#char: unforgivable

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

people will see a female character that made a mistake and go 'is anyone gonna hate her' and not wait for an answer

[razrbladekiss]

MAPLE HAZEL | Joel Miller — Part Three

SUMMARY: joel’s misery is palpable. you’re oblivious to it. until you’re not.

PAIRING: no outbreak!joel miller x afab!reader

WORD COUNT: 5.9k, you are welcum.

WARNINGS: angst. reader is an eagles fan (do NOT come for me, they are my boys. go birds 🦅). F L U F F. mentions of reader’s dad. tommy and joel are jerks, but joel redeems himself. tommy can suck a fat one. i kidddd <3 this is probably the angst-iest this story’ll get because im addicted to the fluff so. enjoy. 🤞🏼 not proof read or edited, i cannot be fucked for that.

TAGS: if you would like to be added for future installments, then let me know besties!! if i’ve forgotten anyone that’s asked to get added, then please slap me. @millersleee @goodvibesonly421 @j0elmlllers @scorpio-echo

SERIES MASTERLIST

Joel’s hands seize the steering wheel of his truck—the same one that’s presently stationed on your driveway—knuckles turning sheet white for the hold that he has is completely unforgiving. And sore.

He’s irascible. Livid. His anger is sheathed by shame and hatred for himself as the way that he conducted himself this morning was unseemly. Even for Joel, it was appalling. And though you didn’t appear to have any reservations, he knew that he bothered you. Your face didn’t allude to irritation, nor did your tone or mannerisms, but Joel was more than conscious of your internal hurt.

He just knows you that well.

But now he’s sitting—legs numb and cheeks charring red—striving to conjure up an apology that’ll help to shirk any ill-feeling that you may have toward him. Because he was a fucking jerk this morning.

And it was all because of an Eagles sweater, believe it or not.

9.42 AM

Birch Grove is bustling. It's considerably brighter, this morning. The doom and gloom that enveloped your small town yesterday has now dissipated, leaving nothing but small puddles of rainwater and grit in its wake, and it’s beautiful. A sight to behold when you’re leaving your house today.

You avoid the wetness on the road—hoping not to muddy your shoes—and bounce onto the sidewalk, admiring the oil slick that blankets damp gravel on your way over to Joel’s. You swear that there’s a divot in the concrete that holds semblance to a heart, but you’re not sure if that’s just a delusion from lack of sleep or some sort of sign from the universe telling you that perhaps it’s time to find a significant other.

Nonetheless, you take in the scene. How yesterday—in the midst of a storm—not a single body littered the crosswalk, therefore leaving Joel’s little coffee shop completely empty. But today—now that the air has cleared and rain almost dried up—it’s like nothing had even happened, and the entire town is out in force. Like they always should be.

Joel watches in awe as you make tracks across the street toward the cafe—wondering how he ever deserved such a buoyant presence like you in his life despite the fact that he’s a perpetually miserable middle-aged man—and busies himself so you don’t think he’s been ogling you this entire time.

But then the bell rings, Joel’s eyes flick up—against his own will—and you bound over the threshold with the biggest smile. He swallows extremely thickly.

“Good morning.” You say, as happy as ever—clearly on a high from your not-date—and pad through the room toward him. “Can I please have a—“

“You’re late.” 

One of your perfectly tweezed brows raises. 

“For work.” He elaborates. Joel clears his throat. “You’re late for work.”

“I got the day off.” You remind him. He vaguely remembers you saying something about this elusive break on Monday, but was honestly too distracted by his brother attempting to use the coffee machine. 

Joel nods, taking your favorite mug off of the shelf. You smile at the sentiment. 

“Ah, you’re going shopping. Right?”

You nod. Your stomach gurgles when your eyes satisfy the gaze of a perfectly plump cinnamon roll. Not too thick, not too over-done, and the right bun to icing ratio. It’s sitting—alone—in one of the little cake cases.

“I am.” You reply, taking the glass dome off of the top. Like last time, you swipe the sweet treat right from underneath Joel’s nose. Only, today, you slide two dollars across so he can’t complain. 

But he wouldn’t anyway. Not today. Because he admires the fact that you’re ungovernable, while simultaneously respecting him. To an extent, anyway. 

“I can get you some fall decor.”

“No—“

“He needs to spruce this place up.”

His eyes roll when he’s pouring the frothed milk atop your latte, hardly going unnoticed by his larger-than-life, sometimes a bit too overbearing brother. 

Tommy acknowledges you by saying your name, and you grin back at him. It’s nice to see one of the Miller’s with anything but a stoic expression slapped against those rough, rugged features. Though there’s something about Joel’s that seems rather superficial. 

Despite being perennial at times, you feel as though you’ve cracked through his tough exterior and. You’re certainly able to decipher between his real and mock revulsion. Last night was the first time that Joel’s guard had truly been down, and it was wonderful. 

“Get him some pumpkins. A wreath—“

“I don’t need no pumpkins. And what the hell is a wreath?”

The youngest brother pulls a stool out next to you, and bumps your shoulder as he sits. He looks at you as if to say get a load of this guy, and you laugh. Joel passes you your latte, and you think that you see a hint of a smile tugging at those plush lips. But you won’t swear to it. 

“A wreath is what Mrs. McKlaren has on her front door for each season.”

“Yeah.” Tommy chimes in. He pulls one of the Birch Grove Gazettes from the pile beside the cake case, and opens it up. “But you knew that. You’re just playin’ dumb in front of—“

You elbow him. “Quit teasin’.” Further defending your friend, you say; “it’s not his fault if he’s not too polished up on the names of things. He’s not pussy-whipped like you are, Tom.”

Joel chuckles at that comment, thanking you with a nod. A man of few words, though you get him. Down to a fine art. 

“True.” He flicks through a few pages, before he’s turning to you with a grimace when you take off your jacket to reveal one of your dad’s old Eagles sweaters. “Oh, God no.”

You frown, putting it to sit on the seat next to you. 

It’s common knowledge around these parts that there are two teams, and two teams only that it’s acceptable to support. Unless you’re flaunting the badge of the Texans or Dallas Cowboys, then you’re basically committing a federal crime.  And the men of Birch Grove take this very, very seriously. 

“Joel. I know you’re friends with this broad—“

“Watch your mouth.” He grumbles, appearing from the kitchen. He has his head down, hands full of cutlery. 

“Sorry.” Tommy says oh so quietly. “But—but look. She’s wearing the mark of the devil.”

Your eyes are rolling so hard you fear that they’ll roll straight from their sockets and into your coffee. You just know that beneath the green flannel, Joel is donning an Aikman jersey.

“That’s so dramatic.” Arms are being folded over as you speak, and he still hasn’t looked in your direction. “It’s just a football team—“

“Woah.” The two Millers harmonize. Joel eyes you directly and turns his nose up as soon as he heeds the shade of green that should be classed as blasphemy, not midnight.  

He didn’t know that you liked them. Tess liked them, too. But you know that. You’re not fucking stupid. 

And perhaps she might’ve aided the disgust that percolates through Joel whenever he hears someone utter the name Brian Dawkins, but he can’t help associating them with her. That same way he thinks of her whenever Fall rolls around, or whenever you step into his little cafe. 

He has such strong feelings for you, but needs to put them aside. He needs to bury them deep for fear of the past repeating itself because he isn’t sure if he can go through that again. His guard goes up, and eyes go down. He busies himself with cleaning. 

