even think you’re wearing panties, but if you focus too intently on the implications of that on top of everything else, you’ll lose it entirely. 

At the same time, you desperately, desperately don’t want to be naked in front of this man.

“I don’t need to. I– I can shower with it on, can’t I?”

Vash’s brow wrinkles, an odd look passing over his face. “Don’t be silly, ‘course we can’t.” 

“…Please, Vash–”

“C’mon,” he says. “Off.”

You don’t have a choice, especially not with your very fragile, injured leg propped up in his lap. Squeezing your eyes shut, you grab the hem between shaking fingers and before you can think better of it, shuffle slightly so you can pull the garment up over your head, dropping it beside you, quickly wrapping your arm around your exposed chest to hide it from his view. 

Vash, meanwhile, tends to your calf, gently sliding it up and over the splint and the bandages, securing it tight with medical tape. When he’s done you feel his lips press a featherlight kiss to your knee. “All done.”

Your eyes are still screwed shut when you hear the water turn on. Footsteps pad against the tiles and you hear the sound of his own clothes hitting the floor, kicked aside haphazardly, and then you’re back in his arms, his bare chest too warm against your skin. 

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbles.

Your eyes fly open when, instead of setting you down on the stool Nai left, Vash takes it instead, perching you sideways on his naked lap under the spray. 

“This okay?” he asks when your scandalised gaze turns to meet his. 

Considering you can feel his twitching dick beneath your thighs, absolutely not, but Vash, as usual, isn’t interested in your answer, holding you steady with one arm and reaching for the body wash and a loofah with the other. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” he reassures you with a wink and an easy laugh, “Pinky promise.”

“I-I can wash myself,” you eke out, fighting not to hyperventilate when he decides to start with the arm you have wrapped around your tits. 

He hums a little, dragging the sudsy loofah in lazy circles up and down your inner arm. “Sure you can, but you don’t have to ‘cause I’m doing it for you.”

“Vash–”

He cuts you off with a series of kisses down your neck. “Shh, baby. Lemme take care of you.”

You decide right then and there that the easiest way to get through it is to close your eyes again and block it out. You’re back in your bathroom at home, and the hand that moves over your chest, paying particular attention to the soft, peaked nipples of your breasts is your own.

You’re at home in your shower. You’re alone. Safe. Nothing is wrong. 

With concentrated effort, the shaky illusion holds as long as it takes for Vash to reach the apex of your thighs. At the first pass between your legs, you’re violently yanked back to reality, stiffening in his lap as your heartbeat jackhammers and the urge to throw up returns with a vengeance. 

For his part, Vash shudders on a moan, cursing lightly. Beneath your legs you feel the jump of his cock hardening, the rush of blood plumping his length – even the slick smear of what has to be his pre-cum painting the back of your thighs. You squirm and his grip locks around your waist, keeping you in place as he discards the loofah entirely in favour of soaped up fingers sliding between your folds.

“V-ash!”

“I know, I know– Fuck!” His fingers rip away from your pussy, seizing your jaw instead and yanking your face towards his, capturing your lips in a raw, frantic kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, aching and desperate for just a taste of you. 

But as quickly as it began, it ends, Vash pulling back with wide, glassy eyes, panting like he’s run a marathon. “Not today,” he says, more to himself than you. “Too fragile right now.

—

The dull, aching throb of your leg wakes you up.

They’d given you some extra pillows to keep it elevated while you slept, which did actually help. In spite of that, you hadn’t had a particularly restful night. 

“Sleep well?”

Your eyes shoot open, heart stalling, to find Nai settled into the same chair he ate in last night, idly thumbing through a book. 

Vash might be all smiles and sunshine between hacking people up, but you get the sense Nai’s less concerned with a pretense. Without his brother here, there’s no need for either of you to keep up the facade that he’s anything other than a cold-blooded psychopath – one you’re still very much in danger of. 

Nai sets the book down as you gingerly wriggle yourself up into a seated position. “Vash isn’t here,” he announces when it becomes clear you have no intention of answering his question. “It’s kind of late, actually. You slept through our visitor this morning.” 

He lets the statement dangle in the air, mouth curling. He wants you to press. Push him on it. Play with him – except this is the sort of game you don’t stand a chance of winning. You consider keeping silent purely to spite him, but in the end, curiosity begrudgingly wins out. “…Visitors?”

“Rangers. They wanted to know if we’d seen any campers in the area in the last week or so. Seems a few of ‘em ran off and got themselves lost.” At your wide eyed, gutted expression, his smirk widens. “Vash being Vash offered to show them the campsite we saw occupied a few days back on one of our supply runs into town. Shame it’s been stripped bare since, no sign of the campers anywhere.”

Pain stabs through your heart, twisting mercilessly and robbing you of your breath. 

Nai’s taunt from the woods echoes in your head. No one’s coming. If either of them had made it out, they would’ve gone for help. The rangers wouldn’t be looking for them, they’d be looking for you.

Nai leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, the shine in his eyes gleaming. “I have a few questions I’d like you to answer for me. Do that, and I’ll take you to the other two.”

“Just like that?” 

It can’t be that simple, you know it can’t. 

“I expect honesty, but that’s the gist of it. Answer the questions, and I’ll show you where we’re keeping the other two, cross my heart and hope to die.”

Feeling much like you’re bargaining your soul away to the devil, you steel your nerves and nod. “Alright. Ask away.”

“You went camping with your boyfriend, your older brother and his girlfriend, correct? A double date of sorts.”

You nod.

“Are you close with your brother?”

Not the question you were expecting, but one that’s easy enough to answer without bearing too much of your soul. “I guess it depends on how you define close. We don’t live in the same city anymore and he isn’t the type to call every week or every month for that matter, but we love each other. He’d come if I needed him to.”

Nai nods as though he expected as much. “What about your boyfriend?”

“Are we close?”

He makes an unimpressed noise. “Do you love him?” 

Throat tight, you nod wordlessly. 

“How long were you with him?”

The question’s harmless enough, and yet the hair on the back of your neck stands on end, a fresh wave of unease twisting in your gut. Fighting the urge not to wilt under his scrutiny, you answer,  “… Almost three years.”

He mulls that over for a moment, a slow smile overtaking his face. “You have good, solid relationships with both. You claim to love them, and presumably that love was returned – none of that stopped either one from abandoning you to die–”

“They didn’t abandon me!” you defend.

“– That part wasn’t a question. All they had to do was find the release and you would’ve been free, they didn’t even try.” Abruptly, he rises from his chair, stalking to your side and slamming a palm onto the headboard behind you. Gone is the cold, calm predator from the woods. Nai’s panting, nostrils flaring with every ragged breath and his eyes look almost manic, flitting over your face. Crowding into your space, he snarls, “They left you! Don’t you understand; your death was a perfectly acceptable outcome if it guaranteed their survival! That’s human nature, they aren’t special in that regard, selfishness will always win out in the end.” 

 Every accusation hits its mark, smashing through your meagre resistance, flaying you open and bloody before him. You have no response, no defence, nothing left but the swell of pain and heartbreak pumping through your veins. 

“They left you,” he repeats, driving the dagger deeper into the bruised, shredded remains of your chest. “Last question: whose sin is more unforgivable? The brother who should’ve protected you or the lover who should’ve had the decency to die with you?”

“I-I–” you flounder, grasping for words that won’t come. “I don’t– t-they didn’t– please–” There’s no stopping the tears this time, they roll down your cheeks unencumbered. “Please,” you beg. “Please, I can’t–”

You can’t breathe. 

Hunched over, gasping for breath, the room spinning, heart pounding, the last thing you expect is for Nai to pick you up much like Vash had, hauling you to his chest. Rather than carrying you out of the room, Nai sinks into the warm spot you left, settling back against the headboard and adjusting your leg over his lap. “They left you,” he whispers into your ear. “We’re taking you. Understand, little lamb?” 

Sobbing into his shirt, you can only nod. 

—

Gently easing the door shut behind him, Vash gives his brother a look, seizing his arm and hauling him down the hall towards the kitchen.

“You didn’t have to be that cruel,” he snaps when they’re far enough that their voices won’t disturb your rest. 

Nai shrugs, “If I wanted to be cruel, I would’ve taken her down to the walk-in to see your handy-work.” He neglects to add that that originally was his plan – he simply hadn’t anticipated how fragile you’d be, or that you’d break so easily for him. Showing you the half butchered corpses hanging in the fridge when you were in that state would’ve done more harm than good. 

He needs you pliable, not catatonic. 

Vash narrows his eyes, scowling at his brother. “You’re an asshole. I left you two alone with her for a few hours!”

“Your mistake then.”

If looks could kill– “I’m serious, Nai. You promised.”

His amusement dies a quick death. “And I meant it, don’t ever question me on that. She isn’t going anywhere, but unless you wanna keep breaking those pretty ankles of hers, this is necessary. I need you to trust me.”

Vash holds his gaze for a long moment before his eyes drop and he sighs, the anger bleeding from his posture. “I do,” he croaks. “I do, I just… I’m sorry.”

Nai turns, a hand clasped on his shoulder, drawing his brother in to press their foreheads together for a brief moment. “I know you are,” he says when they part, Vash blinking up at him. Water under the bridge and all that, such is the nature of family. “Before you head back to her, I need ribs for dinner tonight. One rack should do it, I think.”

His little brother lights up, happy, as always, to be of service. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

[averalia]

A little much

Part 1// Part 2

| Pairings: Thomas Shelby X Reader, Platonic!Peaky Blinders x Reader

| Warning/s: mentions of abuse, smoking, Implied emotional abuse/neglect, PTSD symptoms, Discussions of self-worth, self esteem issues.

| Summary: After years of hidden trauma, you find unexpected solace and fierce protection in Thomas Shelby, the man you once viewed as your enemy.

The chill of the Garrison’s private room seemed to seep into your bones, a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth of your parents' home, yet both held you captive. You sat rigidly, hands clasped in your lap, eyes fixed on the flickering gaslight, trying to appear as small as possible. The heavy oak door creaked open, and a hush fell over the room. Your father, a man whose presence usually dwarfed any space, now seemed insignificant next to the figure who entered.

Thomas Shelby.

You’d only seen him from afar, a whisper on the wind, a shadow in the newspapers. He was the devil in a tailored suit, a man who built his empire on blood and fear. And now, he was your intended.

"Mr. Shelby," your father’s voice, usually a booming command, was now laced with an unnerving subservience. "My daughter, Y/N."

You flinched as your father’s hand landed on your shoulder, a possessive, almost forceful gesture that made you acutely aware of the bruising beneath your sleeve. You didn't dare meet Thomas Shelby’s eyes. You knew what he would see: a pawn, a transaction, a means to an end.

"Miss Y/N," His voice was a low rumble, surprisingly smooth for a man of his reputation. "A pleasure."

You remained silent. Speaking without permission was an act of defiance, a transgression that had led to countless punishments. The memories of bitter winds whipping your exposed skin, the icy bite of snow on your bare feet, the searing pain of a belt against your back – they were etched into your very being.

Your father cleared his throat, a sharp, warning sound. "Y/N, speak."

You finally lifted your gaze, forcing yourself to look at him. Thomas Shelby was even more imposing up close. His eyes, the color of a stormy sky, held a flicker of something you couldn't quite decipher—calculation, yes, but also a hint of… curiosity? His face was a chiseled mask, betraying no emotion.

"It is… a pleasure, Mr. Shelby," you managed, your voice barely a whisper, hoarse with disuse.

He simply nodded, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer than necessary before shifting to your father. "The terms are clear, then?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Shelby. She's yours. Completely. No further obligations." Your father’s words were a cold blade, severing the last thread of your past life. You were property, given away without a second thought.

The wedding was a blur of grey and muted whispers. You were dressed in a simple, unadorned gown, feeling less like a bride and more like a sacrificial lamb. Thomas Shelby stood beside you, a dark, imposing figure, his hand at your back a phantom weight that you braced yourself against. He never looked at you, his gaze fixed on the vicar, his expression unreadable.

Later, in the opulent silence of his Small Heath home, you stood in a room that felt too grand, too empty. The air hummed with an unspoken tension. He walked in, shedding his jacket, loosening his tie. You instinctively took a step back, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs.

"There's a spare room," he said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth or malice. "Across the hall. You can stay there."

You blinked, surprised. You’d expected… you didn’t know what you’d expected, but not this detached practicality. "Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

He turned then, his eyes finally meeting yours. "It's Thomas. And you're my wife now, Y/N. Best get used to it." There was no softening in his tone, no hint of affection, just a statement of fact. You were his. A transaction. A means to an end. And in your mind, he was nothing more than the enemy who had sealed your fate.

Life in the Shelby household was a strange dance. You moved through the grand rooms like a ghost, observing, listening, always on edge. Thomas was rarely home, consumed by his business, his empire. When he was, he was a whirlwind of activity, barking orders, making deals, his mind always churning. You avoided him, whenever possible, preferring the solitude of your room, the quiet solace of books.

One particularly cold evening, you were in the drawing room, a book open on your lap, but your mind miles away. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls. You hadn’t heard him enter.

"Can't sleep?" His voice startled you, and you nearly dropped the book.

You turned, clutching the book to your chest. "Just… reading."

He moved to the drinks cart, pouring himself a whiskey. "You spend a lot of time in here. Or in your room."

You shrugged, uncomfortable with his sudden attention. "It’s quiet."

He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze distant. "You're… quiet."

The observation was so simple, yet it struck a nerve. You had been trained to be silent, to be invisible. "Is that a problem?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

He turned, a faint frown on his brow. "No. Just an observation." He paused, then gestured to the armchair opposite him. "Sit. Unless you prefer to stand."

You hesitated, then slowly sat, still clutching your book. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts.

"Your father," he began, his voice low, "he spoke of your… compliance."

You stiffened, a cold dread washing over you. He knew. He knew about your parents, about their abuse, about the fear that governed your every move.

"He said you were… well-behaved." The words were almost a question.

You stared into the fire, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. Well-behaved. You’d been beaten into submission, starved into obedience. "I learned early on," you said, your voice barely audible, "that it’s easier to agree than to argue."

He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the crackle of the fire. "Is that why you didn't protest the marriage?"

You finally looked at him, your eyes burning with a mix of defiance and raw vulnerability. "Would it have mattered?"

He didn't answer, just watched you, his stormy eyes searching, probing. You felt exposed, laid bare under his scrutiny. He was the enemy, the one who had bought you, but in that moment, there was a flicker of something in his gaze that wasn't purely transactional. It was something akin to… understanding. Or perhaps, you were just desperate for it.

Days bled into weeks, and a fragile, unspoken truce settled between you and Thomas. He still spent most of his time at his office or out in the grimy streets of Small Heath, but his presence in the house became less of a looming threat and more of a distant, yet constant, hum. You found yourself observing him, albeit from a distance. You saw the way he commanded a room, the sharp intelligence in his eyes when he discussed business, the quiet intensity when he sat alone, smoking.

One afternoon, you were in the garden, trying to coax life from a neglected rose bush. Your hands were grimy with soil when you heard footsteps behind you.

"You have a knack for it," Thomas said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You straightened, wiping your hands on your apron. "Just trying to make something grow."

He nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips, a rare sight. "My mother used to say the same about me. Said I had a knack for growing things, even if they were weeds."

You actually chuckled, a soft, unfamiliar sound. "Perhaps some weeds are just misunderstood flowers."

He looked at you, a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes. "Perhaps." He paused, then said, "You never talk about your family."

The easy atmosphere vanished. You turned back to the rose bush, picking at a dead leaf. "There’s nothing to talk about."

"Everyone has a past, Y/N."

"Some are just… best left buried." You felt the familiar tightening in your chest, the fear that always accompanied thoughts of your parents.

He watched you, his gaze intense. "Are you afraid of them?"

The directness of the question startled you. You didn't answer, instead focusing on the task at hand, your fingers trembling slightly.

"You don't have to be," he said, his voice low, steady. "Not anymore."

You slowly raised your head, meeting his gaze. There was something in his eyes, a quiet promise, a strange sense of protection. It was a foreign feeling, one you hadn’t experienced in a very long time. He was still the man who had bought you, the head of a notorious gang, the enemy. But for the first time, you wondered if there was something more to Thomas Shelby, something beyond the cold, calculating exterior. And you, against your will, felt a faint, unsettling flicker of hope. He still saw you as a means to an end, a strategic alliance, but the way he looked at you, the way he spoke, it was beginning to chip away at your hardened defenses. You were still trapped, but perhaps, just perhaps, the chains weren't as tight as you’d always believed.

The incident with the rose bush marked a subtle shift. Thomas started appearing in the garden more often, not to garden himself, but to observe you. Sometimes he’d offer a brief, almost gruff comment about the weather or the state of the plants. Other times, he’d just stand, smoking, his silence less intimidating and more…companionable.

One evening, you were in the library, a vast room filled with leather-bound books that smelled of old paper and dust. You were perched precariously on a rolling ladder, reaching for a particularly old copy of Wuthering Heights on a high shelf. Your fingers brushed against the spine when the ladder wobbled violently. A gasp escaped your lips as you lost your footing.

