#but it reminded me how hot he is in the steel prince

[antaripirate]

maxim maresh core

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (55) (End)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, giving birth, breastfeeding kink, mention of trauma, violence ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

I am touched, this is my longest story, my beloved child, my beloved couple. This story of mine was probably the most successful and brought me a lot of joy, your involvement made me want to keep writing. I feel like I'm ending at the right moment, just as I wanted, and I hope you won't be disappointed. I remind those in despair that I still have stories from The Impossible Choice AU to write. I also recommend reading Brother, Lover, Son and The Pearl and The Sapphire, because these are also stories from this universe. Thank you all for such a wonderful response!

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

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She wasn't sure she'd ever been as horrified in her life as she was when she realised her husband had lied to her – after he left the wedding feast, as she waited for him in his chamber, she finally asked the guards standing at her door if they knew where he was.

They looked at her in a way that made her feel uncomfortable.

She understood that her husband had hidden something from her, that he had planned something and left her.

Her head was buzzing with his words that he had said her before he left, she could see his gaze, his lower lip trembling.

You know that I love you.

Only then did she realise it was a kind of farewell.

A farewell in case he didn't come back.

She felt as she had that night when his army had set out with her father to the Eyrie, only for her to suffer such a painful loss.

She began to cry loudly, terrified, unable to calm herself, her child in her womb moving restlessly, sensing her condition. She was unable to fall asleep, but she was also too tired to think logically in the morning so she persisted in lethargy, breathing hard, recoiling at every louder sound, hoping it was him.

Finally the door opened and he stood there, his white hair, his face, his hands, his armour all in blood.

She covered her face with her hands trying not to scream, horrified at the thought that it could have been his own blood, that he was wounded, and just stared at him with big eyes, unable to get a word out.

There was a kind of emptiness and weariness in his gaze.

He approached her slowly and the door closed quietly behind him. He knelt in front of her with a loud clatter of his steel armour and embraced her gently, cuddling his cheek against her abdomen.

"It's done." He whispered in a hoarse, low voice while looking somewhere in the distance, and she felt a constriction in her stomach mixed with relief and horror.

It's done.

Her lip trembled as an involuntary question escaped her lips.

"Are they dead?"

Her husband swallowed hard and clenched his eyes as her hands stroked his hair.

He seeked comfort in her arms, consolation, an escape from what he had done, what he would have to face every day from now on.

"Yes."

She didn't ask him anything else.

She didn't ask him how they died, who killed them, if they suffered much.

She didn't want to know that.

She didn't want to think about it.

"You must take a bath, my love." She whispered, kissing the top of his head. He sighed quietly, as if relieved, as if afraid that the scale of his act, the enormity of the sin he had brought with him would make her push him away.

She knew he needed her like never before.

She did not let him out of her arms, letting him snuggle into her womb as she called their servants and ordered them to prepare a tub of hot water. As they did so she combed her fingers through his hair, whispering to him that he was brave, that there was no other way, that he had protected her and their child, his family, that he had to do this.

She told him everything he needed to hear to keep him from going mad with despair.

She felt his tears on the skin of her arms, felt that his body was shaking, that the realisation of what he had done was slowly reaching his mind along with the adrenaline and overwhelm leaving his body.

"– Joffrey –" He muttered and pressed his lips together in an attempt to hold back the feeling that was building up inside him, and then he burst out sobbing.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the thought of that little boy, at the thought that both he and she knew he was a child who had nothing to do with these events, was no different from Jaehaerys.

"− shhh − I know − I know − I know, my beloved − I am with you −" She whispered and leaned towards him so as to enclose him in the embrace of her body, his head pressed from the side to her abdomen and from the top to her breasts, her hands stroking his neck and wet cheeks, her lips kissing his hair.

Slowly he began to calm down, ashamed of his weakness and what he had shown her. As he stepped into the tub of hot water at last he let out a loud gasp of air, as if he didn't believe he was back.

That he was alive.

Just as she had done before, just as she had done then, at the beginning of their marriage, she began by washing his head, the blood from his hair and body staining the water red. She felt him lift his hand back and run his fingertips over her arm, as if he needed to feel the touch of her body, needed to be physically reassured that she was with him, that he was not alone.

She knew he was scared, that what he had done was crushing him and that she needed to be there for him.

She tried not to think about it, to push the doubt and remorse away, knowing that she had to be his pillar, his strength, that he could not see hesitation in her. He needed to feel that he had made the right choice, that she did not despise him, that nothing had changed.

After his bath, she helped him get dressed in clean clothes. Even though it was morning and they should be eating their morning meal, she led him to their bed holding his hand, and lay down with him.

"Try to sleep, my dearest. I will be with you all the time." She said softly.

He hummed under his breath and nodded, laying down beside her, cuddling his face between her breasts. She placed her chin in his hair, embracing him tightly, stroking him, and began to quietly sing him the lullaby her mother used to hum to her when she was a child.

She felt his tense body slowly relax, felt him cry again, and then after a time that lasted an eternity for her he finally fell into a restless sleep.

Word of Aegon's severe burns reached her quickly and she decided to visit him with her husband, knowing better than anyone else what he was going through. As they walked into his chamber Helaena was watching over him, rising from his bed and smiling at them.

Aegon's face was almost entirely covered in bandages and she felt an involuntary tightening in her heart at the sight.

Despite what he had done, she felt sorry for him.

"How are you feeling, brother?" She asked softly and he glanced at her, warmth in his gaze by the way she called him. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Not only am I disgusting on the inside, now I'm disgusting on the outside." He laughed, but no one responded to his words. They spoke with each other for a while, and then Aegon surprised her with his words.

"I would like to speak with my brother."

She and Helaena left his chamber and moved ahead with a slow step – now that she knew it was over, that nothing threatened them anymore, she suddenly felt a gigantic relief, as if she realised that she was safe, that she could calm down at last. She looked at her companion.

"Is he good for you now?" She asked. Helaena looked at her with dreamy eyes.

"Yes. Yes, a lot has changed in him. I regret that it is only now, but… well, I am glad that after the death of our son, me and my daughter find comfort in his arms." She said quietly, looking around, distracted, immersed in her own thoughts. She involuntarily smiled at her words.

"I'm really glad."

She decided not to return to her husband's chamber, but to visit Royce and his new wife. She reasoned that since the danger had passed, she no longer needed to fear anything and lock herself in his quarters like a prison.

She stood outside her brother's chambers and asked the guard to announce her. The man went inside, and after a moment came out and said that Lord and Lady Baratheon would welcome her.

She went inside with a smile, stroking her swollen abdomen contentedly – Royce stood up, extending his hands to her, and they threw themselves into each other's arms, embracing each other tightly.

"I've heard about what they have done. Gods, why didn't they tell me anything?" He asked, glancing at her, and she sighed heavily.

"I suspect it was all about the surprise effect. My Lady. My congratulations on your nuptials." She said softly and nodded at the young woman who stood up from the table, her dark hair braided, a grey-blue long, simple gown with wide sleeves on her body.

She wore no jewellery.

Even so, she must have found the expression on her face pleasing, her mouth was full as was her shapes.

"Thank you, my Lady." She answered her and also nodded. She glanced at her husband, moving towards the entrance.

"I'll leave you alone. Husband." She said lowly and calmly, nodding at him, embarrassment and something she couldn't decipher ran across Royce's face. When she left, they both sat down at the table, Royce grunting away while combing his hair quickly with his hand.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion. I just wanted to make sure you were feeling well." She said, looking at him intently, unsure if he was happy or not.

"Oh, I feel well." He said quickly, pouring himself a cup of wine and grunting loudly. She blinked, looking at him intensely.

"Are you content?" She asked finally. He lifted his gaze to her and pressed his lower lip tight. He sighed and ran his hand over his face.

"I…I've had close-ups with various women, but she…gods, I don't even know how to put it, I've never experienced anything like this. She's very experienced, I can only tell you that much." He mumbled and she saw with surprise and amusement that he was all red – he had trouble looking into her face, clearly overwhelmed by the memories of his last night.

"So… you're content." She finished at last. He pressed his lips together and grunted again.

"I…yes, I think so."

When she returned to her husband's chamber he was already waiting for her, sitting in a chair right by the fire, his eye piercing her, focused and anxious.

"Where have you been?" He asked coolly. She sighed quietly, approaching him slowly – her abdomen was still swelling, and she was getting tired of walking more and more quickly, but sitting wasn't any more comfortable for her.

"I visited my brother. He is pleased with his new wife." She said softly and touched his hand with her fingers. "I thought that since my husband has ensured that the danger has passed, I could visit him."

He looked at her watchfully, and after a moment he hummed under his breath, nodding, accepting her words and explanation. His gaze fled to the fire again, her hand on his skin.

"What did your brother want?"

Her husband was silent for a long time, his whole body as tense as a string. He swallowed loudly, running his fingers over his chin.

"He said he wants to relinquish the throne to me." He said lowly, and she looked at him in shock, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad. "That as he is now, he cannot rule the kingdom or represent it physically."

There was a silence between them full of tension – his gaze finally lifted to her, wanting to see her reaction.

"Did you agree?" She asked quietly.

She had the feeling that his gaze was piercing her deeply, that he knew her enough to be aware of her every doubt, her every thought.

His silence seemed to last her an eternity.

"No."

She blinked, opening and closing her mouth, looking at him in disbelief.

She felt a sense of relief.

"Why?" She asked in shock. He murmured under his breath, stretching out his hand on the armrest, straightening and clenching his fingers as he always did when he was thinking hard about something.

"Because I promised the gods that if they spared you I would give up my hopes for the crown. They kept you alive then, in Harrenhal, and they kept you alive in the Red Keep. I have grown to think that the gods do not want me to be king. My current role suits me. As the Hand of the King and Prince Regent, I will rule in his name until his condition improves. I told him I want something else in return." He said, entwining their fingers together, stroking her soft, warm skin with his thumb.

She felt heat in her heart at his words, at the thought that he still remembered that vow, that he truly believed that through his sacrifice the gods were watching over her.

"And what do you want?" She asked softly, and he lifted his gaze to her, a disturbing glint in his eye.

"Dragonstone."

When they finally moved to Dragonstone she walked with difficulty, the heat was unbearable for her and she demanded a cool bath as soon as they reached the place. Before their arrival, her husband had the chamber in the underground where Luke was last seen completely cleaned and sealed.

When she finally sank into the icy water she breathed a loud sigh of relief, her husband strolling through their chamber with evident satisfaction.

She knew that he had at last won a coveted inheritance, something to pass on to his descendants that was his, that he had been waiting for this moment all his life.

When he looked at her at last she smiled at him.

He hummed under his breath and approached her unhurriedly with his hands folded behind his back, gazing intently at the indistinct outline of her body that he could see beneath the sheet of water.

He knelt by the tub and took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. He stroked her wet skin with his thumb and let the air out quietly through his nose.

"Just a few more weeks." He whispered, and she nodded.

She saw him press his lips together, looking at her – she knew what he was thinking about, she knew what he feared.

He was afraid that she would die.

That she had not been taken from him by fire or by an assassin, but would be ripped from him by her labour, just as it had taken wives from husbands for hundreds of years, just as it had taken Aemma from his father.

She stroked his face, seeing his worry and tension.

"Be of good cheer, my beloved." She whispered tenderly and he nodded, kissing her hand again.

She did not want to be alone at such a difficult time and asked that Cassandra come to Dragonstone to keep her company. Helaena and Alicent had also announced their passage, so that she was not as afraid.

She felt her first intense contractions at the table when they were eating supper together, as they did every day.

Her husband was telling her about a new book he had read and she listened contentedly until a wave of pain went through her body. She dropped her cup and rose suddenly, catching her stomach, her husband froze in mid-motion.

"What's happening?" He asked terrified, unable to move for a moment.

"I think it's starting." She muttered, and then felt something warm run down her thighs.

She began to cry in his arms as he carried her to their chamber, for Cassandra, Helaena and Alicent were only due to arrive in two days. True, the midwives and maids were by her side, but it wasn't the same.

"I don't want to be alone." She whined quietly and he looked at her despairingly, laying her down on the bed, the women around her began to untie her gown to help her.

"…do you want me to stay with you?" He asked uncertainly, and she swallowed with difficulty and wept loudly, feeling another powerful spasm.

He turned his face away, unable to look at her suffering, not knowing how to behave, not having any knowledge of these women's affairs that always took place behind closed doors.

"Get out." She said finally, grabbing her stomach – she felt him throw her a shocked, uncertain look. "Get out, I don't want you to look at this."

She exhaled, not wanting him to be disgusted with her, so that later, thinking of her, all he could see was that sight, the sight of a ripped flesh full of sweat, blood and bodily fluids.

He, however, did not move from his place, his hands clenched into fists, horror in his gaze.

He didn't know what to do.

She didn't have the strength to think about it, hot sweat was running down her whole body, she felt like she was on fire. She breathed a sigh of relief when she was finally left in just her nightgown, one of the servants put a pillow under her back and another applied a cold compress to her forehead.

The midwife sat down in front of her, parting her legs with her hands, peering between her thighs.

"When I tell you, my Lady, you will begin to push. Do you understand?" She asked softly.

She imagined with tears in her eyes that this strange woman was her mother, and that the servant rubbing her forehead was her sister, and nodded quickly.

Without even looking at him, she knew that her husband was still standing by their bed.

She felt relief and horror, gratitude and rage at the same time.

The pain and contractions began to become more intense and followed each other faster and faster, her heart pounding like mad, her whole body in readiness for the tremendous effort that awaited her.

She wondered if she would survive it.

"Push, my Lady!" The woman called out, and she clenched her eyes shut and, with a loud whine of effort, tried to force her child out of herself. She felt something move inside her and she threw her head back, panting heavily, hot tears running down her cheeks.

"Very well. Breathe, my Lady, deep, full breaths." The woman spoke to her, and she nodded, trying to focus only on her breathing, on the way the air flowed through her chest.

"Push!" She called out again, and she clenched her hands on the bedclothes around her and cried out loudly, feeling the searing pain, her baby's head trying to squeeze through her tight walls.

She fell backwards panting all over, heard a sudden movement beside her, her husband's hand tightened on hers, his gesture of support and terror, his gesture of closeness, his sign that he was there for her.

"Yes, just like that. And again. Push!"

It felt like it went on forever – she was one big sweaty, weeping mess.

She clenched her fingers on his hand so tightly that she felt like she was going to break his fingers, her heart pounding like crazy.

"I can already see the head, my Lady! Just a little more! Push!" She squeezed her eyes shut and a whined in effort and pain as she made her body to force her offspring out.

Suddenly she felt something flow out of her, a lightness and relief filled her, the midwife caught something red in her arms.

"There he is, my Lady, look what a beautiful baby boy!" She said, wrapping the small creature all smeared with blood in a clean white cloth, wiping him slowly. She laughed with joy and relief as she looked at her child's face.

Her son had dark Baratheon hair.

She turned her head towards her husband, wanting to see his reaction, his joy at the sight of their child, but she saw that he was crying without even looking in that direction, his wet cheek pressed against her hand, his fingers clenched on her skin trembling all over.

She felt her heart squeeze at the thought that he was rejoicing that she had been alive.

When their first shock had passed, when she had been changed into a clean nightgown and the bedclothes had been changed, when she had lain back in bed, her son had at last been given to her. He already had his first bath, wrapped in a warm, bright blanket, his tiny arms and legs squirming vigorously when he felt her proximity, as if he recognised her immediately.

She felt a bond, a love, a tenderness, looking at his little chubby pink face, his scent wonderful and addictive.

She looked up contentedly and saw her husband's proud look, an almost invisible smirk on his face. He stood over her with his arms folded behind his back, preferring not to touch such a small creature for the time being, watching his interaction with his mother.

They had agreed that if a girl was born she would name her, and if a boy was born, he would name him.

She knew exactly what name he had chosen, but she asked him anyway.

"Daeron."

It was only at night, when they were finally alone, that her husband lay down beside them in just his shirt, looking intently at the little being sleeping in her arms. She cradled him looking at him with tenderness, thinking that he was the most beautiful child she had ever seen in her life.

"He has your eyes." She whispered and he hummed with contentment at her words as he carefully put his arm around them, pressing his temple against her forehead. She felt him place a kiss on her cheek and on her jaw, felt him inhale her scent.

"You were so brave, sweet wife. I have never been more proud of you." He whispered tenderly, and she felt the heat spread through her heart. She looked up at him, brushing the tip of her nose against his and they kissed, warmly, softly, their lips moist and swollen.

They spent the next few weeks getting used to the changes in their lives – her wounds healed slowly and after only a few days she was able to get up, much to the displeasure of her husband, who wanted her to avoid straining herself.

The cold stone walls of Dragonstone suddenly became cosier when the baby's babbling filled them, their son was loud and constantly laughing, overjoyed at their constant presence.

Her husband didn't want to be like his father, and though he was afraid to pick Daeron up, he often looked in on him just to touch him, to make sure he was safe.

She saw him watching out of the corner of his eye as she fed their son, finding it a very intimate and private sight, his wife holding his heir at her breast, giving him life, tending to his legacy.

She knew he craved her, saw the way he gazed greedily at her breasts, but dared not demand anything of her after seeing their son tear her flesh.

However, when her wounds had healed and she was no longer in discomfort, when she told him he could touch her, he threw himself at her like mad, his tongue deep in her throat, his hands ripping her nightgown from her body.

They were both panting loudly, kissing each other greedily with a sticky, wet click as she felt him grab her hips and settle her on top of him, quickly untying his breeches – they didn't have time to be embarrassed by how much they needed it, that they just wanted to fuck.

"If I don't fill you soon I'll die, sweet wife." He gasped affectionately, his voice trembling with desire – she kissed him again, clamping her hand in his hair, the other guiding the swollen head of his erection to her puffy slit entrance, slowly lowering herself onto him.

They both moaned piteously loudly, his hips beginning to impale her on his manhood again and again, filling her with himself, shivers of pleasure and heat passing through her.

She pressed her forehead against his, rising and falling against onto him, their bodies slapping against each other hard and fast, the lewd clicks of their shared moisture echoing through their chamber.

"− can I taste you? − " He whispered so quietly that for a moment she wasn't sure she heard it – his hand involuntarily cupped her full breast filled to the brim with milk. She mewled in pleasure as she felt him begin to play with her nipple in his mouth.

"− yes −" She exhaled and moaned loudly, aroused by this perverse act, his lips clamped tightly around her nipple began to suckle, she heard the loud sound of him swallowing.

She clenched her hand in his hair pressing his face closer to her, feeling her walls begin to throb against his length that he pushed into her body with each of his deep thrusts.

She was embarrassed by how surprisingly pleasurable it was.

"− oh, Aemond − yes −" She mewled as she struggled to fall and rise on top of him, their bodies slapping against each other with each violent slam of their flesh, his lips pulled away from her nipple with a loud plop, he licked his lips as he looked at her with a misty gaze.

"− so fucking delicious −" He breathed out and she whimpered softly, feeling his words between her thighs, not having the opportunity to answer him, his lips pressed against her other breast, repeating everything from the beginning, her nails tightened and ran over his naked back, she heard his loud purr of pleasure between the loud sounds of swallowed milk.

"− Aemond − it feels so good − oh gods −" She cried out loudly and tilted her head back, coming harder than ever in her life. He moaned low into her breast without releasing i from his mouth – she felt his hot spend spill inside her a moment later.

She wasn't sure she had ever experienced such an intense, long orgasm before.

He finally released her breast from his mouth, pressing his face to her chest, panting along with her. She stroked his hair, kissing the top of his head, purring with delight as she felt his manhood pulsing inside her in fulfilment.

"− will you let me do it again? −" He asked in a trembling voice full of embarrassment and guilt, as if he had done something lewd and unthinkable, as if he feared she would now be ashamed of him. She kissed his hair at his question.

"− yes −"

From then on, his perfect place in the world was to be deep inside her with his mouth pressed against her breast. They both knew that there was something even more intimate than usual about this act, some kind of taboo, unmistakable intimacy that could not be replaced by anything else.

She tried not to burst out laughing when one day during their morning meal he asked her, feigning indifference, when she would lose the milk in her breasts, and she answered him that her body would continue to produce it as long as she breastfed.

She then saw the shock and the glint in his eye, he bit his lower lip involuntarily, unable to hide his expression of delight at this information.

They were closer together than ever.

The birth of their son reassured the entire kingdom, for in the situation in which Helaena did not bear Aegon another son, there was a young heir to the throne alive who would take over after his father.

When she spoke to her husband it seemed to her that he was made to be the Hand of the King, his advice always cool and recalcitrant. To her surprise, Aegon finally learned to use them and became a better king than she would ever have expected.

Daeron was a calm, joyful infant. He soon began to chatter, making his own unspecified sounds and syllables, bringing joy and laughter into their fortress. Her husband read to him a lot, and he stood in his little wooden bed with railings and hopped softly on his feet, delighted.

He adored him.

She had to keep repeating it to him because he didn't believe it, but his son was drawn to him, forever longing for him – he would reach out his chubby hands greedily to him whenever he saw him return from the Red Keep.

Although outwardly he was stern and cold towards the servants and guards, when he locked himself with them in their chamber he changed into a different person.

He would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, say he heard Joffrey crying from the underground and frighten her, breathing hard. She tried not to show it, hugging and stroking him until he fell asleep again.

She knew that these events would never stop haunting him.

When morning set in, the first thing after checking with a touch of his hand that she was lying next to him was to see if Daeron was asleep in his bed. He would sometimes get up in the night to check that he was breathing and, reassured, would only return to further sleep, embracing her from behind and snuggling his face into the hollow of her neck.

She was overwhelmed with happiness when her brother sent her a letter from Storm's End informing her that his wife was expecting a child.

From what she understood their marriage had been quite successful and peaceful, her character proving far more calm and composed than her brother had originally assumed. She renewed herself in Storm's End, happy to still be close to the sea.

As the time approached for her to give birth, she asked her husband to fulfil his promise that he had made to her when they were in Harrenhal and for them to travel to Storm's End.

Travelling on a dragon's back with a small child seemed too dangerous for them, so they set off in a carriage, patiently enduring the hardships and length of the journey.

When they arrived she felt a strange tightness in her throat as she watched the round throne room where her father had always sat, and now her brother sat in his place.

He stood up happy to see her, kissed her cheek and stroked the head of her son whom she held in her arms – Daeron giggled happily and began to squirm again, bursting with energy.

"I see my nephew is growing fast. How these children are changing! He was such a little baby not so long ago." He said gushing with enthusiasm, clearly delighted at the prospect of becoming a father himself. She smiled broadly at his words, glad to see him, glad to be home.

Royce looked at her husband, who was standing behind her, and nodded. Her husband reciprocated the gesture, but they did not say a word to each other.

She felt memories hit her from every direction and she was moved. She had insisted that they sleep in her old chamber during their stay even though it was small, her husband agreed without a word.

When they went inside their belongings and their son's cot were already standing. He had only been there once, on the night he returned from Winterfell and left abruptly after their argument, so he had no time to look at anything closely.

He looked through her books curiously, looked out of her windows, looked around, and she thought fondly that he had tried to imagine her life before she met him.

Before he had chosen her.

"Would you like to see my mother's crypt?" She asked softly. He looked at her and nodded.

They descended into the underworld with the torch he held in his hand. Although the web of corridors beneath the fortress was complicated, she knew this path by heart, having often gone down there as a child, asking her mother for advice from the heavens.