“Sacrilege.” Tommy spits. “It’s not just a football team, woman. It’s Irreverent. To come in here and wear that is absolutely ridiculous.”

Your jaw rolls and you look down at the faded logo. 

“I respect that you root for the birds, I do. It must be hard to support such a shit team—“

“Language.” Joel scolds, a little heated. “But, I agree. Can’t go wearin’ that ‘round these parts. It’s almost as bad as you comin’ in here wearing a Steelers jersey.”

Tommy grimaces. It’s not quite as bad, but it certainly sucks. 

But, to you, what sucks is the fact that these men—grown fucking men—are chewing you out over a sweater. It’s child’s play. 

“They’re not a shitty team. They’re great.” You defend your guys, watching Joel try to control the bitterness threatening to bust right out of his lips. “I’ve always loved them. My dad is from Philly—“

“Explains why you have such crappy taste.”

You blink at Tommy. 

“Anyway.” You clear your throat. “I’ll always root for the birds, because they’re my favorites. I also, believe it or not, enjoy the Cowboys when they play at home, or against the Giants. It’s patriotic. But they are a pretty shitty team—“

“No, they ain’t.”

“They are.” You uphold, making direct eye contact with the youngest sibling. “Remind me, when was the last time they went to the Superbowl?”

Tommy’s jaw rolls, and Joel can feel himself slipping. 

“Ninety-five.” Begrudgingly, he says. “But that don’t mean shit—“

“Kinda does.” 

“No it don’t.” He growls. “When was the last time those damn birds won the big game, huh?”

Without missing a beat, you say; “twenty-eighteen. They beat the Patriots by eight points, Brady sucked and Foles was the MVP. I tailgated at the stadium with my dad and uncle—“

“In Minnesota?”

“Yessir.” You tell Tommy before taking the last sip of your—now lukewarm—coffee. “I’ll also be heading to Philly to see the Eagles v Steelers game.”

Joel scoffs. 

“Got somethin’ to say, old timer?”

He grinds his lips together before saying; “just baffles me s’all. Don’t get how someone—Dallas born ‘n raised—can root for a team from Philadelphia.”

“Just the way it goes. But I did say that I enjoy them from time to time.”

“Shouldn’t be that way.” Tommy interjects. “Texans are meant to support Texan-made teams all the time. Not fuckin’—“

“Tommy.” Joel gestures to the customers, scolding him again for his crudeness. 

You pull cash from your purse while the two of them bicker, putting atop the counter before Joel can even refuse. You shrug on your jacket, too, promptly doing up the buttons so the tension can dissipate a little. But it doesn’t. 

“I’m not arguing with you two morons over football any longer.” A little meaner than intended, you tell the two of them. You turn to Joel, brows furrowing. “And I know why you despise the Eagles; I’m not an idiot. I saw her walking ‘round the place with her scarves in the winter, ‘n the occasional jersey on football Sundays.”

Tommy looks between the two of you, sensing some friction. 

“Don’t project Tess’s shit onto me, Joel.” Blunt, you say. “I’m sorry that I was the reason for her leaving, but it ain’t my fault we have the same interests. You can’t pussyfoot around forever, and I don’t appreciate gettin’ admonished for a fucking football sweatshirt.”

“Don’t.” He warns, wrenching a dish rag between calloused fingertips. He knew that last night’s conversation was deep-rooted in something more than just you being curious. “I’m not pussyfootin’ ‘round. I just don’t wanna talk about her.”

“I know.” You say—realizing that you were a little too hot off the mark—but you don’t feel sorry. “But there’ll always be people who like the same things that she did, or say the same things, or remind you of her.”

He looks at you. He knows what you mean. He knows that you know that—in some kind of way—you make Joel think of her. You’re so strong, like Tess. So outspoken, exactly like her. But you’re caring and kind, and don’t get jealous over the slightest little things, and you let him speak. 

You let him tell you about his troubles, not that he shares too much. And you’re not pushy. But now, it feels like you’re being exactly that. 

“I’m sorry that my mere presence as a Goddamn Eagles fan pisses you off, Joel, but I’m not going to be able to change that. You’ll just have to try and detach those memories—“

The dishrag is being hurled onto the bar along with his fists. “I’m not gonna detach those memories! I ain’t gonna forget her just ‘cus you think you know me and my relationship with that woman so well! You don’t know shit. All you do is come in here ‘n drink coffee, rant about crap that nobody cares about, make me listen to your stupid fuckin’ problems—and I’m sick of it!”

You blink back tears as you stare at him, for the volume is intimidating and completely unwavering. You’ve never been yelled at before—in front of customers, by Joel—and you want to be sick. Everyone is staring. Some people are even leaving. 

Has he always felt this way? You wonder. Has Joel always thought that your ramblings are pointless, and that your issues are facetious? You’re sure that he’s just spewing nonsense at this point, but it still stings. 

“Joel—“

“Get out.” He looks down, hands gripping tightly the wooden countertop. He refuses eye contact. 

Tommy gives you a weak smile, immediately regretting setting foot into Joel’s this morning. Quite like you, really. 

“I’m really sorry for bringing her up, Joel, I know how—“

“Go.” His eyes lift to satisfy your gaze, hurt written over his features. “Please…Just leave.”

“Okay.” You nod, lifting your purse from the stool. It’s a quick bye to Tommy that has those damn tears spilling as you walk to your car, not even looking back to wave or smile at your friend like you usually do. 

You fear that this’ll change the trajectory of your relationship with Joel. And his brother knows that. 

He knows that if he doesn’t say something—at this point, anything—then Joel will just let this sit and fester, and become something that it has absolutely no business being. 

His brother knows that you’re the only constant in his life—aside from family—and if he lets you go, then he’ll be considerably more bleak. He’ll have his patrons to keep him company, but he won’t have you. The girl that has—unbeknownst to her—given Joel something to look forward to every day. 

The girl that Joel can’t help thinking of, or talking about, whenever he gets the chance. And despite not always showing his admiration, he’s besotted with you. Infatuated, perhaps. His fondness so clear that everyone can see it. Everyone, aside from you. 

Especially after that.  

“You’re a fucking jerk.” Tommy chastises. “She shouldn’t have mentioned Tess, but that was horrible—“

“I don’t care.” Through gritted teeth, he tells him. “She took it too far—“

“No, we did.” He admits. “She probably wouldn’t have brought the bitch up if we didn’t tease her for wearing her dad’s fuckin’ sweater.”

Joel swallows the lump in his throat, refusing to admit that Tommy could be right about this. 

“You need’a get a hold of your emotions, brother. Can’t be sendin’ her away like that when we both know you’ve got feelings for her—“

Joel grumbles as he rounds the counter, polishing a few tables in hopes that his sibling will go and leave him to it. But he doesn’t. 

“Can’t let Tess be the reason you two ain’t talkin’. ‘Specially ‘cus she ain’t even in the state anymore.”

Fuck. Off. 

Tommy watches him feign emotion, knowing deep down that his brother wants to beat himself to a pulp because you didn’t deserve any of that. 

“She’s right, y’know?”

“What?” 

Tommy says your name. “She’s right. If you don’t cut ties with the things that remind you of Tess, then you’ll never be happy. Always be comparin’ shit to her, and makin’ yourself miserable. Or miserable-r.”