Before you could fall, strong arms encircled your waist, steadying you. You instinctively clutched the book to your chest, your heart hammering.

"Careful, Y/N," Thomas’s voice rumbled close to your ear. His breath, smelling faintly of tobacco and something uniquely him, brushed against your hair.

You felt the warmth of his hands through your dress, a jolt of unexpected sensation. He didn’t immediately let go. Instead, he held you for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on your face. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a surprising softness, a fleeting concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low.

You swallowed, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "Yes. Thank you, Thomas." The name felt strange on your tongue, more intimate than you were used to.

He finally released you, and you stepped away, feeling a strange mix of relief and… something else you couldn't name. He picked up the fallen book, his fingers tracing the worn cover.

"Bronte?" he mused. "Bit of a dramatic read for a quiet evening."

You managed a small smile. "I find comfort in it. Their troubles make mine seem… manageable."

He looked at the book, then at you, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Sometimes, the only way through is to face the storm head-on." He handed the book back to you. "If you ever need a hand reaching for another, just ask."

It wasn't much, but it was a gesture of consideration, of shared humanity, that you hadn’t expected from him. He was still the enemy, the man who had taken away your meager freedom, but moments like these chipped away at the solid wall you had built around your heart.

The cracks in your perception of Thomas Shelby deepened over time. You witnessed his fierce loyalty to his family, the quiet way he looked after his younger sister, Ada, the protective edge in his voice when he spoke to Finn. You saw him at work, making impossible decisions, always with a calculated shrewdness that was both terrifying and undeniably impressive. He was a force of nature, yes, but he wasn’t just a monster.

One rainy afternoon, you were helping Polly organize some ledgers in the office when Thomas walked in, looking more harried than usual. He ran a hand through his dark hair, sighing.

"Bloody business," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

Polly, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. "Problems, Thomas?"

He just grunted in response, his gaze landing on you. "Y/N," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone so clearly stressed. "You know anything about this new ledger system Polly’s trying to implement?"

You were surprised he even acknowledged your presence, let alone asked for your input. "A little," you admitted. "My father was obsessed with meticulous record-keeping. I learned a few things."

He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "Tell me."

You found yourself explaining, detailing the advantages of the new system, the potential for greater efficiency. As you spoke, his eyes, usually so guarded, seemed to soften, a spark of interest replacing the weariness. He listened intently, nodding occasionally, sometimes interjecting with a sharp, insightful question.

When you finished, a rare, genuine smile touched his lips. "That's… surprisingly useful, Y/N. Thank you."

You felt a warmth spread through you, a feeling of genuine accomplishment. It was the first time in your life that your thoughts, your knowledge, had been valued.

Later that evening, as you were preparing for bed, there was a soft knock on your door. You opened it to find Thomas standing there, a small, wrapped parcel in his hand.

"Heard you like books," he said, holding it out.

You took it, your fingers trembling slightly. It was a first edition of Jane Eyre. You knew the story well, of a quiet, resilient woman finding strength and love in an unforgiving world.

"Thomas… thank you," you whispered, genuinely touched.

He shifted uncomfortably, a rare vulnerability in his usually composed demeanor. "Polly said you mentioned it once. In passing."

He remembered. He actually remembered something you’d said, something so trivial. It wasn’t a means to an end, it wasn’t a business transaction. It was a gesture, small but significant, from a man who was slowly, painstakingly, beginning to see you as more than just his wife by arrangement. And you, in turn, were beginning to see him not just as the enemy, but as a complex, surprisingly human man who was capable of unexpected tenderness.

[hcneymooners]

⋆ the only difference between a kiss and a bite is how deep the teeth go.

warlord!ambessa x bene gesserit!reader. men & minors dni.

you do not have to have read or watched dune to understand this.

synopsis: primed to be one of ambessa's hand-picked elite, you have wanted nothing but to be ambessa's top commander. but then she discarded you, chose the kiramman girl instead. she might have thrown you out, but someone else took you in.

cw: bene gesserit!reader, age difference, older woman/young woman, power dynamics, power imbalance, pining, sexually explicit content, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, oral sex, face riding, impact play, pain play, light sadism, light masochism, dom/sub, switch!reader, switch!ambessa, service top!ambessa,strength kink, face-sitting, face fucking, implications of grooming, slight dub-con (bc of the voice though it is not used sexually), angst, angst with a happy? ending, ambiguous ending, sexual tension, hate sex, misandrist!reader, beefing with your age gap object of affection's daughter because that should've been your daughter.

wc: 8.06k

notes: we're back and more evil than ever. it's me and my lana del rey-length titles against the world. thank you for being patient with me. i'm glad i could return to you with this.

it’s incredible how people tend to misremember the occurrence of an event when they are the ones in the wrong. 

you have never misremembered. 

since childhood, your memory has been a diamond trap with steel teeth at the center. whatever falls within will never be free. your voice is the same. you have no interest in sounding as honeyed as your sisters. you need the command to be felt and heeded. you understand, however, that if you let your emotions completely consume you, you will be disposed of. the sisterhood does not need weakness, nor does it require a fractured image. so, you stay silent and beautiful. therefore, you are in control and tolerated. 

(you are more than tolerated. you are loved. you have not seen this yet.)

the day starts as any other. you wake earlier than the others, sliding out from around the curled body of one of your sisters. her hair is bone white, made that way from trauma from what you understand. she has a young face, one with no tired lines and an open horizon. she sees differently than you do, often has nightmares, and climbs into your bed. you hope her vision never fades. it is good to have a soft heart.

the two of you were called lambs when you arrived. the reverend mothers would hide a smile behind their hands as they called after one of you, asking, “where is the other lamb?” 

the sentiment echoes across the empty floor of your mind as you gently stand, adjusting the blankets behind you so your sister is not as cold as you are now. she is one lamb, but you are not the other. you used to be, but that has been stripped from you underneath harder hands. and you weren’t even chosen for the slaughter in the end. 

your face twitches, and you try to refocus, sitting on the floor in front of the long mirror in your bedchamber. carefully, you weave your hair into a plait but find that your hands only remember what she taught you when you were still her lamb.

your hair is dragged tightly into a tight war braid, your scalp screaming for mercy. you never listen. fear is the mind killer, and pain is the strengthener.

from there, you rise, sliding into your well-loved woven navy robe. you had bathed late last evening, and now it was so early that the morning could still be confused with the bite of the night. somewhere outside, an animal is howling, or maybe weeping. you cannot tell the difference.

maybe it is you making the sound. 

you slide on your headdress, the metal webbing across your face like a second skin. it is fine as chainmail, but heavy with wealth. each link is adorned with a gem the color of a bruise: deep sapphires, violet amethysts, the muted red of garnets too dark to gleam. a lattice of silver threads drapes over your crown and temples, with tiny golden hooks pulled at the skin just behind your ears to keep the veil in place.

it is beautiful. it is painful. the weight reminds you.

the metal burns against your lips, and you think of how you wish to always be shielded. 

you walk the halls. it is cool here in the shadows of the tall, cool, black stone. you are sheltered from light as you wisp silently across the floors, feet bare and hot with a phantom heat from a ground that is far too cold, that it almost burns. the stone dispels into feathery grass, the blades kissing your calloused skin as you continue to hike further and further out into the landscape. 

you are glad you are here, that you are one of them. you are glad to have sisters. outside of here, back home, no one seems to understand that you are angry. here, they understand, and they still call you the other lamb. in a way, you suppose you are. sometimes, you graze.

you walk and walk, trespass over borders until the ground begins to change. the terrain buckles, the grass falling away to reveal rich dark soil, then veined stone, marbled like muscle. this place is old, untouched even by the sisters who pride themselves on touching all. you do not come here to pray. you come to see.

nestled in the earth is your mirror.

not glass. it is too breakable, highly mortal. what rests here is a polished slab of clearstone: thick as a sword’s width and just as sharp, its surface tempered in volcanic heat and alchemized by bene gesserit archivists. beneath its sheen, a hundred visions have burned away and returned.

the clearstone is set in obsidian, carved into the rock like a wound that never closes. it is an echo of you. around it: salt lines, laid by your own hand. a single strand of your hair. a ring of pressed primrose and dried bloodroot. you learned this watching one of the older sisters in a trance. 

you learned this the way you learn everything: precisely, completely, without permission.

you kneel, sliding the veil of your headdress back so your breath might warm the surface. you place your hands on either side of the scrying stone, fingertips just brushing the edge. it’s cold. it always is. it demands something before it gives anything back.

so you feed it.

a memory. the scent of iron and smoke. the last time she looked at you, the feel of your heart splitting cleanly into six pieces. you breathe in. you begin.

your voice does not rise. it drops, low and guttural, like an incantation slid through gritted teeth.

"reveal her. bring her to me."

the mirror clouds, then clarifies.

and then, she is there. ambessa medarda. warlord. mother. deceiver. betrayer. the only woman your soul has ever known.

she’s crouched low, speaking with someone. blue hair, rigid posture—caitlyn. you do not taste jealousy. you taste rot. this is your fruit left too long on the branch. you taste all the years wasted carving yourself sharp while she looked elsewhere. you do not speak. your cheek bleeds; you have bitten down.

you wait. you watch.

eventually, she is alone. she leans forward over her knees, rolling her shoulder, her back to the mirror. her muscles glisten in the waning light. the moment stretches like a taut wire.

then, she stills.

the voice is not needed now. she knows.

you keep the window open, watch her face tense and shift as she registers being observed. she looks up from where she is hunched over those open knees, her muscles rippling under that dark, regal skin. you keep waiting because she is intelligent, highly so, and you know that she will find you.

she does. 

ambessa medarda straightens herself and turns, looking over her shoulder with those cruel, bright eyes, and stares into the looking glass across from her. you do not flinch. you do not fear. fear is the mind killer. it is stronger than her, and now you are stronger than both of them.

you let her watch. she turns to better see you. you preen just slightly underneath the attention, but the sweetness soon sours. you make ambessa medarda stare at your reflection. you are the weapon and the girl she forged. 

you are the woman she discarded.

your veil begins to retract. not by your hand, but by design. it was always made to reveal, never to shroud forever. layer by layer, the silk and metal webbing slides away from your face until the sharp planes of you are shown. you are not what she remembers. you are something else now.

you hope she is seeing the edge of you: gleaming, bitter, and perfect.

the connection balks. you hold. the veil closes.

you hope she knows you will once more make her choose. or you will kill her.

time will decide.

𓃖

the bene gesserit do not accept contracts; they orchestrate them. you do not request. they summon. but time decides so, they have agreed to one. 

ambessa medarda is no fool. her empire swells, but her bloodline thins. there are threats the blade cannot cut, ones that fester in secret folds. so she sends word. the sisterhood replies.

you know who will be chosen before the reverend mother superior dictates her law over the land. when your name falls from behind her teeth, you expect it. you expect the way the other name falls, too. you feel the sister settle beside you as you bend in deference and accept the assignment. you are comforted by the way she watches you with a lack of interest.

so, they send their two: you, and the sister with whom you’ve always walked in parallel. you share no friendship, but your silences are aligned. you trust her. enough.

you arrive at night. it is not meant as secrecy, but it is loaded with intention. 

the soldiers of the medarda camp are already at their posts when the air shifts. low fog unfurls across the stone, rising like breath from an unseen lung. the horses smell it first, and then the men. the silence tastes different. charged. ionic.

two figures begin to descend the path carved into the cliffside, ceremonial hoods low but posture unbent. they do not speak. they do not need to.

the first is robed in burnt saffron and oxblood. pansa. broad-shouldered, flanked by iron cuffs, the oldest girl-child of a desert house long swallowed by sand. her presence carries weight similar to the feeling of seeding conflict, and her silence is an elegy. there is power in the pacing of her movements. 

beside her: you. [name], though they are probably unaware.

the more in the dark you were, the more ambessa could provide you with “light.”

your indigo robes ripple like stormwater, sheer in places where flesh must feel the air, the cold, the world. this is your house’s doctrine: truth borne by skin, suffering made visible.

chains run down your sleeves like adornment, but the glint of each link speaks of restraint, not vanity. at your throat, a collar forged of black steel, inset with bruised stones: garnet, tanzanite, onyx. each is a sigil of mastery, a tale of blood. the veil over your face is gauze-thin and luminous. it doesn’t hide you. it is slightly uncomfortable to be so revealed.

you move as one, you and pansa, like a hymnal in a dead tongue.

the camp watches. no one dares to speak. but she knows you’ve come. you know this.

ambessa emerges from her command tent the way storms break: abruptly and unrepentant. she's dressed as always for conquest: dark leathers, sleeves rolled, arms dusted in the pale film of exertion. her hair is coiled high, braids tight at the sides, a crown of discipline. your scalp aches in understanding. she halts when she sees you.

she does not kneel. you do not offer her the comfort of a name.

the air is dry and perfumed with spice. 

she does not speak to you first, but you feel the throb of her recognition in your spine. from behind her emerges caitlyn with her hair thick around her face and her face flushed pink as if she has been eaten by another mouth. you think of what pansa said as you traveled here, how the girl was primed for betrayal. how ambessa would be blindsided by it as long as she remained unaware. you’d laughed at that. 

now, a smile twists at your mouth before guttering out. for a moment, the fire crackles loudly.

a sound like an organ crushed rings out, though no one else reacts. the melody may just be playing for you. it is not the first time.

you stand just beyond torchlight, veil drawn. still, silence.

“come to finish the job?” she finally asks. 

the question irritates both you and pansa. it is her request that secured this audience, but even now, she plays for power despite not fully having it.

“that depends,” you answer, smooth and unhurried. “have you decided who you are today?”

pansa continues, “yes. which are you? warlord or mother?”

ambessa’s jaw tightens. you think you hear it crack. her eyes narrow, alight with annoyance. there’s something close to a smile on her mouth, though it does not reach her. she speaks louder, addressing the air.

“so they sent the one who hates me.”

pansa’s voice comes low, deliberate, and polished.

“no,” she says. “we brought the one who understands you. best there be no surprises. ”

a beat. ambessa looks between you both.

“and you?” she asks pansa.

“i do not hate you,” pansa replies, steady. she does not give any more.

a rustle passes through the soldiers behind her, but ambessa holds up a hand. no need. she knows what this is.

you watch her then. watch her watching you. she cannot help herself. she was always a student of strength, of shape and bearing. you wear your body like it is both a weapon and an altar. she built the first half of you. now, she must contend with the rest.

you bow your head, barely, and only to the ritual. you do not kneel. pansa, without question, remains standing. her head never dips.

and ambessa, once your ruin, now your ally by necessity, tilts her head and laughs under her breath.

“then let’s begin.”

𓃖

the decision comes at dawn. 

ambessa gives the order to break camp, her voice slicing clean through the cool morning air. no one argues. no one ever does.

you and pansa are offered horses. you refuse. when your hand presses into the small of pansa’s back, she accepts. the path is remembered by your body. 

it will carry you.

ambessa rides ahead, all ceremony and command, but you keep your pace slow. it is not surrender, only familiarity. you’ve made this pilgrimage before. when you pass the red rock outcrop that juts like a broken tooth from the earth’s skull, you remember the blood it once drank. yours.

the palace rises in the distance like a mirage made of bone. you feel your own ring with memory. neither of you is beautiful in this place. you are exact.

inside, you remove your veil. you are not a guest here. you are a returned variable. a ghost that knows the way the light’s path runs alongside the architecture. you know every inch. you are mapped the same way.

you are led to chambers that had once been yours. nothing has changed. this is intentional. you leave your robes folded like memory and dress in metal instead. you drape yourself in what you survived. you are practical now; the ceremonial is no longer necessary. 

when the door opens hours later, it is not ambessa.

it is the girl.

she does not knock. she walks in as if it were her right, and perhaps, here, it is. she carries the signature ease of someone born into hierarchies like these.. her boots barely make a sound.

“you must be [name]. i am mel,” she says. “my mother asked me to attend the meeting. i came early.”

you turn only slightly. 

“to see me?”

she looks at you. you’ve redone your hair with brutal precision: braided back, coiled tight, a single sphere of amethyst nested in the center of your plait. it glints like an eye in the candlelight. you look, now, like one of ambessa’s elite. one of her many trainees. but the set of your jaw is not hers. the clear grief, the loose fit of this fighter’s skin? that is yours.

mel continues to watch you, eyes tracking the way you stand in a simple black high necked gown, cinch a belt and gaping open like a slit belly in the back. you say nothing and only adjust the vambrace over your left wrist. she notices you’ve stripped yourself of any further ornamentation save for the onyx collar at your throat over the fabric and the house-mark inked into your back. coordinates. 

she doesn’t comment on either.

you are militant, clearly, but dressed like a religious devotee. 

“i see now,” she says after a pause, “why they said you were hard to read. i see they just lacked the language.”

you meet her eyes. still no warmth, but no dismissal either. just a sort of studied apathy. briefly, mel realizes you scare her.

“i don’t need their filthy mouths to define me,” you reply.

mel tilts her head in interest. you mimic the action in the opposing direction, so that she can see the dog that she is. she corrects herself, embarrassed. good. she cannot be so open with her enemies when she reads them.

you wonder how much of her is her mother’s and how much is something still forming. if whatever is being birthed will reveal itself to be something softer, still steel, but in a different shape.