After a short walk among the stone statues, they arrived in front of the one she remembered so well. She felt a squezee in her throat, burning tears in her eyes as she saw a familiar sculpture, a stone female figure that was supposed to resemble her mother, but did not even partially reflect her beauty.

She approached it and touched its cold surface with her hand, her husband remained silent.

"Mother, this is my husband, prince Aemond. Forgive me for not introducing him to you earlier. He chose me against my and my father's will, but I did not know then how much I would love him. I didn't know that…" She said, feeling her voice break, her husband moved beside her restlessly, swallowing loudly.

"...I didn't know we would make it, I didn't believe I would be as happy as you were with my father. Thank you for watching over me, for listening to my prayers and making the gods send me the husband I asked for." She finished in a trembling voice, choking on her own tears, feeling that only now, two years after these events, did she truly understand what had happened, what she had experienced, what she had gone through, what a long and difficult path it had been.

She heard him come up to her, putting his torch down on the stone ground and embraced her, hugging her to his chest. She felt his heart pounding fast, felt that he was unable to get a word out. He kissed her hair and pressed his face to the top of her head, standing with her like this in the warm light of the fire.

"I thought it was impossible for someone to love me. I thought it was impossible for me to love someone. I thought it was impossible for me to make a good choice when I came here on Vhagar's back..." He whispered, and she clenched her hands tighter on the material of his leather tunic, his warmth, his familiar, wonderful, calming scent spreading through her lungs.

"...and then I saw you."

______

Taglist 1

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[stella-facem-ducens]

I think I don’t hate red.

my fic for zutara month day 7 “touch Starved” 

Summary: When Fire lust for Water and Water desires Fire (this is a smut fic :3)

@zutaramonth

The situation is more than bizarre, for the very first time Katara doesn’t how to feel, usually when it comes to Zuko she has two moods she is piss off with him or she is tired because of the endless chasing now under the tight bind that keep her in place, tied in a pole Katara feels something different she is curious, the cause, they way Zuko is looking at her, there are so many emotions in his eyes she can see anger, confusion and desire.

Zuko is doing the same to her, he is staring deep into Katara’s eyes, and he see the same thing instead of anger Zuko sees curiosity which makes an unfamiliar feeling burst in his chest, Zuko is accustomed to see in people’s eyes repulsion but not in hers, gradually Zuko is closing distance getting near to the waterbender, the girl who confused Zuko so much.

  “Why are you looking at me this way, why are you not disgusted by me ?” Katara could feel the heat irradiating from Zuko's chest, his hot breath near her cheek, those amber eyes looking at her, like a dragon looking at his treasure.

  “Zuko I am not sure if this is how you flirt…. what do you want me to say”?

“The prince of the fire nation is the most handsome boy I’ve ever seen, the way he masters his element is outstanding and those eyes are beautiful, they are like the sun.”

  Katara bit her tongue she absolutely didn’t want to recognize that and Zuko couldn’t stop blushing, Mai has never told him such beautiful words and this water tribe girl is boosting his ego but the feeling vanishes as he remembers the necklace inside Zuko’s pocket, a reminder this girl is not single.

  “Peasant, do you enjoy play with men? or is just with the avatar.”

“You don’t seem that kind of girl, so tell me Katara what is with you? Why is your precious fiancé not here with you?”

  “What on Earth are you talking about, what fiancé?!.”

  “Don’t lie to me peasant, I am sure you have one, after all it is your people's costume to give this kind of thing, I am not a fool.”

  Katara couldn’t believe it was her mother's necklace.

  “I am not sure what you are talking about Zuko.”

“If you remember and I am sure you do after all you raided my town.”

“I am from the south, we don't do that. The most important, why are you holding a dear memento from my dead mother!?”

“Please give it back…. I miss her every single day… please I beg you it is the only thing left I have from her.”

  The sound of Katara's sad voice, how she is at the brink of tears certainly doesn’t make Zuko happy in fact he is fighting his instinct to hold her and hug her. 

  “I lost my mother too, I guess that is what we have in common “

“So Katara let’s make a deal, you get your precious memento back, but you have to answer some of my questions.”

“You already talked about my face, what do you think about my chest where my mighty flames reside, tell me how the power inside the crown prince of the fire nation feels.”

  At first the question seems odds but the desire in zuko's eyes makes it clear what is his intention 

If they have to put a name of what is happening; is not love at first sight, this is desire at first sight and that is more than enough for the crown prince, if he wants something he is going to get, it is that simple, this waterbender is going to be his. 

dragons only have one mate, this girl is the one, Katara just need to realize her future is already decided, he is her future, and she is his

Katara can feel in the air the beating of Zuko’s heart, the heat coming from his chest. 

when ropes finally come off, she rests her head on Zuko’s chest, the fire inside him calls her.

Zuko can barely contain his lust, his body is burning in desire, his cock hard as steel, ready to please his future lady, tame her, show her pleasure no other man can replicate.  

He kisses Katara fervently, his hand slowly reaching his waterbender’s butt, the young prince is on fire he is eager to burn her, to make her lust fire to make her see they can burn everyone. he will be the flame heating her steam, a steam so hot it will burn everyone who dare to challenge them.

Katara couldn’t hold it either. She is moaning, the waves of pleasure Zuko is making her feel. how deep Zuko is pushing his tongue into Katara’s mouth, for him she tastes like heaven, like the most pristine water. 

  “You are beautiful, my raindrop" says Zuko, watching Katara moaning under his touch. 

  “Zuko, I.. I”

  Katara couldn’t form any words, not because she is basically betraying everyone; what her father taught her, he told her she must never be with another man until marriage, she must never let a fire nation get close to her and she must always harbor hate for the ashmakers those are the words her father said to her before he sailed beyond the horizon.

The real reason why she can’t form any sentences is because her body is missing Zuko’s heat, she wants to lean into his fire, feel again his hot breath, the sensation of his kisses how they felt like drinking hot tea so hot it numbs your tongue, she missed the burning hand in her butt, claiming it as his.

  “Zuko if in my life I have to regret something I want to regret this please don’t stop.”

  “Oh, dear Katara you are going to regret everything except me and what we are going to do”

  And true to his words the next thing the fire prince do is burn every claims any men may have on his treasure, the collar on Katara’s neck clearly crafted by the avatar is quickly yank away and burn, burning it near Katara so his princess can feel the flames, they are burning the gift the avatar gave her, the collar claiming Katara as the avatar ’s girl is finally burnt into ashes, the colors of the air nation doesn’t fit in his dear Katara ’s   neck

as the final dust of ash falls into the ground a sense of liberation fills Katara, she is free from a future that doesn’t longer exist, she will never be call avatar ’ s girl and with this new gain freedom katara takes the initiative she kisses Zuko hard, with her intense kiss she summons small sparks coming from inside Zuko, invading her mouth, her entire mouth is in pure ecstasy, those amber eyes now filled with lust, makes her fire prince sexier but is not enough for Katara, she needs to feel more, she needs to touch more with one hand slowly moving, too timid to do it faster she reaches Zuko ’s armor and trying her best to take it away, Zuko couldn’t feel happier and quickly succumb to his lady desire.

on the river bank the only thing dominating are the sounds of kisses, moans and heavy armor falling into the ground, the sounds of raw untamed lust, that is the perfect description. 

  “Zuko please let me touch you more… I need to feel more of you… I need to feel your hot skin against mine.”

  “You are a lewd lady but as your prince I am more than happy to fulfill your selfish desires.”

  in an instant both benders finally embrace each other, the friction between their bodies, the hands greedily moving from Katara ’s butt to her tight teasing her with his fingers, enjoying the sounds Zuko ’s little Katara makes, how the waterbender ’s legs start to fails her, how she voluntary open her legs a little to give him more access and he reciprocated by rubbing his manhood in her virtue, his rod pushing in desperately agony, he wants to go inside her so much but he is going to make her beg, a prince never beg

  “Say it Katara, you know what you want, you can barely stand under my touch.”

“You are surrendering your body, your strength to me” 

“Give your mighty dragon what he desires, you know what you have to say”

“Serve me”

  “Zuko, make me yours.”

  “You have to try harder, waterbender, don’t you remember, I am not a peasant, I am not just Zuko, you know who I am.”

  “My Prince, my dragon, I need you.”

  with eyes fills with devotion Zuko pushes deep into Katara not even caring if it hurts or not because Zuko is absolutely sure she is made for him, they are compatible in every level he will never hurt her, they are made for each other and he is not wrong the most beautiful lustful scream confirmed it, Katara inner walls fit him so right so tight, her entire body is eager to accept him, her body was made for him and only him

overwhelmed by the warring sensations, the burning, the needy emptiness, the want for friction, the intrusive stretching. He feels like a hot flaming steel rod as he finally breaches her maidenhead, sinking his length slowly inside of her, his hands shaking as they hold her hips tightly in their grasp, a groan punctuated by an exhilarated growl.

Katara was still adjusting to the sensation, her body feeling stretched and full, almost  too  full. Eased with each thrust, Zuko begins to growl rhythmically, in time with his thrusts.

Zuko struggles to keep the flames inside his chest, fire is dangerous, it is rare for a firebender to release their fire during mating, it requires a full trust in your partner's abilities.

Katara, she is different, katara lusts for his fire, she lusts for every single part of him, the proof of that is the kisses she is giving him in Zuko ’s neck, going from his chin to her chest forcing the flames inside him burst. unable to keep control and like a beast Zuko releases his fire, the sky turns red with Zuko's flames and as he breathes fire Katara keep kissing his neck

the deepest form of trust between the mate and her firebender

with each thrust Katara loses more and more the strength in her legs, not even the pole behind her can support her. 

the beast, the crown prince Zuko, he is devouring her with his dick

  “on four Katara, your prince's desire to make you feel his entire length.”

  Yes… yes… yes… My Zuko, claim me.”

  with a smile Zuko release his lady from his possessive hold, the sight of his lady quickly collapsing to the ground clearly her legs are unable to hold her, the view of her now in four, how beautiful she, with a wicked smile Zuko thrust his entire length inside her, both of them can’t keep it in, the emotions are too strong they can't keep it quiet  Katara screams Zuko name to the world to hear while he, like a dragon jet fire flames so hot they are almost white, sparks erupts from his feet burning the tiny bits of wood nearby, the water boiling, hot steam soaring, surrounding them, steam so hot anyone near it would get their lungs burn but water will never allow her mistress and her mate be hurt

  “Katara, you feel so good”

  “Burn everything, my fiery beast, let me feel your flames” an excited Katara screams in pleasure the sensation of Zuko inside her, the beauty of the flames around her, Zuko for her is the personification of the sun, her mighty sunshine.

  The words Katara said to her prince with such love, lust and desire do trick, Zuko ’s dick is pulsing in anticipation, ready to mark her as his, fills her, in a primal grunt Zuko grabs Katara waist and carefully change the position, he wants to do it in the missionary position, he wants to see her face. 

  “I am going to mark you Katara, fill you with the seed of the dynasty that will rule this world” as he is about to cum Katara grabs him by the neck and pull, kiss him, both of their bodies are shaking in pleasure, in what it can almost be described as dragon ’ s roar Zuko marks his princess, his lady, his waterbender.

like river of lava with a force only a fire bender can master Zuko cum, aiming to Katara very core, so hot and consuming, Zuko fills Katara deep inside making sure Katara ’s womb belongs to him, her walls contracting, each drop of her dragon ’s seed finds rest deep inside her, a new addicting feeling is forming inside her, she will never forget how it feels. her entire womb becoming a pool of magma. Katara wants Zuko’s cum so much, neither earth, water or air can compare to what fire is doing to her.

She loves every part of him, the flames, those yellow eyes, her body, everything about him. Katara is like the ocean, her body want to pull Zuko ’s body to the deepest part of the sea 

During their orgasm Zuko sees the beauty of love in her eyes he is not sure how long it will last but he will never forget what he saw, he saw the pure raw form of love in Katara ’s eyes.

For a moment they stay in silence, neither of them wanting to separate from each other, katara ’s core is greedily milking each drop of Zuko ’s cum and his dick is possessively refusing to go soft, she is his to fill. 

So both of them opted for the second best thing, they sit with Katara on top, still connected but the fire prince is not done, not even close he needs to consume his Katara until the last piece

“You know waterbender I haven’t punished you for kyoshi island”

before Katara could even respond or complain her prince sucks her nipple, kisses her breasts trying to kiss her heart too but he needs more, from her breast he goes up, to her neck covering her in love bites.

The moans are a blessing to Zuko’s ears like a symphony of lust and love, he will never forget how a celestial ’s symphony sounds. 

He isn’t expecting an angry Katara, did he do something wrong? The answer comes quickly, she starts kissing him passionately this time she is the one claiming him, her tongue deep inside him trying to reach the flames inside Zuko, searching eager to find that burning sensation. The sensation of their first kiss, she is looking for those sparks of lust.

she is not done she can tease too; a dark idea comes to her mind she starts grinding zuko ’s massive dick against her inner walls, he is still deep inside her and she is going to take advantage of that, she is the one this time to make Zuko scream her name.

Her mission is complete, finally from her prince’s mouth those sparks come again, the ones she is starting to love, the proof of Zuko’s deep desire for her, those flames are finally free.

  After the kiss ends, Zuko is proudly proclaiming a simple truth.

“You greedy waterbender, if I knew better, I would say you are from my kind after all your people is all about community and sharing but it appears you are eager to consume me”

“don’t worry my fire lady, I will provide you with the fire your soul desires.”

“You will find no better men in those filthy dirt-benders, you will find no better in the punny breeze-bender you called avatar, you will not find no better men on cowards from the north, no puddle-bender will be better than me.”

  After the proclamation, Zuko lie down letting Katara ride him, a perfectly opportunity for her to escape, Zuko already made his choice, he chose her, it is time for her to decide the answer comes as expected, the greedy waterbender is riding him good with each thrust she is not leaving a single inch outside, she is taking Zuko’s massive dick completely which is amazing because Zuko knows how big he is and he also knows his princess love it, the lust in Katara’s eyes are the evidence, it showed when she saw his cock the first time

Zuko is about to reach his climax and Katara knows it too, the final decision is in her hands.

Katara doesn’t stop when she hears Appa coming closer to her location, she doesn’t stop when she hears her friends calling her, she doesn’t stop when she sees the shadow of the giant bison in the horizon, at this moment everything she needs is Zuko

“I want your seed Zuko, I want all of you, I need to feel your heat inside me again, I want to feel the warm sensation in my belly, I want to feel your pulsating dick releasing your cum in me, the seed of the fire nation in me…. Please turn my womb into a pool of fire and magma, mark my insides with your cum. 

As she says this she grabs Zuko hands and place them in her hips with a final movement she push down and let the must lustful sound leave her mouth to the world to hear, she let Zuko seed remind her she is now fire nation, claimed by the crown prince whatever she like it or not her body will always remember the fire nation ’s prince claimed her, she is forever his. she let Zuko burning hands mark her hip, a red handprint, it will disappear in few days but it will a reminder of what happened today for days 

She is undeniably his and for the look in his face he is undeniably her.

  Katara ’s body is sore and with Aang near, it is obvious they can’t keep doing it, as she stand up Zuko grabs her and place a big kiss leaving a love bite in Katara lower belly and then soft tender kisses following a pattern, the fire nation ’s symbol 

  “You know Katara, this world can know peace when my nation wins, when I am fire lord the world will find and know peace.”

  Katara is sure Zuko means well, she knows her sunshine, the prince, truly believes that but for her, is Aang the hope for the world, she has to go with the avatar and stop Ozai

The look on Katara's face tells Zuko what his princess is thinking, a little angrier Zuko continues.

  “I will keep chasing the avatar and I will keep looking at you with the same eyes I am looking at you now.”

saying the last part softer, hopeful Katara feels the same, hoping she will look at him with desire too

Katara stays silent, she truly doesn’t know what to think, the groan of a flying bison reminds her she must go. 

“You should dress yourself; I will not tolerate the avatar looking at you while you are naked”  the crown prince commanding it with jealousy, Katara has no intention of letting neither Aang nor Sokka see her naked, covered in Zuko’s love marks not because she is ashamed but because she is not that kinky

Before Katara could leave, a still naked prince showing off how handsome and big he is, grabs something from his pants on the floor. It is Katara’s necklace, but the fabric is different. Instead of blue it is dark red.

Before leaving Katara does something unexpected, a kiss, a short but meaningful kiss, a kiss that feels and is a promise.

  A few hours later now with Katara on Appa, her friends get curious about her necklace.

  “Katara what happened with the collar I gave you.”

“Yeah sis, and now your old one is red… as soon we land you should totally change it to blue.”

  Katara tries to agree with her brother or be sad about Zuko burning the gift aang gave her, but she refuses to lie, for her it would be dishonorable, she won’t lie about something she doesn’t regret. 

“The collar was burnt and about changing the color” Katara makes a solemn pause this is important for her.

I think I don’t hate red.

[serpentarii]

T H E   I N H U M A N   C O M E D Y ; table of contents 

A disillusioned alchemist and a creature the last of his kind. A vanished, golden-mouthed prince. A failed hunt. The crushing love of a god. A collection of six fantastical tales. 

the inhuman comedy ; 

❝A stretch of land, as large and far-reaching as his father’s estate, greeted him with sweet morning sunlight. The rustle of wind called to him through lush palms and flower plots, sculpted topiaries, and swaying vines. On either side of the flagstone path, water ran in clear pools lined in aquamarine tiles, mosaic fish swimming amongst the tentacles of a kraken and sunken mermaid cities. 

Do not be fooled.

The pin was hot iron against his skin. 

Even in a dream, you are still in a prison.❞ 

chrysostomos ; 

❝Soon, the Prince rose from his stool and ordered they continue the rest of their journey. He wanted a hot bath and a warm bed to sleep away the storm in. Starkly outlined in orange light, his eyes skimmed over Tommaso and Tommaso couldn’t help but be reminded of the harrowing creatures he had met through the curtains of a downpour.❞ 

envious moon ; 

❝“That won’t be much good out here,” Basenji told her. “Best sell it.” Saluki’s curt response had been to spit on the ground before him.❞ 

fate in the house of angstlust ; 

❝It terrified them to even imagine such a thing to be true. There was nothing to be done that couldn’t be done just as properly with wings and a beak.❞ 

undersea’s lullaby ; 

❝“Your prayer tags, give them to me,” I insisted. 

Even as I unsheathed my killing blade, the woman’s smile never faltered, only a dim curiosity present in the crane of her neck. She had heard the singing of the blade but could not see it. She continued to ignore my demand and my dull sword. As if she could tell I didn’t know how to use it.❞ 

the last companion ; 

❝Solos himself had been a slip of a soldier, the mud left in the wake of so much blood and steel, a smudge in the footnotes of a scholar’s finest manuscript. Until he’d met him, and stared into the face that would be his downfall.❞ 

T A G L I S T 

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[blzzrdstryr]

Like a fairy tale

Yandere!Diluc x maid!fem!reader

Wordcount: 1921

CW: Yandere and slightly suggestive themes.

You loved reading fairy tales as a child - they were magical and hopeful, a needed retreat for a child of destitute parents. They were a promise that if you were good and kind and beautiful enough, eventually some faraway prince would come by and save you from poverty. And you tried to be good - you were obedient and hardworking and you pushed your hardest in the local school, yet hardship and scarcity still trailed your every step - the meager earnings your parents made weren't enough to buy you nice clothes or let you eat until you were sated, which in turn made social interactions harder: some kids sneered and humiliated you, some tried to help you out of pity. You disliked both groups: whether they were friendly or aggressive towards you, they still looked down on you.

Thus you decided to distance yourself from your peers - there was no knight in shining armour galloping towards you on a snow white steed, yet a good education could be your golden ticket to a better rich life. It was hard at first - to work and to study and to help your parents all while ignoring the demeaning and insulting comments the bullies made, but you gritted your teeth and pushed forward, imagining how wealthy you’ll become in the future and in the end our efforts were rewarded - you graduated as the best student, that led you to receiving a scholarship from Sumeru academy. Sparks and shine appeared in your eyes as you read the letter, barely stopping yourself from outright squealing and jumping from joy.

The moment of happiness didn’t last long though, as a reality again reminded you that there’s no place for fairy tales in the real world - scholarship covered the full cost of apprenticeship, but only it - you still had to spend money on the journey from Mondstadt to Sumeru, a place to rent and food, and if you still could find a job after your arrival in the foreign country and pay off the later two, trip required mora that you never had. At first you had a mad idea to traverse Teyvat on your own two feet - it would be a slow and arduous process, but cheap nonetheless. You later gave up on this plan - archons didn’t give you any vision, nor did you have fighting and travelling experience to aid you on the trail that no doubt would be full of slimes, hilichurls and other dangerous monsters.

And that’s how you started job hunting - you took on any work that promised you a hefty pay, be it some boring reports for guild of adventurers or an exciting yet risky endeavor of getting information for an extravagant cavalry captain, which then led you to Dawn Winery. Head housemaid, Adelinde, posted a job opening for a maid, and the prospect of a stable salary, free food and comfortable bed was enough to lure you in there - two or three years ago the previous owner of the winery died in the accident and his successor left Mond for some reason, leaving the maintenance and management of the winery on the shoulders of the said housemaid.

After a quick interview, the head maid demanded you to show her your cleaning skills, which you effortlessly did, having to look after the house by yourself all your childhood. It seems she was satisfied, as she nodded to you and asked to follow her as she led you to your room. Compared to the other two maids here, Hillie and Moco, who preferred to spend their work time in idle chat, you came off as highly professional and diligent worker. This contrast raised both your position and salary in the winery, as Adelinde started to entrust you with tasks more interesting than simple sweeping and cleaning.

You were outside the winery the day you met Diluc - returning from the city and carrying several stacks of milk and wheat you got chased by the hilichurls. Monsters didn’t leave you, no matter how long and how far you ran. You were ready to drop all the goods and have Adelinde to scold you for wastefulness and dereliction when Ragnvindr appeared and stole a breath from you. He looked just like the prince from your childhood tales, impossibly pretty and strong, arriving just when the creatures caught up with you and then defeating all of them with a single slash of great claymore. And just like a fairytale prince he helped you to get up and collect the scattered baggage and asked if you were okay. Then you two headed for the winery, you didn't know that he was it's owner at the time, chatting and thanking him, as he carried purchases. Adelinde almost fainted when she saw the return of the prodigal master in your company. After hastily taking goods from his hands, she made you apologize for rudeness and insubordination, but Diluc interrupted you saying it was fine.

Ragnvindr heir returned back to the winery and life went on its own, except the unreadable glares Diluc started to send you when you both were in the same room. It started off small: the quick glances that soon grew into intense staring. With his impassive stone face it was impossible to tell why he was glaring at you so much, so you acted as polite and professional as you could in his vicinity - after all you didn’t want to get fired and look for a new job. The key to this riddle presented itself during one day.

It was a bleak windy morning when Adelinde sent you to the city again, and as you walked the sky darkened and rain started. You returned absolutely soaked and shivering, teeth chattering and limbs slightly numb from cold and when Diluc saw you he ordered you to change in a low commanding voice. Frightened by the possible dismissal, you hurried putting on the uniform. Because of the haste you pulled it too tightly, hiking up a maid dress a little. It wasn’t up enough to reveal your hips or thighs, showing just a portion of knees that was usually hidden by the wide skirt.