“That ain’t even a word, dipshit.”

“True, though.” He says. “Joel, you’re so in love with this girl, you can’t let her go over a Goddamn football team—“

“Not in love.”

“Bullshit.” The youngest spits. “You get literal heart eyes whenever you look at her, and don’t even try ‘n deny it ‘cus Maria notices too.”

Joel blinks at him, wondering how he’d been so openly vulnerable. He‘a confused at how he’d unintentionally let his guard down enough to display his feelings. The ones that he wasn’t even certain about. 

“It mightn’t be love, Joel, but you’re mad about this girl.” He says a bit softer. Quieter. “And you can try to put these feelings aside, but what’re you gonna do if she walks in here with another man? Or she goes on more dates and finds the one? You just gonna live with it? Just gonna be jealous and miserable for the rest of your life?”

Joel walks to the café window and just stares for a few moments, secretly hoping to see you stomp across the street to give him a piece of your mind. But you don’t. 

“Think you’ve done enough wallowin’ in the past, don’t you?”

He supposes that he’s right. Joel knows that there’s some truth to what is being said to him, and so he turns the Open sign to Closed, and gestures for Tommy to get the remaining customers to leave. 

“What’re you gonna do?” 

“Make things right.” Joel grabs his jacket from the coat stand beside the door, and throws the shop keys to his brother. “Close up for me, will ‘ya?”

Tommy shakes his head. He gets off of his stool and goes behind the counter, grabbing one of the aprons from the hook beside the kitchen door. 

“Turn the sign back ‘round. You might’ve just lost your most loyal customer, you can’t afford to fuckin’ lose no more.”

Joel just nods. He has no fight left inside of him. He does as told, and storms across the sidewalk to his truck. 

He’s been stationary for the last fuck knows how long, just mentally preparing himself for whatever bullshit will spill from his lips the second he sees you. If you even want to open your door to him. He wouldn’t blame you, if you didn’t. He gave you shit, and kicked you out when you spoke your mind. And the truth. Because, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? As harsh as it might’ve been, it was the truth and it was what he needed to hear. 

It’s been two hours since getting a verbal beat-down and, strangely, he really misses the sound of your voice. The oddly dulcet tone. The sweet, honeyed rhythm that slips from between two of the plushest, softest looking lips he’s ever bared witness to in his entire life. And even though some of the words that fell from them were harsh, he no longer cares. 

If he doesn’t apologize, then he might not get to hear you speak again. And he’ll take several scoldings if it means that he can listen to your beautiful tone. 

Fuck. 

“C’mon, dickhead.” He tells his reflection in the mirror. He eyes himself, wondering whether the hat should stay on or off. Because if he takes it off, then his hair might look bad, but if he keeps it on then you mightn’t be able to take him seriously. 

He’s overthinking it. 

It stays on when he’s lugging his body—warm and palpitating—from the cabin, and onto the gravel of your driveway. He minds the flower beds when his boots hit ground, knowing that he’ll have hell to pay if he crushes your blooms or kicks up any mud.

His breath is hot and heavy. It’s like he’s just ran the Boston fucking marathon, not sit in his truck for the better part of twenty minutes being too much of a pussy to knock at your front door. 

But now he’s strolling to your porch, and can’t put it off any longer. He doesn’t even know if you’re home, but he guesses that you are. The wreath that you got today—golden leaves adorned with acorns and berries—is hanging proudly against the wood that you’ve painted sage. 

He laughs to himself when his hand comes up to knock, number eight. It’s almost comical how the number of your house coalesces with the number of his favorite ex-Cowboys player. But he’s not going to bring that up. Maybe another time. 

Joel takes a few deep breaths, heart only stuttering when he hears your footsteps approaching over the suspended wood flooring. The one that he actually had to help you sand down just eight months ago because you always felt that they looked too dark. Depressing. 

He smiles weakly. It doesn’t last long. When you swing the door open and your face falls, then so does Joel’s. 

“Hi.” He whispers, internally kicking himself for being such a wimp. He clears his throat. “Nice wreath.”

You fight a grin. Your disappointment outweighs any semblance of softness at this very juncture. 

After a few hours of mulling it over—and rage shopping��you’ve come to the conclusion that you were at fault. But Joel certainly didn’t make it any better when he kicked you off the premises after his hurtful monologue. 

“Thanks.” Your cardigan is pulled tightly around your body. Cream always looks so good on you. “Is—uh—is there something that I can help you with?”

Joel looks down for a split second. It feels like forever before he’s looking directly at you again. The thumping inside of his chest hasn’t once subsided since appearing at your street, he’s never felt like this before. At least, he can’t ever remember feeling like this. 

And it’s because of this—feeling—that he’s struggling to extrapolate his inward thoughts. You heed it. You know him like the back of your hand, apparently. His face is sullen—almost remorseful—and eyes hazy. 

Has he been crying? No. He’s probably just really annoyed. He looks like that sometimes when Tommy’s pissed him off, and he needs to vent. 

You shift aside, gesturing for Joel to come in. He hesitates for a moment, before he’s stepping over the threshold and into your beautiful home. The home that presently smells like a mixture of Sandalwood and Lavender, but Neroli and Bergamot in the summer months. 

What the fuck is Bergamot? Why do I know what that smells like?

He takes it in. The subtle scent, the fall decorations that make your cozy home look even more appeasing. It’s cute. It’s put together, clean, and inviting. It’s so you. 

You shut the door behind him when he takes a few paces into the entryway, just watching him. His broad shoulders swathed in soft, green flannel are tipped slightly forward. He’s not holding himself the way that he usually does. 

“Is everything okay, Joel?” You break the silence, shuffling past him through the hallway and to the kitchen. You hear him follow behind. Those heavyset footsteps make your heart ache, for some reason. 

Even by the way he walks—slow, long strides—he seems down. Remorseful, perhaps. And though he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, it’s always easy to tell how he feels. 

“Tea?” You offer without turning around, taking the kettle that’s just come to a boil on the stove. “I have chamomile, green, or English.”

“No coffee?” Your head shakes, pulling two mugs from the small shelf above the counter. Joel sits at your kitchen island. “How come?”

Two English teabags are being lifted from the carton—he didn’t specify, you just guess—and plopped into ceramic. 

“I don’t make my own coffee. Don’t taste the same when I do.”

His heart aches. After skipping a beat, of course. He takes a seat at your kitchen island, watching you potter around, clearly not prepared for a guest. 

“Tea is a little more warming, anyway.” You gesture for the sugar and he shakes his head. “Don’t enjoy coffee when I’m on my own. Only when I’m with someone.”

“That why you always come to see me in the mornin’?”

Faintly, you smile. Your head bobs a little bit, hanging low. 

He says your name. You look at him. “Y’know, if you ever want a coffee outta hours, I’m usually at home. You can come ‘round, if you wanna.”

That strange gnawing sensation returns beside a debilitating thumping. He feels the same, but you don’t know that. 

“Same here.” A weak smile tugs at the corners of your lips and you bring Joel his tea. The white ceramic is festooned with acorns and leaves, and he swears that you’ve just given him one of your best mugs. 

You sip quietly your warm beverage, standing opposite to where he sits in an uncomfortable silence. A lull that neither of you realize lasts an entire minute before you’re clearing your throat, and Joel is still trying to find his words. 