“strategy room is this way,” she says finally, gesturing.

you don’t thank her. 

you don’t have to.

the chamber is circular, high-ceilinged, and domed with shadow and the illumination of high-rising flame. the table is long and set with terrain markers, silk maps, and crystal pieces shaped like predators. medarda excess masquerading as military efficiency.

caitlyn is already seated, her posture composed but frayed at the edges. she looks…unwell. waxy, as if someone has drained her of life and ordered her to keep living. she stands when you and pansa enter, as if uncertain of what this demands.

pansa nods once. you only look away from her.

ambessa stands at the head of the table. she is not dressed for battle now but for rule. deep crimson and gold fabrics wrapped sharp to her body, armor only in metaphor. her hair is bound with golden wire and restraint. the grey takes nothing away from her beauty. you feel the weight of her gaze before it finds your face.

you hate the way your stomach flushes with warmth. she used to never look at you. 

mel takes her place beside her mother, heir-apparent and new to its gravity. she observes more than she speaks. you and pansa move in tandem, flanking the table. you do not sit. you rest your hands lightly on the wood. palms down. no invitation to softness.

ambessa doesn’t speak immediately. she’s watching. no, reading. you can feel her taking inventory: the way your sleeves continue to hide your arms, the way your shoulders square instead of slouch, the house-stone in your hair, the absence of veil, and the bareness of your back as you twist to catalogue the meeting’s attendants.

she looks like she wants to say something just to see how you’ll respond. if she speaks, you might strip her of skin.

mel notices it first: the standoff framed in silence. caitlyn shifts in her seat. you look at her again, think of how red her blood would be against the navy of her ponytail. she tenses, and you smile. it’s a quick, white slash of teeth. there is a sapphire inset upon each of your canines.

pansa, unimpressed by drama, begins: 

“the sisterhood sends us for information, not flattery. shall we get to work?”

ambessa’s mouth plateaus. she leans forward, bracing both hands on the table. she still doesn’t look at pansa.

“of course,” she murmurs, but her eyes never leave you. “if you’re ready.”

mel tracks everything: caitlyn’s nerves, your coiled silence, the flicker in her mother’s voice that is not annoyance nor command, but something else. she doesn't dare to name it. she just watches.

the first question comes from an officer. some minor strategist, brittle with pride.his face sags with the crueler marks of age, and you feel a twist of disgust. men are like animals to you. most of the time, you ached to put them down.

“why them?” he asks, gesturing at you and your sister with a flick that should cost him fingers. “why not a neutral envoy?”

before ambessa can speak, before pansa can scold, you answer.

“because we are not neutral,” you say evenly, almost pleasantly, “and we’ve never pretended to be. it is almost always personal, officer.”

the officer falters at your impeccable use of noxian to address his station. you continue.

“i was trained in piltover. groomed, they’d call it. measured for dresses i wasn’t allowed to pick, instructed in the politics of voice modulation and eye contact, given tests of how well i could wield a weapon whilst walking alongside an empress.”

you tilt your head toward caitlyn, toward the other lamb.

“i was meant to be you, commander.”

a ripple cuts through the room. caitlyn’s jaw clenches. you keep going.

“i passed every exam. i aced every simulation. i made the right friends, attended all the right parties. and then, when the moment came to choose who would be elevated, who would be adored, i was told it would be her. to this day, i don’t know if it was a result of house influence or if i was always meant to be humiliated. if that was my ritual.”

there’s no venom in your voice. that’s what makes it worse.

“i was escorted out of the kiramman estate with grace. that’s where they held the decision night,” you clarify. you can feel ambessa’s attention. it is a relentless, gravity-inducing pressure. “they gave me a coat for the cold. i was seventeen.”

you like eyes with mel. she’s very still. she is the same age you were then.

you tilt your chin, and your voice softens, but only in pitch.

“that night, cassandra kiramman came to me. said she felt sorry for the way it had ended. said i should be proud to have helped in training someone so luminous, to have trained beside her precious light of a daughter. that some of us were made to support the light, not stand in it.”

your emotions are beginning to rise. you sip your wine despite seeing the reflective sheen atop it. poison does nothing to you. the mere attempt makes your voice begin to rise. men were such putrid, leeching, pathetic creatures. so insipidly stupid and devoid of any worth.

it burns going down. your expression doesn’t change. but your voice curdles into something slow, sticky, vile.

“she told me i had a future still. that the world needed girls just. like. me.” every word is its own person. “quiet, composed, and eager to serve.”

you take a step forward.

“and then she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. the way a mother would. the way she knew my mother never did. it was meant to be reassuring.”

you close your eyes for one brief second. a single, crystalline snowflake falling behind your lashes.

“that was when it rose. the voice. not the one they trained. mine.”

a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.

“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”

a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.

“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”

mel inhales sharply.

“i saw her skull shudder beneath her skin. a crack formed across her cheekbone. her teeth fell out one by one. i hadn’t touched her.”

caitlyn’s chair scrapes. she remembers her mother in perfect image: cold, an incredible force, and mutilated unexpectedly on her left side. she rises, fury blooming in her throat. “you—”

you don’t even turn your head. your lips part and your throat expands, a word expelling.

“sit.”

your voice doesn’t echo. it reverberates.

caitlyn’s body stiffens, jerks, then slams back down into her seat with enough force to rattle the iced fruit in her water. the silence now is unnatural. even ambessa’s protective guard glance at one another, uncertain. mel is rigid, with lips dry and cracked. you slide her the unpoisoned chalice.

you go on, soft again, as if nothing happened.

“i let cassandra live, though i marred her. i thought mercy was strength.”

you look at everyone and no one.

“then, she died. three weeks later. murdered, if i remember correctly.” you have never forgotten. “her face was unrecognizable. her mouth was open.”

you meet the strategist’s eyes.

“i know how to make hard decisions.”

then you look at caitlyn, who cannot move.

you slide your tongue, pink and wide, across the plump plane of your lower lip. you suck off the sticky film of the toxin. you look away from her to the strategist, then to the right of him, where another man has been watching you drink all this time. you speak again. 

“pick up the blade.”

with shaking hands, he slides his hand forward without choice and picks up the letter opener sitting neatly before him. you take another sip of wine. again, you speak.

“drive it into your throat.”

his eyes widen in terror, but the command has been given. he must obey. like the animal—no. you love nature’s creatures, the mother’s children. like the parasite he is, you rephrase, he infests himself with the pointed tip of the blade. it pops through with a wet squelch and does not stop until it comes out from the back.

around him, his colleagues either retch or begin to pray.

you step forward, lean down, and let the wine dribble from your mouth. it erodes through his skin. 

there is silence now. pansa looks immeasurably smile. the mutual respect deepens.

“i know how to execute,” you say into the silence. “and i know how to live with it.”

you step back, then, and clasp your hands across your stomach. 

“any further questions?” 

there are none.

you look at ambessa. you recognize the look on her face. you would never misread desire, not when your own threatened to strangle you every night. 

“good.” you nod to yourself. “shall we have a break?”

you don’t wait for an answer. you turn and leave the room. you decide there is a break.

you never return, even when it’s over.

𓃖

the palace at night feels like a mouth that’s swallowed its own tongue. silent, damp, vast. 

the corridor outside your chambers has long gone quiet. no footsteps. no guards. no pansa in her rustling, soft silks. they’re giving you space. after what you did, they would be fools not to.

you should be asleep. you aren’t.

you sit at the edge of the bed, spine straight, shoulders loose, your hair still damp from the bath you drew yourself. the nightgown clings to you like mist: sheer, pale, and translucent as moonlight poured thin. beneath it, nothing. just skin and breath and heat. you sleep better when nothing cups you from below.

your belly aches. not with pain, but with pressure. with wanting. 

desire has found you once again, heavy in the belly with the water threatening to break. 

found you is a wishful phrase. it has never lost you.

you told yourself it was residual power, the lingering echo of your voice having snaked to life when you revisited cassandra’s cruelty. you told yourself it was the adrenaline. the blood on his hands, his body collapsed like a snapped bowstring after having stabbed himself, and ambessa’s men frozen in place by what you had ordered.

but that was hours ago.

now the ache is something else.

you hear her before you see her. the door opens slowly, deliberately. no knock. no hesitation. just a push and a presence. you understand her best after all. you, therefore, will best understand her intentions.

ambessa steps into the room as if it were her bedroom and never yours. she’s softened herself with her luxurious oils and long, silk robe, but the leather smell still clings to her like duty, like instinct. she’s done her hair in a row of four neat cornrows. you always liked it best that way.

her eyes sweep over you. it feels like a trial by fire.

your bare feet press against the cool floor, your toes twisting as she appreciates how the candlelight ghosts over the curves of your breasts through the nightgown and your open hands.

she closes the door behind her.

you don’t speak.

she does. “you’re not afraid of the implications of what you did.”

“no,” you answer. your voice is quiet, but still steeled. “he tried to kill me. i defended myself and my sister, albeit rather dramatically. a point had to be made. if anything, be grateful that pansa and i have not decided to contact the reverend mother superior.”

“i agree.” ambessa takes a few steps closer. “you’ve grown stronger, little one. the way you did it was so final. so fast. my advisors have been silent ever since.”

“good.” you tilt your chin up, meeting her gaze like a blade to a whetstone. “let them speak to each other, if they’re so desperate for noise.”

your brow furrows. you say something more.

“do not call me that.” the voice rocks through her imperceptibly. "i am not little.”

she halts a pace from you, the flame pulling the sharp lines of her face into something less severe, maybe even tired. “that,” she says, “is a horrible feeling.”

“it’s not meant to be pleasant,” you tell her.

she nods. “you didn’t flinch. earlier.”

you look at her. not away. at her. “would you have, if it were mel’s chalice?”

ambessa tenses at the mention of her daughter. you smile as you glance down, cold and mean.

“is that her full name?”

ambessa makes a scoffing sound somewhere in the back of her throat. your smile widens.

“she’s a good girl. weak at the moment, but good. most likely will be formidable. and your son…” the silence is thick. “kino, right? the one with the silver tongue. i take it he is the weakness you wish to iron out?”

you glance over your shoulder then and find her with her mouth pursed in barely concealed fury. family was always a bruise on the skin for her. you didn’t have the same attachments coming from your house. 

“well, we’ll begin properly tomorrow. i trust pansa did nothing but lead the room in circles without me there. she is cunning. she will never plan without another sister there to reinforce her, which is smart. that’s why she was chosen, if you were wondering.”

ambessa doesn’t answer. she just looks at you. really looks.

“you’re not wearing anything beneath that,” she says at last, low, rough.

your lips curl, just barely. “you shouldn’t. it’s bad for circulation. and your cunt needs to breathe.”

that earns you the smallest flicker of her smile. the one that still cuts you with its honesty. once, her happiness was all that you could ever imagine.

“i never imagined the bene gesserit would teach such wisdom.”

“it wasn’t the bene gesserit,” you say. “it was cassandra.”

her eyes sharpen, just a little. you rarely speak of the woman in a benevolent light. but tonight, the air is already split open. you smile wryly.

“she always knew i wasn't a true contender. she pitied me. i was the one with my foot in the snake’s mouth with no knowledge of its venom.”

ambessa’s eyes flick. a blink, maybe. or a tremor. but you’ve studied her too long not to notice the way her jaw ticks, just once, at the name. cassandra kiramman was as strong a ghost as she was when she possessed vitality. that woman’s memory would always cut like wire through wet flesh. it would destroy her daughter in the end. 

but ambessa does not bleed. when she speaks, it is in that too-light voice she uses when she's balancing the edge of a blade on her tongue.

“how thorough of her,” she says, her voice low and teetering on the edge of venom. “tell me. do you teach people how to touch you properly, using the voice?”

your spine straightens, your chin lifts, but you do not answer. it is so wildly inappropriate, so surgically meant to harm, you almost laugh. instead, you sit with the taste of it in your mouth. 

you recognize the wound she’s trying to carve: jealousy, intended to maim. she can’t stand the idea of you being honed by anyone but her. after everything, she still thinks she can lay claim. your mouth twists. you give her nothing. 

just the cold flint of your gaze. only ambessa doesn’t need your permission. 

she steps forward, closing the space like she has never lost her entitlement to it.

"you think you’re free,” she murmurs, a thread of smoke in her voice. “but i made you. you came back for me. every inch of who you are, every whisper in that sharp little tongue of yours. i shaped it. i sculpted it.”

her fingers ghost down the front of your nightgown.

“you’ve never not been mine, sister. you are another repeat of the pattern. commander kiramman left, too, then limped back like a little child.” oh, you think, so the deceit has begun, then. you’ll be sure to tell pansa. “it never leaves you. i never left you.”

you inhale slowly, jaw clenched tight enough to shatter. her hand fists the fabric at your chest.

“and this,” she says, almost disappointed as she tears the delicate cloth from your body in one clean rip, “this is thin work. i expected better from a sister of your rank. given your mission. given me.”

the fabric pools like spilled milk at your feet. you don’t flinch.

you look her in the eye and say, “the real one is.”

that stops her, for just a beat. her mouth twitches. then your voice cuts through the space again, low, intimate, deliberate:

“but i know how you are.”

like a wolf who’s caught the scent of blood, her expression shifts into possession, ravenous and half-crazed with hunger. you’ve baited the beast, and you can see her deciding whether to bare her teeth or bury them in you. her hand lands on your jaw. it’s gentle, almost. but the heat beneath it burns with old fury.

she will devour you, if only to prove she still can.

you strike her hard. she falls against the side of the bed. it feels good to move her. you bend. your breasts hover, full and glossy with your perfumes.

“i came back for me. i found my voice. you are like the rest, so arrogant and all too eager to take credit for things you don’t fully understand.” your breath smells sweet as it runs haggardly across her face, like strawberries singed with blackened sugar. “twisting those girls into weapons? yes, ambessa, that was you. but what i am? that is in my blood. you fight because you cannot speak.”

ambessa’s eyes glitter. that jagged, serrated shine that threatens a lineage torn in two. she exhales through her nose, slow, calculating. then, she laughs.

a single, humorless sound.

then grabs you by the throat. just to hold. to show you her hand still fits there. you are young again.

“you say i can’t speak,” she murmurs, voice close to reverent. “but i’ve always known your dialect best. i know what makes you beg.”

your blood thrums like war drums. you let her drag you backwards until the backs of your knees meet the bed. you fall onto it, neither helpless nor defeated. you are not as young as you once were.

she climbs over you with the patience of a beast about to feast. she doesn’t kiss you, not yet. she hovers, her mouth close enough to graze, but never give.

you breathe her in, let her essence sit behind your ribs like a calcification.

“the first step of harnessing the voice,” you say, voice deliciously devoid of feeling, “is learning how to use your mouth.”

and then you roll her. she doesn’t expect it. how could she? you’re twenty-something-summers young, and she’s upward of fifty and built like a living weapon. but you take her with a grunt, your thighs pressing into hers, your fingers biting into that thick, corded shoulder. you move like you’ve been waiting years to do this.

you shift, knees dragging up along the mountainous hills of her ribs, until your cunt hovers above her mouth, eclipsing her face entirely. her eyes flare with something primal as you seat yourself over her mouth. this is not an offering. this is a usage. as far as you're concerned, this is what you’re owed.

she moans against you as she licks into the pink of you, mouth hot as tar as she sucks. she sighs like she's grateful, but you don’t look at her. you only lean backward, sweat beading along your back, one hand braced on one of her large thighs.

you rock back and forth, eyes closed and brow furrowed. her tongue is thick as it fills you, the sounds of her feasting upon your cunt obscene. you grow steadier, more precise. the tempo quickens. you’re truly riding now, tits bouncing in tandem with your impatience.

ambessa trails a hand up until she reaches your cunt, playing with the lips as she spreads it further to provide her with more acces. she lifts you easily, holding you suspended with one hand and dragging a finger from the other up and down. her mouth runs a mile a minute, a stream of filth.

“you’re so tight,” she murmurs against your thigh, the words hot against her veins. "perfect and so eager for me. so fucking eager despite your resistance, aren’t you? you need me, don't you?”

you try to answer, fury rising, but then ambessa slips a finger in and fucks into you. you lose all ability to create a sound. one of her hands moves to rise and twist into your hair, yanking a mass of it as you chase every push. you groan gutturally, the pain so familiar and so fucking good.

but, as always, you regain yourself and your strength. you push her wrist down and out, and sit to once again smother her. she allows it, squeezing your ass as you begin to curl over her.

you grind in tight circles, chasing the peak, your hips drawing runes of impatience onto her mouth.

once.

twice.

your hands shake with pleasure and power. you come with a snarl and tears on your cheeks. it’s messy and furious and decidedly not romantic, despite this being one of the things in life you had wanted most. you grind down until your thighs are soaked and her mouth is slick with you.

you lift off, breath ragged, but she laughs. the sound rings deep in her chest. 