Diluc’s eyes were glued on the uncovered joints, a subtle blush appearing on his pale cheeks. You continued to work, feeling how he consumed your legs with his eyes alone. He is lusting after me. You didn't know what to do with that revelation back then, embarrassed and slightly scared of attracting master Diluc's attention.

Nonetheless, an answer quickly came on the next day as you found a bonus to your salary, so big that it could be considered a payment for the next month. Diluc, despite his usually impassive face, seemed to be ashamed of the thoughts he had yesterday, with the body language telling you of his true feelings.

A plan came to mind. You hated yourself for it at first - it was low and disgraceful, you felt like a stereotypical manipulative gold digger, yet still decided to realize it in life - you needed mora, as fast and as much as possible. Over the time you spent working at the Dawn winery you noticed that Diluc, despite his obviously high intelligence, wasn't really good at judging one’s character, so he fell for your scheme pretty easily. Design you had in mind was pretty simple - to stir him up with small, innocuous gestures and changes that would slip past the outsider’s eyes.

Sometimes you applied a thin layer of healing lip balm on your lips, that so conveniently happened shine and glitter under the light, sometimes you donned your dress a little bit higher, opening the view of two delicate knees and sometimes after cleaning and working all day you felt so hot that you had to unfasten one or two buttons to cool off. Diluc, despite not showing it on his face, was obviously distracted and aroused, hands clenched into fists and a shaky, barely controlled exhale escaping his nose.

He started to pile you with bonuses and prizes; “for a well done job”, he said one time, averting his gaze and masking the shame in his voice under a huff. He also started to request you to specifically clean the rooms he occupied, his eyes sizing up almost every inch of your body. You felt how the lust and desire radiated off him, how his hands itched to trace your skin and have you at his mercy, yet he stopped every time with his steel strong control and self-discipline. You sensed how it dwindled little by little.

Diluc, in some perverted sense, was that fair prince of your childhood daydreams that would save you from poverty.

You almost had saved up the needed amount of money when you noticed the loss of your most cherished possession - an invitation to the Sumeru academy and scholarship certificate. With heart booming in your chest you started to look for it in the whole winery, without giving out that you were searching for something. It seems that you were unsuccessful in your attempts, as master of the winery soon called you into the office.

Here, he was sitting behind the desk with a familiar paper in his hand - your eyes widened as you saw it and you had an urge to run up to him and snatch the invitation from him. You performed a curtsy instead, closing the door behind you and waiting for him to speak, eyes still on the sheet in Diluc’s hold.

“[First], you are a diligent and skillful employee, Adelinde has a very high opinion of you” he started from afar, a slight rosy blush dusting his cheeks at "skillful employee".

"So as your employer I wouldn't want any harm to befall on your person, and" he shaked the invitation a couple of times, "it came to my attention that you were planning on travelling to Sumeru. I advise you against this nonsensical idea".

You gritted teeth, careful not to insult him with the couple of barbed words at the tip of your tongue. Nonsensical idea? This was your goal, a main reason why you worked so much and allowed yourself so little.

“I am sorry, master Diluc, I am afraid I can’t abandon this idea”, you say, response flat and controlled, a thunderstorm of emotions hidden beneath the faux calm, “It is my goal, and the main reason why I work here”. So I can have a bright and secure future, in which I won’t have to worry about the tomorrow ever again.

“I also learned that you were born into a low income family and you had to struggle in your life because of that ” a sudden mention of your less than glorious origin makes your face burn from the shame you thought you buried a long time ago. You are stunned, so he continues: “I believe this little endeavor of yours is also motivated by your desire for a stable future. Drop it, I travelled all across the Teyvat and there are horrors that can easily destroy you both in body and spirit”.

He stands up from the desk, and gets closer to you: “I can look after and provide for you, just stay there and you won’t have to worry about the future again ”. His hold on the paper gets tighter, pyro vision shining with a dangerous glint. A faint smell of smoke spreads through the room - a warning if you remain stubborn and unyielding.

Who could have known that the fair prince was a greedy dragon all along?

[write-like-wright]

Should you date them: Ace Attorney rival prosecutor edition

Miles Edgeworth:

depends on what Edgeworth we're talking about

absolutely do NOT date Bratworth

disrespects women

doesn't realise short people have feelings

wears that gaudy af jacket

doesn't want to date you anyways, is in a committed relationship with the law, baby

original trilogy Edgeworth is a bit harder to gauge

very emotionally constipated

generally awkward to be around

expect many unintentional staring contests

simultaneously cocky and insecure

this is the kind of a relationship you enter thinking you can "fix" him

spoiler: you can't

his fashion sense is getting better though

gotta be really buff if he walks up all those stairs to his office

you'd have to compete with a ton of other women and who wants to deal with Wendy Oldbag? scary stuff

he's probably still not all that interested in dating but is also starting to warm up to general human contact lmao

attempt to date at your own risk, though I'd advise against it (maybe casually drop hints you're a Steel Samurai fan? idk)

Chief prosecutor Edgeworth though? HELL YES, BABEY

that man has matured and gotten himself some therapy

can actually recognize human emotions!!

that new coat and the glasses?? mwah chef's kiss

a (childless) DILF

less subtle in his weebdom and who doesn't love a confident man

has lots of cool friends who'd like you

still a bit aloof so have patience

but hell yes, date, hell MARRY him idc

Franziska von Karma

Franzy is a baby but won't ever admit it

somehow even more emotionally constipated than her "little" brother

do you like strong, mean women? me too, bro

if someone is mean to you she will wreck them

absolutely walks up to the counter at McDonald's like "excuse me, you fool, they asked for no pickles"

needs gentle reminders to be polite to people

would call you by your full name all the time and it's probably more than a little weird

boy do I have good news for you if you're into BDSM

pretends not to care - cares a lot

date but also, like, go to couples counselling for a bit

Diego Armando/Godot

Diego is hot and he knows it

very, VERY cocky

like, kind of a douche but his heart is generally in the right place

tries to be macho

expect lots and lots of coffee dates... like, five a day lol

would always have coffee ready for you in the morning... afternoon... evening... 3 am... whenever you'd like it, basically

calls you kitten

calls everyone kitten though

calls Edgeworth kitten kinda hot ngl

probably kinda overprotective

very supportive, though

a bit of a himbo

probably never sleeps

date if you like hot douchey guys basically

Godot really is the ungodly cool guy with a mask

daft punk enthusiast

has many, many weird rules

more douchey than ever

would kill for you

ngl he kinda creeps me out, I wouldn't recommend it

Klavier Gavin

yes, you should date Klavier

not even a question

a literal rock star

such a nice boy

kinda questionable fashion, but he makes it work somehow

eurotrash

be ready to deal with the fangirls

would be worth it in the end

hot af

would write songs for/about you

he's probably the smoothest bitch alive

would take you on trips all the time

he's loaded, expect fancy gifts

probably spends too much time on Instagram, tho

Simon Blackquill

baby Blackquill is 100% boyfriend material

what a nice young man

weeb deep respect for the Japanese culture

honorable intentions

would treat you so well

breaks up with you without an explanation one day and disappears for like, 10 years

AA5 and onwards Blackquill is... an interesting one

listens almost exclusively to traditional Japanese music and My Chemical Romance

probably has a hard time adjusting to life outside

needs lots and lots of therapy

kinda scary at times

would probably need discipline and rules in his day to day life after everything

like, set his bedtime or something

can be a jerk and tease you affectionately

can also be a jerk in general, please tell him off, he's scaring the wendy's drive-through employee

go bird watching with him

I would date him but I understand why you wouldn't

he's hot

Nahyuta Sahdmadhi

gorgeous, dahling

a literal disney prince

tries to impress you with his knowledge of your culture and it's both endearing and embarrassing

what's crackalackin homies = how do you do fellow kids

massive foodie

kinda ranty tho

can go for 8 hours straight

unfortunately, i'm talking about sermons

can be pretty insensitive at times

spends a lot of time with his partnered detective, kinda sus

at the very least date him to steal his haircare products

Barok van Zieks

what a scandalous man

have you seen those curves

more breast and thigh than a bucket of kfc

built like an avenger

very hot

probably unaware of it, though

what are emotions

family man

spends too much on "wine"

you suspect he may be a vampire

incredibly meticulous

condescending

openly racist

like, date him after years of therapy and several racial/cultural sensitivity workshops or something

in the meantime flash him your ankle to test the waters if you're feeling extra saucy

Bonus: Kazuma Asogi

*smacks him* this bad boy can fit so much emotional trauma inside

literally good at everything

stumbles over his words at times, though

hypes you up so much for the lamest of reasons

confident boy

so hot-headed

goes from 0 to 100 and back in a matter of seconds

very honorable

do NOT doubt his ability to get you off or he'll make you choke on it

cute laugh

if you say you wouldn't date him you're lying to yourself and even worse you're lying to me i'm so sorry for looking at your boyfriend ryuu

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ACOK: Arya I (Chapter 1)

At Winterfell they had called her "Arya Horseface" and she'd thought nothing could be worse, but that was before the orphan boy Lommy Greenhands had named her "Lumpyhead."

lol

+.+

"I'm taking men and boys from the city," Yoren growled as the sharp steel scraped at her head. "Now you hold still, boy." By the time he had finished, her scalp was nothing but tufts and stubble.

Arya joins the bald-headed club, alongside Daenerys. Cersei, I believe you’re up next.

Feels like the author might be trying to tell us something here.

+.+

This lot, half o' them would turn you over to the queen quick as spit for a pardon and maybe a few silvers. The other half'd do the same, only they'd rape you first.

Thank you for the constant reminder, George.

+.+

She wished the Rush would rise and wash the whole city away, Flea Bottom and the Red Keep and the Great Sept and everything, and everyone too, especially Prince Joffrey and his mother. But she knew it wouldn't, and anyhow Sansa was still in the city and would wash away too. When she remembered that, Arya decided to wish for Winterfell instead.

Arya picks hope over vengeance!

+.+

Lommy Greenhands and Hot Pie were the hardest part. Orphan boys. Yoren had plucked some from the streets with promises of food for their bellies and shoes for their feet.

Is this how the Night’s Watch recruits? This seems unethical.

+.+

The worst were the three he'd found in the black cells who must have scared even him, because he kept them fettered hand and foot in the back of a wagon, and vowed they'd stay in irons all the way to the Wall. One had no nose, only the hole in his face where it had been cut off, and the gross fat bald one with the pointed teeth and the weeping sores on his cheeks had eyes like nothing human.

I believe you missed one.

+.+

Jon Snow had given her Needle. Maybe she had to let them call her Lumpyhead, but she wasn't going to let them call Jon a thief.

Wait until the wildlings teach him how to steal from a Lannister.

+.+

Hot Pie kicked his donkey, riding closer. "Hey, Lumpyface, you gimme that sword." His hair was the color of straw, his fat face all sunburnt and peeling. "You don't know how to use it."             

Yes I do, Arya could have said. I killed a boy, a fat boy like you, I stabbed him in the belly and he died, and I'll kill you too if you don't let me alone.

Knock it off, Arya.

+.+

She had cried in her sleep the night before, dreaming of her father. Come morning, she'd woken red-eyed and dry, and could not have shed another tear if her life had hung on it.

No, no. Let’s not do that. No more parallels with mother, please.

+.+

By the time Yoren pulled her off him, Hot Pie was sprawled out on the ground with his breeches brown and smelly, crying as Arya whapped him over and over and over. "Enough," the black brother roared, prying the stick sword from her fingers, "you want to kill the fool?"

Quit it, Arya.

+.+

They were all looking at her, even the three chained and manacled in the back of the wagon. The fat one snapped his pointy teeth together and hissed, but Arya ignored him.

x

"You scream now. You scream loud."

I won't, Arya thought stubbornly, but when Yoren laid the wood against the back of her bare thighs, the shriek burst out of her anyway.

Boy oh boy, Daenerys is never far from any Arya chapter, is she?

+.+

Yoren was looking at her. "You hurt?"

Calm as still water, she told herself, the way Syrio Forel had taught her. "Some."

He spat. "That pie boy's hurting worse. It wasn't him as killed your father, girl, nor that thieving Lommy neither. Hitting them won't bring him back."

"I know," Arya muttered sullenly.

I’m begging you to remember this.

+.+

"Here's something you don't know. It wasn't supposed to happen like it did. I was set to leave, wagons bought and loaded, and a man comes with a boy for me, and a purse of coin, and a message, never mind who it's from. Lord Eddard's to take the black, he says to me, wait, he'll be going with you. Why d'you think I was there? Only something went queer."

What exactly is going on with Varys and Gendry?

Here, he smuggles Gendry out of the city for his safety (hello Aegon VI), but leaves the rest of Robert’s bastards to die. Previous book, he’s paying for Gendry’s apprenticeship. Where are we going with this?

+.+

That night she lay upon her thin blanket on the hard ground, staring up at the great red comet. The comet was splendid and scary all at once. "The Red Sword," the Bull named it; he claimed it looked like a sword, the blade still red-hot from the forge. When Arya squinted the right way she could see the sword too, only it wasn't a new sword, it was Ice, her father's greatsword, all ripply Valyrian steel, and the red was Lord Eddard's blood on the blade after Ser Ilyn the King's Justice had cut off his head. Yoren had made her look away when it happened, yet it seemed to her that the comet looked like Ice must have, after.    

Daenerys, Stannis, and Joffrey believe the comet is their calling, while the Starks believe it spells doom.

Pretty telling.

+.+

When at last she slept, she dreamed of home. The kingsroad wound its way past Winterfell on its way to the Wall, and Yoren had promised he'd leave her there with no one any wiser about who she'd been. She yearned to see her mother again, and Robb and Bran and Rickon . . . but it was Jon Snow she thought of most. She wished somehow they could come to the Wall before Winterfell, so Jon might muss up her hair and call her "little sister." She'd tell him, "I missed you," and he'd say it too at the very same moment, the way they always used to say things together. She would have liked that. She would have liked that better than anything.

A bunch of Arya fans read this and start daydreaming about Jon Snow, child predator.

I read it and immediately suspect Jon and Arya will have a rocky reunion.

Be careful what you wish for, Arya.

Final thoughts:

Shock and awe.

Somehow we got through an entire Arya chapter without the mention of a ship.

-> return to menu <-

[altariaas]

your face all made up (living on a screen) 

Adrien knows, to some degree, that it’s the important things that are the most important to say out loud, but it would help to know that someone’s actually listening. It would also help if things would stop breaking every time he acknowledged his emotions, too. 

i’ve taken a total of three steps into this fandom but sure, let’s skip to season 4 and fall face-first into the Angst™, as it goes. I just think Adrien should get a little raw powers of destruction sneaking out of control in his daily life. as a treat. Post-Rocketear so lots of spoilers etc.

Adrien walks home from the fight against Nino’s akuma with a raging headache, a developing case of massive anxiety, and a purpling bruise the size of a basketball on his shin.

The last one isn’t actually from the akuma. Those injuries got neatly miraculoused away, along with Nino’s heartbroken betrayal. No, the bruise is from Adrien’s incredibly stupid attempt to funnel his tornado of emotions into something concrete by kicking the front gate, only to completely miss and slam his shin into the solid steel rungs instead, sending him stumbling back in a pained fit of trying to think up creative curse words that won’t result in his father murdering him if he overhears.

Metaphorically, of course. Father’s not a murderer, except when it comes to the slow death of Adrien’s social life.

Though he really…can’t entirely blame that on Father, either.

And there comes the developing case of anxiety. Adrien swallows, a feeble attempt to banish the souring feeling in his stomach and the aching tightness in his chest. He wraps his arms around himself, staring up at the mansion and fighting the increasing urge to run. The inside of his cheek stings as he chews at it, already abused from how hard he’d bitten there earlier when Nino had started making…observations. Accusations. Wildly misdirected statements that definitely aren’t any insight to how Nino truly feels about what might be the truest version of Adrien’s slowly splintering self, if he’s going to be dramatic about it.

Overly passionate, Father’s voice echoes hollowly somewhere in the back of his head. Prone to fits of drama, just like his mother.

Spinning abruptly on his heel, Adrien beats a steady path away from the mansion gates and toward…somewhere. Somewhere that won’t make that developing case of anxiety worse, and where no one can witness his fits of drama.

The urge to send the front camera a rude gesture in farewell is violently stifled as Adrien keeps his arms wrapped tightly around himself, like the action will keep everything in neat and perfect and safe from view. He feels more than hears Plagg rustle curiously in his front pocket, but Adrien ignores the action, keeping his eyes fixed ahead.

Then the sharp reminder of how it felt when Ladybug ignored him in favor of Rena Rouge comes back and bites him solidly in the guilty part of his feelings, so Adrien pats his front pocket reassuringly.

“Just taking the long way home,” he murmurs.

Plagg’s eyes are calculating, almost greener than usual as they stare at him, and Adrien feels uncomfortably perceived. Not in the cold, bug-under-a-microscope way he feels sometimes when Father looks at him, but a hot kind of uncomfortable, the way he feels when someone looks right past the Adrien Agreste mask and sees—

What? What do they see? An awkward boy stumbling back against a wall because he never learned what his real self was supposed to look like? Hollow flirting and annoying with a capital a?

Fits of drama, Adrien reminds himself. He shouldn’t take it so close to heart. Not when Nino looked so devastated, so heartbroken. Not when Ladybug’s been giving him uncomfortably clear signs that Nino might’ve been right.

“If you say so, kid,” Plagg finally replies. “But I better get that camembert sooner than later.”

A half-smile tugs at Adrien’s mouth. “Sure, Plagg.”

At least Plagg still wants him around, masks and all. It’s a small comfort, but Adrien clings to it, his arms tightening around himself. Sure, things didn’t go…wonderfully, today, but it’s not all so bad. He got slammed into a van a couple of times, and maybe a couple of busted ribs, but that’s nothing, comparatively. And sure, Father’s finding more flaws in him to coldly evaluate than usual, and Nathalie’s growing paler and sicker by the day, and Ladybug’s either freezing him out bit by bit or starting to forget about him entirely and he isn’t sure which is worse, and his schedule is slipping further and further from manageable by the day and Nino dislikes a side of him so much it sent him straight into an akuma and—

“—kid, stop!”

Adrien’s thoughts cut off abruptly as his foot catches, his sense of balance going horizontal as he stumbles, and proceeds to nearly slam the rest of him face-first into the concrete. Plagg’s sharp warning echoes in his ears as he rights himself with a panicked yelp, hopping once while frantically hoping no one was around to see — whatever that was.

“Kid,” Plagg starts, but he doesn’t finish. He’s left the front pocket, his eyes bright green as he stares at him.

Adrien blinks, shaking the slight sense of vertigo off. “Sorry, sorry, I—”

Huh. What did he do? Rubbing the back of his head, Adrien glances at the street he stumbled over. He frowns.

The culprit is a jagged, snaking tear in the concrete, half a meter deep and the length of Adrien’s arm. He stares at the spiderwebbing cracks that branch out of it, fine grains of crushed concrete already scattering in the slight wind.

Weird, he thinks. He doesn’t remember fighting Nino this far down the street. Lucky Charm should’ve fixed that, even if he did.

“Adrien,” Plagg says, and there’s an uncharacteristically cautious edge in his voice. “What was that?”

Adrien cups a hand around Plagg, running a finger over his head in apology as he draws him out of view again. “Lost in thought, I guess,” he says, ducking his head. “Sorry.”

Plagg doesn’t reply, still staring at him with a look Adrien can’t quite identify. He feels oddly disoriented, like he actually did fall and hit his head, and now it’s spinning in retaliation. Across the street in front of him, the stoplight flickers — red, then orange, then red again. It flickers out entirely, before snapping back to a bright, acidic green. Adrien rubs his eyes.

“Let’s…let’s go home,” Plagg finally says, tucking himself back in Adrien’s shirt pocket. He doesn’t entirely meet Adrien’s eyes as he does, but he curls up against his chest, solid and warm, and it’s almost enough to banish the ache that lies beneath.

“Okay,” he says, softly. “Home, then.”

————

There’s a memory Adrien has, from when he was younger. It’s one he holds tightly to his chest, tattered and frayed as it is.

He was much smaller than he is now — barely six years-old, maybe, and small enough to hide behind the large statues his mother would put funny hats on to make his father laugh. She’d done just that earlier, standing tiptoed on the staircase as she’d slipped a terrible orange bowler hat on the pretty lady Nathalie said was from Greece. Adrien had giggled behind his fingers and his father had laughed, an unfamiliar sound that’s faded in memory now, but a bright and real one nonetheless.

It had been a good day, until mother had come down with a cold during dinner and Adrien had jolted out of sleep from a nightmare about giant, ugly orange hats that snatched up his mother with their ribbon-like fingers and took her away from him forever.

He’d sprinted through the house like the horrible hat monsters from his dream were on his heels, slipping in his socks up to the cracked door of his father’s study.

He hadn’t needed to knock, then, or even schedule a meeting. He’d slid through the doorway and barreled into his father, only to be caught by strong arms and swept into his father’s lap, warm and safe from any monsters that dared to follow him here.

“I’m worried about your mother, too,” his father had said. “But it’s just a cold, you see? Nothing to go slipping and falling down the stairs about.”

He’d received nothing but a sniffle in response.

“Alright.” Fingers had pinched around his nose as his father sighed. “How about we read a story then, until you’re not so frightened? Just you and me.”

The book they’d started that night was about a prince and a planet and a rose, and Adrien still remembers the sound his father’s voice made as it resonated where Adrien’s cheek pressed against his chest, his arms holding tight and warm around him, like nothing bad could slip in from outside and hurt him.

It’s a favorite memory of his, one Adrien finds springing back to mind whenever Father gives him a smile, half-formed and distanced as they are.

Lately, though, it’s a memory that stings to think about. It makes it harder to look Father in the eye, for some reason.

————

“And like, I really can’t say this enough, but I’m so sorry.”

“I told you, Nino, it’s fi—”

“No seriously, dude, I’m really sorry, I—”

“Nino.”

His friend finally jerks out from his puddle of miserable apologies, and Adrien gives him a weary smile. “It’s fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I dragged you into the boiler room then got akumatized,” Nino says, distressed. “That’s worse than like, the plot of eight different horror movies.”

“Your head was shaped like a giant blue tear, it wasn’t that scary,” Adrien assures him.

“I am ninety percent sure I remember shoving you to the floor,” Nino moans, not reassured in the least.

Part of Adrien’s mind, the part that sounds a little too much like a spurned cat whom hell hath no fury, or however the saying goes, wants to pipe up with the fact that getting shoved to the floor was five-star treatment compared to what Nino (akuma, Nino’s akuma, that’s important) had proceeded to do to him afterwards.

The bus-slamming thing had hurt.

Not as much as hurting Nino would’ve, though.

So instead, Adrien gives Nino the kindest smile he can, lays a gentle hand on his arm, and says, “As if the akuma gave you the biceps to pull that off.”

“Hey,” Nino knocks their shoulders together, his guilt ridden expression easing just a bit as he gives him a half-hearted grin. “I’m ripped, bro.”

It takes Adrien a moment to reply, too busy fighting the overwhelmingly — traitor — urge to follow the warmth of contact with Nino like a starving animal. He doesn’t need to fight for too long — his brain throws everyone thinks you’re a joke at him just in time for Adrien to hunch his shoulders in and give Nino an awkward little grin of his own.

Maybe his brain’s a traitor too, though, because he doesn’t remember Nino even saying that about Chat Noir.