“Listen.” He sets down the tea—the best he’s ever had—and shifts a little bit. Joel tries to avoid eye contact with you, but understands that this is one of the times that he needs to show you just how important this is. It’s not just a casual conversation at the coffee house, anymore. 

You’re facing him fully, now. Eyes wide, lips parted a little bit. 

“I’m really sorry about earlier.” His tone is honest, wreathed with a hint of genuine sadness. “I had no business being such a jerkoff to you, kid. I said some hurtful shit, and I let my mouth get away from me.”

“You were a total dick, Joel.” 

He nods. “I know.”

“And I know that I never shoulda brought her up, but I didn’t think you’d yell at me. In front of everyone.”

He starts to cringe as he remembers what he said. How he said those horrible things. You’re such a sweet girl, he can’t believe he flipped out on you that way. 

“Do you really think that what comes outta my mouth is crap?”

“No, of course not—“

“Is everything I say fucking pointless?”

“Hon—no—no, of course not.” Joel fumbles his words a bit, just glad that he didn’t refer to you as any other embarrassing fucking pet name. He's not even sure that you caught it, what with being blinded by such a haze of anger. 

You do, though. You just don’t acknowledge it. 

Your thumb loops through the glossy handle, and you look into your mug. 

“I choose to start each morning the same way; at your café. I don’t do it because I want to come in and ruin your day by ranting, or spillin’ my guts about shitty dates and bad friends.” You refuse eye contact, still watching the tea slosh around as you move the cup ever so slightly. “I do it because I like you, Joel. You’re a great guy, and make my days a little bit easier. I’d even go so far as to consider you one of my friends. But, if you don’t feel that way—“

“Hey.” He reaches out for your hand. He’s surprised that you don’t pull away when his tan flesh meets yours so suddenly. Joel asks you to look at him, and you oblige. 

It’s so sad. Your eyes—so full of hurt—now locked on his. Soft, warm fingers wound between his thick digits. He frowns. 

“Listen to me.” Stern, though soft, he tells you. “Of course I feel that way. I tell you shit that I ain’t even told my own brother, ‘course I see you as a friend. Probably the only person I’d even wanna spend time with, if I’m honest.”

“You’re just sayin’ that, ‘cus you hurt my feelings—“

“No, I ain’t.” Joel shakes his head, trying to ignore the fact that he hurt your feelings. “I’m serious.”

“As a heart attack?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, kiddo, as a heart attack.”

Eyes roll at the sentiment, wondering whether there’ll ever be a time where Joel doesn’t refer to you as kid or kiddo. He tells you that it’s because he’s a lot older than you, but you both know there’s not even a ten year gap between the pair of you. He’s just dramatic and wishing his life away. 

“I’m—uh—I’m no good at this shit.” He looks down, a little curl poking through the back strap of his cap catches your eye. “Feelings, ‘n all.”

Instinctively, your thumb traces over the skin of his hand. You nod. You know. 

He's not the most sentimental person—nor does he cogitate  with his heart—but Joel is one of the most thoughtful men you’ve ever met, and these last few days have you feeling a different way about him. You can’t say that it’s a crush—crushes are for kids, is what your mother often tells you—but it’s certainly something. 

You’re just worried about the fact that he can’t let go of Tess. 

“Don’t gotta explain feelings, sweetie.” You tell him with a smile, reaching for your mug. The tea is cool, now. A little bit easier to drink than when it was piping hot and burning the roof of your mouth. “Just gotta feel ‘em, that’s all. Explain once you understand.”

You take a sip of the drink you made a short while ago, hands detaching. Joel almost feels weak without your touch, now. But he supposes that had it lasted any longer, he’d crumble. 

“Always know what to say, dontcha?”

“I do.” Conceited—though completely satirical—you say. He smiles, and so do you. “But in all seriousness, Joel, I know that you appreciate me. And I know that today was a complete one-off, but I just gotta know one thing.”

“Go for it.”

You suck in a breath, hating where you’re about to lead the conversation. “Did last night make you think differently of me? Y’know, when I asked those questions and pried a little?”

Joel’s heart thumps. Again. He doesn’t know how to say yeah, last night changed everything. But not ‘cus of what you asked me. 

He supposes that he can’t lie to you. He’s as transparent as a pane of fucking glass, at this point. 

“No. Definitely not.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Really. You had the right to know. Nothin’ has changed.”

Liar. 

He’s looking at you with those big fucking heart eyes that his brother teased him about earlier, and he knows it. He knows that he’s smitten. Truly, Joel is more than conscious of the fact that he’s falling—or more appropriately, fallen—for you, but he’s not at liberty to say. 

“You can tell me, y’know?”

He nods. “I know. There’s nothin’ to tell.”

“Okay.” Your tone is skeptical. He’s lying. 

He’s also been sitting here for far too long and is in desperate need of a long, cold shower to wash away the day and shirk any feelings before they come to bite him on his perfectly round ass. So he gets up—pushing the seat back beneath the island—and smiles at you. 

“Left Tommy behind the counter?”

Joel nods. “Yeah. He’s probably cussin’ me out right ‘bout now.”

Your laugh is genuine. Hearty. “Best get back then, hon.”

Joel’s mouth goes dry when his lips part to speak. Nothing materializes. Not even when he’s walking to the front door—you’re hot on his heels—can he figure out what to say. 

He’s opening it before he’s even certain of what he’s doing. 

“Miller.” You say and he turns around. He can’t help looking directly at your lips. “I’ll see ‘ya tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He’s about to walk away—and you’re about to shut the door—before he’s leaning over the threshold and letting all rationality dissipate. Joel’s left hand meets the doorframe—mere inches from your own—and his breathing grows sporadic. 

Well, now or never, I ‘spose. 

Your fingers tingle, legs weaken. It’s only a split second, but it feels like an eternity that Joel is just standing there; staring at you. He’s waiting to make a move, you’re almost certain of it. 

“You gonna do somethin’?” You taunt, tilting your head a little. It almost snaps him out of his anxiety-induced haze. It eggs him on, if anything. 

“Fuck—shit—yeah.” Joel steps forward so that he’s no longer leaning, and the tips of his boots meet your toes. He’s careful not to stand on them. It’s sweet. 

He’s sweet. 

“C’mere.” He’s telling you when one of his calloused hands meets the nape of your neck, and both of yours are instinctively pawing at his chest. The soft, white  jersey beneath that customary flannel is like satin against your fingertips. He draws you in closer. “I lied.”

“‘Bout what?” You whisper, letting Joel’s hand shift to your cheek. It’s hard not to melt into his touch. 

His thumb brushes over your skin. You wilt beneath it. 

“Last night.” Your eyes are locked. “Everythin’ has changed.”

You nod. You feel the same way.

“And I dunno how to go ‘bout this, ‘cus I can’t do this whole lovey-dovey crap, but I do know that I wanna kiss you.”

He pulls you forward so that your faces are almost touching, and your hands have no choice but to rest atop the peaks of his glorious shoulders. This is something you only could’ve dreamed of. You and Joel in this position—on your doorstep—like something out of a fucking romcom, or Gilmore Girls. 

C’mon, man. Kiss her. 

The man’s heart juts in his throat. Two noses graze one another—when Joel angles his face so that he’s not pushing too firmly against yours—and you can’t help smiling wide at the prospect of Joel Miller, grumpiest man in Birch Grove, taking a liking to you. 