“done already? i thought i trained you to be able to withstand, to have more stamina.”

she flips you like you weigh nothing, like you are nothing. in a matter of minutes, she has you belly-down, hips high, your knees braced. a parabola of flesh and fury across the bedspread. her hands spread you open with greedy precision.

she watches both of your holes clench, one slightly loosened and the other tight and puckered. she spits, letting you feel it slide down the crack of your ass into the hot, wet, sticky cavern of your cunt. she demeans you, over and over, only to then:

crack.

the strike lands hot across your thighs. you flinch. 

she does it again.

and again.

the pain flays you open from the inside. you cry into the sheets, face sticky with tears, but your spine doesn’t break. your body shakes, but you don’t beg. you refuse. and she’s rutting into you with her tongue, carving you out like she can burn her memory back into your skin. but she still hasn’t given you what you came for.

you wrench upward, spit still shining on your thighs, and when she reaches for something to fill you. fingers, weapon, something blunt—

“stop,” you say.

she stills. you speak again.

“get up.”

she rises as though she can’t help it. she cannot. her knees betray her. her body conducts itself according to your code.

you slide on a shirt, something old and scent-worn from one of your chests, and begin to walk. you are barefoot through the dark halls. bare soles kiss the cold marble of your pilgrimage. each step echoes, lonely as a bell. you are a shadow gliding down a corridor built to swallow noise. 

ambessa’s breath is still hot on your skin. you don’t have to look back to see if she follows.

it is not difficult to navigate these halls, to find your way to commander kiramman’s room. you spent so many hours doing the same steps while deciding whether or not to kill her. to mutilate her just like her cunt of a mother.

the doors, when you find them, rise before you, gold and inlaid with the kiramman crest. your heart twitches with violence at the sight.

the doors creak open with a sound like a death rattle. wood gives. dust lifts.

the room is dimly lit, velvet-draped, and humid with something that smells like sweat and something softer. a traitor’s comfort. you step in, barefoot and borderline blissful at the dense presence of subconscious fear that floods your mind. even the air folds around your voice like it’s afraid. you’re trembling with the anticipation of it.

ambessa is still following, caught in your undertow and half-naked, though covered enough and glistening with your need.

the bed is absurd in its grandeur, wide enough to bury three bodies and posts like cathedral spires.

caitlyn, ambessa’s beloved right-hand-in-training, is curled into another woman’s side. their limbs are tangled like there is a grave and they are preparing to both lie in it. her throat is blotched red, pale collarbone smeared with kisses. neither breaks from the other at first, but then you purposefully shuffle over the floorboards. 

caitlyn hears you first and then bucks against the fleshy prison of her lover’s arms when she sees you. the other one—short, stocky build, and a shock of pink hair—lets her go after a moment’s confusion, limbs scrambling upright as she follows suit in taking you in. 

you step forward lazily, every muscle in your body drawn taut like skin stretched back over a corpse’s bleached bones, sinew humming with ancestral effort. with you comes ambessa, eyes glazed over with a horrifying detachment. your mouth opens, and what comes out is more vibration than sound. it is something warped, raw, and cruel in its precision.

“and to think your mother died for this.”

caitlyn flinches and shifts, her foot slipping off the bed and touching the floor. her mouth parts. her shoulders drop a fraction, and in that fraction is submission.

“stay on the bed.”

she gasps, small and sharp, and rocks in place. her eyes lock on your face, wide with a personal terror. she knows you will never care if she lives or dies. the pink-haired woman, violet, remains in her place. good, she’s more than just sloppy drinking and bloody fists.

caitlyn is unable to look away from you. you with your shirt too big and riding high on your hips, inner thighs slick with want, and your most personal war. those glacial eyes flicker behind you, to where she sees ambessa just behind you, sweat-beaded and dazed, her lips parted like she’s forgotten how to close them.

she swallows. she has never seen mental control up close like this. it is always so disturbing the first time. 

at least it was for others.

your gaze pins her like a blade tip to the breastbone.

“do you really think i care about strengthening a bloodline that is not my own?” you ask her, voice low, guttural, awful.

neither of them answers.

you step closer.

caitlyn curls instinctively toward vi, who twitches like she might fight. her breath even hitches like she might cry out, but for whom? you? but it’s already clear: you are the most dangerous thing in the room. even with no earthly weapon. even with your thighs still trembling from the last time ambessa buried her mouth in you. still, you warn her,

“don’t be stupid, violet. the wealth she inherits does nothing to obscure her perception of your inferiority. the indoctrination takes years to bleed out. ideally, you would like to live long enough to see if i’m telling you the truth.”

the only sound is the drip of something unseen. candle wax, or blood. your voice has stilled the room. your voice has ruled in silence before the verdict. you take one step forward, and caitlyn tries to recoil. her stupidity bites at you.  her hand clenches the sheets like she might find safety in fabric.

that makes you laugh.

it is as you said in the strategy room. you are never a neutral creature. there will always be a side you lean towards. tonight, you are evil. there is no grey. there is just the black against the “white.”

ambessa hasn’t spoken since you ordered her up. her silence is leaden. the command has worn off. you made your utterance weak on purpose. she stands right behind you now. her chest is rigid, and her throat bulges with the constant swallow of her rage. she is silent, imperial with wide eyes and the shine of your wetness still glistening on her lips like sacrament.

she should look terrifying. she does. but she also looks small. 

they all do.

you speak then, softly.

“i hope she was worth it, ambessa. your toy soldier. your little court pet. you gave her what was mine, and you did it knowingly. my title. my power. my place at your side.” it is so still that one could hear the fall of dust in a corner. “pattern this and pattern that. you thought i would never come back. you understood i was warped. a deviant.”

you tilt your head, as if curious. as if this is academic.

“and this is what you built your empire on? a woman who cowers at the sound of me?”

you laugh. all this joy is intoxicating.

vi places herself between you and caitlyn, squared like a wall of flesh and instinct. that almost makes you smile again.

like putting an ox before a landslide.

you lay down your law.

“three lives. one decision.”

you step back, a slow pivot on your heel until you're one end of a triangle, the other ends crowned by the lives arrayed before you. the geometry seals shut: you are the point of origin, they are your consequence.

“one death. or three.”

you don’t need to say any names. everyone understands their place.

you look to ambessa. from your sleeve, you draw what you hid before leaving your rooms: a hand-held sickle, curved like a stolen smile. you place it in the center, between you all.

her mouth parts. yours opens.

your face changes. it contorts: godlike and grotesque. a twisting mask of recollection made monstrous. this is your grief made primal. grief too wild, too large for the bone.

no one has ever understood just how angry you are.

your cheeks flush hot, then frost. your eyes glisten, salt-hot with unshed joy. you sway under the weight of what’s to come.

they see it. they see the end.

you will not leave empty-handed. you are hideous with your hunger for vindication.

caitlyn begins to cry, body jerking awkwardly under the command, you spit upon her. she is right to weep. ambessa, the empress who has had your thighs over her shoulder like spoils, who’s felt your voice pour into her spine like acid, does nothing. that is the medarda way

loyalty is expected. never returned.

besides, she couldn’t have saved anyone if she tried.

your voice doesn’t rise, but it erupts. it shatters the bedposts. curls the fireplace flame. peels the paint. your body bears it all: sore and aching. raw, desecrated, and divine. your lungs expand with relief as you let it go. 

it is final.

it is lacerating.

it tunnels into ambessa’s mind, snaps her bones, and robs them of marrow.

it drags itself out of you, twisting the skin at your jaw. your veins stand high. your eyes rattle in their sockets as it scrapes through every last one of you.

“choose.” 

© hcneymooners.

[writersdrug]

Mourning Dove

Chapter 3: Pursuit

Masterlist

Summary: König finds a lost lamb and guides it home, away from the wolves.

Warnings: Obsessive behavior, chasing, anxiety

The forest wasn’t full of surprises – at least, not to König. In fact, it was a comfortably predictable place. Trees grew and shed their leaves, animals frolicked in the early morning and landed in his traps at night. Mushrooms sprouted among the tree stumps behind his cabin, and the sun rose and fell. The only variance was in what he cooked for his meals or how many logs he put in the woodstove, and even then, there wasn’t much of a difference.

When the sickness had broken out across nations, he had hardly noticed it. If it wasn’t for his biweekly trip down the mountain, he wouldn’t have. He had barely made a mile from the forest’s border when he heard the animalistic, yet alien murmurs and howls from the town. After a day’s observation from the sanctuary of the woods, he understood what had become of the majority of the population. Necessities became luxuries, and trips were cut back to a once-a-month basis. He didn’t have the mental energy nor the patience to fight off hundreds of creatures every other week.

The infected stayed away from this neck of the woods – most of the time. There was the occasional straggler that somehow made it up the steep incline, but half the time, they were forced back down once they discovered the lack of fresh human sinew. The ones that pushed closer to his cabin were nothing he couldn’t handle. They were no different than animals in his opinion, just without any usable or edible bits; the bones were too weak and brittle, and the ligaments and fibers of their flesh too mushy. If anything, they provided target practice, even if he didn’t need it.

But, this was all typical. Expected.

What was unexpected, was you.

First, it was the smell of smoke lingering in the air. König certainly hadn’t lit his woodstove for a while now. Burnt, citrusy smoke hung unnaturally in the air at eleven in the morning, nearly burning his nostrils with the unbearably piney scent. Rather than climbing down his usual path, he followed it east, curious to see who was in his neck of the woods. The infected didn’t have the brains to start a fire anymore – literally – and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had come through this area. It wasn’t near any trails or known paths, so whoever was bold enough to venture out this way had him curious and on high alert.

Soon, he stumbled across the pillar of smoke climbing towards the sky. The hunter in him settled down when he realized that this person was rather daft – leaving a fire smoking like that was no different than handing someone a knife and asking them to stab you. It was foolish of someone to think they were alone in the woods, and equally as foolish to think those creatures wouldn’t scale the mountain for a crumb of human flesh.

Finally, nearly an hour away from his cabin (fancy he’d stumble upon you on the way home), there you were. Up against a small boulder, your back to the decline of the mountain; König wondered if you had frozen to death, with nothing but your cardigan draped across your body to fight the autumn chill.

You were curled up on a rather soggy patch of forest floor. There was nothing underneath you but wet leaves and cold dirt. Your cardigan was draped over you as much as it could as a makeshift blanket – hardly one at that. König would have assumed you were dead if it wasn’t for the tremor in your shoulders, and the fact that the fire’s embers were still smoking. You must have gotten cold enough during the night to try and keep the blaze going. A backpack was carelessly and ineffectively hidden beneath a pile of twigs and matted leaves, with a protein bar wrapper shoved into the side pocket. However small the gesture was, he appreciated the awareness of your environment.

There was a plethora of questions swimming in his head. How did you get this high up the mountain? Did you mean to make it this far? How had you survived the virus for so long? He didn’t mean to judge a book by its cover, but you were rather dense and careless with your own self preservation tactics. He doubted that you kept the fire burning to mask your scent from the infected… that was too much effort for someone who slept facing the boulder, instead of keeping their eyes on the open space ahead of them.

He watched you for a while, until the dying fire’s smoke was no more than a few tendrils, curling towards the sky and disappearing before they reached the tops of the trees. Every sound from within the woods had him swiveling his head, making sure nothing was tearing up the mountain to disturb your sleep. He shouldn’t care; in fact, it was very uncharacteristic of him to care about anyone but himself. Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen a real person in the last two months, let alone held a conversation with one. But he found himself watching you like a shepherd watching his lambs – because that’s all you were, wasn’t it? A lost lamb, doing your best to survive in the wild. How could he leave such an untainted, innocent thing to the wolves?

But enough of that. You were starting to stir awake.

You rolled over to stare at the dead embers, your face puffy from an unrestful sleep. Your eyes were full of resignment and uncertainty. König wanted to chide you for waking up so late into the morning – the daylight needed to be used for finding food and making distance, not sleeping. He watched as you sat up with a sigh and put your cardigan on. As you rose to your feet, he noticed the back of your jeans were damp from the wet ground you had spent the night on. He was becoming more and more frustrated with you; you and your poor survival skills, your wet pants, your weak shoes, and the leaves in your hair that you didn’t seem to care to pick out. He would gladly do it to satisfy the perfectionist in him, if it wasn’t such a domestic gesture.

He watched intently, like a good shepherd would, as you threw wet leaves onto the makeshift campfire. Good practice, if it wasn’t completely pointless at this time of day. You sheepishly looked around the clearing, before making your way into the denser thicket of trees. He didn’t realize what you were doing until he saw you fumbling with the waistline of your jeans.

It made him laugh internally. The fact that you were so cautious, as if some woodland creature might spy on you. He was the only one you needed to worry about, but he decided to spare your privacy. He’d be worried about how quickly you were ensnaring his territorial instincts, like you had already belonged to him, if he didn’t have the excuse of your obviously non-existent self-preservation to back his newfound obsession.

He waited until you had disappeared behind the boulder before abandoning his spot among the shrubbery. His footsteps were calculated and quiet as he approached your makeshift campsite. The air was thick with acrid smoke, piney and sharp from the fir needles that had burnt up in the fire. Remnants of you littered the area: your bag, of course, laid open and propped against the rock. You’d swept away most of the leaves and twigs from where you had lay on the ground, and there was a thin line you had drawn around the perimeter of your bed. It made him laugh, a soft huff escaping through his nostrils at the idea of you staking a claim here.

His thick fingers dipped into your bag, rummaging through the contents. Some weird, big straw… protein bars, batteries, and a pretty pathetic medical kit. He’d seen them before in the hunting store he used to frequent in town, placed near the cashier’s desk in an attempt to catch the eye of someone who didn’t know any better. That was you, wasn’t it? You didn’t know any better; you focused on bringing things that would keep you alive in the short run, but nothing to sustain you. Where were your tools? What would you do to hunt, or to gather wood, or to defend yourself? Were you mistaking fortunate circumstances for your own skill? Did you know how to use that little knife, kleines Lamm? Judging by the bandage wrappers stuffed into the side pocket of your backpack, it appeared that you didn’t.

In the outside pocket of the bag, he found a set of car keys. What had you planned to do with a car? He thought. The gas stations were all shut down, most likely out of gas from the hysteria when the infection had started. Foolish girl… didn’t you think of that? He mused. Did you think of anything at all? Or were you so recklessly desperate to survive, that you threw all caution to the wind?

He was back under the cover of the trees by the time you were finished. Cerulean irises watched from the shadows as you knelt by your bag, digging around through the contents until you pulled out a map. He stifled a laugh as you looked at the damn thing with a furrowed brow, then turned it upside-down, then once more to the left, until your face relaxed into a satisfied expression. You held the map loosely in one hand as you shouldered your bag, stomped on the ashes of the fire a bit, and made your way west.

König’s curiosity had him in a chokehold. The only reasonable thing he could think of was to follow you.

He kept a good distance from you, maybe a hundred yards down the mountain from where you walked. Your eyes were glossy and tired as you stared ahead. Occasionally, he observed as you glanced at the map, then the babbling creek, then back ahead. Boredom was clear as day on your face – what were you searching for? Where were you going? There was nothing out here, other than König’s cabin, and miles and miles of woods. Roze and Horangi had made sure he was planted in a safehouse, far beyond where roads and buildings began to smatter across the maps’ pages.

He found himself sizing you up a bit. He didn’t like how sluggishly you moved; it was understandably due to a lack of real food. Protein bars could only sustain you so much, especially if you were rationing yourself to one per day. You had potential to be a warm body, with enough hearty food and pampering – you deserved that. Who else to give it to you, but himself? He was worthy of it; he’d spend enough time alone, toiling over his own survival and keeping the forest decently clean and flourishing, hadn’t he? He earned the right to take care of you, to turn you into an ideal mate. It’s as if the forest had gifted you to him for all his hard work, and he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

His humanity told him to slow down, back off, and reminded him that you didn’t belong to him. His instinct promised to make you his.

It impressed König, how much distance you were able to cover before you stopped for a break. The boredom might have been helping you trudge along, because at least you were moving. Eventually, however, you had come to stop by a sharp bend of the river, sitting yourself at the base of a tree. König allowed himself to linger closer to you, planting himself behind a thicket of barberry bushes.

What am I doing? He forced him self to ask the question that he had neglected over the past several hours. He drank in your exhausted expression and muscles, watching you slump over as you rested your elbows on your knees. Both obsessing and protecting came to mind as he stared, noticing the tremor in your shoulders. The objective of the question slowly faded to the back of his mind as he reeled at the thought of warming you up. Plenty of blankets and furs back at the cabin… and a woodstove, too. There was a number of ways he could warm you up, protect you from the nipping cold and keep you from having to stuff your fingers in your armpits, like you were now.

It was already festering inside of him: his obsession with you. You, a little lost thing, unaware that you had trespassed into his part of the woods. An unfamiliar hunger settled in his muscle fibers, running underneath his skin along his veins. He struggled with the urge to come up behind you and take you by the scruff of your neck, then drag your limp, compliant body back to his home. It was unnatural, but strong. An instinct, perhaps, but why now? Why was this what caused his jaw to ache with a need to bite, mark, claim? Saliva pooled in between his teeth as he watched you tuck your hair behind your ears, checking your fingernails – completely oblivious to the eyes peering at you through thick leaves and shrubbery. It’s ok, kleines Lamm, he can forgive that. You just don’t know any better. That’s what he’s there for; I’ll kill every creature in these woods, so you can be free of anxiety and fear.