He thinks.

Hopes.

Actually, his brain can go sit in a corner if it’s going to keep throwing stuff like this at him. Shaking anything and everything knowledge-wise that belongs to Chat Noir from his mind, Adrien turns his attention back to the scribbled game of hangman they’ve been playing on the corner of Nino’s history notes. Group projects are supposed to be fun, anyways, especially with Nino.

“Uh, c,” he guesses.

Nino adds a single c to the blank letter spaces. Adrien squints at the paper, his mouth downturning at the suspiciously familiar arrangement he has so far.

_adia_t, ca_ef_ee, d_ea_y

“Nino,” he says, carefully.

Nino smirks. “Mm-hm.”

“If this has anything to do with perfume ads—”

“Uh-huh?”

“Then I hate you.”

Nino cackles, scribbling in the rest of the rest of the accursed phrase as Max loudly hushes him. Adrien rolls his eyes and huffs, but he’s unable to stop the small smile of amusement. It quickly fades as his words to Nino echo with an uncomfortable emphasis in his head.

You’re being stupid, he tells himself. Adrien pushes away the nagging feeling. Nino knows he’s not serious. He knows Adrien doesn’t actually hate him. Just like Adrien knows Nino didn’t mean it, when he said all that stuff about Chat Noir.

His fingers tighten around his pencil. He’s not supposed to be thinking about that. Nino apologized, to Chat Noir himself, and just because Adrien can’t get the sting out, it doesn’t mean that Nino meant anything genuine by it.

Overly dramatic, Adrien reminds himself. Way too emotional.

The ache in his chest makes itself known again with a pang, and Adrien bites the inside of his cheek, glancing at Nino from the corners of his eyes.

Maybe he should tell Nino he cares about him, just to be sure. The words form in his mind, only to catch abruptly in his throat, thick and cloying. He thinks of how thoughtlessly he’s been able to tell Father he loves him. Thinks of how easy it’s always been to tell Ladybug how much she means to him.

He thinks of how neither of them seem to like meeting him in the eyes, lately.

He swallows the words, opting to smile brightly at Nino instead. It’s probably for the best. Nino’s always been better at picking up on people’s feelings, anyways, and he doesn’t need the kind of nagging assurance Adrien does. And it’s not like Adrien’s had much luck telling people he loves them, lately. Actually, if you look at his track record, he probably hasn’t…had any luck at all.

Adrien shakes his head, shoving the coldness creeping into his chest as far to the corner of his mind as he can, and sketches out enough blank spaces on the paper to spell fake mustaches are the new sexy.

If he can still make Nino laugh, it’s fine. He wouldn’t be laughing if he thought Adrien was annoying and obnoxious.

So see? It’s fine.

————

Adrien thinks about elastics, sometimes. The stretchy, rubber kind that Mme Thurston uses to pull back the longer locks of his hair while she’s doing his makeup, tying it up in a neat little explosion on top of his head that makes him look like a blond weed. She makes it look easy, twisting the little bands around and around, until they’re tight enough to hold his hair in place.

(Adrien’s hair is always easy, of course. Chat Noir’s hair, on the other hand, would probably give Mme Thurston nightmares. Mainly because Adrien has a fun little habit of shaking his head side to side until it’s an unrecognizable blond disaster, but that’s not particularly relevant.)

(Ladybug doesn’t even need to use elastics, opting for the soft strands of ribbon that hold her pigtails in perfect place.)

Adrien doesn’t normally use elastic bands either, but he likes the way they feel when he’s nervous, stretching and rubbery, then snapping perfectly back into place, like he’d never twisted them all out of proportion at all. The way he can hook his fingers in both ends and pull and pull and pull, but they never quite snap.

Felix has a fun trick with those, when they do photoshoots together.

(When they used to.)

He’ll press a little elastic against Adrien’s arm and pull the end back, just far enough, then let it snap back into place, stinging little red marks when it slaps against skin.

“Stop it,” Adrien scowls at him, but the expression wavers. Playful isn’t a word he uses along with Felix very often, but photoshoots are always more entertaining with him, at least. Or they were, until his mother disappears, and family photoshoots grind to an utter and complete halt forever—

—just for now, his father says, until something changes, until that something happens, until that metaphorical other foot that’s always hanging over Adrien’s head finally stomps its way back to earth and demolishes him in the process—

Felix replies by stretching another elastic between his fingers, shooting it toward him this time like a little slingshot. Adrien snags it out of the air, slotting it between his own fingers to fire back. It misses by a miserable meter and a half, because at the time this conversation takes place, he and Ladybug haven’t stayed up all night practicing their aim by trying to hit the left ear of Le Stryge on Notre-Dame.

Felix snorts, snatching the elastic from the floor, and makes a show of placing the band back against Adrien’s wrist. He pulls it back with a meaningful look, like an exasperated teacher. “It’s the bounce back that hurts,” he tells him. “Not the stretching part. When it snaps back to place—” He demonstrates by releasing the band, and Adrien flinches at the tiny sting. “—that’s the part that hurts.”

Four years later, having up close and personally experienced what a shattered ribcage stabbing into your lungs feels like, Adrien wants to correct Felix on tiny little elastic bands and what actually hurts, but the point, he guesses, is that he still remembers what it felt like.

He still thinks about those elastics sometimes, and how far they can be pulled until they snap back into place. How the little rubber band can make it so far, get so close to breaking, only to snap right back to where it started.

(Chat Noir doesn’t use elastics, either.)

————

For all that Adrien will stand by stuffing the worst of his emotions into a box and never thinking about them ever as a perfectly reasonable way to go about handling things —and whatever Plagg says doesn’t count, he’s a kwami who compares emotions to cheese — Adrien really does believe in communication as key.

Living it out is just. Another thing entirely.

But Adrien’s lived his life with a cold mansion’s worth of words left unsaid, so on principle, he really does believe that if something’s important, you should say it. Maybe nobody will really listen to you, or take you seriously, but at least you’ll have said it, and maybe at some point they’ll remember you said it, and it’ll mean something to them.

But maybe that’s what stopping him this time — he just can’t decide if it’s the idea of not being listened to that scares him, or the idea of actually being heard that’s worse.

It’s not like he wants to tell Ladybug he’s upset. It’s not like he even wants to be upset.

It doesn’t change the fact that he is, kind of, a little bit, (a lot) — but again, on principle, Adrien just — he doesn’t like being upset. It’s all uncomfortable and hot and it sits on his chest like a rock, weighing heavier and heavier until he learns to get over it.

It’s only worse when he tries to say something about it, because that never works. Maybe it’s a really sucky side effect of being homeschooled for most of his life, but every time Adrien opens his mouth to tell someone he’s upset with them and here’s why, it always backfires spectacularly. There’s a weird moment where something happens and the other person says their part, and suddenly Adrien’s complaints sound so stupid he wants to crawl in a hole and hide. There’s a dizzying one-eighty and Adrien’s suddenly the one in the wrong, and the other person’s upset at him, and now he’s got to apologize before he makes it worse than he already has.

And granted, most of those other people are just Father (or Father’s tinny voice through the phone), but he’s already enough to beat the lesson in.

Metaphorically, of course. Always — always metaphorically. Adrien’s never doubted otherwise.

“Maybe I’m just that bad at arguing,” he mutters, swiping darkly at his phone screen.

“I dunno,” Nino says, his voice consoling. “I mean, you were pretty good at it when you argued me into watching that one anime the other night.”

Adrien rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t upset with you about that.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Nino winks at him. “Unless your voice going all high-pitched about why Sailor Moon is the peak of animation is your default setting.”

“I wasn’t upset with you, though,” Adrien shakes his head, cutting him off. “I’m never upset with you.”

And he isn’t, really. Not even when Nino tells him, in an admittedly roundabout way, that he’s annoying and irritating and has loose and shady moral commitment to love and all its forms (or something like that).

He means, it stings, but only in the way Felix’s little rubber band snaps do. Not enough to justify picking an argument with Nino. Not to justify upsetting him, and possibly losing the one friend who’s stuck by him through the worst and actually shares stuff with him these days.

Adrien bites down on the inside of his cheek. If he’s not careful with the way his train of thought’s been steering itself lately, he’s going to accidentally show Ladybug how upset he is, and that’s—

Well, the fallout of that will hurt a lot worse than a little elastic band snap.

A lot worse than it already does, so. Back in your corner, resentful thoughts.

“Uh-huh.” There’s a quiet edge of suspicion in Nino’s voice, and Adrien stiffens, suddenly feeling horribly seen. The look Nino’s pinned on him doesn’t help at all, searching and curious and—

Concerned? Upset? Angry?

Adrien doesn’t know. He thinks it’s concern, but he’s also been thinking Ladybug’s been amused with him when she’s apparently just been annoyed, so who knows, really—

Shut up, Adrien tells his subconscious furiously. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“It’s okay, if you are,” Nino says hesitantly, perhaps having picked up on whatever storm of emotions are slipping through Adrien’s schooled expression. “Upset, I mean. At your old man or me. It’s better to talk to people upfront, y’know? Otherwise…”

Nino’s expression twists in guilt, and Adrien’s lungs feel a little like they’re shriveling up and dying. Or maybe that’s just his chest on the whole, collapsing in on itself and taking Adrien’s ability to breath right with it.

He isn’t upset. He’s not. He doesn’t need to talk to anyone upfront about it, because there’s nothing to talk about in the first place. He’s not going to be overly dramatic about this too, he’s not. He’s just— it’s just—

Is it personal? Was it something he did, that made Ladybug trust everyone else but him? Did he slip up at some point and he just — he can’t remember? She’d told him, she’d promised they were fine after New York, but maybe she’d changed her mind without telling him and decided he needed to figure out on his own where he messed up if he was ever going to be worthy of her trust agai—

“I’ll be — I’ve gotta — restroom,” Adrien stammers, shooting up from his seat and all but sprinting for the doors.

“Wait, Adrien—!”

Nino’s panicked call is lost as Adrien flies down the hall, slipping down the stairs to the bathrooms on the first floor where he’s less likely to be found. He doesn’t feel like he’s going to cry, or anything so humiliating, but there’s an awful crushing sensation in his chest that makes him think he might do something he’ll regret. Or say something, any of the raging thoughts that bang off the insides of his skull with hurt. Something he won’t be able to take back.

Adrien wavers, planting both hands on the edge of the sink and staring at the white porcelain. His breathing sounds odd in the echo of the bathroom, wavering and off-beat. His vision swims traitorously, so he glares up at the mirror instead, only to falter as he catches sight of his reflection.

He looks…not great. Pale skin and bloodshot eyes in the way that’s likely to make Nathalie call a doctor on him. Which would be just fantastically ironic, considering she’s the one who needs a doctor, even if she’s never going to admit it and keep lying to him. Just like Ladybug, all careful smiles and words chosen with forced, casual caution, staring at him with eyes that are a million other places except actually seeing him.

Stop, he tells himself furiously, squeezing his eyes shut. Stop. Ladybug is not Father. Ladybug is Ladybug, his best friend and partner and he trusts her, he trusts her to have her reasons for not telling him. He has to trust her. He does trust her, he—

A sharp cracking sound tears Adrien from his thoughts, and he snaps his head up to find seven of his own disjointed faces staring back at him. He blinks, and suddenly the faces are clinking to the floor, broken fragments of the mirror scattering around his shoes.

His first thought, apart from a bizarre sense of not being entirely in his body, is a well-timed curse word.

Instead, what he gets out is, “Seven years bad luck,” muttered, almost absently, beneath his breath.

Typical. He wonders if moonlighting as a black cat-themed superhero that leans heavily into exaggerated acrobatics counts as crossing one. Like he needs more bad luck, right now.

What he actually needs, is…

Is…

He needs an escape.

From everything, it feels like, but for now, Adrien will settle for an escape from the school bathroom with all the mirrors that just broke.

…somehow.

————

For all that he throws fits of drama about it, the thing is, Adrien has escaped.

He’s made it out of the house, to school. He’s learned physics and grammar and math that Nathalie taught him six months ago, and he’s learned how to play hangman and cut class and tell your friend’s fortune with folded paper. He’s made friends, real friends, and he’s learned how to muffle loud giggles on the phone at night and what kinds of snack food Nino likes and doesn’t like. He’s learned how to pick up on a whole slew of emotions other than disappointment and apathy and mildly reserved approval, and he’s learned how to tell when other people are hurting.

(He’s learned how to tell how he’s hurting, but he’s unlearned that one faster.)

He’s learned the words it takes to voice that Father isn’t always right, learned how to curl his fingers tight enough into his palms that they don’t shake so much anymore, and he’s learned how to stretch like a rubber band against people’s anger, bending without breaking.

(He’s also learned about the perks of night vision and bone density and six different ways to trip someone up with the leather belt you’ve got tied around your waist like a tail, but he can’t credit school for those.)

And he thinks — he thinks he’s come so far, he’s learned so much, he’s so much stronger now—

Then his father’s eyes soften just enough to resemble the eyes of the man who held him close and told him how much he loved him, loves him, who stayed up all night reading Adrien’s favorite book to him and whose lap was the safest, warmest place in the world, and Adrien—

Hates himself. Hates himself as he snaps right back into place, right back into the Adrien who crumbles at Father’s slightest snap of tone. Hates himself so much it stings.  

Because it’s so much easier to do that, than it is to hate his father.

————

Adrien doesn’t particularly want to go to the photoshoot after school, especially not now that mirrors are literally breaking at the sight of his face, but — and here’s the fits of drama again — like everything else Father’s deigned to want, he doesn’t have much of a choice.

Technically, though, Adrien fantasizes as he fixes his eyes upward so the makeup artist can do her best to hide the darkening circles beneath them (“—really, dear, do you sleep at all these days—”), he could give himself a choice. He could make it fun, too, striking the perfect pose before transforming into Chat Noir right smack in front of the entire studio crew, and then Father would have something truly inspired to review that evening. A perfect snapshot of Adrien cataclysm-ing his merry way out of the studio and out into the gloriously free outside, that’s what.

Except then Adrien would have way too many choices to make, and even less all at once. The identity thing, being one. How to avoid Ladybug murdering him and dancing atop his grave, for another. Not that he thinks Ladybug is capable of murdering anyone, of course—

(—no, that’s solely reserved for him and his powers alone—)

—but he can imagine she’d be angry, were he to stage a reveal that way.

Were he to stage a reveal at all, Adrien thinks sourly, blinking until the stiff feeling of the makeup beneath his eyes fades. His makeup artist’s had to use the thick kind today, the extra-strength stuff that’s going to take forever to wash off. He stifles the urge to swipe at it, trying to relax into the feeling instead. Makeup is familiar, consistent. Sure, it’s technically another lie, but it’s one Adrien’s at least aware of. Makeup, he can see through. He can put it on and take it off himself, exercising some tiny semblance of control over what’s being hidden from the world.

Everything else, though…

“Carefree, my boy, carefree,” Vincent implores, his eyebrows furrowing as Adrien snaps himself back to the present. “You look as if you’re being drowned in mud, not soaring above the clouds.”

Adrien’s cheeks puff up as he blows his breath out, short and frustrated. At least Vincent is every bit as prone to fits of drama as he is, he reminds himself. It’s better to be stuck with someone passionate than someone as open as a brick wall, even if it is just Vincent antagonizing him with a camera again.

“Sorry,” he offers, giving him a weak grin. “I’ll get it this time, promise.”

Vincent doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he rambles about lighting and angles instead of scolding Adrien, which he can’t help but be grateful for. It allows Adrien a moment to let the smile drop, staring at the ground instead of the brightening lights around him.

He toes sullenly at the smooth linoleum of the floor, the solid black of Father’s logo glaring back at him from the side of his sneaker. Maybe he should just get more sleep. Maybe all the ugly tangled emotions in his chest are just residual buildup from being overtired, that’s all. Ladybug mentioned the stress getting to her a little while back, her own eyes bloodshot and exhausted. Adrien’s brilliant solution had been to take her to the movies, which had gone just as brilliantly as every other time he’s tried something like that, which is not very well at all. He’d been worried about her, though, even before she’d thrown him from a roof on accident. Ladybug carries so much on her shoulders, and strong as they are, Adrien knows what it’s like to be strung so tightly that even the slightest extra weight feels like it’ll snap you. He sees the same weight in his own eyes, now, even blinded by the studio lights.

His stomach twists. Ladybug’s eyes aren’t half as bloodshot lately. There’s an easiness to her that wasn’t there before, a lightening of tension, and yes, Adrien’s happy she’s feeling better, he’s nothing but glad that she isn’t so exhausted and worn, but…

But she’d trusted him before, even when she was strung her tightest. And now that there’s relief in her eyes, now that he’s taking a backseat and Ladybug adds more allies to their roster by the day, allies that she knows but he doesn't, allies that Alya and Nino probably know too, just like everything else, now that—

Was he the problem? Was it his fault, that Ladybug’s eyes turned shadowed and her movements wavered? He’s tried, he’s tried to be a rock for her, to be something constant and consistent as Adrien himself wants, but the horrible feeling that he’s not enough is now warring with the awful feeling that he’s the problem in the first place, because — why else? Why else would she shut him out like this? Why else would she decide he’s untrustworthy, after all this time, why—

The lights against his vision suddenly flare painfully bright, so bright Adrien’s forced to stagger back.

Vincent jolts away with a cry, waving his hand frantically as the camera sparks and sputters. Echoed cries of surprise ring throughout the studio as the overhead lights flicker wildly, turning the studio into a frightening mockery of a particularly bad nightclub.  

Adrien stumbles again, alarm coursing through his veins like a cold burst of water, and he darts for the intern nearby, who’s fallen over in her scramble to back away from the strobing lights. She’s just taken his hand when the lights go dark, plunging the studio into blackness. Before anyone can react beyond a frightened shriek, the lights snap back on, bright and steady as if nothing’s happened.

Adrien slowly pulls the intern to her feet, staring at the blazing lights as his vision swims, blinking against the sudden onslaught of dark spots in his eyes.

“Is it an akuma?” the intern asks, her eyes wild with fear. “Should we — should we evacuate?”

Adrenaline shoots through Adrien’s veins, his head whipping back and forth as he searches for a spark of purple, for the familiar edge of butterfly’s wings. But there’s nothing out of place, save the sputtering camera Vincent’s fretting over. There’s no sign of garish transformation, no following explosions, no loudly proclaimed demands for miraculous. In fact, if Adrien hadn’t seen it himself, it would appear as if nothing’s ever happened at all.

“It could’ve been the power lines,” someone suggests. “This place is pretty old, you know.”

“With Agreste’s standards?” someone else mutters. “I doubt it.”

“The camera is broken. Unsalvageable,” Vincent announces over the outbreak of murmurs. To his credit, he barely sounds shaken. “It must have been a power failure, or a blown fuse, I suppose. Nothing we can help.”

Vincent’s word is all the rest of the crew needs, and before Adrien can clamber up to inspect the lights himself, he’s being ushered from the studio, another intern furiously muttering about how she refuses to be fired for losing a model to “subpar building inspections” or something along those lines.

Adrien, who is already anticipating Father’s reaction himself, can’t blame her for bailing the moment he’s in the Gorilla’s hands.

————

Adrien is six years and three months old when his father finally finishes reading Le Petite Prince to him, and he comes the closest he ever has to throwing a fit at the ending.

He doesn’t actually throw a fit, of course, because then his father might not read to him ever again. That they finished this book together is already more precious as anything Adrien’s ever owned, and he won’t ruin that with his dramatics.

“Not all stories have the happy endings you want, Adrien,” his father tells him. Adrien feels his arms tighten around his shoulders, where he sits snugly in his father’s lap. “Sometimes you must make the most of what you have.”

Even at a young age, Adrien knows that he has quite a lot. The knowledge only grows as he does, just how much he has from his last name alone. His room alone could rival some people’s homes, Adrien has no right to want for anything.

And yet.

Sometimes, Adrien thinks back to the deep timbre of his father’s voice as he reads about yellow snakes and desert flowers and feels a stinging sense of loss so sharply it takes his breath away.

Other times, though, Adrien thinks about his father choosing to read a story about a boy who could only return home by letting a snake poison him, and wonders what that says about their relationship.

It’s not even Father’s icy tone that hurts anymore, really, Adrien thinks, as he picks at his dinner. Not that he’s likely to hear that tone tonight. Father’s locked himself firmly in his office again, and even Nathalie is nowhere to be seen. It’s quiet enough that Adrien’s gotten away with heating up the cheapest dinner they have in the house, and scouring enough cheese for Plagg that he won’t be complaining for a month.

Well, a day, maybe. Plagg’s a special kind of greedy.

But it’s painstakingly clear that Adrien will be dining alone, tonight. There hasn’t even been a single message fro Nathalie, informing him of all the lessons he’s been falling short in lately. Adrien twists his fork in his hand, setting it down with a weary sigh as dark spots flicker before his eyes again.

At least there won’t be anyone to lecture him, he tells himself, tapping absently on the table. The smooth wood looks immaculate beneath his fingers, the edge of his pinky still a bruised purple from the other evening, when Adrien misjudged the distance from the rooftop to his own window.  

Father won’t be able to lecture him about that, either, so it’s a good thing, really. It’s a good thing, that no one will be saying anything to him about the studio mishap earlier, or the darker than usual circles beneath his eyes, or he way he’s been showing up late more often than not to everything. Not about his slipping grades, or the way he keeps forgetting to hide his glare when photoshoots run longer than they’re supposed to.

It’s a good thing, Adrien tells himself, as his fingers clench around the table’s edge. It’s a good thing that he’s alone tonight. Being alone and unseen is much better than the alternative. It’s a good thing, that he can stew in whatever ugly emotions keep threatening to rise to the surface all by himself, where he won’t risk hurting anyone else with them. He can’t mess anything up if no one’s there to see it, so really, it’s a good thing, it’s—

It hits him, all-encompassing and overwhelming all at once.

Unwanted, thick and horrible and choking, the sensation of being traded out and traded off and stepped over, left behind and left out and laughed at in vicious whispers, closed doors and closed expressions and locking him out, like bars sliding down from the ceiling and cutting him off, trapped in place like an animal in the zoo, entertaining for a heartbeat than easily moved past for something better, unwanted and untrusted and alone, alone, alone again—

Adrien buckles and something howls in his ears, his hands burning as his fingers crunch through wood and his vision whites out.

For a heartbeat, Adrien isn’t Adrien — he’s the swelling of flames as fire catches light, he’s the pull of the undertow as it rips across the shore, he’s the blazing burst of lightning against metal, he’s on the edge of a cliff and stepping off—

And then he’s Adrien again, small and shaking and breathing in large, heaving gasps, trying desperately not to throw up all over the table.

“—drien, kid, Adrien, please!”

Adrien tears his hands from the table as if it’s shocked him. Black flecks drift from his fingers as they tremble, and Plagg splits into three as he flits in front of him, six pairs of green eyes staring at him in blazing concern.

“Plagg?” He barely recognizes his own voice, and his throat feels like sandpaper.

“Breathe,” Plagg orders as his image solidifies back to one, more serious than Adrien can remember him sounding. “You gotta breathe, Adrien.”

He does, in stuttering, shaky gasps, because Adrien will do anything Plagg asks him to. He’ll light himself on fire if he wanted, because Plagg is all he’s got.

Plagg is here, and that means more to Adrien than anything else could.

“Breathing,” he finally croaks out. “I’m — breathing, see? S’all good.”