It’s almost as if your entire time with Joel flashes before your eyes—all of the early mornings and late nights spent at his coffee house, the stories shared and secrets told—and everything comes to a head in this particular moment. 

Your smile doesn’t falter. Not even when his lips meet yours, and he pushes the most dulcet kiss against your mouth. It’s so gentle. Nothing more than a delicate peck, but so passionate in the sense that; the two of you need this. The tenderness of the other’s touch—the sweet, cloying taste of sugar on your tongue meshed with malt from the tea—is welcomed almost immediately, accommodated by an unexpected desire and thirst for intimacy. 

And though it is but a peck, the two of you know that this is the start of something. Something completely unexplainable and somewhat unexpected, but something nonetheless. 

You’re the first to pull away. He’s too enamored with you. 

“Joel.” You breathe against his lips. Cheeks are flushed red, eyes hooded and completely blown with lust. “Thanks for comin’ here, and apologizing.”

“Thanks for acceptin’ my apology.” He tells you. Joel takes a step back—not before running his thumb over your skin one last time—for fear of initiating something else. “Wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t wanna.”

“Don’t go sayin’ that. ‘Course I’ll always accept your apologies.”

Joel’s heart rate must be through the roof at this point. 

“Even if I run outta maple hazel syrup?”

A gasp falls from your lips and you feign anguish. You soon smile. He looks at his wristwatch, and sighs. 

“I better get goin’. Left Tommy alone a while, now. Not sure if I’ll have a cafe to get back to, if I keep him any longer.”

You laugh. “Go on. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“If it hasn’t been burned to the ground, you mean?”

“Yeah, if it hasn’t been burned to the ground.”

Joel nods. He’s fishing about the pocket of his flannel for the key. 

“Enjoy the rest of your day, hon.”

His cheeks heat up. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

You can’t help letting out a little ha ha when he’s getting into his truck, and you’re watching from your post against the doorframe. When he gives you a little wave, he pulls away and you’re ambling back into your hallway. Satisfied. Though somewhat confused. 

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the trajectory of this day, and you suppose that nothing will ever come close. You just need to figure out what happens next. 

[novaursa]

The Veil of Fire (3/3)

- Summary: Conclusion of the Dance and your terrible purpose.

- Paring: aunt!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon.

- Note: For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

You storm down the corridor of the Red Keep, the heavy wooden doors rattling in their frames as you pass. The servants who normally crowd these halls shrink away at the sight of you. They know better than to cross your path when you’re in such a state. Your blood hums with the fury that has been building since you left Aegon’s chambers. The image of your elder brother lying helpless, swathed in bandages, the flesh of his body charred and raw, is seared into your mind. And now, all you can think of is the one responsible.

Your brother Aemond.

The thoughts tumble in your mind as you reach his chambers, pushing the door open without knocking. Aemond stands by the window, his back to you, seemingly lost in thought. The light of the setting sun casts a long shadow across the room, a stark contrast to the heat you feel boiling within.

“Aemond,” you say, your voice sharp as Valyrian steel. “Why did you do it?”

He turns slowly, his one remaining eye locking with yours. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or regret. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold, calculating expression he often wears.

“What are you talking about?” His voice is measured, but you can hear the tension beneath it.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you snap. “Aegon. Why did you burn him?”

Aemond’s lips tighten into a thin line. “He was unworthy of the throne,” he says, his tone clipped. “He’s always been unworthy. He was a drunkard, a fool who laughed at me every chance he got. I merely did what needed to be done.”

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, and you take a step closer to him, your anger morphing into something more complex—something tinged with sorrow. “Aegon is our brother,” you say softly, the fury in your voice giving way to something else, something pleading. “He is family. Your family. We are not your enemies, Aemond.”

For a moment, he says nothing, merely watching you with that unblinking gaze. Then he takes a step toward you, his expression softening. “You spoke to Helaena, didn’t you? She always knows what lurks in the shadows, even when the rest of us do not.”

You nod slightly, your throat tight. “She knew… but that does not change what you’ve done.”

His hand twitches at his side, as though he wants to reach out to you but cannot bring himself to. “He was a threat,” Aemond insists, though his voice has lost some of its earlier conviction. “To me. To the realm.”

You shake your head slowly, your eyes never leaving his. “You’re wrong. The real threat isn’t Aegon or any of us. It’s the idea that we are enemies, that we must destroy each other to claim power. Is that what you’re planning, Aemond? Will you strike me next?”

The question hangs heavy in the air between you, and for a moment, Aemond looks stricken. His gaze drops to the thin scar that now mars your cheek and lips, a reminder of the horror you faced to protect Helaena’s children. You see the way his jaw tightens, the conflict playing out in his mind. He’s always been so fond of you and Helaena, always protective in his own way, and yet now, he stands on the precipice of something dark and unforgivable.

“No,” he says finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I could never… not you.”

You take a breath, your heart aching with a mixture of relief and sorrow. “Then do not let this madness consume you, Aemond. We are Targaryens—blood of the dragon. But we are still human, still family. Do not lose yourself to this war.”

He meets your gaze again, and for the first time since you entered his chambers, you see the boy he once was—the brother who would debate with you for hours, who sought your approval as much as you sought his. But that boy is fading, buried beneath the weight of ambition and the demands of the crown.

“I will consider your words,” he says finally, though there is a weariness to him now. “But do not ask me to abandon my duty.”

“I would never ask that of you,” you reply, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “I only ask that you remember who you are, and who we are to you.”

He nods, though you can see the turmoil still simmering beneath the surface. This conversation is far from over, you know that much. But for now, you’ve said what needed to be said. You’ve planted a seed of doubt in Aemond’s mind, and you can only hope it will take root before it’s too late.

As you turn to leave, Aemond’s voice stops you in your tracks. “Sister…”

You glance back at him, waiting.

“Thank you,” he says, and though his voice is still strained, there is a sincerity there that you haven’t heard in a long time.

You nod once, a small gesture of understanding, before slipping out of his chambers. As the door closes behind you, you feel the weight of the day settle on your shoulders. But there is a small glimmer of hope now, too, fragile but real.

You leave Aemond’s chambers, the heavy door closing with a soft thud behind you, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. The conversation still lingers in your mind, a tangled web of emotions—anger, sorrow, fear for the future, and a thread of hope so thin you’re afraid it might snap at any moment. Your hand trembles slightly as you brush it against the stone wall, steadying yourself as you navigate the labyrinth of corridors that make up the Red Keep.

The fortress, usually bustling with life, feels eerily silent in the wake of Rook’s Rest. The weight of the events—of the war that rages beyond these walls—presses down on your shoulders, making each step feel heavier than the last. You try to shake off the oppressive thoughts, focusing instead on the task ahead. There are still things that must be done, plans to be made, and words that must be spoken.

As you turn a corner, you nearly collide with a tall, familiar figure—your uncle, Gwayne Hightower. He catches your arm instinctively, steadying you before you can stumble. His eyes  widen with surprise, and then soften into concern as he takes in your expression.

“Niece,” Gwayne greets you, his voice low and cautious. “You seem troubled.”

You offer him a small, tired smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s been a long day, Uncle. The burden of our house grows heavier by the hour.”

He nods, his expression grave. Gwayne has always been a steady presence, someone who prefers to stay out of the more treacherous waters of court politics. Yet, like you, he has been drawn into the web of deceit and ambition that has ensnared your family.