Of course, as he was piecing together the perfect picture of your life woven into his, the universe had to take him down a few notches. Life can’t be too easy, can it?

A voice broke through the trees, echoing in between the sturdy trunks until the sound reached König’s ears. He heard the timbre before you did. A name. Yours, perhaps? The voice was angry, bitter – what had you done, kleines Lamm? It had to be your name, considering you were the only other human he’d crossed paths with since the start of the spread. Now, two humans? It was the most interesting thing that to occur in the last five years.

The second time was closer. You heard it, he could tell; the way your body froze, and how your eyes widened, like prey when they realize they’re staring at death’s doors. You sat upright in a heartbeat, scanning the area around you and quickly shouldering your bag. König could practically smell the fear dripping from you, he could hear the adrenaline surging through your veins. It ignited a spark within himself as he saw the coils in your mind tightening, getting ready to sprint away from the danger. He leaned on his haunches, watching as you calculated where you planned to launch off to.

Finally, after the third and closest call of your name, you sprung into action, pushing yourself up onto your feet and tearing away from the river. You went north. Up. König wasn’t expecting that. He had assumed you’d go south, using the decline of the mountain to your advantage. You’re rather smart, he thought, as he began chasing after you. Maybe you thought your hunter would think you’d go south, too. Pride thrummed appreciatively in the back of his mind – you were able to ignore your instinct, in cases where it wouldn’t be helpful, and that was an excellent survival skill that not many possessed.

You were quick when you were desperate. As the mountain’s incline grew, you resorted to clawing your way upwards like an animal fingers digging into whatever tree bark or dirt they could latch onto. Where were you going? Did you plan to hide within the high altitudes and colder temperatures until your hunter had moved on? You were aimless. If you had a plan to begin with, it was now thrown to the wind to make room for your will to survive – or rather, escape.

You threw a glance over your shoulder, but König knew you wouldn’t see him. He was a ways behind you, taking the quiet path and laying low. The last thing he wanted was to spook you and have you cowering in fear, stuck like a deer in headlights - or send you in the wrong direction completely. You were already running rather carelessly; he had to hold back a cautionary shout when you started slipping on the wet leaves and stones. Your shoes were already falling apart, and he was bristling at the thought of you injuring yourself, in which case he wouldn’t hesitate to snatch you up and carry you home.

But, of course, when there’s a will, there’s a way.

Your next step was rather unfortunate, as your perishing shoe slipped on the sodden foliage decorating the forest floor. You hit the ground and punched the breath out of your own lungs, unintentionally wedging your arm between your chest and the forest floor. He didn’t miss the way you squeezed your eyes shut and clenched your teeth together, holding back the wail that threatened to expose your location – ah, did you hurt something? Reckless thing…

You slowly sat back on your heels, cradling your right arm to your chest. König saw the pain in your face as you stared at your arm – he so desperately wanted to know what you were thinking. Poor thing is probably exhausted and sore… you weren’t made for this kind of fear and pain. He wanted to grab you then and there, hold you to his chest, and take off with you back to his home. It was his instinct to protect you.

But that’s just the thing. It was instinct. You wouldn’t understand it. You would call that abduction, despite the fact that you didn’t have a place to be abducted from. You didn’t belong here, nor anywhere. How far were you from home? Did you even have one?

You would. He’d see to it himself.

Another cry of your name, much angrier than the last one (if that was possible). You didn’t hear it – you probably couldn’t over the pain you felt. A lamb, too focused on the sharp-shooting agony in its foot to realize the wolves were closing in on you. He couldn’t wait for you to pick yourself up.

He had to herd you back home.

He didn’t want you to see him – that might frighten you away. But, he would use your own hysteria against you. You’d forgive him, right? It was for your own good.

He let his instinct take over again. He charged up the mountain towards your position, letting the twigs snap under his weight and the leaves kick up around him.

Your head snapped up. Your eyes were glossy with tears, fixed at König’s general direction. Like one of Phidias’s masterpieces, you were chiseled marble, frozen statue-still as you listened for more.

Did you think he was one of the creatures? Kleines Lamm… I am so much better.

He sprung into action once again, and the sound was enough to release you from your fear. You scrambled to your feet and took off back up the mountain, clawing your way through the humus and leaves like prey running from the hunter. Don’t worry… he wasn’t the hunter. He was the watch hound, steering you to safety – even if he was using rather unethical methods. But you didn’t know any better.

He purposefully made a mess of sounds: heavy footfalls against the ground, rustling up leaves as he ran. Slamming his body against tree trunks and causing the wood to crack. He breathed heavily, almost snarling, lips curling into a wicked grin as he heard you whimpering in panic. You wouldn’t turn around to see what or who was chasing you – good girl, just run. Run home.

The voice didn’t call out again. That, or König had chased you far enough away where the sound of your name called in anger wouldn’t be heard. You slowed down a bit, breaths mixing with panicked whines as you swallowed lungfulls of air. When you veered a little too far from where König wanted you to be, he would drag himself to that side and stir up noise, effectively herding you back to the desired path. He could tell you were on the brink of passing out. Just a little further, and you could stumble upon his cabin, break into his home and collapse on his floor for him to find later. Sure, he might be mad at himself – he had always thought he preferred being alone, not having to deal with shit from another human again. His military days were over. But the loneliness was there, lingering in the back of his mind, now taking the reigns and driving this poor, frightened dove into his trap.

No; not a trap, he reminded himself, a shelter. A cave, to hide her from whatever haunts her.

Satisfaction and relief made their homes in his mind when he had herded you where he wanted you. He stopped his pursuit, bracing himself against a tree and panting heavily, watching as you continued your terror-induced scramble up the mountain. The cabin was a mile away, but he trusted you would recognize the signs of life and follow them to safety. Hopefully, the bastard he was protecting you from hadn’t traumatized you beyond socialization.

No, he knew he’d find you there. God knows how many days of protein bars and walking for miles on end would have you drooling at the sight of his cabin, however outdated it might be. It would be a surprise for his future self, seeing you all cozy and safe in his cabin when he returns to it in a day or two – but he knew he was lonely. He had to listen to himself all day, he couldn’t deny it. He would come to appreciate you, and hopefully, you’d realize that you need him: the perfect protector, mate, and provider.

Next ->

Taglist: @nic-stars @teenagellamaangel @zhuyingsworld @crypticme @konigswifeyforlifey @zlunia @gremlinmodetweeker

[twooftheluckyones]