It is most certainly not all good, because Adrien still feels like he got thrown off a building and into a blender, but Plagg almost looks frightened, looking from Adrien to the table to Adrien again, and—

Adrien freezes. The table. The stupidly, enormous, ridiculously expensive, lonely table his family’s supposed to use. The table he definitely, most certainly felt crunch under his hands.

Adrien follows Plagg’s gaze downwards, and suddenly feels like he’s going to throw up again.

“Oh,” he whispers.

Ice coats the inside of his chest, cold and creeping. The sidewalk. The mirrors, the studio camera, and now this.

“Adrien.” Plagg sounds so very serious.

He could explain most of it away. It’d be — it would be easy.

But this?

Adrien stares at the half-decayed table, ashes still flaking from the sides in a way that’s horribly distinctive of his cataclysm. A spiderwebbed path of smoldering destruction, all tracing back to where his fingers had been white-knuckled at the table’s edge.

Something snaps in the chandelier above him, cracking once and fizzling off into sparks.

It feels like something’s snapped in Adrien’s head. Maybe he’s lost it. Maybe he’s finally gone off the edge, and that — that can be his excuse, when Father asks him what, exactly, he did to the table. He can tell Father they’ve both lost it, they’ve both gone mad, and wouldn’t mom think this was all so funny—

A sound like a sob rips itself from his chest, before Adrien can strangle it into submission. He can’t lose it now. He can’t break down, he has to — he has to come up with a way to explain this, he has to find an escape, or Father’s going to be so angry, and so cold, and…and…

Adrien goes still. Like ice, numb and calming, he realizes he doesn’t have to worry about excuses. He doesn’t have to worry about any of that at all. No one’s coming. Not to check on him. The silence of the house is overpowering, the tiny patter of the vaporized table bits as they land on the floor almost thunderous.

“Adrien,” Plagg repeats, softer this time. “I need you to look at me.”

Slowly, he lifts his head, meeting Plagg’s bright green eyes with his own. Something in Plagg’s expression goes tight, a myriad of emotions flickering in his eyes before he schools them back into careful calm.

“Oh, kid.” Plagg’s voice is gentle. It still sounds like a lament.

Adrien tears his gaze away, swallowing. His fingers, still shaking, curl into unsteady fists. They feel odd, almost scalded. Adrien ignores it.

He can hide the table, he tells himself. He can fix the chandelier. No one will notice. He can hide this.

He’s Adrien Agreste.

He can deal with a couple of cracks in his facade.

[kenzumekodma]

18+ only, minors do not interact

pairing: shouto todoroki x fem!reader, politician au

warnings: power imbalance, degradation, oral (m receiving), fingering, cum swallowing, finger sucking, teensiest bit of praise, one instance of canadian spelling

summary: if this was going to happen, you might as well commit to it. there were worse people to fuck on a monday morning than shouto todoroki.

wc: 2.5k

His father’s the highest ranking politician in the prefecture, you remind yourself. Just grit your teeth and bear it.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Shouto. No, he didn’t like you, was more like it. Ever since you took on the job as his assistant you’ve shouldered this feeling that absolutely seeped from him, this feeling that he was inherently superior to you and you were nothing. A means to an end.

At first his quiet indifference bothered you, but as the weeks wore into months, into nearly a year… really you just stopped giving a shit. Sure, you’d gone into this job bright eyed and bushy tailed, answering with a quick yes sir, no sir to any questions he asked you. Slowly, though, your energy dropped, your output matching Shouto’s.

Coming into your work anniversary, a time when you’d imagined you’d be kicking your feet up for a night and enjoying a lighter workload, if not a night off, you walked into the office to a more chaotic scene. You groaned into the plastic lid of your to-go coffee. The hot liquid was your only saving grace. Closing your eyes for a moment, you took a deep breath through your nose, steeled yourself as you held it for a few seconds, and then exhaled through your mouth, lips closed into a small ‘o’. With renewed nerves, you open your eyes and walk into the elevator, making your way towards Mr. Todoroki’s office.

Large solid walnut doors met you a few short strides away from the elevator. Balancing your coffee, Mr. Todoroki’s tea, and your work bag precariously but with the confidence that comes with practice as you turned the brushed bronze handle. As expected, Mister Perfect was sat behind his desk. Larger than it really needs to be, you thought, like so many things tend to be when you’re living off the bank of Daddy’s Popularity.

“What’s all the fuss about downstairs?” you asked, setting Shouto’s tea down on the coaster he had waiting for it, just like he had every day for a year. He shrugged.

“Elections are coming up. My old man wants me to run for a seat on council.”

You nodded. “And that’s why I woke up to an email this morning from Endeavor offices saying Mr. Todoroki Sr. is scheduled to come by at 10:30 today with exactly zero context.” Shoto nodded once.

“There’s no point in stopping him. He has the knowledge and I need it, I guess.”

You sighed, resigned to planning a last minute visit for the man who’s effectively your boss’s boss.

“It’s too bad,” he started, pausing to take a sip of tea. Deadpan expression still resting on your face, you quirk a brow at him, a silent what? hanging in the air. “Too bad that my old man will have to see you like this. You’ve changed since he hired you for me,” Shoto said as he stood, tea placed flawlessly in the centre of its coaster. He stalked around the desk, getting ever closer to you. Instinctively, you went to place your coffee on the desk, but you caught yourself, putting your work bag on the floor, bending to pick up your planner from it. You missed Shouto’s eyes grazing down the back of your form, hesitating at your thighs, where their plushness was accentuated by the hem of your tight, light grey skirt digging in slightly. You slid your planner onto the luxury desk, using it as a makeshift coaster for your cup.

The corner of Shouto’s lip turned up almost imperceptibly. “You used to be so polite, y/n.” He took another step towards you and you froze in confusion.

“I…” you trailed off.

“You what?” he goaded, getting closer to you again. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the aforementioned not giving a shit, maybe it was the surprise stress of Enji Todoroki’s insistence on the election, but you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding and speak your mind to your boss for the first time.

“I just, I know that you think of me as lesser, and it’s true. I am. I know that, you know that. You’re political royalty and I’m just trying to make rent. So what’s the point in trying to get you to respect me with pretty words?”

“Lesser, is that so?” he murmured. He was upon you now, slender hand reaching out to take your chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger. A mixture of confidence and careful carelessness swirled behind Shouto’s heterochromatic eyes. Bicoloured hair slipped from its place to frame his sculpted cheekbones as he looked down at you.

“I’m a means to your end, and likewise for you. If we’re going to use each other we should feel good too, right? Now, wouldn’t you say the best place for inferior little girls like you is on their knees?” His eyes flickered to your lips, to your eyes, to your lips again. The last three honeyed words dripped from his lips and straight to your panties making you clench around nothing. The span of four minutes and he’d already flipped everything you thought about him on its head.

In your doe-eyed stupor you hadn’t even noticed how fucking wet you’d gotten although it was undeniable when your thighs rubbed together as you shifted your weight back and forth.

“Well?” Shouto asked, voice quiet. You nodded, bringing his hand up and down with your face. He patted your cheek. “That’s what I thought. Down,” he commanded. Shame rose in you as you dropped to the floor, flush crawling up your neck making you feel as red as half of your boss’s hair.

You looked up at him for further instruction to see him unbuttoning the top two buttons of his expensive linen shirt. Instinctively you lifted your hands to unbuckle his designer belt, but he swatted them away.

“What makes you think you’re worthy of touching anything of mine? This costs more than your salary,” he sneered.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“Sorry what?”

“Sorry, Mr. Todoroki,” you corrected yourself.

“Not quite. Try again,” he tutted. You felt the heat rise from your neck to your cheeks, causing you to turn your gaze downward.

“Sorry, Sir,” you mumbled.

“I can’t hear you all the way down there. Speak up,” Shouto demanded.

“I, I’m sorry Sir,” you said, louder this time and with more confidence. If this was going to happen, you figured you might as well commit to it. There were worse people to fuck on a Monday morning than Shouto Todoroki.

“Better,” he said approvingly. He slipped his buckle and belt off with ease, unbuttoning his charcoal grey slacks. Your eyes followed his hands downwards and it finally hit you just how big of a dick print was practically staring you in the face. He pulled up the once tucked in shirt tails and bunched them up around his toned stomach. Agony, his pace freeing his cock was absolute agony. His length was impressive, on the longer side of anyone you’d been with before. And his girth. It was a lot like the man himself, surprisingly thick but beautiful. The vein running along the underside of his cock made your mouth water with anticipation.

He let it out of his hand and it rested heavily on your lips.

“Please, Sir…” you said, licking your lips just enough to tease him with the sensation of your tongue. Shouto bit back a groan but nodded his head. You gave his cock an exploratory lick up the underside. A low noise rumbled in his chest, which you took as encouragement to continue. Hesitantly, you lifted a hand up to his waist and dragged your nails down his abdomen lightly, causing him to weave his fingers through your hair and grip tightly. God forbid the political Prince Charming be anything but in charge.

He guided your head up an inch or so. Holding his length in his other hand, he tapped the flushed tip against your cherry lips and you comply, parting them without a thought in your head besides Shouto’s cock. You close your mouth around his head and suck lightly, savouring the ever so slightly salty taste of his precum against your tongue. Shouto guided your head back for a better view.

He’s been watching and waiting for months, wondering what your lips would look like wrapped around him with every sharp barb that rolled off your tongue. The reality of it was better than he’d imagined. The silky wetness of your mouth just fueled his lust further. What would your sweet pussy feel like around him? Would you let him in?

His facade faltered, and he bucked his hips into you. Your throat tightened around him and your eyes watered. Something in the way he treated you ignited a fierce competition within you. If his actions were a challenge, you took it and one upped him, taking as much of him as possible. Your nose nuzzled into the base of his cock, taking in the musky scent of his sex with every breath you tried to take. Bracing yourself with your hands on his chest, you swallowed around him. Shouto shudders and his fingers leave your scalp. He pets your hair gently, and for a split second as you looked up at him with curiosity, you saw genuine fondness written across his face. Whatever prompted it, he shoved it aside and gripped your wrists together in his larger hand, pinning them against him above your head.

His movement took you by surprise. Surprises normally caused dread to pool in your tummy. This particular surprise caused arousal to bubble inside instead, it caused you to rub your thighs together as best you could for just a tiny bit, any bit of delicious friction you could get. It wasn’t enough, and you let out a half moan, half whine sound that vibrated up Shouto’s cock.

“Pretty girl’s a little slut, huh? Likes being helpless? Keep going.” he sneered at you.

You nodded as best as you could without letting off of his dick, drool pooling at the sides of your mouth. God, the absolute debauchery of what this man would have you do for him, it made your thighs clench. Desperation evident in your actions, you moan around him, moving yourself as much as your tight little skirt would allow. Shouto shuddered and took your jaw in his fine, slender hand.

“Enough,” he hissed, pulling your mouth off of his cock. His breath came in shallow pants, the only tell that he was as affected as you were. The way you licked your lips as soon as they were unoccupied made him bite back a moan. You looked fucking delicious in that moment, a summer fruit ripe for the picking.

“Up,” he commanded. You tried your best to stand up with your balance off kilter. Really, Shouto ended up pulling you to your feet more than anything else. He turned you around, advanced on you until your ass was bumping against his desk, and then he took one step further, leaving you no choice but to shimmy up onto the surface.

“Is… is this okay?” you asked, and Shouto let out a chuckle.

“You’re just asking that now? I should be asking you instead,” he said. He leaned down and latched his lips onto your neck. “Well?” he murmured into your skin, fingers dancing at the hem of your skirt. “You wanna be my own little whore?”

“Yes… please, Sir,” you whimpered. That’s all he needed to hear to lift you up just enough to slide your skirt past the swell of your ass, letting it bunch up around your waist. He probed a finger along your covered slit. He stops at the wet patch over your aching core.

“Excited, are we?” he teases, moving your panties to the side and circling his finger around your hole, stopping just shy of dipping inside. “Tell me who this belongs to.”

“‘s yours, Sir. ‘s all yours, I’m all yours, belong to you, please, wanna be full,” you whined.

“That’s right, this belongs to me. I’m gonna take what’s mine,” he said. You didn’t know whether he meant your sopping wet pussy or your whole self but at that point you were ready to give him anything he asked for just for him to touch you, to make you cum. You let out a choked moan when he slid his middle finger unceremoniously into your fluttering walls, no longer clenching around nothing. Even one finger was a stretch for you. Not like he cared to let you get too used to it, he was more occupied with the idea of getting you to come undone on his hand.

He added a second finger and began rubbing your clit with his thumb. The urgent moans of his name and Sir, please careening from your lips sounded like the sweetest sonata he would ever hear.

“Please what?” he asked.

“Please, wanna… need to… please lemme cum,” you begged, head pressed forward into his chest.

“Let me cum, what?” Shouto goaded. “Just because you’re being fucked dumb doesn’t mean you get to forgo your manners. Remember your lesson?” he tutted, curling his finger into your bundle of nerves.

“Please, let me cum, Sir,” you gasped out.

“Go on, then. Cum.”

Your already tight muscles contracted around his fingers desperately as he stroked your spongy walls to your release. You came with a broken yelp, earning a look of smug satisfaction from the man looming over you.

He scissored his fingers once more, just to hear you mewl from the overstimulation of your fucked out cunt, your eyes scrunched shut to keep yourself grounded. The feeling of his messy fingers tapping at your bottom lip had you opening your mouth obediently.

“Keep it open,” he ordered. You opened your eyes to see Shouto had led you back onto your knees in front of him. His free hand fisted his cock inches from your face. You opened your mouth wider and looked up at him through your lashes.

“Fuck…” he groaned. Just a few more thrusts and he was painting the inside of your mouth and his fingers white with his cum.

“Close,” he said, and you close your mouth. “Clean it up.”

You sucked gently on his fingers, making sure to swirl your tongue around his knuckles and his nails, wanting nothing more than to please him, to be privy to that little bit of softness and praise you were sure he hid away for special occasions.

When his fingers were free of the mixture of your releases, he slid his fingers from your mouth and took your chin in his hand. He tilted your head to look him in the eye.

“Good girl,” he cooed. Heat rose to your cheeks at his praise, and he helped you to your feet again.

No sooner than you’d rearranged your clothing came a knock to the huge walnut doors, a deep voice booming from the other side.

“Shouto?”

[songweretson]

Yesterday I made a Twitter thread about how Robert E Howard and H P Lovecraft considered Howard's Conan the Barbarian to be part of Lovecraft's Cthulhu mythos.

(Note: if you've only seen the Conan movies... That's not Conan. The Jason Momoa movie did at least incorporate some lines from the stories, and at least got his "I eat, I slay, I love, I am content" philosophy right. But please don't go into this post thinking of Schwarzenegger's Conan. It doesn't work.)

In the thread I made the passing comment (hot take) that Howard's development reminded me a bit of Tolkien. Kind of.

Tolkien's whole purpose for the Silmarilion was to create a mythology for Britain. He loved Norse mythology in particular, and felt Britain's culture was lacking something by not having it's own. (Look, I dunno. I guess the Anglo and Celtic myths didn't count for him? I only know what I've read.) So he spent his life (and his son's life) building a mythology from start to finish. Mythology, folk heroes, history, languages. The whole thing.

As a writer, I'm in absolute awe of the work he put in, and what he accomplished. But to be honest... I respect Tolkien a lot more than I actually enjoy him. I enjoyed the movies, I can't get through the books, but I enjoy hearing about what he created. So there's my bias, for the record.

You know who I do like? Robert E Howard. The man was a genius. He's a gold standard in pulp writing, his stuff has gravitas, but is still a little scandalous and fun. (I like scantily clad damsels in distress. And sexual tension. With a strong dose of philosophy. Don't kink shame me!)

And, in some ways, I feel like his Hyborian Age essay works better than the Silmarilion. At least for me.

Howard's world involves a cycle of humanity rising from barbarism to civilization, before it's all swept away by a cataclysm. His character Kull of Atlantis is pre-cataclysm, at a time when civilization is starting to crumble. The destruction of Atlantis is the cataclysm that takes humanity back to barbarism.

Conan comes in the growing pains of the evolution between the two. A northern barbarian who comes and takes the throne of the civilized Aquilonia. But he sees how civilization breeds a different kind of savagery.

As he says in "The Tower of the Elephant": "Civilized men are more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split."

Anyway. This is supposed to be about world building, not gushing about Conan.

*clears throat*

The first story, "The Phoenix on the Sword", begins with the oft quoted:

"Know, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars - Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west."

As he began publishing the Conan stories, Lovecraft criticized that some of his kingdoms had names very similar to countries in our world. Specifically the land of Corinthia.

I'm at work, so I can't get the exact quote right now, but the gist is "doesn't he realize that names like Corinthia remind people of real world countries, and it will take people out of the experience?"

But he did it on purpose. After a few stories, when he realized Conan stories sold, and it was worth it to put the effort in, Howard wrote "The Hyborian Age Essay".

He opens it with:

"Nothing in this article is to be considered as an attempt to advance any theory in opposition to accepted history. It is simply a fictional background for a series of fiction-stories. When I began writing the Conan stories a few years ago, I prepared this 'history' of his age and the peoples of that age, in order to lend him and his sagas a greater aspect of realness. And I found that by adhering to the 'facts' and spirit of that history, in writing the stories, it was easier to visualize (and therefore to present) him as a real flesh- and-blood character rather than a ready-made product. In writing about him and his adventures in the various kingdoms of his Age, I have never violated the 'facts' or spirit of the 'history' here set down, but have followed the lines of that history as closely as the writer of actual historical-fiction follows the lines of actual history. I have used this 'history' as a guide in all the stories in this series that I have written."

In it, he describes all the tribes, from the Cataclysm, and the forming of tribes, to the rise of civilization, until eventually bringing it all into the world we know today.

"The ancient Sumerians had no connection with the western race. They were a mixed people, of Hyrkanian and Shemitish bloods, who were not taken with the conquerors in their retreat. Many tribes of Shem escaped that captivity, and from pure-blooded Shemites, or Shemites mixed with Hyborian or Nordic blood, were descended the Arabs, Israelites, and other straighter-featured Semites. The Canaanites, or Alpine Semites, traced their descent from Shemitish ancestors nuxed with the Kushites settled among them by their Hyrkanian masters; the Elamites were a typical race of this type. The short, thick-limbed Etruscans, base of the Roman race, were descendants of a people of mixed Stygian, Hyrkanian and Pictish strains, and originally lived in the ancient kingdom of Koth. The Hyrkanians, retreating to the eastern shores of the continent, evolved into the tribes later known as Tatars, Huns, Mongols and Turks.

"The origins of other races of the modern world may be similarly traced; in almost every case, older far than they realize, their history stretches back into the mists of the forgotten Hyborian age..."

Before anyone says anything about racism, or stereotyping... In was written in the early 30's. Howard lived in Texas, and was considered very liberal for his time. (He's actually credited with convincing Lovecraft that his prejudice against other races were wrong. And Lovecraft was a lot more accepting in his later life, once no longer influenced by his very toxic family.)

And just like that... Bam. He's done (in a rather lengthy essay), what Tolkien never managed to do for me. He's created a fictional history, and I totally buy it.

So I have no trouble accepting that his characters like Bran Mak Morn (third century AD) and Solomon Kane (late 16-early17th century AD) are a part of the same world.

It's confirmed in the fact Kull appears in the Bran Mak Morn story "Kings of the Night", where Bran is also revealed to be a direct descendent of Kull's best friend, so no dimension hopping here. Kane is a bit less direct, but some of his stories are decidedly cosmic horror, and he meets a survivor of Atlantis. Same timeline. And Bran Mak Morn is mentioned by name in Lovecraft's "The Whisperer in the Dark".

I'm going somewhere with this, I swear!

Now, Howard's universe being a part of the Cthulhu mythos works. (Howard contributed six "official" stories to the mythos, but he and Lovecraft said in letters that they considered Conan a part of the mythos.) They both feature elder gods, lost tombs, dark arts, and eldritch abominations. So it's easy to see how these worlds can mesh together.

But today, my friend and I were playing with the idea of... What if Tolkien's Middle Earth was a part of Howard's timeline? He liked the idea of the Hobbits meeting Conan in the Prancing Pony, instead of Aragon. Which is definitely a fun idea. But it just doesn't work.

I tried putting Middle Earth back pre-cataclysm, in the time of Kull. The sinking of Numeanor was a rough equivalent to the sinking of Atlantis, so Kull might have been around to meet Elrond and Isildur... But it still doesn't mesh.

And that's a credit to both Howard and Tolkien.

Good world building is so tightly woven that combining one world with another just doesn't work. Especially with a fantasy setting, it's so important to have a pantheon (if applicable), to understand at least some of the history of your countries, and how they came to be.

As a side note, this is also so, so important to diversity in fantasy. Human melanin levels developed based on how close our ancestors were to the sun - hence why skin colors get darker the closer people were to the equator. So it doesn't make sense for a dark skinned race to develop in a cold climate of the north. Consider how they got there. Migration is a huge part of history, and totally valid if you don't want to deal with conquest. And consider how climate and resources effect how the culture develops.

(I come from a very old school of world building, where the more thanks make sense, the more you can get away with in other aspects.)

All this to say that world building is hard, and there are right and wrong ways to do it... But there is more than one way.

...and I just wanted to talk about Robert E Howard.

[wildernessuntothemselves]

Devil on Your Team | Part 1

Word Count: 1.9k

Genre: angst, smut

A\N: Asgard AU where Felix is Loki, Chan is Thor, and OC/reader is Lady Sif

Gif credit @915archive

“Will you join us this time, brother?”

Loki hesitates at Thor’s question. He was never good at the sort of thing that his friends enjoyed so, which made him a target for ridicule across the realm. What kind of man, a prince nonetheless, was so weak and fearful? Not a real man, that’s what.

Thor didn’t make it easier for him. Being the picture of the formidable, valiant warrior, he made Felix’s shortcomings all the more stark. Loki was all too aware of the comparisons people liked to make between them--they would fawn over how Thor was so brave, so strong, so much like the king that his frail little brother could never be. They would laugh and thank their stars that the fates were kind enough to have Thor be the old king’s first born and not his pitiful little brother.

Even Thor, who claimed to love him most in the world, was embarrassed of him. He always tried to egg him on and make him engage in “manlier” endeavors and forsake his witchcraft, forcing him along on his reckless adventures with his gang of hooligans so he would toughen up. How can he say that he loves him when he saw him as something that needed to be fixed? Thor didn’t love him. He pitied him.

Only you gazed upon him and accepted him for who he was. You knew too well what it felt like to be underestimated and ridiculed for being different, for daring to not adhere to their millenia-old customs of what makes one a good warrior or a proper lady. Every time he would hide and cry, you would find him and remind him that underestimating him will be their downfall, that true weakness is stupidity and arrogance and they had that in excess.

And there you were, coming to his defense once more.

“Shut up, you big oaf. Loki doesn’t care for our silly games.”

“Why not? All he has to do is sit back and not get in the way of our fair maiden and he should be fine.” Volstagg cuts in, followed by a series of chuckles that ebb and flow through the group.

“Volstagg.” Thor warns, shooting him a glare that quiets the snickering down, but by then it was too late, the damage had been done.

For, worse than the comparisons between himself and his golden brother, were those between him and the woman he loved so dearly.

Your close relationship made it so it was easy for people to jeer at the fact that the warrior lady is doing a man’s job while the prince practised such cowardly arts as magic that were meant for women. The comparison wasn’t flattering to either of you as he was thought of as a weakling and you as a woman trying to be a man.