“I tried to confront Ser Criston earlier,” Gwayne says after a moment, his voice hushed as if the very walls of the Red Keep might be listening. “About his… affair with Alicent.”

You pause, surprised by his admission. You had written to Daeron about this in one of your letters to Dragonstone, knowing that Gwayne would likely read it, but you hadn’t expected him to act on it so soon. The thought of Cole and your mother… It has always made your skin crawl, but in these times, you’ve had to push it aside, focusing on the greater dangers looming over you all.

“And?” you ask, though you can already sense from his tone that the conversation did not go as he had planned.

Gwayne sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. “It didn’t go well. Ser Criston… he’s not the man I remember. He’s… broken, shattered, perhaps beyond repair.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, a cold reminder of the man Ser Criston Cole has become. The once noble and honorable knight, who served as your mother’s sworn shield, now reduced to a creature of bitterness and cruelty. You’ve seen it firsthand—how he treated Jace and his brothers when they lived here, how he sneered at them, never missing an opportunity to remind them of their supposed illegitimacy, to belittle them. The memory stirs a deep anger within you, one that simmers just below the surface.

“He’s not broken enough,” you mutter, the words slipping out before you can stop them. There’s a sharpness to your voice that catches even you by surprise, a reflection of the anger you’ve been holding onto for so long.

Gwayne’s eyes narrow slightly, his concern deepening. “Niece…”

You shake your head, brushing off his worry. “I just… I remember how he treated Jace and his brothers. How he tormented them. This war… it’s turning us all into something unrecognizable, something dark and twisted. I don’t know if any of us will be able to find our way back.”

Gwayne regards you quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’ve always been strong,” he says finally. “Stronger than many realize. But you must be careful, child. This war is a poison that seeps into the soul. Do not let it take hold of yours.”

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settle heavily upon you. He’s right, of course. The war has already changed you, made you colder, more calculating. You’ve had to become this way to survive, to protect those you love. But there’s a part of you, the part that remembers the girl you once were, who fears that you might lose yourself entirely if this continues.

“I’ll be careful,” you promise, though the words feel hollow even as you say them. How can anyone be careful in a world that’s falling apart around them?

Gwayne nods, though you can see the doubt in his eyes. He knows, as well as you do, that there are no guarantees in this war, no promises that can be kept.

“Take care of yourself, Uncle,” you add, reaching out to squeeze his hand briefly. “We need to look after each other, now more than ever.”

He returns the gesture, his grip firm and reassuring. “We will, niece. We will.”

As you part ways, the weight of your conversation settles into your bones, mingling with the exhaustion that’s been building since the events of Rook’s Rest. The war is changing everything, and everyone. But as you continue down the corridor, you can’t shake the feeling that the worst is yet to come.

The cool air of the Red Keep wraps around you like a shroud as you walk through the corridors, your thoughts occupied with the latest reports from the warfront. It has been almost a year since the events of Rook’s Rest, a year of bloodshed and betrayal, and the toll of it all is evident in the weary faces of those you pass. You’ve learned to navigate the treacherous waters of this war with the same care you used to avoid the serpents of court. But despite your best efforts, the tide seems to be pulling you under.

As you pass by the council chambers, your attention is caught by the low murmur of voices—a conversation too hushed to be meant for anyone but those within. Yet, something about the tone, the urgency in the words, draws you closer, until you find yourself lingering just out of sight, listening intently.

“…fleet from the Free Cities,” comes the voice of Jasper Wylde, the Ironrod, who has become a frequent presence in these halls as the war drags on. “Tyland Lannister has secured their support, and they are en route to the Gullet as we speak. They should reach it soon.”

Your blood turns to ice, your heart skipping a beat as the words sink in. The fleet from the Free Cities, the Gullet—it all aligns too closely with something Jace told you not long ago. The secret letter he sent you, so carefully worded and hidden, comes rushing back to you in a flood of memory.

“I will be escorting my brothers to Pentos, across the Narrow Sea,” Jace had written, his words full of determination but also a sense of foreboding. “We must ensure their safety, away from the reach of those who would see them dead. I will return once they are secure.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you piece it together, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. Jace is taking his brothers across the Gullet—right into the path of the enemy fleet. 

The voices in the chamber continue, unaware of your presence, but you can no longer focus on the words. The world around you narrows to a single point of panic, a sharp, suffocating fear that grips you with icy fingers. Jace and his brothers are in danger—real, immediate danger. 

You turn on your heel, your feet carrying you swiftly down the corridor as your mind races. There’s no time to lose, no time to think. You have to act. You have to warn Jace, to do something, anything, to protect him and the boys. But how? The fleet is already en route, and there’s no way to send a raven in time, no way to intercept them before they reach the Gullet.

The panic claws at you as you reach your chambers, slamming the door shut behind you with trembling hands. Your heart pounds in your chest, and for a moment, you can’t think, can’t breathe. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and the weight of what you’ve just heard threatens to crush you.

But then, in the midst of the chaos in your mind, a thought surfaces—a memory, a power. Morgoth, your dragon. You share a bond with him, one that goes beyond the usual connection between dragon and rider. It’s something deeper, something primal, and you’ve used it sparingly, only when there was no other choice. 

But now, with Jace and his brothers’ lives hanging in the balance, there’s no question in your mind. You have to do this. You have to warg into Morgoth.

You close your eyes, forcing yourself to take a deep breath, to calm the storm raging inside you. You focus on that bond, the thread that ties you to your dragon, and you reach out with your mind, searching for him. It’s a feeling like plunging into icy water, the sensation of your consciousness leaving your body and traveling through the air, across the distance that separates you.

And then you find him.

Morgoth is there, a massive presence in your mind, all fire and fury, a living embodiment of power. He feels you as well, recognizing your touch, and you can sense his confusion at your sudden intrusion. But there’s no time to explain, no time to ease him into it. You push forward, letting your consciousness merge with his, until you are no longer two separate beings but one.

The world shifts around you, and when you open your eyes, you are no longer standing in your chambers. Instead, you are high above the world, the wind whipping past you as you soar through the sky. You can feel the powerful muscles of Morgoth’s body, the heat of his fire burning within you, and the clarity of his senses as they become your own.

The Red Keep is far below, the landscape spread out like a map beneath you, but you barely notice it. Your focus is entirely on the sea, on the Gullet, where the enemy fleet will soon arrive. You can feel the urgency in every beat of Morgoth’s wings, the need to reach them before it’s too late.

You push him harder, faster, your combined will driving him toward the narrow strip of water that could become Jace’s grave if you don’t intervene. The cold air bites at you, but you barely feel it. There’s only the mission, only the desperate need to protect your brother.

As you fly, your thoughts remain with Jace, with the secret letter he sent you, and the promise he made to return. You cannot—will not—let that promise be broken. Not when there is still a chance to save him.

And with that, you and Morgoth fly toward the horizon, the weight of your mission pressing down on you, the fate of your family resting on the power of your bond. The war has taken so much already, but you refuse to let it take Jace and his brothers.

Not while you still have the strength to fight.

The Battle of the Gullet is one of the bloodiest and most devastating clashes of the war, as recounted in the histories of Westeros. The Free Cities’ fleet, backed by their gold and hatred for the dragons, sought to break the Targaryen stranglehold on the Narrow Sea. It was meant to be a decisive blow against the Blacks, a maneuver to cut off Dragonstone from the support of the Crownlands. But history, as it would be written, tells of how that battle turned into a massacre for the attackers, thanks to a shadow in the sky—one that was not entirely expected.