Cult of the Lamb: Luck of the Lamb Part 3: Paradigm Shift Belief is a force beyond reckoning. What one believes in can shape the entire course of their lives, and if their will is strong enough, the lives of others as well. So great can someone's ideals be, that their divine power might change the very fabric of reality. After all, the Lamb was wrought to bring change. ~Previous/Next~ ~Start~

~~~~ Story Segment Under Cut ~~~~

"Una, you have done well," Narinder boomed from above. Finally, freedom was so close. Pride and triumph filled him, victory barely within his grasp. "You are freed from my service. Return the crown to me, so that I may be free! Finally... I will be FREE!" An electric energy filled his arms, the shackles binding him gone, now only one final chain to be broken. Una looked up at the god, eyes filled with awe but still pleading. "Narinder, I have one final request of you," she asked, nervousness filling her entire core and seeping into her words. She felt ready to implode. "Let me join you, fighting by your side as your most trusted follower!" Narinder's smile faded, looking guarded, but still neutral. "I have spent my entire life in your service, and hold you above all else. Let me stay by your side and continue my duties as your loyal servant, please!" Narinder's smile faded, and for a pause he looked at her, conflicted. "Your growing divinity has given you courage above all else... I will at least give you some closure." His jaw tightened, his demeanor turning dour as shadow covered his face. It had to be this way. "You ask far beyond what can be done. I cannot save you from your ending." He looked down at her, eyes narrow. "I arrived in much the same manner you did; by dying. My vile siblings struck me down, but death is my domain. The power within the crown would have allowed me to escape. It is only with their binding chains that I was trapped here." Una felt the floor vanish from under her, clutching the crown with fear. The implication of his words began to sink in. "No! There must be a way!" She stammered, desperation taking hold. "T-The ritual of resurrection?!" "The mortal soul is but a candle, simple to relight, but the raging power of a god cannot simply be rekindled with mere bones and chanting." He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the vast expanse around them. Suddenly the still air felt thick, oppressive, binding. "Their chains may be gone, but we are still both bound to this place, and have been since we died. Death is as inevitable as the sand in an hourglass running empty. It is only through the crown's power that a god can escape it." He looked at her again, and only for a moment she saw the faint glimmer regret in his eyes. But determination snuffs it instantly. "This includes you... Una," the name is oozing with remorse, far more sympathy than the god has ever granted anyone. "Your musings of emergent divinity are true. Even if you returned the crown, I cannot undo the divinity that now fills your soul." He stretched his arm out again, hand right in front of her. His eyes smoldered with command. There is no other way. "Return it. Now." Una did not obey. Her trembling hands steeled themselves around a jet black sword, glaring up at him with furious refusal in her eyes. Tears of betrayal ran down her face, but did not sway her hand. There had to be another way. The electricity in her body surged, divine energy rising up around her as she prepared to defy destiny. The space around them crackled with the whirlwind of power, a furious storm summoned by one who defies all odds and opposes fate itself. One becomes nothing, and the universe trembled in change.

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

As I was rereading Thousand Autumns, I collected all of Shen Qiao's sarcastic thoughts he keeps to himself:

"Did Sect Leader Yan rent a courtyard with only one bedroom?" Shen Qiao asked. Yan Wushi was completely unruffled. "Of course not. But I rented the courtyard, so I can sit wherever I please. You've been unconscious for days, and I've taken care of you for the entire journey. But instead of thanking me, you've been acting all evasive. Was the sect leader of Xuandu Mountain brought up with such rude manners?" Shen Qiao thought to himself, My manner is evasive because yours is abnormal.

Ruyan Kehui smiled minutely... "The northern kingdoms are vast and abundant, but the southern kingdom is no less so. Once he's tasted Linchuan Academy's tea, perhaps this honored guest will find it unbearable to leave, even without his host imploring him to stay?" With a claim like that, did the Linchuan Academy drug all their visitors, and that's why they couldn't bear to leave? Shen Qiao couldn't help it and burst out with a chuckle.

Yan Wushi was all smiles. "My A-Qiao is so clever!" Shen Qiao's face grew dark. Who's your A-Qiao?

"... I suffered some serious injuries, and it took everything I had to escape. Ever since then, I've been too frightened to rashly provoke that guy anymore. A great and honorable grandmaster like him, splitting hairs with a weak woman like me? How petty and unbecoming of him." You're not a weak woman, thought Shen Qiao. Furthermore, you were the one who snuck into someone else's territory. If they let you come and go as you wish, what's the point of Linchuan Academy's gates? Might as well let people barge in every day.

Shen Qiao placed the lamb soup and flatbread in front of Yan Wushi. "Are you hungry? Eat." Yan Wushi glanced at Shen Qiao, then quickly dropped his head and mumbled, "Feed me." Shen Qiao fell silent. After a long time with no reply, Yan Wushi raised his head to look at Shen Qiao, then said hesitantly, "Like last time... Kis..." If I knock him unconscious right now, will he wake up with a more normal personality? Shen Qiao contemplated this with all seriousness.

"A-Qiao, why are you ignoring me?" Because right now I'm contemplating whether to knock you out before we keep going, Shen Qiao thought.

"She's my younger sister," said Shen Qiao. "Wife," said Yan Wushi. Shen Qiao and Yan Wushi's eyes met. Shen Qiao guessed that Yan Wushi had done it on purpose due to his dissatisfaction at being made to dress up like a woman, but he couldn't say too much in front of an outsider. He could only give a light cough and throw in a belated explanation: "This is my cousin. She's a bit immature, so please don't take offense." It would have been better if he hadn't explained. The moment he did, the peddler instantly imagined a story about a pair of cousins in forbidden love eloping to a faraway land. He quickly nodded repeatedly. "I understand! I understand!" Shen Qiao was completely baffled. What do you understand? Even I don't understand.

"If you're going to use a disguise, make it a good one. Most women have long fingernails, and even if they don't, they'll paint them. Otherwise, the moment an observant person sees how prominent my knuckles are, they'll immediately know that I'm a man disguised as a woman." The corner of Shen Qiao's mouth twitched as he thought, How am I supposed to know something like that? I've never disguised myself as one before.

Yan Wushi sputtered a laugh. "All right, all right. Don't be so mad!... Like you said, my martial arts have yet to recover, and my reappearance would be far too ostentatious ... You won't be able to protect me with your current abilities." And whose fault is that? thought Shen Qiao. You have enemies everywhere, and that's not something everyone can pull off. If not for my concern over the big picture, which prevents me from picking a bone with you, I, too, would have joined the ranks of people trying to kill you.

Yan Wushi peeled off a piece of bark from somewhere, then placed the roasted sparrows on top. As Shen Qiao looked at them, he immediately found it difficult to keep his mouth from twitching. Upon that piece of bark, six sparrows were neatly laid out, with one in the center and five arranged evenly around it. "This dish is called 'Plum Blossom Sparrows.'" Shen Qiao bit his tongue. You came up with the name yourself, didn't you?

Yan Wushi sighed. "A-Qiao, you're not stupid But your tender heart holds you back. You're always so optimistic when it comes to interpersonal matters, and you never suspect a dark side to them. What would you do if I weren't here?" If you weren't here, my days would definitely go a hundred times more smoothly! Shen Qiao almost blurted out.

"A-Qiao, you're shivering," Yan Wushi said, mouth against his ear. "Are you wearing too little?" Laughter laced his tone, and he had almost trapped Shen Qiao within his arms. I'll stop shivering if you let go! Shen Qiao raged internally.

"First, my venerable self doesn't want Guang Lingsan to know that we're close," Yan Wushi replied leisurely. "This is to keep you safe, so you should thank me." How are you and I close? Shen Qiao thought to himself, but he played along. "I'm grateful for Sect Leader Yan's care."

Yan Wushi's gaze swept over Shen Qiao and Yuwen Song, whose expressions were equally speechless. He casually threw in another line: "I heard that there's a peerless beauty at Bixia Sect, whose name is Yue Kunchi." Shen Qiao was stunned. "That's the sect leader's shixiong, and...and he's a man. You actually...?" "That sect leader should be a woman?" "That's right..." "Then let me try again," said Yan Wushi. "I heard that the Bixia Sect Leader is a peerless beauty, whose appearance surpasses even Yuan Xiuxiu's. My venerable self has admired her for a long time, so I wish to meet her." Shen Qiao stared at him. You don't sound like you've admired her for very long at all.

"A-Qiao, you're words are far too distant considering our current relationship." What current relationship? Shen Qiao's mouth twitched as he forced himself once again to endure an irrelevant remark from Yan Wushi.

Shen Qiao didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I never wanted to be the alliance leader!" Yu Shengyan was confused. "Shizun ordered me to come and help you. If you don't want to be alliance leader, why did he instruct me to do so?" Shen Qiao thought to himself, Your shizun just does as he pleases, and his actions and words couldn't be further from a normal person's. How am I supposed to know what he's thinking?

Yan Wushi even consoled him. "It's not your fault. I already told you that Hehuan Sect is full of bad people, and that's why you shouldn't mingle with that trash. Like those demonesses, Yuan Xiuxiu and Bai Rong; just stay away when you see them in the future. My A-Qiao is a pure and spirited beauty. How can I let them tarnish you?" Not like the reputation of your Huanyue Sect is any better than that of Hehuan Sect. Also, what do you mean, "my A-Qiao"? Who's your A-Qiao?!

The innkeeper couldn’t help but smile and say, “The two gentlemen here are brothers, correct? You’re very close.” “We’re not brothers,” said Yan Wushi. “Ah,” said the innkeeper as he hesitated a little. “Then…father and son?” Yan Wushi didn’t say anything, only smiled suggestively at him. Then he glanced at Shen Qiao, before smiling again at the innkeeper. The shopkeeper had seen all types of people before, and dawning realization soon surfaced on his face. “It can’t be helped,” Yan Wushi said. “He’s been difficult the past few days, and we haven’t been getting along.” The innkeeper was incredibly adaptable. “They all say, with ten years of virtue, you’ll share the same ship of destiny, with a hundred years of virtue you’ll…you know.12 As the two of you are dragons and phoenixes among men, your friendship is likely extraordinary as well. Since you already have this shared destiny, you should make some concessions to each other. You know what they say: amiability is the key to prosperity!” Shen Qiao was silent. What do you mean, “you know?” Say it clearly!

The words he wanted to say turned in his stomach a few times, and just as he was about to say them, he heard a slight sound coming from Yan Wushi’s table. He couldn’t help but raise his head, just in time to see Yan Wushi’s head drop low as he coughed up blood. Shen Qiao’s face contorted in horror. All else flew from his mind as he hurriedly leapt up to support him. “What’s wrong? Was the wine poisoned?!” As Shen Qiao hadn’t touched the jug of wine, he immediately thought that the wine was the issue. And because this reminded him of his own experience with Joyful Reunion, his complexion looked even worse than Yan Wushi’s. But then, Yan Wushi suddenly smiled and pulled him into his arms. “Your panic reveals your concern. A-Qiao, your words truly don’t match your heart!” Shen Qiao stared at him. “You…you weren’t poisoned?” Yan Wushi wiped the bloodstain from the corner of his lips and said, “I accidentally bit my lip while chewing. I might have been too agitated.” Agitated to the point of vomiting blood? To hell with your lies!

Yan Wushi added, “Yuwen Xian was weak, but he was skilled with military administration, as well as an excellent commander. Even if he couldn’t have inherited Yuwen Yong’s legacy, he wouldn’t have squandered the family’s wealth entirely. Unfortunately, Yuwen Yong couldn’t break free from the shackles of tradition and insisted on his son inheriting the throne. His vision was far too narrow and shallow. He labored his entire life and ended up being killed by his son, and all his hard work has come to nothing. Such misfortune he brought upon himself!” He showed little respect for the previous emperor, his criticisms flowing forth the moment he opened his mouth. Anyone else hearing this would have been terrified out of their wits, but Shen Qiao couldn’t help but internally roll his eyes. He thought, Didn’t you get ambushed by those martial experts in the capital of Tuyuhun? You even ended up with a crack in your skull and almost lost your life. You call Yuwen Yong shallow, but where was your foresight then? Yan Wushi didn’t even turn back as he joked, “A-Qiao, I didn’t expect you, an upright gentleman, to develop the bad habit of silently cursing someone behind his back. That’s not good!”

Yan Wushi smiled and said, "If you dislike them, I naturally dislike them as well. Considering our relationship, if we don't present a united front, people will misunderstand, won't they?" What relationship? And people won't misunderstand if you say it like this? Shen Qiao was stunned by Yan Wushi's ability to argue black into white. "Sect Leader Yan worries too much," he said. "This humble Daoist isn't a member of Huanyue Sect. Even if Sect Leader Yan and I don't have a united front, no one will misunderstand."

“That’s fine,” said Yan Wushi. “It’s about time, anyway. With your current martial prowess, you might not be able to chop Yu Ai into eight pieces, but stabbing a sword through his heart should be doable.” Shen Qiao was left almost speechless. “Just because I’m going doesn’t mean I have to kill someone!” Can you not spout such bloodthirsty words all the time?

Yan Wushi's smile widened. "A-Qiao, are you worried about me?" "No," said Shen Qiao. "You're lying," said Yan Wushi. Shen Qiao said nothing. Then why did you even ask?

“That’s why you’re special,” said Yan Wushi. “These things are truly worldly possessions that you see as external to you. I’ve thought about it for a long time, but I couldn’t think of anything that I can repay you with, so I can only repay you with myself. What do you say?” Of course not! Shen Qiao was dumbfounded. When he saw Yan Wushi about to lower his head, he slammed a palm into his chest without hesitation.

Shen Qiao glanced over at Yan Wushi. His eyes were still closed; it looked like he’d fallen asleep. With Shen Qiao’s character, he’d never do a thing like shaking someone awake, but hurt suddenly burst inside his heart: You were the one who kept provoking me, but now you’re going to ignore me instead? Of course, Shen Qiao’s thoughts weren’t this straightforward, but this was the general idea.

Yan Wushi didn’t put up any resistance and let Shen Qiao drag him there. However, his face grew a little bit colder. “I helped extricate you from a predicament in the palace,” he said. “This is how Daoist Master Shen repays me?” What do you mean, extricate?! It’s obvious that you wanted to enter the palace to watch the show yourself!

“Do you know what I currently regret the most?” Yan Wushi suddenly asked. Shen Qiao looked back at him in confusion. His thoughts seemed to have been churned into paste by an invisible hand; even his gaze overflowed with bewilderment, and his hair was mussed from all the fondling. He was the perfect picture of an innocent, guileless little creature, just waiting for some evil-intentioned person to ravage him. “If I’d known this would happen,” Yan Wushi said, “I’d have bought all the residences within this alley.” What does buying residences have to do with regret? Shen Qiao wondered in a daze.

Yan Wushi’s tongue took the opportunity to invade even more deeply. Even the skin around his collarbone was stained with a dark blush. His breaths came in heaves, beyond his control. Yan Wushi didn’t forget to tease him. “If it’d been someone else who was full of malice, they’d never let you off so easily.” The person with the most malice is you!

Yan Wushi placed the pears back into the basket. “What should we bet this time? And Sect Leader Shen shouldn’t be too stingy.” Shen Qiao shook his head. “I’m not betting this time.” “Afraid now?” Shen Qiao thought, I’m afraid that you’ll come up with some new method to retaliate against me even harder if you lose. With how vengeful you are, Sect Leader Yan, you’re always able to concoct twisted ideas that no one else can, so there’s no way to guard against you. But ultimately, these words were too difficult for him to say because if he enraged or embarrassed Yan Wushi, the unfortunate one would always end up being Shen Qiao.

[lavendermin]

Drunk Jing Yuan doing something to my brain cause imagine when he was still a lieutenant (around young adult and still reach HCQ era I believe) but imagine how loose he is compared to our current general, he certainly have a different tolerance effect

Young lieutenant jing yuan who is getting a little too drunk and is blindly letting his heart slip past infatuation. Living life too fast, too foolishly, with a heart almost freshly squeezed of its naïveté.

When he’s drunk he thinks he could be in love. You’d be the perfect victim—so kind and trustworthy. The idea of having a tender little romance with an elder healer’s apprentice is tantalizing indeed.

You haven’t drank all night despite being generously dragged along by your master to a friendly gathering of prominent figures. And though Jing Yuan is familiar with these faces, it’s clear you are not.

cw | alcohol, fluff

Alcohol or not, he can’t bear to see you look so uncomfortable—like a lost little lamb. When you excuse yourself quietly to take a quick walk around the gardens, he follows suit. The false moons are high in the Luofu’s sky, listening to your quiet woes beside sleeping blooms.

Though the alcohol is prominent in his system, his footing is steady as he makes his way to you sitting by a small pond.

“Sit.” Your command catches him a little off guard. “Before you make yourself a fool if you fall in the water.”

“Not the most common greeting I’ve had the pleasure of receiving, but it’s not distasteful,” Jing Yuan chuckles as he takes a seat next to you.

Your eyes widen, a deep-set panic quickly flashing in different stages on your features.

“L-Lieutenant– I wasn’t aware it was you, I swear!”

“Quite alright. And you’d be right. I am quite drunk, I’ll admit.”

There’s still hesitation, given your rigid posture in his presence. It’s sweet how hard you try to please, but these small cracks in your front are all the more endearing. Some sense of a more natural you.

You sigh, something bone-deep and exhausted. “Apologies, lieutenant. I’m just quite used to the strong smell of alcohol from the many that stop by the apothecary for remedies in the morning after a night of reckless drinking. Master is no different. I meant no offense I just… thought it was master coming for that same remedy as well.”

He laughs at this, a little too loose as the alcohol begins to work its way through his system. Everything moves so quickly and you seem so far away despite being right next to him.

“Quite impressive for the elder healer to depend on his apprentice for such important remedies,” he complements. It makes your hands fidget in your lap, clearly not used to the attention. Always working from the shadows.

“It’s really nothing spectacular. You’re much too kind.” He makes you nervous. In a good way.

It’s so easy for him to want more of you. A splendid respite.

He’s sure he’s smiling stupidly at you, his head resting on his palm as he sits rather lax. The alcohol bids him not to care.

“I’m quite fond of you, if you’ve noticed,” he admits quietly. A bit too forward as the drinks begin to talk.

His words make your face burn hot.

“Surely you’ve had far too much to drink,” you squeak as he slumps against you. Warm and much, much bigger than you. Your hand is immediately on his face, cool and soft where the alcohol warms his cheeks. “How much did you have? Come, quickly. I’ll prepare you a remedy. What if you have alcohol poisoning? Can you walk?”

Jing Yuan follows obediently as you drag him by the arm, walking perfectly fine as you fuss over whether he feels like he may pass out or worse.

“Sit, please,” you motion to the small bench by your bedside.

“Quite the prepared one, aren’t you,” he comments as he watches you quickly run to and fro gathering the ingredients you packed for this small trip. The room is only slightly spinning.

You’re rambling and giving a light scolding, deep in concentration, when he quickly pulls you by the waist. Close. Too close.

Your breath is in your throat, heart beating loudly in your ears. “Lieutenant, you shouldn’t be standing. You need to–”

Before you can finish, his finger is gently on your lips to quiet your nerves. A gentle thing as he sways you both subtly in his hold, your body slowly releasing tension.

“This will pass. What I need,” he presses a chaste kiss upon your temple, “is you.”

[bluemerakis]

❝ SHORT STRAW ❞ ──── BLUEMERAKIS

synopsis. based on the episode “a very supernatural christmas”, john winchester’s absence gives dean the chance to reflect on the state of his life, where he realises he got stuck with the one parent he could’ve lived without.

──── warnings. heavy angst, cussing, john winchester hate.

word count. 2.3k

THE JAWS OF NEBRASKAN WINTER don’t know mercy. Its gaping maw looms over the desolate city of Broken Bow, where it whispers an icy tale that settles deep within Dean’s bones—a narrative that just feels like it belongs. And its haunting familiarity is the only reason that it doesn’t sting—doesn’t maul him like an unwelcome trespasser.

Because the cold. . . it just belongs.

Snow streams out in a relentless flurry that cascades over the city, blanketing every architectural peak and worn-down road in sight. Dean’s settled himself against the frost-kissed pane of the motel’s window, nose practically pressed to the glass as he scales the infinite white that nestles into the landscape. But he’s not worried about the way the world gradually seems to disappear—not when the stone-cold bitch had branded him a target at the tender age of four.

The universe is a predator—or at least, that’s what John Winchester always says. It has a knack for the weak and the vulnerable, and will swallow you whole given the chance. Dean doesn’t think of himself as weak, but it’s difficult to deny that he’s vulnerable when his father seems to have no trouble making collateral out of him—formulating plans that leave his neck exposed to the unpredictable fangs of chance, time and time again.