“No, Volstagg, go on. Tell me what exactly you mean to say.” Again, you start defending him, ready to start a fight with the large man who began slinking back when faced with your unbridled fury. You were always so passionate about defending him, but Loki cannot let you keep doing that. He needed to prove that he could look after himself, not to impress those mindless thugs, but to prove to you that he could be a man for you, and provide you with protection just like any other man.

“I’m sure he’s just joking, my lady.” Loki interrupts and you look at him with surprised eyes that get all the wider as he continues, “It doesn’t matter anyway as I’ll be joining you.”

“My prince, you don’t have to--”

“I don’t have to do anything, my lady. I want to. Now let’s stop this useless bickering and go.”

__________________________

There was a nervous energy within the group the whole time they were in Alfheim. The men felt weird with Loki there and Loki felt weird with the warrior lady always hovering around.

“Lady, if I didn’t know any better I’d think that you were trying to guard me. I don’t need guarding. I can defend myself.” He didn’t want to snap at you like that but he desired so desperately for you to see him as a man for once.

“O-of course, my prince.” You splutter, a pretty blush on your face from being called out, and hesitantly take a few steps away from him, still not going far.

Loki huffs and charges forward carelessly, if you weren’t going to give him space, he will take it himself. And it’s precisely his attempt to distance himself from you that gets them in trouble.

“Brother, look out!” Thor shouts and Loki looks up barely in time to see an elf descend on him from the tree he was under. Shouts rise up and fill the air as their party gets ambushed by the rogue elves they were after.

Loki gets outnumbered, one of the elves delivering a blow to him before you can make your way to him. But your party quickly overcomes their momentary shock and works fast to push back the elves, steadily gaining control and shifting the tides in your favor.  Eventually, you beat the band of rogue elves and send them scattering back into the woods.

When the fight dies down, things only get worse for Loki as you rush to cradle his body in your arms, thinking he is unconscious, before turning back to the men. “Shame on you! If you hadn’t been absolute pricks to him, he wouldn’t have felt the need to prove himself to you and get himself hurt. Why must you be like this?”

“I’m sorry, my lady.” Thor speaks up, sounding genuinely upset too.

“Oh, shove it up your big behind, my prince.” You growl, lifting Loki up in your arms and moving towards the portal to go back home.

Even without opening his eyes, he can feel your worried gaze on his face and it kills him.

__________________

Loki became closed off the entire period he was healing. The more you fussed over him, the quieter he got. He was so disappointed in himself and you taking care of him only wounded his ego further.

“Stop babying me, woman. You’re worse than the lot of them. Would you like me to hand you a pair of scissors so you can snip my balls off and hang them around your neck?”

You were taken aback by his outburst, and Loki regrets his outburst for a second, thinking he’s finally pushed you away. But instead of stomping off, you get on the bed and straddle him, grabbing his neck and growling roughly, “You don’t want me to be gentle with you? Fine, I won’t be gentle.”

You smash her lips to his, tearing a noise of surprise from his throat. You’d been patient enough with him but he insists on being a brat. If that’s the way he wants to be treated then so be it. And judging by the way he kissed you back eagerly, you don’t have to wonder long.

He was almost healed by now, and you could be free to run her hands all over him without hurting him, eliciting instead the most needy moans from his pretty lips. But when he tries to do the same, he is met with hard, unyielding steel.

"This is unfair. Take this off." He protests against your lips.

"I think not. You have been quite the sourpuss lately, I don't think you deserve to touch me. Matter of fact, keep those wandering hands up." You grab his hands and pin them to the bed, intending to punish him for all the hell he made you go through.

"No, please, my lady, let me touch you."

"Oh you're already begging, that's not very manly of you." You bite at him, still upset that he endangered his life just because his ego was bruised.

He cowers under your intense glare, feeling reprimanded. "I'm sorry, I'll be good."

"Oh you will be. Now quit your protesting or I'll gag you too."

He shuts up, though he's unsure if it wouldn't have been better for you to gag him as the noises that come out of his throat at your ministrations were not very dignified.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting to get my hands on you, my prince. You drive me crazy." You drawl, palming his member and making him turn to hide his face in his arm as a blush covers his face.

"I should punish you for teasing me so." You  slowly pull his trousers down his hips, exposing his eager member to the cool night air that was clashing with your warm breath so close to where he needed you the most. "Will you be good for me from now on, my sweet prince?"

This was everything they ridiculed him for, being so subservient to a woman like this, but damn did he crave it. He needed you to own him.

"Yes, my lady." He stares down at you as you lean down ever so close to his cock, your breath fanning over him, as hot as ever and he feels his skin melt under it. The heat spreading to the rest of his body made his blood simmer in his veins. Sweat beaded up on his skin and his mind sweltered as you put your mouth on him, but he could do nothing but push himself into the scorching heat of you, submitting himself to the flames.

But all too suddenly, he stops burning, coolness flashing over his body like one of his brother's storms, and he stares down at you in betrayal, ready to apologize for everything and profess his undying love for you if only she would put your mouth back on him, but the horror struck look on your face sobers him up.

"My lady, what is--"

"What is happening to you?" You shriek, and for the first time he sees fear in your eyes.

"What do you mean?" He puzzles, looking down at himself in reflex, wondering what had possessed you when a flash of blue catches his eyes…

Huge patches of his body were covered by rough blue skin, the likes of which are all too familiar to him. He can't help his own shout of panic. "What is that? What is happening?!"

"You're turning into a….a monster." You shake her head, tears springing to your eyes at the horror unfolding in front of you.

"Lady, help me please.” Loki is even more shaken, tears already streaming down his face as he seems terrified of his own self. “Did they put a curse on me?"

"I-I don't know." You lament, feeling hopeless.

But then an idea pops into your head, "I'll get the king. He'll know what to do."

"No, please!" His hands fly out to hold onto you but you jump back, and Loki quickly pulls his arms back to his body, wounded at the disgusted look on your face.

"Why not?"

"You know he doesn't favor me."

"Don't be ridiculous. He's your father." You try to calm him down but he only gets more disconsolate. "No you don't understand. You don't see the way he looks at him when no one is looking. I'm… I'm scared."

Your heart breaks at the way he shivers, but there is nothing else you can do. You’re sure he’s just panicked. Odin is good and kind and you trust him beyond measure. "You're hallucinating, my sweet. The king would never hurt you."

"No, you don't understand--" He squeaks, and you reach out to cradle his face in your palms, only flinching slightly at the coldness. "Hush, my sweet." You kiss him gently then run to the king. Hearing Loki sob behind you only makes you run faster.

_________________________

A/N: lol surprise

[kettlequills]

ok so this was inspired by this post made by @argisthebulwark - check her blog out! - about dovahkiin soulmates that could feel each other's pain. naturally i ran with the concept of dragonborn soulmates. feat. my ldb laataazin/miraak.

Laataazin has always felt trapped. Before they are Laat-aaz, even, when they are a nameless prisoner, hands-bound, another to be executed through a simple whim of fate. No memories then in the buzzing darkness of their mind, but a feeling of fear, confusion, brief-dawning wonderment on the heels of hot green rage in the drumming space of their chest that was theirs-and-not-theirs. Breath hurting, unused lungs and trembling hands that will not grip round the hilt of the sword Hadvar tries to press into their hands like they know it ought. Like they know scars on their bodies – body, for there is only one Dragonborn, only one.

How dare, their mind rages, how dare the gods try to discard me.

These thoughts, these hungers, these fears, are surely Laataazin’s alone, clear as Masser’s moonlight in the dark sky.

They have known imprisonment, in the cold, whispering bowels of Dragonsreach dungeons, where Mephala murmurs maliciously in every iron bar and chiselled stone, hissing breaths dampening, soft and light as cobwebs falling upon a sleeper’s eye, sanity, safety, sight. Trying to tempt, twist, torment total truth from the prisoner-that-would-be-Laataazin, named Dovahkiin and wrestling the ashes of Mirmulnir into restless ebb. Oil-and-ink in Laat’s nose, and a will that is theirs-and-not-theirs, resistant, defiant, no more daedra than dragonfire, sings firm around Mephala’s words, like the thrum of earthbones a song that refuses to be a bound-and-fooled-slave again.

Don’t complain so much, says the thoughts-that-are-Laataazin, they’ll let you out.

Their dragon-soul, for it must be theirs, is loud, angry, knows their head. It refuses to be quieted, grumbles and snaps at the rolls and reams of papery scrolls the Greybeards set down in front of them, snarling answers in a mother-tongue Laataazin has never known, with the air of distant, impatient distraction, like wings brushing across planes. Laataazin is not much of a reader, puzzles through relearning letters in dusty texts that take bored moments to recall when their body slumps softening into slow sleep. They wake with understanding and vague, boundless frustration, dragon-words in dragon-soul that mutter about Stupid fools and their vapid teachings, you will never learn with these chains on your wings.

Laataazin meditates for endless hours on frigid snowcaps with Paarthurnax’s breath steaming the snow and still thinks of smashing skulls and bloodied steel, still thinks of broken wills and shattered spirits.

It is, they tell Paarthurnax, a losing battle. There is something in them that wants out, and it will stop at nothing, nothing, to claw itself free from the trap locked shut around its howling muzzle.

Mortality is a losing battle, Paarthurnax reminds them. It is their nature to beat against the bars of inevitability, and turn their faces from the grind of time.

Hypocritical lizard, the soul-that-must-be-Laataazin’s mutters, and Laataazin chooses not to share this or the smile it provokes.

Laataazin goes about their divine-driven hunting of twin-souled dragons, who speak to them in a language they know, who challenge them to fights they win, who know them and are stranger to them in a way that only the careless and god-flung may be. They do not want to kill the dragons that are like themselves, who look at the sky and see a glorious road untravelled rather than the distant god-realm for no mortal to cross.

Your soft heart will do us harm, their soul reminds them. Do not spare what hungers to hurt.

Delphine tells them that they are not bloodthirsty enough, that they accept the surrender of too many, and create surrender still where there is not even that. That there is no point sparing monsters, and that Laataazin has a duty, a destiny, a fate.

Laataazin tells Delphine and their soul both that they have chosen a different path. But Akatosh does not make the same mistake twice, and this time, there is no give in the leash of fate wrapped tightly around the neck of the Last Dragonborn.

Ushered by inevitability, they go to face Alduin, and within them their soul rants and raves for its freedom. Fate! Fate! The gods laugh at us.

In Sovngarde, they feel empty, empty. It is a dead place for dead souls, and there is no place for living ties in bodies that breathe and fates that twine. Laataazin’s chest feels cold and dim, unwarmed by so total an omnipresence they had thought it part of themselves. It is not, they know now. There is… something, someone, else.

Gormlaith’s golden hair shines like septims when she smiles at Laataazin, all bared teeth. I knew you would come around, she says, and Laataazin wonders which of them she is talking to, Alduin-that-is-Akatosh, or Laataazin-that-is-trapped. Like standing in a boxful of mirrors, making eye-contact with a thousand versions of an image, an icon, a legend, borne through the ages to consume itself.

It is done. Alduin returns to himself, and fate twirls the key to the shackles of its Last prisoner. Tsun drags their weeping body from the gate and casts it into the realm of air and sunlight, wordless in the face of their inappropriate grief. When Laataazin returns, staggering and coughing out their lungs onto the windswept emptiness of the snow-throat beneath the watching dragon-eyes, feeling slams back into them with all the force of a tidal wave. Pure, blistering rage, fanned so hot it can only be the most animal of panic.

Where did you go? demands the thing-that-is-not-Laataazin. Why couldn’t I feel you?

Laataazin presses their hand to their chest and feels relief, relief, vast enough to swallow the sun.

I thought I had lost you, the prisoner thinks.

Come to me, longs the other.

What force on Tamriel could resist a plea like that? To Solstheim it is and kneeling in the hot ash Laataazin feels the sky all around them open up and his presence close in like breath on their neck.

You are so much louder here, Laataazin tells him, their steps still wobbly from the boat.

You walk on my land now, Miraak replies, and what a wonder to know his name, to touch with travel-sore body land his own has walked, see with dust-stung eyes what his has seen. I grow ever nearer to you.

You did not need to enslave these people, Laataazin thinks at the Tree Stone, watching empty-eyed cultists and blankened reavers work on towering edifices of stone. The mumbling figures remind them of Sovngarde, that terrible emptiness where once a gnawing pain sat. I am here.

I did not think you would come. Miraak’s admission is grudging, a little bitter. But as Laataazin walks through the stone doors of the temple, they hear the clatter of tools dropping, and the shouts of startled reavers.

Laat grins, feels it mark their face wide and feral. Put your best panties on then, for I shall see you soon.

Do not keep me waiting any longer. His pain is audible in the bones that house their heart, his impatience like whips licking the soles of their feet, his eagerness like teeth to their neck. Laataazin opens the Book, and there he is.

“You are shorter than I expected,” is what the soul-of-their-soul tells them, towering over them, crowned in blue and gold like fearless god and dripping ink like blood.

“And you are as obnoxious as I predicted,” Laataazin says, but already they are approaching him, and he does not move away but flinches when their hands meet his chest.

They bear together his pain from centuries of untouched isolation, the nerves awakened by another that burn like needles and dragon-fire, and they bear together the pleasure too, found in smoothing gauntleted hands over thick robes, found in solidity, presence.

I would touch you like this everywhere you could bear it, then more, Laataazin thinks, and their hands come away inkstained when they lift them to cup the golden mask, which tilts, as if its wearer has flinched again at the thought whispered into the ear of his mind like a promise.

The prince that Laataazin favours most is not cunning Mephala who whispers to them in Whiterun, nor Hermeaus Mora, who believes himself masterful gardener of all, but ruby-red Sanguine, who with a gift of a loving if unconventional wife found in a night of revelry wins anew with each feathered kiss their loyalty. It is therefore Miraak who tears himself from this indulgence of touch first, and takes a few steps back. The words of fate are a well-settled cloak employing the ruthless machine of purpose.

“And so the First meets the Last at the summit of Apocrypha,” Miraak says, ringing, proud. “Tell me, did you enjoy the dregs of my destiny?”

“If you had not turned from your fate to kill Alduin, I would not have awoken,” Laataazin replies, dryly, “so to some extent, yes. To other extents, fuck you.”

“That same fate decrees you must die for me to win my freedom.” Miraak’s mask is expressionless, but Laataazin does not need it – they can feel through the glass of body-barriers the surge and roil of the infection of wounds thousands of years untreated, the bitterness, the fear. It has beat within their heart from the very first moment of their waking in Helgen, as their grief, their loss, burns like wildfires in his.

“Freedom?” says one prisoner to another. “What freedom is this? Aren’t you tired of being what they ask of you? Haven’t you paid the price?”

“Do you not feel how the world has warped around you since you awoke?” Miraak’s hand is tightening on his sword hilt, but he does not draw. “You cannot die, you do not sleep, you are not real, or you alone exist – there can only be one Dragonborn.”

“We will both be free,” Laataazin asserts.

“Time, and reality, would not survive us both,” Miraak says, but Laataazin knows their dragon-soul, and knows he is hungry, hungry, and tired of cages.

Boldly, Laataazin reaches out. Miraak takes their hand, masked eyes searching, like he is a man on open water clinging to the uncertain shelter of driftwood.

“That is Akatosh’s problem,” says Laataazin, “I choose to have you.”

[braiawrites]

Lost & Found - Chapter 4

Summary: A glimpse into Pellia's story. || Inspired by this prompt by @newblood-freya

Words: 2046

Rating: sfw

Warnings: Minor mention of blood.

Links:

Fic Masterlist

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FIVE

Prompt by newblood-freya

Read it on AO3

Writing Masterlist

Send me an ask!

***

“Alright, fine. I’ll figure it out myself,” the mortal said, her eyes dark under a scowl.

Pellia watched as she turned, Cardan perched on her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. She hadn’t necessarily meant to harm him when she’d changed him into a cat, but from the way the girl clearly coddled him, she thought perhaps she’d done him a favour.

Cardan twisted to look back at her in the cramped confines of the cell. He gave her a slow, haughty blink—probably because he couldn’t smirk—before settling himself like a scarf over the human’s shoulders.

Pellia did the only thing one could be expected to do in response to such an insult: she flipped him off, and then, for good measure, stuck her tongue out at him too.

He flicked his tail before turning away, and Pellia threw her arms up with an exclamation of defeat.

“That was so unnecessary,” she called after the retreating form of the cat prince and his human. Neither of them turned back.

With a sigh, Pellia retreated to the palette at the back of her cell and sank onto the bed. She felt the prickle of tears at the corners of her eyes, but she tried to push them down, blink them away, something. She couldn't cry, not here, not now.

If any tears were to be shed, they wouldn’t be hers. She’d vowed that to herself six months ago, when she’d crossed the sea from Delaware to Faerieland. She’d come with steel in her hands and poisons at her belt. With fury in her eyes and vengeance on her heart. She had come with one purpose and one purpose alone: to take back what was hers, what he’d stolen.

And until she recovered what she’d come for, she had vowed that she would not weep.

You will not cry, she reminded herself. You will not cry, you will not cry—

“You will not cry.” The words were carried from her mouth on a trembling breath, a mantra and a promise and a plea, torn from so deep in her heart that Pellia was certain her next breath would be crimson with blood.

Her thoughts fell again to Cardan and the girl, her skin burning bright with shame as she realized she had never actually seen them leave. She hoped they hadn’t heard her.

Oh, yes, she thought bitterly, because that would be all she needed: the cruel prince and his nosy human girlfriend, seeing her at her weakest. The cherry on top of her melting sundae.

She laughed at the thought, and then laughed some more, because there was something churning in her gut and clutching at her heart, and if she didn’t laugh at the pain then she’d cry and she wouldn’t do that. She couldn’t do that.

No matter how much it hurt, no matter how bitter she felt or how hot her rage burned, she could not cry until she was free and back home in Delaware, until she was safe and her family was whole again.

~ ~ ~

She’d known a storm was brewing from the first time she'd met him. It had been a Wednesday evening and the wind blowing off the coast was warm with the promise of summer. Pellia had been walking home from school, her slender fingers skillfully weaving a crown of wildflowers. Beside her, her younger sister talked animatedly about her day: the presentation she’d given in science class, the book her English class was starting, who she’d talked with at lunch.

Neither of them noticed the figure following twenty or so paces behind them.

Pellia tucked the last stem into the crown and turned it in her hands, admiring her handiwork as Amber changed topics.

“So, in drama we’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I’m going to audition for Titania. I think I’d make a good Faerie queen, anyway, but I was thinking maybe you could help me act all magical and Fae-like.”

Pellia looked up from where she was fixing a rip in a flower petal. It was a small magic, but Amber’s eyes sparked as she watched the petal knit itself together.

“I’ll never get tired of seeing you do that,” she sighed. “I wish I had magic.”

Pellia’s brow lifted. “Faerie isn’t as innocent as you think it is, love.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I didn’t say anything about Faerie,” Amber pouted, “just that I wish I had magic. I dunno, I think it would be cool.”

“You have your own kind of magic—the power of being the bane of my existence and also somehow my favourite human.” Pellia’s shoulder bumped Amber’s in a playful jostle.

“You flatter me, oh great pain in my a—”

“Hey! Watch your profanity.”

“My profanity!”

“Mhm.”

“You have the dirtiest mouth I’ve ever heard from anyone. And you’re telling me to watch my language?!”

Pellia let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “Nevermind.” She paused, lifting the flower crown in her hands. “For my Queen Titania. I spelled it so it wouldn’t die.”

Amber took the circlet almost reverently holding it up to see each vibrant petal in the sun’s light.

“It’s shiny,” she pointed out. “Is there a glamour on it?”

Pellia gave her sister a lopsided grin. “A little. I tried to tone it down a bit, but—I couldn’t resist. It’ll glamour you, too, when you wear it.”

Her younger sister said nothing for a moment, just staring at the crown—and then a huge grin broke across her face, brighter than a thousand suns.

“I love it, Pell, thank you.”

She lifted the crown to nestle among chestnut locks, letting the leaves weave into her hair. As soon as they touched her head, she seemed to glow more vividly, her eyes sparkling and her skin smoothing and her cheeks blushing a warm pink. She beamed at her older sister, then shoved her off the sidewalk.

Pellia squeaked as she flailed to catch her balance. Her eyes, glamoured brown, met Amber’s mischievous hazel gaze.

“I just made you a flower crown, bro,” Pellia said, her shock mingling with amusement.

“Yeah, and I love it!”

“Well, you’re a little brat, you know that?”

“Love you, too, Pell!” Amber sang, spinning gracefully to continue the last stretch of their walk home.

Pellia shook her head—and that was when she saw him, out of the corner of her eye.

Wearing a long, dark shirt, tied at the waist with a golden sash, woolen leggings despite the tepid weather, and leather slip shoes that clearly had not come from the human world, he was impossible to mistake.

How long had he been following them? Pellia wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

She turned, casually, and started after Amber’s retreating form at a stroll, before breaking into a jog with a call of, “You’re going to pay for that! And for making me run!”

Ahead, Amber cackled. As Pellia caught up to her, she elbowed her sister in the side, grinning.

“Hey, so guess what?”

“What?”

“Well, act natural, and don’t look, but there’s someone trailing us.”

Before Amber could follow the natural inclination to glance over her shoulder, Pellia slung her arm around her little sister’s neck and leaned in.

“I said don’t look. Now pretend I said something funny.”

Amber laughed. It was actually very convincing—she was a good actress.

“You’re kidding,” the younger girl chuckled, bumping her older sister with her elbow.

“I wish I was. But something about him makes me uneasy. And he’s fey, too, which pretty much automatically means bad news.”

“How would you even know that?”

“I saw it!” Pellia said, pulling out her phone. “Like, I turned around and he was just—right there. I swear!”

Opening her camera, Pellia angled her phone to better see their stalker. She made a show of checking her hair, her makeup, eyes glued to the figure in the background. She zoomed in. The hilt of a sword peeked over his shoulder.

Definitely not peaceable, then, she thought. Pellia made her decision:

“We're not going home.” She pulled her sister by the arm, turning a corner away from their house.

“I think you're being a tiny bit paranoid, Pell,” Amber said, attempting to pull away.

“No,” the pixie shook her head. The buildings on this street were tighter, packed together with cramped alleyways between every couple.

They approached an intersection and Pellia pointed to the building across the way. “Go, inside the gas station. I'll come get you in a sec.”

“Fiiine.” The younger girl pouted, but turned away.

“Hurry!” Pellia hissed, and Amber jogged across the empty street.

Rushed footsteps came from around the corner, and Pellia ducked down one of the alleys, dropping her bag and pressing herself against the brick wall.

She listened, trying to quiet her breathing.

The steps ceased abruptly. Pellia reached for the cord around her neck, pulling it from beneath her shirt.

The dagger she unsheathed was small, but definitely better than nothing. She tucked the sheath on its cord back beneath her shirt and adjusted her grip on the hilt. The leather was smooth beneath her fingers, the blade glinting sharply.

The footsteps resumed, cautiously.

Their owner came into view, looking the wrong direction. Pellia slipped from the alley and slid behind him, the edge of her knife held to his neck as pulled him back into the shade between houses. At his struggle, she pressed the blade against his skin.

“I don't know which part of Faerie you're from,” she purred into his ear, “but in the court where I grew up, it was generally considered rude to follow people like that.”