The day was clear as the Free Cities’ fleet approached the Gullet, a narrow strip of sea separating Blackwater Bay from the waters of the Narrow Sea. Hundreds of ships sailed together, their sails marked with the sigils of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. They came prepared for dragons, armed with scorpions and vast nets meant to bring down the winged beasts. They believed their numbers and preparations would grant them victory.

But they had not accounted for the presence of Morgoth, the Cannibal. Nor had they considered that one of House Targaryen’s own, your spirit merged with the ancient dragon, would be waiting for them.

You had flown fast and far, Morgoth’s powerful wings cutting through the skies. You could feel the rage within the dragon, the deep-seated hunger for destruction that had earned him his fearsome reputation. But you harnessed that rage, directing it with your own will, focusing it on the threat below.

From your vantage point high in the sky, you spotted the fleet before they saw you. The sea was dark with their sails, a sprawling mass of ships moving toward their goal. And in the midst of that fleet, you saw him—Jacaerys, riding on Vermax, leading his brothers on their fateful journey across the sea.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized how close they were to disaster. The ships were spreading out, forming a net around Jace and his brothers, their scorpions aimed skyward, ready to strike. There was no time to lose.

You dived.

Morgoth responded to your command without hesitation, folding his wings and plunging toward the fleet with the speed of a falling star. The wind screamed in your ears, and the sea rushed up to meet you. Below, the sailors saw the dark shape hurtling toward them, but by then it was too late.

You opened Morgoth’s jaws, and the world below exploded into flames.

The first ships were engulfed in a torrent of dragonfire, their wooden hulls splintering and burning, their sails catching like dry kindling. Screams echoed over the water as men were thrown into the sea, their armor dragging them down, or they were incinerated where they stood. The carefully laid trap was unraveling before it could even be sprung.

You and Morgoth weaved through the fleet, breathing fire, slashing with claws, and smashing into the ships with the full force of the dragon’s massive body. One after another, the ships fell, their crews fleeing in terror as the once mighty fleet was reduced to burning wreckage.

Jacaerys, still astride Vermax, turned at the sight of the devastation, his heart racing. He had expected to fight for his life, to protect his brothers as best he could, but what he saw instead was something entirely different—Morgoth, the dread dragon of legend, was laying waste to the fleet. And more than that, Jace could feel it in his bones, in the way Morgoth moved, the way he struck with precision and purpose. This was not a wild dragon on a rampage. There was a mind guiding him, a mind Jacaerys knew all too well.

“(Y/N)…” he whispered to himself, realization dawning. His heart swelled with a mixture of relief and awe. You had come for him. Even across the distance, he knew it was you, controlling the beast with the power of your warg. 

And then, the reinforcements arrived—Ulf the White on Silverwing, Addam Velaryon on Seasmoke, and Hugh Hammer on Vermithor. They had expected to find the fleet in full force, prepared for a difficult battle. Instead, they were greeted by a scene of utter devastation, the sea littered with burning wreckage and the screams of drowning men. Morgoth was already amidst the destruction, tearing through the last remnants of the fleet, leaving nothing but charred remains in his wake.

Ulf, Addam, and Hugh hesitated for a moment, their dragons roaring in the skies, but there was little for them to do. The battle was already won—by you.

Jacaerys urged Vermax forward, guiding his dragon closer to Morgoth. He needed to see you, to confirm what he already knew. As he approached, Morgoth turned his great head toward him, and for a moment, their eyes met. And there, in the depths of Morgoth’s dark, ancient eyes, Jace saw a flicker of recognition, a spark that told him he was right.

“(Y/N)!” Jace called out, though his voice was lost in the roar of the wind and flames. But it didn’t matter—he knew you could hear him, feel him, just as he felt you.

The battle of the Gullet was over before it had truly begun, the fleet of the Free Cities shattered, their hopes of breaking the Targaryen hold on the Narrow Sea crushed under the might of Morgoth and the iron will of his rider. When the histories were written, they would tell of how the Blacks secured their victory in that battle, how Jacaerys Velaryon led the charge, and how the dragons burned the enemy to ash.

But you and Jace would always know the truth—how you had saved him and his brothers, how you had taken control of the fiercest dragon in the world and turned the tide of the battle with fire and blood.

As the last of the enemy ships sank into the sea, you guided Morgoth away from the wreckage, feeling the dragon’s rage slowly subside. The bond between you and Morgoth was still strong, still thrumming with the power of what you had accomplished. But as the adrenaline of the battle faded, you felt the strain of it all weighing down on you.

You knew it was time to return, to pull yourself back into your own body, to leave Morgoth to his own devices once more. But before you could fully withdraw, you felt a gentle nudge in your mind—Jace, sending a wave of gratitude, of love. He didn’t need words to convey what he felt. He knew you had saved him, and he would carry that knowledge with him always.

With a final, lingering look at Vermax and Jace, you released your hold on Morgoth, letting your consciousness slip away from the dragon’s mind and back into your own.

The world went dark, and when you opened your eyes again, you were lying on the cold floor of your chambers in the Red Keep, your body trembling with exhaustion. But despite the fatigue, a smile tugged at your lips. You had done it—you had saved Jace and his brothers, and you had struck a blow against your enemies that they would not soon forget.

The Red Keep was a fortress of dread and uncertainty, its halls echoing with the uneasy silence that had settled over King's Landing in the days following the fall of the Gullet. The tension in the air was palpable as the city awaited the arrival of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful queen in the eyes of her supporters, and the usurper in the eyes of her enemies. You stood in the throne room, your heart pounding in your chest as you gazed upon the Iron Throne, that jagged seat of power that had brought so much strife and sorrow to your family.

Helaena stood beside you, her presence a quiet comfort amidst the chaos. Your twin had always been a beacon of gentleness in a world that often lacked it, but even now, you could see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty of what was to come. Her children, Aegon’s heirs, had been safely hidden away, but the thought of what might happen to them, and to Helaena herself, gnawed at you. Your mother, Alicent, stood further apart, her face a mask of stoic resignation, though you could see the lines of worry etched into her features. She was trying to be strong, for herself, for her family, but you knew that beneath that composed exterior, she was breaking.

The doors to the throne room opened with a resounding creak, and the sound of boots echoed through the hall. Rhaenyra Targaryen entered, flanked by her loyal forces. Her presence was commanding, her violet eyes sharp and filled with a cold determination. She was the Dragon Queen, come to claim what she believed was hers by right.

And beside her was Jacaerys.

The moment Jace saw you, his eyes softened, the harsh lines of his face relaxing as he broke away from Rhaenyra and the others, striding across the throne room with purpose. Without hesitation, he gathered you into his arms, pulling you into a tight embrace. The warmth of his body against yours, the familiarity of his touch, brought a rush of relief that nearly overwhelmed you. He was here, he was safe, and for that moment, the world outside the two of you ceased to exist.

“You saved me,” Jace murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved us all.”

You clung to him, letting the tension of the past days drain away, if only for a brief moment. “I had to,” you whispered back. “I couldn’t let you go, not like that.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. The gratitude in his gaze was matched by something deeper, something that made your heart ache. But there was no time to dwell on it, not now. Not with Rhaenyra standing mere feet away, her gaze locked onto the Iron Throne, her claim finally within reach.