A time like now, where he was left alone to both protect and lie to Sammy while his father was off chasing some false sense of justice. The thought makes him scoff, the hypocrisy of it all squirming beneath his skin like an itch that will never ease away. But he shifts against the windowsill, anyway because it does something to ward off the urge to scratch. To scratch and scratch until he’s raw with the stinging truth that the world doesn’t do justice.

Ain’t no justice in living, only vengeance. Regret. Guilt.

For a man that had spent a good deal of Dean’s so-called childhood snapping the eldest Winchester out of naive daydream and into realist survival, John Winchester sure seemed caught up in the myth of a hero—always trying to save the freaking day. And just for once, Dean hopes, dreams, that his father would one day realise that nobody needed saving more than his own two sons.

But only idiots dream. Dean doesn’t—not anymore. Dreams are reserved for those who don’t know who they are, those who’d like to imagine they could be more. But he knows exactly who he is, what his father had raised him to be:

A lamb awaiting its eventual slaughter.

Dean was a bargaining chip. Expendable. Whenever trouble cornered the Winchester trio, it was always Dean placed on the offence with a gun forced into his palm, while Sammy had his father’s hand to cradle his. Now, the feel of a firearm’s grip felt more comforting than any other means of the very limited support left at Dean’s disposal, the tinge of gunpowder always lingering where his father’s presence couldn’t.

For a second, his head lowers to his lap, where he cradles the gun he knows better than either one of his parents. His eyes trace over its frame, then down the ivory grip—lightly worn by years spent strangling it in search of emotional support. He huffs dryly. Where the prospect of flying bullets should normally have him watching his back, he felt protected. And where his father was supposed to be present, covering his ass, Dean knew that he was never more vulnerable than at John Winchester’s side.

Within reach.

Heaving a deep sigh, the grip on his colt tightens carefully, eyes lifting skyward once more—like the view of the frozen world beyond the window pane would numb the concoction of emotions that fester within him. Quench the fire that he feels igniting at the mere thought of the mess he’d come to call his life.

It doesn’t work.

This fire—the one that consumes him—it doesn’t snuff out under one or two breaths of composure. It doesn’t just fade away. Not unless he does, first. He could try to convince himself that he’ll never be consumed by the type of rage that drives his father to the brink, but he’s not so sure that he could escape something so primal—something written in stone by the same cursed DNA that courses through his veins.

He tracks the way the snowflakes flutter through the air. Their fall from heaven is majestic, almost hypnotising. He finds himself admiring their resolve—the way they fall with collected grace even after the atmosphere discarded them to the pitiful ruins of humanity below. The imagery resonates with some neglected part of him. His jaw clenches at the ache that creeps into his chest, his fingers tightening around the colt’s grip—like he’d be able to gauge the feel of his father’s hand from the countless times he’d manned this gun before Dean.

But he doesn’t know the feeling enough to recognise it.

As the cold settles into the air, it uses all its might to mock the comfort of a blanket, but does little to soothe the chill rattling Sammy’s teeth from some other corner of the room. And it does everything to remind Dean that he’s very much alive. He’d never needed the reminder, not when surviving was the sole objective of his existence. Not when his father’s voice sat nestled in the back of his head, abrading his thoughts like a frostbite that would never heal as it drills him with the responsibility to protect his brother at the cost of his own existence.

Because Dean Winchester didn’t exist for his own convenience. It was always for John Winchester’s.

Behind him, Sammy’s voice, soft and devoid of the hope Dean thought was his only his to sport, filters through the stagnant air of the room.

“Dad isn’t coming, is he?”

The question catches him off-guard, halting his thoughts in place. But Dean’s been caught in this situation enough times to automate a response that doesn’t require an ounce of consideration, his attention steadfast on the snowfall beyond the window as he says, “he’ll be here, Sammy.”

There’s the soft rustle of clothing that Dean guesses is the worked up arms of his little brother forming a tight cross along his chest, a hopeless scoff blaring through. “No, he won’t,” Sam mumbles bitterly, meekly, but the part of Dean that knows the truth latches onto those faint words as though they’d been blared from the rooftop. Because it’s a truth that he already owns, and the lie that neither of the brothers would ever buy—no matter how hard he tried to sell it on his father’s behalf.

Dean’s breath hitches in his chest, his teeth reaching for the skin of his cheek as his gaze staggers from the window pane. His head drops to drink in the view of his lap, his lower lip falling loose with a silence that had always felt more natural than finding the right words. He knew what to say—what he was supposed to say. But he didn’t know how to mean it. Didn’t know if he could, anymore.

Behind him, Sammy finds his voice once more. It’s dull—too dull, a sound that no kid his age should ever be able to recognise, let-alone produce. “He won’t be here because he never is,” he says glumly, but he simmers into a silence that begs Dean to differ. Disprove.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at him—can’t bring himself to. And then there’s a soft shuffle of boots that retreat into the quiet gloom of the room, the sound heavy enough to paint the image of heartbreak that Dean had been trying so hard to avoid.

A few seconds of tense silence pass, and when he finally finds it in himself to spare his brother a glance over his shoulder, the movement feels heavy. Reluctant. There’s nothing he could say that would bring Sammy any sort of comfort. If he knew how to do that sort of thing, he’d know company other than firearms and a routine outside of safe-guarding beside the motel’s windowsill. He didn’t know how to nurture, only how to protect. But his little brother needed more than that, and he couldn’t give it.

He watches as his brother finds the creaky bed pressed against the chipped walls of the room. The younger Winchester kicks off his boots near the foot of the bed, the corners of his lips downturned with a frown that doesn’t take much practice. It sits on his face like it’s natural, now, moulded by the hands of desolate acceptance.

Sammy’s eyes catch his briefly, and suddenly, the brown in them seems darker. Duller. It doesn’t linger for long before the younger brother reaches across the mattress to pull the comforter back, discarding Dean into the rear to be forgotten along with the rest of the day’s disappointment as he settles himself into the sheets. His back is deliberately turned to Dean, like he deserves the shun for being void of miracles. It stings him, but he has to brace against it because their life was no fairytale. And there’d never be a spell to break the curse that seems to bind it.

As he watches over Sammy’s curled up figure beneath the sheets, Dean realises, then, that being stuck with a father like his meant that not even the nativity of childhood was safe from the truth of John’s absence. The only shelter that existed in their lives was the physical ruins below which they slept. But there was no—and would never be—anything durable enough to shield them from the wrecking ball that was John Winchester.

Dean would know. He had tried, and it had cost him enough. He was sure that as the years went by, it’d eventually cost him everything.

“It’ll all be better when you wake up,” he says suddenly, eyes fixed on his little brother with the hope that he’d spare him some ounce of acknowledgment. Forgiveness. But he doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even stir. He swallows thickly before continuing to push a narrative he knows doesn’t cut it—one he feels obliged to deliver. “You’ll see. He’ll be here,” he says firmly—he doesn’t know why. He knows the truth, and it’s exactly why he doesn’t promise.

It would be the hundredth one he’d broken on account of his dad.

But Sammy has been through enough disappointment to not get his hopes up, so he says nothing. Does nothing. But Dean notes the way the steady rise and fall of his figure becomes more drawn out, like he’d finally found a sleep peaceful enough to escape the woes of their life. And he doesn’t probe him further because he deserves that much, at the very least.

He turns his attention back to the window, watching a view he knows won’t change. Nobody was coming. Not tonight—possibly not for the next few days. Who the hell knows, anyway? He slips a glance over to the cupboard near the motel’s doorway, where a couple of gifts he’d stolen from a house down the road takes temporary refuge. He plans to lay it out beneath the tree for Sammy to find come morning and play it off as gifts from their dad.

A bitter part of him aches in protest, but he swallows it down. This was bigger than him. This was about Sammy. If Dean couldn’t protect his own relationship with his father, he could only try to ensure that the same didn’t happen with his brother—not because John Winchester deserved it, but because Sammy deserved to know the type of love that Dean never seemed to qualify for. Not that his planned stunt made it real. Not that it was any of his father’s doing. Dean didn’t even think their father would know what to gift either of them if he’d even taken a chance to think about it.

He scoffs sourly. Screw ‘im, he declares silently, turning his attention back to Sammy’s sleeping figure. He could stay gone, for all Dean cared.

There was nothing fundamentally important about John Winchester. Everything a father should do, Dean could do. He did do them. The only thing his father could still exist to offer was a physical presence to provide comfort, protection. But then again, Dean had never, in his short time of existing, come to know the man as being capable of anything such as that. So, truly, his father’s absence was not an absence at all. Only a truth.

The truth that with or without John Winchester, Dean would survive.

And then the coldest truth of them all strikes his heart like an ode to John Winchester’s cruelty:

Dean could not miss what was never there.

But Sammy—bless his brother—in all his naive goodness, could. So, for him, Dean would spend the rest of his life trying to breathe life into his father’s absence—to keep the man real beyond the occasional and rare sighting of a year. To keep his memory alive, or, at least, the portion of it that actually deserved to live.

With a heart that staggers beneath a burden that should’ve never been his to bear, Dean’s gaze strays from Sammy’s sleeping figure to fixate the window before him once more. The pane is more transparent than his dad had ever been with either of them, giving way to a view that would always be barren; fatherless. And if Dean squinted hard enough, he could almost picture that his father was right here—in the reflection that looked too much like his own, but would always hold a trace of the worst part of himself.

A trace of John Winchester.

He stares a little harder and recognises the furrow nestled between his brows, and the way his jaw strains with the tension of untold truths. The way his eyes glint with distrust and careful calculation. The buried anger that pulls his lips into a taut line incapable of providing affirmation. Praise. The look of judgement that had been cast upon him by his father to the point where he could not feel anything else toward himself—mirrors never reflecting anything beyond a scowl.

In a picture that looked so much like the man he’d never live up to, Dean could only hope that—caught up in the faux-fest of playing his father’s role—he wouldn’t turn out to be exactly like him.

a/n: idk i was on some sad shit period shit when i started this. I just kinda chose violence and decided that if i must suffer you all will suffer too. read this too many times n became blind to errors so you are blind too and don’t see them ok? cool bye

tags — @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @titsout4jackles @ultravi0lence14 @angelicjackles @starzify @rositaslabyrinth @littlesoulshine @figthoughts @walkslikesummeractslikerain @daylighted @honeyryewhiskey @deansbbyx @jasvtsc @maddie0101 @lieutenantchaos @spn-reader @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @youdontknowe @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @spoontriestowriteandfails @beelzebzb @piptoost @lunaleah @kr804573 @idontwannabehere78 @lanasgirlfr @cas-only-angel @nperoconelcositoarriba @alidiggory92 @idk-123-0 @mahi-wayy @tuxedoe @cassiecourtemanche @rositaslabyrinth @samslovebug @viluren @h8aaz @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @cowboysandcigarettes @emeraldcrs @jensenacklesballsack @wa1ks @multiversefanfics @beausling

want to become part of the taglist for future dean winchester works?

other works — supernatural masterlist

© bluemerakis ─ do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

layout inspo from most talented bree <3 @titsout4jackles

[dirwael]

Anything Can Happen in the Woods

Solomon x GN Reader | 736 Words | Rated T

Warnings: Brief allusions to violence and cannibalism, Slightly suggestive

Notes: Hybrid AU, Reader is called "little lamb"

- - -

The silence of the forest was your first warning.

No forest, even in the dead of night, after all the predators and prey had fallen asleep, would be so quiet. Even with the thriving trees and the running rivers, the only sounds you heard was the crunch of leaves beneath your feet, the jingle of your collar's bell, and the pounding of your heartbeat.

The signs of danger was your second warning.

As you walked down the old beaten path, you feared that the forest itself was telling you to turn back. Too many times you glanced at trees, to see them resemble horrified faces or twisted bodies, only to look twice and see normal wood. The amount of caves visible from the path was already eerie, and you could swear you'd seen bones and destroyed backpacks lying by their entrances. And even with all the foliage around you, from the moment you stepped inside, you couldn't escape the ever present scent of blood.

The destroyed torii gate was your final warning.

The top right half had fallen some time ago, indicated by the moss that crept over it's corpse. The abandoned left side struggled to stand strong, it's paint cracked and faded, the moss slowly eating up the base. Once a grand statue indicating the mark between common and holy ground, it was now just a shame to the forgotten shrine behind it.

Really, you should've ran. Then you wouldn't have found yourself in such a predicament.

One where a fox snuck up behind you as you stepped before the shrine, and captured you in his arms.

A mocking laugh comes from behind you.

"A sheep entering my forest? Why, I don't know if you're too brave or too foolish. Don't you know what foxes think of adorable things like you?"

One of his arms lets go of your waist to place a clawed hand on your chin, turning your head to face him. Nine sleek white tails match the white hair and fox ears, complementing his blue/brown eyes, ones viewing you with purely evil intentions.

"We think of you as nothing more than sweet, delicious meals — perfect beings to sink our teeth into. And for you to wander inside my home..." he pauses to purr, "you're pratically offering yourself up to me! Such lovely behavior deserves some gratitude, don't you agree? So, I'll let you decide. Before I devour you, shall I give you a kiss, or a painless death?"

The fox's smirk grows as his grip on you tightens, eyes dark, ravenous, and hungry.

"Tell me, little lamb, what shall I do to you?"

Your response?

Your eyes narrow, and a sheep's meeh-like scoff leaves your throat.

"You shall thank me, for agreeing to meet in such a creepy place, Solomon!!"

You wrangle yourself out of Solomon's grasp with ease, for he barely had a grip on you to begin with. You know he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he ever hurt you, even on accident. But still, you huff and send him a glare as he laughs from behind you. He has eight of his nine tails vanish, claws retract to normal sized nails, eyes go back to bright and normal, signifying an end to his primal play game. He has the audacity to look at you with a grin, then bring out the puppy eyes upon seeing your frown.

"Aww, you really didn't like it? I thought the atmosphere fit the scene perfectly! An adorable little sheep getting caught by the big bad fox~"

"Ugh", you groan, contemplating on ramming him with your horns, "don't tell me that's the entire reason why my magic lesson is taking place here."

Solomon chuckles and shakes his head, then comes closer to boop your nose. You want to bite his finger off.

"Nope! The artifact only works in 'creepy' places like this, where the magical energy is both wild and dormant. Buuuut, I'll admit," he grins, "I just wanted to take you to Japan. Let's visit a real shrine together after this!"

With that, Solomon takes your hand in his, and... doesn't lead you further inside the shrine..? You try to voice concern, until he uses his other hand to hold your chin, just like before. You feel his nails stretch ever so slightly, and see the gleam in his eye.

"And later, I'll fulfill my promise of eating you up~".

[eyezthecampcounselor]

INTRO! Last updated: May 13 '25

All dividers, graphics, and blinkies are not mine, credits go to the makers

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👁️Hi I'm Eyez! Or Mr. Fregoli or just Fregoli or graham. you can even call me Margo if you wanna get formal with me.

🏳️‍⚧️Prns are he/him

I am a minor.

Don't repost my art without credit. I will block you.

⚠️DNI: ballads of a bluejay supporters (fuck off), Homophobes, Transphobes, pedos, proshippers, racists, bigots, fascists, people who make AI "art", and other idiots

I believe in peace and freedom for every country (ESPECIALLY FOR THOSE IN NEED RIGHT NOW!🍉)

⚠️Warning!: I post a lot of art that has gore in it. I also draw a lot of things that could be disturbing like distorted bodies, monsters, and eyes. I also talk about (and draw) possibly sensitive topics such as religion, mental and physical illness, and more. If this bothers you, you shouldn't interact.

Tags:

🦴Bone man chronicals: (talking about bones and updating my collection + cleaning them if I find any)

♥️My qpp (y'all already know, talk about partner or qp stuff in general)

🎨My art (my art)

🥩eyez the chef (recipes, don't judge I like cooking)

I'm working on a new meet the artist so that will me coming!!

Woohoo here is are some of my links!

Prns page

Strawpage (you can send me things)

📷Discord and insta: eyecantibal

Art archive: eyezreblogz (this is just a blog where I just reblog my own art for archival purposes)

🎨OC master post: https://www.tumblr.com/eyezdrawz/763241944591761408/oc-master-post?source=share

Mutuals!!! Join my discord server!!

💥Things I like/fandoms I'm in under cut + kins +blinkies (under cut and on reblog, none are mine)

📻🎙️Podcasts: camp here and there (finished, main thing I post about), The Magnus archives (finished), malevolent (mostly finished), welcome to nightvale (started)

🎧🎶Music: Will wood, wwatt (fav), The Dear Hunter (fav), Amigo the devil (fav), American Murder Song (fav), Shayfer James (fav), Hozier (fav), The Hush Sound, Penelope Scott, Bear Ghost, System of a Down, Tally Hall, miracle musical, a verbal equinox and more!

(some of the singers and members in some of these bands, not all, are controversial/problematic and I do not support anything that they did (mostly referring to Joe Hawley from tally hall and Terrence from american murder song))

I also write my own songs and I am working on a band. No progress whatsoever on the band part tho😞

📺🎬Tv shows: Hannibal NBC (fav), Midnight Mass, Interview with the vampire (fav)

🎭🎞️Movies: interview with the vampire 1994 (fav), nightcrawler (fav), fight club (fav), no country for old men, silence of the lambs, moulin rouge (fav), fantastic mr fox, saving private Ryan, news of the world, strange way of life, dead poets society (fav), phantom of the opera, whiplash (fav), rango

✝️I really really like my ocs Mikeal, Santiago, Andias, Bernadette, and Aldyth (the church OCS) I post about them a lot.

📼I'm in the middle of a huge project with these characters, I can't decide between a podcast or a novel series but I'm currently working on the books. I have zero podcast experience so I'm kinda just experimenting with that.

✍️Other than working on those I am also a poet (I have written many many poems) and I also write non-fiction (mostly memoirs) and short story's of many genres.

I have OCD, Depression, GAD, SAD, Autism, and C-PTSD/PTSD (all are diagnosed/confirmed by professional) (I'm also getting help so YAY)

I have PCOS and anemia as well as chronic fatigue.

🍎Huge will graham fictionkin (I don't have a blog for it). I kin will so much it's scary. Juno chnt fictionkin. Deerkin and wolfkin (not therian I just feel very connected to those animals, think of it in a more spiritual way) I have more otherkins but those two are the most prominent and known. I am also a ockin. (@three-eyez-freak)and more

🦴I collect bones and I like vulture culture. I am also very interested in human anatomy and medical examinations (I'm not an expert I just think it's neat).

Secretly a freak (not so secret tbh)

I really like gothic lit like dracula, Jekyll and Hyde, Frankenstein, carmilla, and more.

I like vampires a lot. A lot lot. A whole lot. So expect that. Yeah.

Alright that's it, bye🥩

(graphics I like, none are mine)

[mankillercalledbunny]

Hey gang can I get some Fantasy For Grown-ups recommendations (especially if they're available in audiobook format but NOT audible exclusives bc I use Libby)? I've been listening to a lot of T Kingfisher's fantasy lately all of which centers around grown ass adults but keeps a lot of the things I loved about fantasy growing up: fun and creative worldbuilding, competent protagonists, humour and clever dialogue, and intriguing narrative. I also like Pratchett, especially the Watch set and the Witches. I like stories that feel like they could conceivably have been a Dungeons and Dragons campain, or are subversions of a traditional fairytale. I don't mind romance subplots (as long as they're established well and don't feel tacked on because the author felt obligated) but I'm not one for Romance Novels specifically, which is why I don't use the term Adult Fantasy because for some reason people take that to mean porn with some dragons thrown in. I'm definitely up for some Sci-Fi or Mystery in my fantasy, too!

Current TBR:

Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrel by Susanna Clarke

The City of Brass by S. A. Chakraborty

Uprooted by Naomi Novik

Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman

Books I loved:

T Kingfisher

Nettle & Bone

Swordheart

Bryony and Roses

Thornhedge

Saint of Steel series

Other authors/works

The Watch Cycle (Terry Pratchett) and other Discworld

The Queen's Thief series by Megan Whalen Turner

Lamb by Christopher Moore

The Wolf and the Woodsman by Ava Reid

16 Ways To Defend A Walled City by K J Parker (and sequels)

The Abhorsen series by Garth Nix

The Lies of Locke Lamora (currently reading) by Scott Lynch

Reforged/Reborn Duology by Seth Haddon

Babel by R. F. Kuang

The Memoirs of Lady Trent series by Marie Brennan

Books I liked as a kid that are in the same vein

Redwall by Brian Jacques

Lockwood & Co by Jonathan Stroud

Everything by Rick Riordon