She shoved him face first into the wall, her hand between his shoulder blades. “So? Who are you and what do you want?”

“I was just sent to gather intel, I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. His voice was higher than she’d expected and his throat bobbed under her blade as he spoke.

“I’m so reassured.” The sarcasm dripping from Pellia’s voice was fatal. “Who sent you?”

“I—I can’t say,” he said.

“You might wanna try.” Her blade pressed in.

“Oath!” he squeaked, flinching away from her. “I took an oath, I cannot speak his name!”

Pellia’s brows went up at this. To hold that kind of power over someone…

“Why does he want to know about me?”

“I don’t know,” the fae whimpered. “He doesn’t tell me these things. I only know what I am to do, never the reason.”

She rocked back on her heels, allowing her grip to loosen on his collar. Her mind was racing, trying to fit together the insubstantial pieces of this puzzle. She hadn’t dealt with anyone from Faerie since they’d fled to the mortal world. She didn’t know how she’d been found, let alone why someone would be tracking her in the first place.

“Please don’t kill me.” The words came out as little more than a breath, but they sent a little thrill through Pellia’s stomach all the same.

She laughed. “Kill you? This is a new shirt, I don’t want your blood all over it. Besides, I need you to take a message back for me.”

Her captive nodded, his cheek scraping against the brick.

She leaned in. “Tell your boss that if he wants to know something, he can come talk to me himself. And in the meantime, he can stay out of my business. Oh, and you might also let him know that I hold grudges; the next person he sends to ‘gather intel’ won’t be coming back.”

At the faerie’s promise to leave immediately, Pellia released him. She watched as he headed back toward the coast, flinching at a passing car. What had been the point in sending someone to trail her, especially someone so obviously out of his depth in the human world?

Pellia shook her head. She hoped this would be the end of it, but something deep down told her that it wouldn’t be over so simply.

Two weeks later, she returned home to a dark haired, silver-eyed prince in her living room. Her family was out.

“My greetings, Pellia Nerium,” Balekin Greenbriar said. “Have a seat. I have a proposition to discuss with you.”

***

A/N: This chapter was so much fun to write and I developed Pellia's backstory so much, which I was kind of not expecting. I feel like I'm discovering what happens next along with all of you haha! I do hope you've been enjoying so far! I promise cat!Cardan and Jude will be back next chapter.

Thank you for sticking around every week to read, it honestly makes me so happy to know that there are people who are enjoying my writing. And if you have the time, I would love if you left a comment to let me know what you think! Also, please let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list!

Until next week, lovelies!

Tagging: @stardustsroses @nahthanks @jurdanhell @my-one-true-l @thefolkofthefic @greenbriarxrose @bookavert @queen-of-demons-and-hell @theviolettulip @lysandra-ghost-leopard @playlistmusings @localgoof @garnet-babe @iamaprincessallgirlsare

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

An Itsy Bitsy Nightmare

Title: An Itsy Bitsy Nightmare

Summary: Anxiety isn’t a monster, he isn’t. He may not be as brave or as smart as the others, but he’s a good guy. He protects Thomas, telling him to watch out for shadow demons in his closet and to not touch hot ovens. That’s good...right?

Pairings: brotherly prinixety

Word-Count: 1.1k

Warnings: Deaging, Nightmare, Panic, Crying, Hurt/Comfort

Part of the Tiny Virge AU, taking place directly after Tiny Terror. Requested by @theeternalspace and a dear anon. 

-

Anxiety feels safe. It’s a weird feeling for Anxiety--complacency isn’t something he often engages in. He is Anxiety--a big grown-up word that means worrying and fretting over possible dangers. His job is to make sure Thomas is safe. So rarely does he feel safe himself. Not when he has to stay alert for any bad things coming Thomas’ way. 

So as much as he feels safe, he also feels anxious by it. He doesn’t know what to make of Creativity’s new make-believe game. Creativity’s always liked pretending to be grown-ups. He plays house with Morality lots of times. But there’s a big difference between pretending and shapeshifting--at least in Anxiety’s book.

 Shapeshifting scares him. If good guys like princes can do it, so can bad guys. And that’s bad! How is he supposed to keep Thomas safe if he doesn’t know who the bad guys are?

He also doesn’t understand the rules of this new game. The prince is being super nice to him. Making a blanket fort, giving him Zola, telling him stories about King Arthur--all of it. Is Creativity pretending to be the Dad? No, that’s always Morality’s role. Maybe he’s trying to be like one of Thomas’ older brothers. Like when they have to watch over him when Mom and Dad are away.

Despite his confusion, Anxiety doesn’t want to question him. Creativity sometimes forgets to explain things. He thinks everyone already knows the rules and if they don’t, he gets upset. The last thing Anxiety wants is for Creativity to be upset with him! 

So Anxiety stays quiet. He listens to Creativity’s stories, trying hard to keep his eyes open. He doesn’t want to fall asleep. He wants to stay awake and for this game to last forever.

“Sir Gawain rides on his noble steed, on his way to face the nasty green knight. He fights all sorts of monsters on his way there like--” Creativity’s mouth twists, his thinking face hard at work, “--like Anxiety!” 

The prince points a finger into his stomach. Anxiety whose eyes blink rapidly as his heart clashes loudly like thunder in his ribcage.

“Me?” He squeaks, so lost and confused, “but--but I’m not a monster!”

Anxiety isn’t a monster, he isn’t. He may not be as brave or as smart as the others, but he’s a good guy. He protects Thomas, telling him to watch out for shadow demons in his closet and to not touch hot ovens. That’s good...right?

 “Yes you are!” Creativity cries, spreading his hands out wide, “You’re a wicked, atrocious monster and nobody likes you!”

Anxiety shrinks backwards, hitting the edge of the blanket fort. Run, he needs to run away. But he finds himself entangled in the blankets like a fly trapped in a spiderweb. It destroys the blanket fort in the process. He’s ruined it. Just like all the other times he’s ruined Creativity’s make-believe games.

“I’m sorry--please, I’ll be good!” Anxiety begs as the prince looms high above him, sword in hand.

“It’s okay, Anxiety,” Creativity says with a thin, crooked smile, “I’ll take care of Thomas for you.”

The sword plunges downwards and Virgil screams. He throws his arms in front of him uselessly to protect himself. They made contact with something solid. Not the sharp sting of a steel sword. Something warm, something firm yet gentle.

“Hey. Shhh, it’s okay.” Princey’s voice speaks, causing Anxiety to thrash against his grip more.

“Get away! Don’t huRT ME!” Anxiety screeches, flinching from the sound of his own voice. No, no, no. This is bad. How can he prove to Creativity he isn’t a monster when his voice echoes like that? It’s weird and wrong and not normal! 

Anxiety trembles, tugging at tufts of his hair. He can’t breath right, it comes out funny in strained huffs of air. Not enough. Anxiety is going to die--which is bad, because who’s gonna take care of Thomas? It can’t be Princey, because Princey doesn’t look before he leaps. Morality’s too nice and Logic is sometimes too curious for his own good. Even if they don’t like him much, he has to be there for them. He just has to!

“The itsy bitsy spider comes up the waterspout,” A voice sings, startling Anxiety out of his panicked reverie, “Down came the rain and washed the spider out.”

Creativity is...singing. He’s the one singing. But why? Why isn’t he attacking Anxiety? He sneaks a glance upwards, shocked to see Creativity sitting a few feet away. Not scared. The only trembles of fear is coming from Anxiety himself. The blanket-fort surrounds them, undestroyed. The soft glow of the fairy-lights twinkle up above. 

“Out comes the sun and dries up all the rain,” Creativity continues to sing, his eyes briefly meeting Anxiety. There isn’t any anger or disgust dancing in them. There’s an emotion Anxiety can’t identify. That should scare him, but it doesn’t. Not when it reminds him of freshly-baked cookies, the kind that melts in your mouth. Because this Princey is good. The Princey from moments before isn’t real--just a horrid, horrid nightmare.

Despite all their arguing, Princey would never point a sword at him. Never.

Hesitatingly, he joins in on the next line. A smile grows on Princey’s face at that. A real, genuine one. “And the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then, before Anxiety is aware of what he’s doing, he flings himself into Creativity’s arms. He lets out a surprised grunt, but he still cocoons Anxiety close to his chest. Anxiety tries really hard not to cry as he sniffles and gasps for breath. 

“Shhh it’s okay to cry, let it out little fright-ling.” Princey tells him, stroking his hair. 

“I can’t!” Anxiety shrieks, shaking his head vigorously. He’s already cried once earlier. He can’t cry again, that’ll just make him a crybaby.

“Whyever not?”

“B-because!” 

“You know even the bravest of heroes have a good cry now and then.” “They do?” Anxiety asks, “E-ev-even you?”

“Of course,” Creativity says, “great heaving buckets of tears, even.”

Anxiety tries imagining Creativity crying like that. A waterfall of tears streaming down his face like a cartoon. It makes him laugh a little. He also cries. So much so it feels like he’s used up all the tears inside his little body. Creativity rocks him gently, reminding Anxiety of the way Thomas’ mother would comfort him after a nightmare.

“Good,” Creativity tells him, rubbing circles into his back, “you’re doing a good job, Anx.”

It doesn’t feel like he’s doing a good job. The globs of tears are all wet and sticky on his face. He can’t stop hiccuping either. Princey’s words do, however, make him feel better.

“You’re so much nicer when you’re bigger.” Anxiety whispers, clutching onto Creativity’s sash with a fierce grip. He doesn’t mean for those words to come out; it just happens.

Creativity doesn’t say anything other than to hug him tighter in response. 

[scribeofmorpheus]

Himmeløyne [25/?]

Pairing: Loki Odinson x Reader

Catch Up Here | Masterlist

Warnings: Violence / Angst???

A/N: ... 

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment or leave a like please ☺

~Y/N

“You shouldn’t be here,” Loki said.

Shivers ran up your spine. For the first time since you knew him, he looked terrified. Helpless.

The Creature—the monster—that materialised from the mist inched closer. Its steady pace was unnerving, like pinpricks to the skin.

You took Loki’s hand in yours, felt his grip, ironclad, and said, “Right here is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

He smiled sheepishly, “Then our reunion was fated to be a short one.” He glanced at the creature, at its eyes, and clenched his jaw as tightly as his muscle could allow. He took an instinctual step back, pulling you behind him. “There’s no escaping it.”

You turned to the creature, unsure of what it was entirely that you sensed from it. It wasn’t fear—at least, not your own. Not hate either. Though it was masked in those emotions well. There was a drive behind its instinct, a purpose. Keenly aware of the fact you still had your magic, you let your magic do the searching where vision failed you. Tendrils of energy waned as if something unseen was pushing back, resisting. You planted your feet, took a deep breath and blocked out everything except the creature. There was familiarity there. A sense of pain. Grief. A broken heart.

Bestla’s words rippled back to you, reminding you of what she had said about Loki, “Loki is a fraught boy. Torn apart by two halves that will always be at war.”

A tendril of magic managed to touch the creature and incoherent flashes distracted you, making you lose balance.

With a grunt, you and Loki were both flung back, the wind knocked out of you. You rolled from your side and noticed the creature was undeterred from his path. A strong magical barrier surrounded it.

The creature lunged, its bone and flesh sword for a hand tearing the seams of Loki’s subconscious world.

You had to get Loki away from the creature, find a way to reassure him, give him room to process everything in safety. As long as the creature was a stone’s throw away, you wouldn’t be able to help him. “How do we escape it?”

Loki turned to you, downcast, “We don’t. I’ve never escaped it.” He looked at his hands. “I have no powers here.”

“But I do,” you forged a connection to his subconscious through your linked hands. “Think of a place, a memory, anywhere you feel safe. I’ll take you there!”

The creature neared and Loki’s mind flooded with too many images, too many years condensed into a barrage of smells and touch, hot and cold, emotion and emptiness. Steeling yourself, you clung onto the strongest sensation: smell. Berries. A burst of blue and purple. Warmth from an oven. A hug.

Instantly, the both of you were sucked into a portal of light, teleported deeper into Loki’s mind. Before the portal shut, the creature let out a roar, snagging skin from your elbow as it slashed and slashed in a frenzy. You seethed from the surprising burn of its cold touch.

You were thrust forward and wrenched back, a tension to your muscles, adrenaline soaking tissue. Your magic sparked, and you lost your bearing. When the world stopped spinning, you were in a kitchen, not the human kind with a hearth and cast iron pots, but Asgardian. Polished stones greeted your feet while gold embellishments decorated everything; curtains, fine dishes, the liquid within crystal clear tumblers.

“Where… where are we?” you glance around, unfamiliar with your surroundings.

Out from a blind spot, two boys darted into the kitchen area. Frigga followed soon after, a youthful blush on her face, hair the colour of magnificent straw. The boys played with wooden swords, clashing in a dull thud. Laughter keeping the room vibrant. The boy with the sandy hair yelped, and before your eyes, his wooden sword transformed into a snake, slithering away.

The raven-haired boy turned ghostly pale, frightened by what he’d just done. He clenched his fists in horror. Frigga calmed him, a sweet smile on her face as she ran her fingers through his hair. She hesitated for a moment before she hunkered low to hug both her sons. Soon after, a baker walked into the room with a silver tray of pastries. Blackish filling spilt over the folds, the smell of citric berries permeated into the space like a blanket, sweet and tart.

“Home,” Loki said. A look of longing crept over his face, a slouch to his shoulders. “I remember this day… This was the day before Father had taken us to the vault to tell us stories, of our grandfather, of the war…the Giants. Mother had asked the baker’s to make her favourite pies. We helped her pick the berries from a thicket near the edge during the day. It was the first time I used transformation magic. I was so scared. So was Thor. But not Mother… she just held us till we stopped crying. Made us feel safe in her embrace. She said I got my magic from her. That we were born under the same stars. Blessed by the same spirits.”

You placed a hand on his back and he leaned into the contact. “It seems like a happy memory.”

“Many of them were… before…” he turned to look away from the homely scene unfolding. “They were my family. My blood.”

The child version of him smiled with pie filling smeared over his round cheeks. You recognised Baldrick in his features. Slight, but distinct. The same dark hair and wide eyes. An impression more than anything.

“They still are,” you said.

“They are not my family…” he sneered, clicking his tongue. “And after what I’ve done, they couldn’t forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“I have done plenty wrong!”

You flinched, his anger turning the room cooler, snuffing out the air, closing you in. Mist crawled onto the windows, and, suddenly, you knew. This feeling—this dread—it had been warped around the creature too, preventing you from fully penetrating its barrier. That same magic now surrounded Loki. More apparent after his outburst.

“Not from where I’m standing,” you said. “Perhaps there is much you need to take responsibility for, but not this”—you placed your hand on his chest, felt the thrum of his heart—“not for who you are…what you are.”

 “They lied to me! Made me think I was one of them. Hid my birth rite from me. Hid me,” he shouted.  “I’m a monster!”

The mist had enveloped all the windows now. Cracks spread like veins. A chill wracked through the air.

You ignored the foreboding signs and kept your focus on Loki, “By that logic, so am I.”

His eyes snapped up meet yours, his lower lip trembling. “Not you. Never you.”

Your heart ached at his words. “I’ve taken life… Life that I now see was more than a simple monster made real from under my bed.”

Recognition flashed across his face, “The Giant in Jotunheim. The one who...”

You nodded, slowly. “Yes.”

“But he took something from you,” Loki held your shoulders, speaking in haste as he shook you. “You deserved vengeance. And wanting it… that doesn’t make you a monster.”

You let out a sigh, somehow feeling older as you did it, feeling the heft of another’s life—of Bestla’s life. “Only because something had been taken from him, too. Something that was rightly his.” A sad smile came over you. “Do you know what he said before I killed him? He said his kind were always the villains in my stories. I never thought much of it, at the time. But then I met someone…your grandmother. She told me things, about the Great Wars, the histories of the Giants, the truth. And I see now…”

Loki rambled, taken aback by what you said. "My... grandmother? H-How? When? I—I don't..."

The creature materialised into the room, stone walls exploding into flecks. It growled and Loki stiffened. He was about to pull you away, but you stopped him, mustering all your magic to urge the Jotun beneath his pale skin to surface. His breath hitched as he staggered, fighting the process. You kept watching as the creature continued on its approach. You had a few seconds at best.  

“I see now that there’s more than one side to any story. And war… war destroys more than the past. It takes history. It takes truth. It makes martyrs out of monsters and monsters out of martyrs. Makes kings. Destroys empires. Breeds hate. And these effects ripple out, for generations. You and I are but small grains of sand taken by the whims of the past, struggling to be still.”

“What are you—” Loki’s eyes went wide, making him look so small, so human, as his blue skin surfaced. You trailed along his arm, magic between the two of you building with a charge. With possibilities. He shuddered, taking a few deep breaths to centre himself, to grow used to his reflection in your eyes.

“And this is my truth…” you kissed him gently as the mist clung to your robes and feet. “I love you, Loki, Son of Asgard, Last Prince of Jotunheim... Trickster God. I love all of you. And I bent the world to save you, but the truth is, you aren’t lost, you’re running away.”

The creature lunged, and the wind died out. The creature’s shadow fell behind Loki. From over his shoulder, you could see it raise its arm high, ready to strike… ready to kill.

“It’s time to face who you are…” you whispered.

The creature struck. Loki shouted your name, cradling you close. There was a boom. A rush of air followed by a harrowing silence.

Loki stumbled backward, shocked. All around him were shards of ice, suspended in the darkness until it receded back from where it came. In the light, the creature sloughed away, like fungus being scraped off wood. The layers turned to snowflakes and dispersed all around you. Under the rage and strength of the creature was Loki’s double, pale skinned, blue eyed.   

You walked over to Loki’s double and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you see now? Do you see what you were running from?”

Loki paced from left to right, never letting his eyes leave his double. Then he took a step forward, mouth agape, the reality of everything dawning over him. “It was me.”

“You blame yourself for everything. For what happened to my village and what happened to me in the throne room. I suspect you’ve always done so. Resolved yourself to hate the part of you that was different. That was hidden. And that part of you, stricken by self-loathing and doubt, guilt and grief, remained buried here, in the depths of your mind, alone. Apart from you. And when you went under, you could no longer supress him. But after the throne room, those feelings grew in your subconscious, giving form to the very thing you feared. The Jotun in you. The Giant. The monster of your stories.”

“N—No… I—It can’t be.” Loki shook his head, conflicted.

You held out your hand for him to take, “Do you trust me?

He nodded, at a loss for words.

“Then connect them, the two pieces that have been separated for so long. Accept the truth,” you delicately ushered him closer to his double who just blinked, expression empty, hollow.

As the two Lokis stood face to face and the world shook. You took several steps back and watched as Loki put his hand up. His double mirrored his action. When they joined palms, a torrent of emerald light streamed outward, both cold and hot all at once. As bright as a star. As piercing as an arrow. Everything melted out of view until it was only you and him, the illusion of a night sky forming in the background.

He stood close, his smile not quite right. Snaking his arms around you, he held you flush to his chest. You looked up, chin resting on his chest. Finally, you were home.

 “Thank you,” he whispered before kissing you. The kiss was life affirming, as though he was saying a thousand things in a single act. You kissed him back, lips tenderly caressed by his own.

A swell flourished in your belly. Warmth you hadn’t felt since the last time you were in his arms flooded back. It was joy. You gasped as that feeling of solace returned from where it had been stripped away. Elated that you could feel his magic again. Feel him again. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could finally breathe again. Be at ease again.

“I—” Loki steadied himself, as though he were about to speak the world apart. “I—”

But before he could finish, you felt a third presence tunnel its way to your subconscious. A message warning you from the other side, from the woken world. It felt like Heimdall’s magic. And it was filled with desperation. “Wait! Heimdall… Something’s wrong!”

“I feel it too,” Loki said.

You felt yourself being pulled from the world, out and through. The world adapted to the invasion. Tears of reality blended into the space.

The voice of a guard shouted, “Captain! She’s resisting. We can’t separate them!”

“Pull harder!” the captain shouted back, her voice heated and coarse like lit charcoal.

Through the tears, you saw the healing chamber. Heimdall and the rest of your companions were defeated, huffing for air. They were being ushered out of the room in shackles. The resisted to no avail, dragged out one by one by the guards in shining armour.

Through the distortion, and past the ebbing flow of sound, you saw Odin enter the room. He carried a familiar tome in his hands. Bestla’s amulet!

You had forgotten that you’d left it in Heimdall’s care. Odin must have taken it from him as he was being dragged away.

“I haven’t seen this in a long, long time,” Odin said wistfully. His thumb brushed against the bird bones, beads catching light from the golden castle. He whispered to the captain, the amulet trading hands between them, from his to hers. Spine bent, Odin took his leave.

The Captain narrowed her eyes at you, and, had you been in your body, present and aware in all senses, you were certain you would have taken a step back.

The captain loomed closer, the tug of so many unfamiliar hands on your wrists and elbows. She shouted again, but the world phased and her sound never reached your ears.  

With a dimmer, Loki’s world had begun to flitter out of view.

Sensing this, he drew you close, desperate to have you hear his next words. His lips moved with fervour, words spilling out harried and muffled, incomprehensible. The outside world grew louder. More real. Loki tried to hold onto you, but you felt his hold on you slip away.

With a mind splitting headache, your body greeted your subconscious in the woken world. A wave of exhaustion washed over you as you were overpowered by the guards.

Loki, awakened, reached for you again as he shouted for the guards to desist. Some took a moment to consider, conflicted, but the captain silenced them with a look.

Loki struggled to keep his feet steady. The weeks suspended in the chamber had taken their toll on his body. It was spent. Just like his mind.

“I am Loki, Prince of Asgard, I command you to release her immediately!” he said, anger sparked within his eyes. He motioned to summon his magic, to use a spell to fend off the heavy men with heavy grips. 

Softly, you shook your head. Speaking low enough for just his ears, “No! Loki… No more violence.”

“Hold her still,” the captain ordered. You were wrenched further back. Loki was still reaching for you, just a little out of reach, staggering with weak knees.

“I’ll make this right!” he swore. “I promise. I’ll make it right.”

With a grimace, the captain placed Bestla’s amulet close to your neck and it came alive, a will of its own as it twined uncomfortably around your neck.

“Wai—”You recoiled from the deadened aura of the amulet. Once it settled in place, you fought the urge to cough. The amulet’s distinct lack of presence overpowered you. It made you limp and you felt sparse. Lacking. No magic. No warmth. Eyelids as heavy as boulders. The strength to stand seeming impossible in the moment. It was worse than the leeching. At least that came with pain, with something.

“Take her below,” the captain said before turning her sights on Loki and ushering a few healers into the space. “The prince needs assistance. Hurry.”

Woozy, everything seemed far, far away. The drag of your feet away from the healing chamber came with less resistance. Loki shrunk in your peripheral, still staggering to close the gap.

[penbalfour]

Chapter One (x)

“Lower your swords,” Queen Eloana commanded, her hair shining a glossy onyx in the sun as she sank onto one knee. The raw emotion pouring out of her seeped into the temple floors of the Chamber of Nyktos, bitter and hot, tasting of anguish and a helpless sort of anger. It stretched out toward me, needling my skin and brushing against this…primal thing inside me. “And bow before the…before the last descendent of the most ancient ones. She who carries the blood of the King of Gods within her. Bow before your new Queen.”

The blood of the King of Gods? Your new Queen? None of that made sense. Not her words or when she had removed her crown.

A too-thin breath scorched my throat as I looked at the man standing beside the Queen of Atlantia. The crown was still upon the King’s golden-haired head, but the bones had remained a bleached white. Nothing like the gleaming, gilded one the Queen had placed at the feet of the statue of Nyktos. My gaze skipped over the terrible, broken things scattered about the once pristine, white floors. I’d done that to them, adding their blood to what had fallen from the sky, filling the thin fissures in the marble. I didn’t look at that or anyone else—every part of my being focused on him.

He remained on one knee, staring up at me from between the vee of the swords he’d crossed over his chest. His damp hair, blue-black in the Atlantian sunlight, curled against the sandy-hued skin of his forehead. Red streaked those high, angular cheekbones, the proud curve of his jaw, and ran down lips that had once shattered my heart. Lips that had pieced those broken shards back together with the truth. Bright, golden eyes locked with mine, and even bowed before me, so motionless I wasn’t sure he breathed, he still reminded me of one of the wild and strikingly beautiful cave cats I’d once seen caged in Queen Ileana’s palace as a child.

He had been many things to me. A stranger in a dimly lit room who’d been my first kiss. A guard who had sworn to lay down his life for mine. A friend who had looked beyond the veil of the Maiden to truly see me underneath, who’d handed me a sword to protect myself instead of forcing me into a gilded cage. A legend cloaked in darkness and nightmares that had plotted to betray me. A Prince of a kingdom believed to have been lost to time and war, who had suffered unimaginable horrors and yet managed to find the pieces of who he used to be. A brother who would do anything, commit any deed to save his family. His people. A man who bared his soul and stripped open his heart to me—and only me.

My first.

My guard.

My friend.

My betrayer.

My partner.

My husband.

My heartmate.

My everything.

Casteel Da’Neer bowed before me and stared up at me as if I were the only person in the entire kingdom. I didn’t need to concentrate like before to know what he was feeling. Everything he felt was wide-open to me. His emotions were a kaleidoscope of ever-shifting tastes—cool and tart, heavy and spicy, and sweet like chocolate-dipped berries. Those unyieldingly firm and unrelentingly tender lips parted, revealing just the hint of sharp fangs.

“My Queen,” he breathed, and those two smoky words soothed my skin. The lilt of his voice quelled the ancient thing inside me that wanted to take the anger and the fear radiating from all the others and twist it, turn it back, truly give them something to fear, and add to the shattered things thrown about the floor. One side of his lips curled up, and a deep dimple appeared in his right cheek.

Dizzy with relief at the sight of that infuriatingly stupid—and adorable—dimple, my entire body shuddered. I feared that when he saw what I’d done, he’d be afraid. And I couldn’t blame him for that. What I’d done should terrify anyone, but not Casteel. The heat that turned his eyes the color of warmed honey told me that fear was very much the furthest thing from his mind. Which was also a little disturbing. But he was the Dark One, whether he liked being called that or not.

Some of the shock faded, and the pounding adrenaline eased. And when it left, I realized I hurt. My shoulder and the side of my head throbbed. The left side of my face felt puffy, and that had nothing to do with the old scars there. A dull ache pulsed in my legs and arms, and my body felt funny, as if my knees were weakening. I swayed in the warm, salty breeze—

Casteel rose quickly, and I shouldn’t have been surprised by how fast he moved, but I still was. In a heartbeat, he’d gone from kneeling to standing, a foot closer to me, and several things happened at once.

The men and women behind Casteel’s parents, the ones wearing the same white tunics and loose pants of those lying on the floor, also moved. Light reflected off the golden armbands adorning their biceps as they lifted their swords, shifting closer to Casteel’s parents, protecting them. Some reached for crossbows strapped to their backs. They had to be guards of some sort.

A sudden growl of warning came from the largest wolven I’d ever seen. Kieran and Vonetta’s father stood to my right. Jasper had officiated the marriage between Casteel and me in Spessa’s End. He’d been there when Nyktos showed his approval by briefly turning day to night. But now, the steel-hued wolven’s lips peeled back, baring teeth that could tear through flesh and break bone. He was loyal to Casteel, and yet instinct told me that it wasn’t just the guards he warned.

Another snarl came from my left. In the shadows of the blood tree that had sprouted from where my blood had fallen and grown to a massive height within seconds, a fawn-colored wolven crept into my line of sight, head dipped low, and wintery blue eyes iridescent. Kieran. He stared down Casteel. I didn’t understand why either of them would behave this way toward the Prince, but especially Kieran. He had been bonded to Casteel from birth, meant to obey and protect him at all costs. But he was more than a bonded wolven to Casteel. They were brothers, if not by blood then by friendship, and I knew they loved each other.

Right now, nothing about the way Kieran’s ears were pinned back was loving.

Unease skipped its way through me as Kieran sank down, the sleek muscles of his legs tensing as he prepared to attack…Casteel.

My stomach plummeted. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. “No,” I rasped, my voice hoarse and barely recognizable, even to my ears.

Kieran didn’t appear to hear me or care. If he had been acting normally, I would’ve just assumed he was attempting to ignore me, but this was different. He was different. His eyes were brighter than I ever remembered seeing, and they weren’t right because they…they weren’t just blue now. His pupils glowed silvery-white, an aura that seeped out in wispy tendrils across the blue. My head jerked to Jasper. His eyes had changed, too. I’d seen that strange light before. It had been what my skin had done when I healed Beckett’s broken legs—the same silvery glow that had radiated from me minutes earlier.

Icy bursts of surprise raced through Casteel as he eyed the wolven, and then I felt…relief radiate from him.

“You all knew.” Casteel’s voice filled with awe, something no one standing behind him felt. Even the easy grin was absent from the auburn-haired Atlantian. Emil looked at us with wide eyes, broadcasting a healthy dose of fear, as did Naill, who had always appeared utterly unfazed by everything—even when he’d been outnumbered in battle.

Casteel slowly sheathed his swords at his sides. Hands empty, he kept them down. “You all knew something was happening to her. That’s why….” He trailed off, his jaw hardening.

Several of the guards moved to the front of the King and Queen, surrounding them fully—

A shock of white fur shot forward. Delano tucked his tail back as he pawed at the marble. He lifted his head and howled. The eerie yet beautiful sound raised the tiny hairs all over my body.

Off in the distance, the faint sounds of yips and barks answered, growing louder with each second. The leaves on the tall, cone-shaped trees separating the temple from Saion’s Cove trembled as a rolling rumble echoed from the ground below. Blue-and-yellow-winged birds took flight from the trees, scattering to the sky.

“Godsdamn.” Emil turned to the temple steps. He reached for the swords at his sides. “They’re summoning the whole damn city.”

“It’s her.” The deep scar slicing across the older wolven’s forehead stood out starkly. Potent disbelief rolled off Alastir as he stood just outside the circle of guards who’d formed around Casteel’s parents.

“It is not her,” Casteel shot back.

“But it is,” King Valyn confirmed as he stared at me from a face that Casteel’s would one day become. “They’re responding to her. That’s why the ones on the road with us shifted without warning. She called them to her.”

“I…I didn’t call anyone,” I told Casteel, voice cracking.

“I know.” Casteel’s tone softened as his eyes locked with mine.

“But she did,” his mother insisted. “You might not realize it, but you did summon them.”

My eyes darted to her, and I felt my chest wrench. She was everything I’d imagined Casteel’s mother to be. Stunning. Regal. Powerful. Calm now, even as she remained on one knee, even when she had first seen me and demanded of her son—What have you’ve done? What have you brought back? I flinched, fearing those words would stay with me long after today.

Casteel’s features sharpened as golden eyes swept over my face. “If the idiots behind me actually laid down their swords instead of lifting them against my wife, we wouldn’t have an entire colony of wolven about to descend on us,” he bit out. “They are only reacting to the threat.”

“You’re right,” his father agreed as he gently guided his wife to her feet. Blood soaked the knee and the hem of her lilac gown. “But ask yourself why your bonded wolven is guarding someone other than you.”

“I really could care less at the moment,” Casteel responded as the sound of hundreds—if not more—of paws pounding the earth grew even closer. He couldn’t be serious. He had to care, because that was a damn good question.

“You need to care,” his mother cautioned, a thin quiver in her otherwise steady voice. “The bonds have broken.”

The bonds? Hands trembling, my wide eyes shot to the temple steps, to where Emil slowly backed away. Naill had his swords in his hands now.

“She’s right,” Alastir uttered, the skin around his mouth appearing even whiter. “I can… I can feel it—the Primal notam. Her mark. Good gods.” His voice trembled as he stumbled back, nearly stepping on the crown. “They’ve all broken.”

I had no idea what a notam was, but through the confusion and the blossoming panic, there was something odd about what Alastir had stated. If it was true, then why wasn’t he in his wolven form? Was it because he’d already broken his wolven bond with the former King of Atlantia all those years ago?

“Look at their eyes,” the Queen ordered softly, pointing out what I’d seen. “I know you don’t understand. There are things you never needed to learn, Hawke.” Her voice cracked then, thickened at the use of his nickname—a name I’d once believed to be nothing more than a lie. “But what you need to know now is that they no longer serve the Elemental bloodline. You are not safe. Please,” she begged. “Please. Listen to me, Hawke.”

“How?” I croaked. “How could the bond break?”

“That doesn’t matter right now.” The amber of Casteel’s eyes was nearly luminous. “You’re bleeding,” he said as if that were the most important issue at hand.

But it wasn’t. “How?” I repeated.

“It’s what you are.” Eloana’s left hand balled into the skirt of her gown. “You have the blood of a god in you—”

“I’m mortal,” I told her.

A thick lock of dark hair tumbled from her knot as she shook her head. “Yes, you are mortal, but you are descended from a deity—the children of the gods. All it takes is a drop of god’s blood—” She swallowed thickly. “You may have more than just a drop, but what is in your blood, what is in you, supersedes any oath the wolven have taken.”

I remembered then what Kieran had told me in New Haven about the wolven. The gods had given the once-wild kiyou wolves mortal form to serve as guides and protectors to the children of the gods—the deities. Something else Kieran had shared then explained the Queen’s reaction.

My gaze shot to the crown lying near Nyktos’ feet. A drop of deity blood usurped any claim to the Atlantian throne.

Oh, gods, there was a good chance I really might pass out. And how embarrassing would that be?

Eloana’s gaze shifted to her son’s rigid back. “You go near her? Right now? They will see you as a threat to her. They will rip you apart.”

My heart lurched to a panicked stop. Casteel looked as if he might do just that. Behind me, one of the smaller wolven lurched forward, barking and snapping at the air.

Every muscle in my body tensed. “Casteel—”

“It’s okay.” Casteel’s eyes never left mine. “No one is going to harm Poppy. I will not allow that.” His chest rose with a deep, heavy breath. “And you know that, right?”

I nodded as each breath came too fast, too shallowly. It was the only thing I understood at the moment.

“Everything’s all right. They’re just protecting you.” Casteel smiled for me then, but it was tense and tight. He looked to my left, at Kieran. “I don’t know everything that is going on right now, but you—all of you—want to keep her safe. And I’m all about that. You know I would never hurt her. I would tear out my own heart before I did that. She’s injured. I need to make sure she’s okay, and nothing is going to stop me from doing that.” He didn’t blink as he held Kieran’s stare, as the rolling thunder of the other wolven reached the temple steps. “Not even you. Any of you. I will destroy every single one of you who stands between her and me.”

Kieran’s growl deepened, and an emotion I’d never felt from him before poured into me. It was like anger, but older. And it felt like that buzz in my blood had. Ancient. Primal.

And in an instant, I could see it all playing out in my mind as if it were happening before me. Kieran would attack. Or maybe it would be Jasper. I’d seen what kind of damage a wolven could inflict, but Casteel wouldn’t go down easily. He would do just as he’d promised. He’d tear through all that stood between him and me. Wolven would die, and if he harmed Kieran—if he did worse than that, the wolven’s blood wouldn’t just be on Casteel’s hands. It would mark his soul till the day he died.

A wave of wolven crested the temple’s stairs, both small and large, in so many different colors. Their arrival brought terrifying knowledge. Casteel was incredibly strong and unbelievably fast. He would take down many. But he would fall with them.

He would die.

Casteel would die because of me—because I called to these wolven and didn’t know how to make it stop. My heart thumped erratically. A wolven near the steps stalked Emil as he continued backing up. Another tracked Naill as he spoke softly to the wolven, attempting to reason with the creature. The others had zeroed in on the guards surrounding the King and Queen, and a few…. Oh, gods, several of them crept up behind Casteel. This had slipped into chaos, the wolven beyond control of any of them…

I sucked in a sharp breath as my mind raced, breaking free of the pain and turbulence. Something had happened within me to make that drop of god’s blood break the bonds. I superseded their previous oaths, and that had…it had to mean that they now obeyed me.

“Stop,” I ordered as Kieran snapped at Casteel, whose own lips were now peeled back. “Kieran! Stop! You will not hurt Casteel.” My voice rose as a soft hum returned to my blood. “All of you will stop. Now! None of you will attack.”

It was like a switch had been thrown in the wolven’s minds. One second they were all poised to attack, and then they were sinking onto their bellies, lowering their heads between their front paws. I could still feel their anger, the old power, but it had lessened already, was fading in steady waves.

Emil lowered his sword. “That…that was timely. Thank you for that.”

A ragged breath left me as a tremor traveled up and down my arms. I almost couldn’t believe it’d worked as I scanned the temple, seeing all the wolven lying down. My entire being wanted to rebel against further confirmation of what the Queen had claimed, but gods, there was only so much I could deny. Throat dry, I looked at Casteel.

He stared at me, his eyes wide once more. I couldn’t breathe enough. My heart wouldn’t slow enough for me to make sense of what he was feeling.

“He will not hurt me. You all know that,” I said, my voice shaking as I looked at Jasper and then Kieran. “You told me that he was the only person in both kingdoms that I was safe with.  That hasn’t changed.”

Kieran’s ears twitched, and then he rose, backing up. He turned, nudging my hand with his nose.

“Thank you,” I whispered, briefly closing my eyes.

“Just so you know,” Casteel murmured, thick lashes lowered halfway, “what you just did? Said? It has me feeling all kinds of wildly inappropriate things at the moment.”

A weak, shaky laugh left me. “There’s something so wrong with you.”

“I know.” The left side of his lips curved, and his dimple appeared. “But you love that about me.”

I did. Gods, I really did.

Jasper shook out his fur as his large head swung from me to Casteel. He turned sideways, making a rough, huffing sound as he did. The other wolven moved then, coming out from behind the blood tree. I watched them trot past me—past Casteel and the others—ears perked and tails wagging as they joined the wolven descending the steps and left the temple. Only Jasper, his son, and Delano remained, and the feeling of chaotic tension lifted.

A thick lock of dark hair fell over Casteel’s forehead. “You were glowing silver again. When you ordered the wolven to stop,” he told me. “Not a lot, not like before, but you looked like spun moonlight.”

Had I been? I glanced down at my hands. They looked normal. “I…I don’t know what’s happening,” I whispered, my legs shaking. “I don’t know what’s going on.” I lifted my eyes to his and watched him take a step forward, and then another. There were no snarls of warning. Nothing. My throat started to burn. I could feel it—tears creeping into my eyes. I couldn’t cry. I wouldn’t. Everything had already turned into enough of a mess without me sobbing hysterically. But I was so tired. I hurt, and it went beyond the physical.

When I first stepped into this temple and looked out over the clear waters of the Seas of Saion, I’d felt like I was home. And I knew things would be hard. Proving our union was real wouldn’t be nearly as difficult as gaining the acceptance of Casteel’s parents and that of his kingdom. We still needed to find his brother, Prince Malik. And mine. We had to deal with the Ascended Queen and King. Nothing about our future would be easy, but I had hope.

Now, I felt foolish. So naïve. The older wolven in Spessa’s End, the one I’d helped heal after the battle, had warned me about the people of Atlantia. They did not choose you. And I now doubted they ever would.

I drew in a stuttering breath and whispered, “I didn’t want any of this.”

Tension bracketed Casteel’s mouth. “I know.” His voice was rough, but his touch was gentle as he placed his palm over the cheek that didn’t feel swollen. He lowered his forehead to mine, and the shock of awareness his flesh against mine brought was there, rippling through me as he slid his hand into the tangled mess of my hair. “I know, Princess,” he whispered, and I squeezed my eyes shut against a stronger rush of tears. “It’s okay. It will all be okay. I promise you that.”

I nodded, even though I knew it wasn’t something he could guarantee. Not anymore. I forced myself to swallow the knot of emotion that rose.

Casteel kissed my blood-streaked brow and then lifted his head. “Emil? Can you retrieve clothing from Delano’s and Kieran’s horses so they can shift and not scar anyone?”

“I’ll be more than happy to do that,” the Atlantian answered.

I almost laughed. “I think their nakedness will be the least scarring thing to happen today.”

Casteel said nothing as he touched my cheek again, gently tilting my head to the side. His gaze then dropped to several of the rocks still littering the ground at my feet. A muscle popped along his jaw. His eyes lifted to mine, and I saw his pupils were dilated, only a thin strip of amber visible. “They tried to stone you?”

I heard a soft gasp I thought had come from his mother, but I didn’t look. I didn’t want to see their faces. I didn’t want to know what they felt right now. “They accused me of working with the Ascended, and they called me a Soul Eater. I told them I wasn’t. I tried to talk to them.” Words spilled out in a rush as I lifted my hands to touch him, but I stopped. I didn’t know what my touch would do. Hell, I didn’t even know what I would do without touching someone. “I tried to reason with them, but they started throwing stones. I told them to stop. I said it was enough, and…I don’t know what I did—” I started to look over his shoulder, but Casteel seemed to know what it was I  searched for. He stopped me.  “I didn’t mean to kill them.”

“You were defending yourself.” His pupils constricted as he caught my stare. “You did what you had to do. You were defending yourself—”

“But I didn’t touch them, Casteel,” I whispered. “It was like in Spessa’s End, during the battle. Remember the soldiers who surrounded us? When they fell, I felt something in me. I felt that again here. It was like something inside me knew what to do. I took their anger and I—I did exactly what a Soul Eater would do. I took it from them and then gave it back.”

“You are not a Soul Eater,” Queen Eloana said from somewhere not too far away. “The moment the eather in your blood became visible, those who attacked you should’ve known exactly what you were. What you are.”

“Eather?”

“It’s what some would call magic,” Casteel answered, shifting his stance as if he were blocking his mother from me. “You’ve seen it before.”

“The mist?”

He nodded. “It’s the essence of the gods, what’s in their blood, what gives them their abilities and the power to create all that they have. No one really calls it that anymore, not since the gods went to sleep, and the deities died off.” His eyes searched mine. “I should have known. Gods, I should’ve seen it…”

“You can say that now,” his mother spoke. “But why would you have even thought that this would be a possibility? No one would’ve expected this.”

“Except for you,” Casteel said. And he was right. She’d known, without a doubt. And, granted, I had been glowing upon her arrival, but she’d known with unquestioned certainty.

“I can explain,” she said as Emil appeared, carrying two saddlebags. He gave all of us a wide berth as he dropped them near Jasper and then backed away.

“Apparently, a lot needs to be explained,” Casteel remarked coolly. “But it will have to wait.” His gaze touched on my left cheek, and that muscle throbbed along his jaw again. “I need to get you somewhere safe where I can…. Where I can take care of you.”

“You can take her to your old rooms at my place,” Jasper announced, startling me. I hadn’t even heard him shift. I started to look over at him but saw skin as he reached for the saddlebag.

“That will do.” Casteel took what appeared to be a pair of breeches from Jasper. “Thank you.”

“Will it be safe for you there?” I asked, and a wry grin tugged at Casteel’s lips.

“He’ll be safe there,” Kieran answered.

So shocked by the sound of Kieran’s voice, I turned. And didn’t stop. There was a whole lot of tawny skin on display, but he stood there like he wasn’t naked in front of all who remained. For once, I really had no problem ignoring the fact that he was nude. I looked at his eyes. They were normal—a vivid, striking blue without the silvery-white aura. “You were going to attack Casteel.”

Kieran nodded as he took the pants from Casteel.

“He most definitely was,” Casteel confirmed.

I looked back at my husband. “And you threatened to destroy him.”

The dimple in his left cheek appeared again. “I did.”

“Why are you smiling? That isn’t something that should make you smile.” I stared at him, stupid tears burning my eyes. I didn’t care that we had an audience. “That can never happen again. Do you hear me?” I twisted to Kieran, who arched a brow as he pulled his breeches up over his lean hips. “Do you both hear me? I won’t allow it. I won’t—”

“Shh.” Casteel’s light touch to my cheek drew my gaze back to his as he stepped into me. He was close enough that his chest brushed mine with each breath. “It won’t happen again, Poppy.” His thumb quickly swiped under my left eye. “Right?”

“Right.” Kieran cleared his throat. “I don’t…” He fell quiet.

His father didn’t. “As long as the Prince doesn’t give any of us a reason to behave differently, we will protect him as fiercely as we will protect you.”

We. As in the entirety of the wolven race. That’s what Alastir had meant when he’d said that all the bonds had broken. I had a lot of questions, but I plopped my head on Casteel’s chest. It didn’t feel that great, sending a flare of pain across my head. I didn’t care because when I inhaled, all I smelled was lush spice and pine.  Casteel carefully folded an arm around my upper back, and I thought… I thought I felt him shudder against me.

“Wait,” Kieran said. “Where is Beckett? He was with you when you walked off.”

Casteel drew back slightly. “That’s right. He offered to show you the temple.” His eyes narrowed as he stared down at me. “He led you here.”

A wave of goosebumps pimpled my skin. Beckett. Pressure clamped down on my chest, squeezing tightly as I thought of the young wolven who’d spent the vast majority of the trip here chasing butterflies. I still couldn’t believe that he had led me here, knowing what awaited. But I remembered the bitter taste of his fear that day in Spessa’s End. He’d been terrified of me.

Or had he been terrified of something else?

His emotions had been all over the place. He’d gone from being normal around me, happy and grinning, to suddenly afraid and anxious, as he had been when he brought me up here.

“He disappeared before the others showed up,” I told Casteel. “I don’t know where he went.”

“Find Beckett,” he ordered, and Delano, still in his wolven form, tilted his head.  “Naill? Emil? Go with him. Make sure Beckett is brought to me alive.”

Both Atlantians nodded and bowed. Nothing about Casteel’s tone suggested that the alive part was a good thing. “He’s just a kid.” I watched Delano rush off, quickly disappearing with Naill and Emil. “He was scared. And now that I think about it—”

“Poppy.” Casteel placed the tips of his fingers against my cheek, just below a spot that ached. He dipped his head, brushing his lips over the cut. “I have two things to say. If Beckett had anything to do with this, I don’t care what or who he is, and I sure as fuck don’t care about what he was feeling.” His voice rose until all who remained at the temple could hear him, including his parents.

“A move against my wife is a proclamation of war against me. Their fate is already sealed. And, secondly?” He lowered his head even farther. This time, his lips brushed over mine in a featherlight kiss. I could barely feel it, but it somehow  still managed to twist my insides into knots. He then lifted his head, and I saw it in his features—the stark stillness of a predator locking onto its prey. I’d seen it before, right before he’d torn out Landell’s heart back in New Haven.

Casteel turned his head to the side, looking at the only wolven who remained, now standing on two legs. “You.”