The Fablehaven series by Brandon Mull

TV Shows, Films, & Video Games with similar energy that I enjoy

Leverage

Star Trek

Baldur's Gate 3

The Witcher: Wild Hunt

Mass Effect

Classic Ghibli

Arcane

Please don't recommend anything by Sarah J Maas, Brandon Sanderson, or Leigh Bardugo, I've already got the big names on the list.

[uas-fics]

Title: Pestering Brothers

Rating: T

Summary: Narinder goes to pester Kallamar at the Healing Bay.

Ships: N/A

Content Warnings: N/A

AO3 Upload

When The Lamb wandered towards Narinder's sunning spot, Narinder pulled his robe's hood down over his face. The Lamb would understand he wished to be left alone to enjoy the nice sun and did not want to be roped into whatever task they had on hand.

The Lamb plopped next to him with a noisy sigh.

Or perhaps not…

"Your older brother is…" they paused momentarily to gather their thoughts, "a bit much."

"You can say 'annoying,'" Narinder grumbled, adjusting his hood so only one of his three eyes peeked out towards The Lamb.

"I said he's 'a bit much,' not 'annoying'."

"Are those not the same?"

"Not the point." The Lamb rubbed their temples with the heel of their palms.

"Then what is the point? If you are here to bemoan your mistake of bringing him to the cult, take it elsewhere. I tried to warn you."

"I'm not." The Lamb jutted out their chin. "I'm being nice and giving you an update how your older brother is doing."

Narinder didn't want any updates on Kallamar. He wanted to lounge in the sun until he had to go prepare the temple for the evening's sermon.

The Lamb said, "Giving you and your siblings specific jobs seems to have helped you all adjust faster to mortal life."

Narinder conceded this fact with a slight nod of his head.

Leshy lived for the drama and fighting he encountered at the drink house. Nearly every other day, his youngest brother had some tale to tell of the night prior where he had to step in and calm down a particularly nasty argument—or goaded the fight into continuing, depending on how he was feeling.

As for Heket, she enjoyed cultivating the garden plants. If Narinder stood up from his sunning spot, he could easily see the sizable pumpkin his sister had been babying for the last month and a half.

"You gave a job to Cowardly Kallamar then?" Narinder smirked. "What do you have him doing? Scaring off birds with his shaking?"

"I brought him to the healing bay," The Lamb explained. "He was the god of sickness, so he must know what helps the sick, too."

Narinder made a noise of agreement, then added, "Let me take a guess: He spent ten minutes bragging about how true that was and telling you that you are a fool for not realizing it sooner?"

The Lamb slumped down into the grass. "Five minutes, but, yes, more or less."

Kallamar was insufferable. He had always been insufferable…and vain and annoying and a coward and--

"He was going through the herbs and tinctures when I left, " The Lamb continued. "I'm sure he will have a list of complaints about what we have and don't have when he is done." They threw their arm over their face with a groan.

Narinder knew he would. Unless Kallamar was in his own temple in Anchordeep, he would criticize and complain about every little thing, from how the bottles were stored to how the poultices were mixed.

Narinder stood, wiping the grass off his robes. "I will go check on him."

He had barely taken a step when The Lamb grabbed his ankle. "Don't go harass him. He needs time to adjust. You all did. Besides, I just brought him back from the dead. I don't want to waste bones doing it again so soon."

With a snort, Narinder pulled his leg away. He adjusted to being in this weak, ungodly body quickly. It only took him a week to remember he had to eat food and drink water every day.

"I won't make him cry," he promised, though he wasn't sure he would be able to keep it.

The Lamb sent a pointed look at Narinder, a wordless warning not to be a jackass.

Kallamar did not know that bothersome lamb had given him a Sisyphean task! Kallamar took a cracked bottle from the shelf and turned it over in his hand. Brittle leaves rattled against each other in the bottle.

Narinder rolled his eyes and started toward the healing bay.

---

It seemed half the bottles Kallamar had pawed through were like that. They were cracked, cloudy, dirty, or all three at once. Much of their contents had turned to dust or evaporated away to nothingness—completely useless!

How did that lamb keep a cult running with their medical supplies in shambles like this?

No wonder it took so long for Kallamar to heal when The Lamb forced him to join their pathetic cult.

Kallamar pinched the cork and pulled. Instead of popping out of the bottleneck, the top of the bottle snapped off at the crack near the base of the neck.

Kallamar looked from one part of the bottle to the other before heaving a sigh. He set the broken bottle top to the side then dumped the leaves into his palm to examine.

Kallamar jumped from the warm breath on his shoulder. The bottom of the bottle fell to the floor and, by some miracle, it didn't shatter.

When he spun around, he found himself face to face with death itself—his little brother, Narinder. No, no, not death. Not anymore. Kallamar had to remind himself that Narinder didn't have the crown. He held no more power than Kallamar, Heket, or Leshy. He was a lowly, earthly follower now.

Narinder raised his eyebrows before pointing back down at Kallamar's hand.

He said something, but Kallamar found himself still too shaken to pay attention enough to see what was said.

"W-what?" He stammered.

"Raspberry leaves," Narinder repeated, pointing again to Kallamar's clenched hand.

Kallamar opened his palm. He had accidentally crushed the dried leaves to dust when Narinder scared him. He wiped the powder off on his robes and did notice the slight scent of raspberry.

"What do you want?" He narrowed his eyes, focusing hard on Narinder's lips.

Without his crown to dampen the blaring tinnitus in his head and strengthen what little hearing he still had, he had to concentrate to understand what anyone said to him. Reading lips and paying attention to the slight sounds he could still pick out was all he could do.

Narinder straightened himself and took a look around the healing bay.

"I was told you were assigned to clean out this old place. I thought you might need some help," Narinder commented idly, as if he had just stepped in for a chat.

Kallamar knew better than that.

"I don't want your help."

He didn't want Narinder anywhere near him.

Kallamar turned around to the table to continue to sort through the bottles, boxes, and satchels of medicine. He had hoped that his curt reply would drive Narinder off, but instead of leaving, Narinder moved to sit on the bed, the least musty thing in the whole place. He stretched, yawned, then laid back with his eyes shut.

Of course, Narinder would not leave. Narinder never listened to Kallamar before, why would he start now? At least before, Kallamar could retreat to the safety of Anchordeep and his temple when Narinder antagonized him. Now Kallamar was stuck in this pathetic, little base, in this pathetic, little body with no powers, no followers, and no place to go.

He gritted his teeth.

No, he was not going to let Narinder get to him. They were not gods anymore. Narinder was not death and Kallamar was not blight. Narinder was just Kallamar's annoying and pestering little brother now, nothing more.

The medical bay's bed was comfortable, if a little too cool for Narinder's taste. If the bed was pushed towards the door and the warm sun, then it would be an excellent new napping spot. The Lamb wouldn't be able to find him as quickly and make him 'get back to work' or whatever other nonsense they ordered.

He had to just ignore him. If he focused on his task at hand, he could do that with ease.

---

He sprawled, listening to the clinks of bottles as Kallamar worked. Every so often he would hear a mumble "What is this?" or a groan of frustration.

Narinder considered holding a one-sided conversation, mostly to annoy Kallamar when he finally noticed he was doing it, but decided against it. Just staying there after he was told he wasn't wanted was enough to mess with Kallamar. To Narinder's pleasure, he had noticed a tenseness in Kallamar's movements and the occasional glances at Narinder when he thought he wouldn't notice.

Narinder rolled so his head lay off the side of the bed. He looked upside down at Kallamar.

Much like his younger siblings, when The Lamb hauled Kallamar from his torment in purgatory, they left all of his thousands of years of divinity behind. The air of godly power that somehow clung to Kallamar, despite his cowardly nature, evaporated when Kallamar fell face-first onto the indoctrination circle. How sickly and weak he looked then, barely able to hold his head up as an odd green color painted his face. The weakling spent days on bed rest before he was able to stand again.

Narinder almost laughed at the memory.

Kallamar took a wooden box from the counter and shook it. Pursing his lips, he pried the lid off. With a puzzled expression, he tipped over the box until the contents fell out to the tabletop. Kallamar carefully picked up something wrapped in paper and herbs. He pulled away at the wrapping before gagging.

Narinder rolled over to his belly and pushed himself up to his knees.

He cringed and dropped the bundle back in the box.

"Why?!"

"What? What is it?" he asked, but Kallamar didn't respond. Instead, he held his face in his hands and groaned.

Narinder frowned. He took the pillow from the bed and threw it. Kallamar jumped when it hit his side and said a swear in a language no mortal spoke anymore.

When Kallamar turned to glare, Narinder repeated, "What is in the box?"

A smirk crossed Kallamar's face as he returned the lid with a sound tap.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I would. That is why I asked."

Kallamar hummed in reply and set the box to the side. He proceeded to pop the top off of a cloudy bottle and give it a sniff, completely ignoring Narinder.

Narinder bristled with annoyance. He came here to mess with Kallamar, not to be messed with.

Narinder jumped to his feet and started towards Kallamar and the box. Kallamar snatched the box, holding it to his chest. Narinder stomped his foot down, knowing the vibrations through the floor would be enough to scare that coward into losing his grip.

A sharp pain shot up his leg from the sole of his foot. With a cry, he hopped back, lost his balance, and fell to his back.

He bit his tongue to hold back a cry, trying to force his head to stop spinning so he could focus on the stabbing pain in his foot. He hauled himself to the bed before he set his foot propped up on his other knee.

Glass and crushed raspberry leaf clung to his bloody foot.

It's from the bottle Kallamar dropped earlier, he realized. Kallamar had been so busy pretending to ignore him, that he never picked it back up.

An instinct Narinder usually ignored reared its head. With pain and annoyance on its side, the primal urge beat any rational thought. Narinder stuck his tongue out to lick clean the wound.

Kallamar grabbed him by the cheeks and forced his face up.

"Are you stupid? Do you want glass in your tongue, too?" He snapped.

Though Narinder knew he was right, he huffed in defiance and looked to the side.

Kallamar pulled his hands away. He carefully picked his way through the remaining shards and started rifling through items on the table. He hoped Kallamar would leave to find The Lamb or their younger siblings for help, but Kallamar returned a moment later and sat next to Narinder.

He held out his hand.

"Let me see your foot," he ordered.

Narinder snorted. "No. I will be fine." He pinched the largest piece of glass between his fingers and sharply pulled. A hiss of pain slipped from his teeth.

"Fine." Kallamar sniffed. "Get an infection, die of sepsis. I do not care what happens to you, anyway." Kallamar dropped the items he'd brought in a heap next to Narinder. Narinder stared at the blood dripping down his foot.

An infection? He couldn't remember when he had last had one, but he could remember the infections and sepsis he saw in his followers, the burning flesh, the oozing pus, and the writhing pain they were in until Narinder ended their suffering.

He groaned. Before Kallamar could get out of reach, Narinder grabbed his robes.

He didn't speak; he just met his older brother's eyes for the heartbeat his pride would allow.

For an instant, Kallamar looked fearful and untrusting, but his expression shifted to one of annoyance.

The bloody glass shard clinked against its brethren on the red stained cloth.

"You've always been such a pest," Kallamar grumbled, taking Narinder's hand off his robe.

---

Kallamar bend down to the bowl of steaming water he'd rush to the kitchen to get. He didn't dare light the fire pit in the medical bay to boil water. Whoever had been keeping the bay up before Kallamar had put baskets of vomit stained blankets right next to the pit. Some of the blankets had even spilled into the ring of stones, and Kallamar refused to touch something so disgusting with a new body so susceptible to illness.

He took a cloth rag from the bowl and rung the water out before pressing it to Narinder's foot. He would need to stitch up some of the gashes, but the skin had to be clean before he made any attempts.

Narinder hissed through his teeth.

"Oh, do not act like a baby." Kallamar rolled his eyes.

Narinder glowered, attempting to sit up from his back, but Kallamar lifted his foot up higher.

"This needs to stay above the level of your heart."

Narinder huffed and laid back down.

"I've seen you cut in half before. This should be nothing to you." Kallamar returned the foot to his lap.

"Being cut in half doesn't hurt," Narinder retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

A bellowing laugh burst from Kallamar's chest, making Narinder jump.

"You are a dirty liar. It does hurt--a lot. " Kallamar moved the rag away from the foot. He gave Narinder's foot one last wipe and a good look for any more glass before dropping the rag next to the glass pile.

As he picked out the needle from the bottom of the water bowl, he continued, "Your usurper cut me in half the first time they killed me." He pointed the needle to the top of his head and drew it down to his belly

He had fought for his life, sending wave after wave of curses and minions and Anchordeep beasts to kill that vile creature masquerading as a god of death. He accomplished his task twice before The Lamb came back a third time, accompanied by two small demons and a glowing, godly axe. It was this axe that the Lamb slew him with, striking him when he took less than a second to breathe. The Lamb sliced through his flesh and bone, leaving blood and pain in the axe's wake.

To add insult to injury, as Kallamar lay dying, he watched as a third demon came flying in, bringing with it a spirit heart for the victorious lamb.

"Foul, terrible, cruel creature…" he muttered, shaking his head.

Kallamar tied a knot in the silk thread. He had always preferred the use of catgut to close wounds, but dried intestines were among the many other materials The Lamb's medical tent lacked. He didn't bother to warn Narinder of the pain as he stabbed the needle into the soft flesh.

Narinder bit down hard on his lip as Kallamar worked to close the largest of the gashes. Kallamar took another rag from the side of the water bowl and wiped away the new blood.

If Narinder attempted to speak to him while he worked, Kallamar couldn't tell. His focus lay solely on closing the wounds. He felt calm, the most calm he'd felt since being indoctrinated into this blasted cult. Patching up wounds was his second nature.

As he pulled tight the last stitch on the final large wound, he saw Narinder's jaw moving out of the corner of his eye.

"What? Do you need to cry? Does it hurt worse than being cut in half?" Kallamar mocked.

He tied off the thread without having to look at his hands. He knew taking stitches without any type of numbing hurt, but he didn't want to give Narinder any pity.

Narinder made a rude gesture towards Kallamar with his middle finger.

"Lucky for you, I am all done sewing you up," Kallamar said, twisting the lid off a glass jar. Inside was the saddest excuse for a wound poultice Kallamar had seen in centuries -- there wasn't even any flax in it—but it would have to do to keep the wound moist and protected from dirt.

Narinder said something, but Kallamar was too busy slathering on the poultice to catch it. He set it aside and went for the bandages before turning his attention to Narinder's face.

"Hmm?"

Narinder opened his mouth, then shut it a heartbeat later. He looked away and shook his head.

Kallamar shrugged and started to wrap up Narinder's foot. As he worked, a thought came to him. He'd never dressed any of Narinder's wounds before then. Even before they sealed him away, Kallamar had never had to step in and suture closed gashes or apply honey and bandages to scrapes on him, unlike the rest of their siblings.

With how many fights Heket tended to pick, she was the worst of them, though Leshy was a close second since he liked to join Heket in her scuffles. Though uncommon, even Shamura had to be patched up when they underestimated the army or god they waged war against.

Narinder never needed wounds shut or a poultice applied. He would not scar. His wounds would not fester. He would die and bring himself back before that could happen.

Suddenly annoyed, Kallamar pulled the bandage a little too tight—not enough to cut off blood flow, but enough to be uncomfortable.

Kallamar lifted Narinder's foot from his lap and scooted out before dropping it unceremoniously back down.

"There. Done, " he said, tying up the cloth with the glass shards. He took them to a pile of old and broken containers he'd made earlier to throw out. He grabbed a straw broom and quickly swept the remaining glass on the floor into a pile. He was not going to risk having to use any of this cult's medical supplies on himself, not until The Lamb had replaced them with items of higher quality, at least.

Narinder moved his foot into his lap to examine the bandaging. An odd expression crossed his face, guilt or sadness, maybe? Kallamar didn't have time to dwell on it before that complete fool swung his legs out and attempted to stand.

Narinder yelped and fell back onto the bed.

"I will see about getting you some help to hobble back to your quarters." Kallamar waved his hand. "The sooner you are gone, the better for me."

He expected a snarky retort or another rude gesture, not for Narinder to smile softly at him.

"You know, I have seen you throw around your plagues and spread your miasma thousands of times," he mused. "I always found sickness a terrible way to die. There is no honor or glory in succumbing to a fever. It's pathetic."

Kallamar bristled, wishing he had tied the bandage even tighter.

Narinder chuckled. "Thousands of times," he repeated. "Thousands of thousands, even, but I only ever saw you cure sickness one time." He held up his pointer finger. "One of Shamura's soldiers brought back some sort of terrible illness, a cough that racked the body and fever that brought delirium, " Narinder recalled. "Shamura summoned me to help those that they knew would not make it pass on peacefully."

"I remember you actually scolded Shamura," Narinder shook his head, "and told them they should have called you sooner. That they know better than to let sickness spread."

Kallamar furrowed his brow. He vaguely recalled that. It was thousands of years ago, possibly more than that. Well before Heket or Leshy joined their family at the least, back when Narinder was the youngest bishop and Kallamar held less fear of him.

"You cured that whole army with ease, soothing their fevers and easing their coughs with merely a wave of the hand." Narinder met Kallamar's eyes. "I was jealous, you know."

"What?" Kallamar gasped. "You were jealous of me healing some mortal soldiers?"

There was plenty Kallamar could understand Narinder being jealous of, including his good looks, the glory of his temple, and the majestic beauty of Anchordeep, but that? Something so simple?

"I could only end suffering. I could not ease it nor erase it." Narinder looked at his hands, his eyes heavy with sorrow. "That has not changed, I'll admit."

Kallamar's chest twisted uncomfortably. How could Narinder have admire his abilities? Admired him? It made no sense.

He looked away, more emotions pulling at his heart. He should still be mad. It shouldn't matter what Narinder said. Kallamar should still hate him…

No, he never hated Narinder. He was scared of him, angry that his cult swelled while Kallamar's waned, upset about his handsome ears and hearing loss, saddened by chaining Narinder up for a thousand years, but he never actually hated him.

Kallamar had his head turned away and was uncharacteristically quiet.

Kallamar blinked at the tears welling up in his eyes, but despite his best effort, they overflowed and ran down his cheeks.

---

Narinder pursed his lips. He knew he shouldn't have said that, but the pain brought old memories to the surface and loosened his tongue.

A sniffle brought Narinder out of his thoughts. He winced as he saw Kallamar wipe his eyes with his wrist.

The one thing he had promised The Lamb he wouldn't do, make Kallamar cry.

He turned his attention to his lap, pretending he didn't hear anything. Kallamar stepped forward until his feet were in Narinder's line of sight.

"I have two little brothers and you are by far the worst of them," Kallamar stated matter-of-factly. "You are egotistical and annoying and a pain in my ass."

Narinder glared upwards, about to make a retort, when Kallamar continued, "However, you are still my brother, and it is clear we are stuck with each other here from now on. We should at least try to get along. Here. Fulfill your curiosity, Nari." He shoved the wooden box into Narinder's hands.

Narinder skeptically shook the box once before opening it. He took the object wrapped in brittle paper and herbs from inside and slowly pulled the paper back.

Inside was a dried, wrinkled, black-and-white spotted--

"By The First God's wounds!" Narinder yelped, dropping the bundle back into the box. Though he hadn't touched the dried flesh, he wiped his hands on his robes regardless.

"Is this a--?" He wrinkled his nose up.

Kallamar cackled. "A charm to increase male potency, yes. The wive's tale goes if one sleeps with a bull's manhood under their pillow it'll help them, well, you know." He clicked his tongue twice and jabbed his thumb up.

Narinder dropped the box as far from him as he could on the bed. He did not know why The Lamb had such a thing, and he did not want to ask.

"Disgusting. " He shuddered. "That can't possibly work."

"Oh, it doesn't," Kallamar shrugged, "but it is not the strangest 'remedy' for that particular problem I have come across. Once, some mortal brought me the foulest concoction I have ever seen, and claimed that was why he and his wife had so many children." Kallamar met Narinder's eyes with a serious expression. "They were rabbits."

The brothers held each other's gazes for a moment longer before their lips started to pull up and they both burst into laughter.

Kallamar wiped fresh tears from his eye. "Narinder…here." He held out his hand. "Let me help you back to your quarters. I'll have someone bring you some tea to help with the pain. I definitely saw some willow bark…somewhere in this mess." He gestured with his head to the table of herbs.

Narinder took his big brother's out stretched hand.

"Thank you, Kallamar."

---

AN:This was techically my first COTL fic, but I didn't finish editing it until recently. Also I have next to no medical knowledge, so those parts might be wrong.