Jace reluctantly released you, stepping back as you turned to face Rhaenyra. The room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Helaena squeezed your hand, her grip trembling, and you knew you had to act now, before things spiraled out of control.

“Rhaenyra,” you began, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. “I ask for your mercy. My sister, Helaena, and her children—innocent children—had no part in this war. Neither did my mother, who was bound by duty to her House. I beg you, spare them.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked from the Iron Throne to you, and for a moment, you saw the conflict in her eyes. This war had taken so much from her—her children, her home, her peace—but it had not yet taken her humanity. You knew that she had every reason to despise Alicent, to see her as the architect of much of her suffering. But you also knew that you had done something that few others had—you had saved her children, the precious heirs she had feared she would lose.

“You saved my children at the Gullet,” Rhaenyra said slowly, her voice measured.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I did it because of my love for your son, Jacaerys. Please, let that be enough. Spare them.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, if only slightly. The steel in her eyes melted into something warmer, something that spoke of gratitude and perhaps even understanding. She looked over at Helaena, who stood silently by your side, her face pale and drawn, and then to Alicent, who had yet to speak a word.

“Your sister and her children will be spared,” Rhaenyra said at last, her tone decisive. “They will not be harmed. They may remain here in the Red Keep, under guard, but they will not be harmed.”

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped you, and you felt a wave of relief wash over you. Helaena’s grip on your hand tightened, a silent thank you in the midst of the storm.

“And my mother?” you pressed, knowing you were asking for a great deal, perhaps too much.

Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened, the softness giving way to the resolve of a queen who had suffered too many betrayals. “Alicent will be confined to her chambers, along with Aegon,” she said, her voice hardening. “They will remain there until Aemond has been dealt with. Once this war is over, we will decide their fates.”

You nodded, understanding that this was the best outcome you could hope for. Alicent would be spared, for now, but her future, like Aegon’s, was uncertain. But at least, for the time being, they would be safe.

“Thank you,” you said, bowing your head slightly in respect. “For your mercy.”

Rhaenyra gave a curt nod, her attention already drifting back to the Iron Throne, the symbol of power that had caused so much pain. The room began to stir as her forces moved to secure the Keep, but you remained where you were, beside Helaena, Jace close at hand.

As the days ahead promised more bloodshed, more loss, you knew that you had done what you could to protect your family. You had brokered a fragile peace, one that could shatter at any moment, but for now, it held.

The city lay under a blanket of darkness, its streets silent as the tension of the past days began to settle into an uneasy calm. But within the private chambers where you and Jacaerys now found refuge, the weight of the world seemed to lift, if only for a little while.

The room was dimly lit by a single candle. You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart racing as you looked at Jace, who stood before you, his expression tender yet filled with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Jace,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness. The way his name fell from your lips, laden with emotion, seemed to draw him closer. He stepped forward, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against the thin scar that ran across your face—an indelible mark left by the horrors you had endured.

“(Y/N),” he replied, his voice low and husky. The way he said your name, with such reverence, made you feel like the only person in the world that mattered. His touch was warm, comforting, and you leaned into it, savoring the closeness between you.

Jace’s other hand found yours, and he pulled you to your feet, bringing you flush against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and you felt your heart steadying in his presence. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. There was no need for words; everything you felt, every emotion that had been building between you, was clear in the way you looked at each other.

Slowly, as if afraid to break the fragile moment, Jace leaned down and captured your lips in a gentle, lingering kiss. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the intimacy of the moment. His lips were soft, yet there was a hunger there, a need that mirrored your own. You kissed him back, your arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as your heart pounded in your chest.

Jace’s hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your waist, pulling you even closer. You could feel the strength in his arms, the way his body molded perfectly against yours, and it sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You had been through so much together—so much loss, so much pain—but here, in this moment, there was only love, only the fierce need to be with each other.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged as he rested his forehead against yours, his hands framing your face. “I was so afraid I’d lose you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “When I saw you in the skies, when I realized it was you… I’ve never been so relieved in my life.”

You smiled softly, your fingers threading through his dark curls. “I couldn’t let you go, Jace. Not when I had the power to save you.” Your voice was a whisper, your words carrying all the love and fear and hope that had been swirling inside you since that fateful day.

Jace’s hands tightened around you, and before you knew it, he was guiding you back toward the bed, lowering you onto the soft mattress. He hovered above you, his eyes searching yours, as if asking for permission, for reassurance. You gave it to him with a slow nod, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch.

He lowered himself beside you, his body pressing against yours as he kissed you again, this time deeper, more urgent. The weight of him against you was grounding, a reminder that despite the chaos of the world around you, this—what you shared—was real, was something worth fighting for.

Your hands roamed over his back, tracing the lines of his muscles, memorizing every inch of him. The feel of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way he responded to your touch, made your heart swell with love for him. You wanted to lose yourself in him, to forget everything else and simply be here, with him, in this moment.

Jace’s kisses trailed from your lips to your jaw, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and you couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped you. He smiled against your skin, his breath warm as he whispered your name like a prayer, a promise.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back to you, needing to feel his lips on yours again. He obliged, kissing you with a fervor that matched your own. The world outside ceased to exist; there was only the feel of him, the taste of him, the way his body moved against yours, igniting a fire in your veins.

“I love you,” Jace murmured between kisses, the words, a reaffirmation of a confession stated long ago, a vow. “I’ve loved you for so long… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your heart soared at his words, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “I love you too, Jace,” you whispered back, your voice trembling with the intensity of your feelings. “More than anything.”

The night stretched on, the two of you lost in each other, your bodies and souls entwined in a dance as old as time. The love you shared, forged in the fires of war and tempered by the trials you had faced, was unbreakable, unyielding. 

In that quiet, intimate moment, there was no war, no throne, no crown—only love, fierce and unwavering, binding you to Jacaerys in a way that nothing, and no one, could ever sever.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Gyldayn, detailing the events following the fall of King’s Landing and the end of the Dance of the Dragons:

The Fate of Aemond Targaryen, Aegon II, and Helaena Targaryen

With the fall of King’s Landing to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and her forces, the war known as the Dance of the Dragons reached its bloody climax. Aegon II, the deposed king, was confined to his chambers within the Red Keep, his body broken by the fires of Rook’s Rest and his spirit shattered by the weight of his defeat. His sister-wife, Helaena Targaryen, remained by his side, her gentle presence a balm to his tortured soul even as the world crumbled around them.

Aemond Targaryen, the most feared and relentless of the Green faction, continued his campaign of terror from Harrenhal, vowing to bring down his enemies in a storm of fire and blood. Yet, despite his ferocity, he was ultimately undone by his own ambition. Reports from that time tell of Aemond’s fateful encounter with the so-called Witch Queen Alice Rivers, who was said to have foreseen his doom. Whether through sorcery or sheer force of arms, Aemond met his end in the ruins of Harrenhal, his body found amidst the scorched remains of Vhagar, his dragon. It is said that Aemond died laughing, unrepentant to the last, his eye fixed on the west where King’s Landing lay, just beyond his reach.

Aegon II’s fate, however, was far less grand. Confined to his chambers, Aegon lingered in a state of despair, plagued by the injuries inflicted upon him by Sunfyre’s fall. Queen Rhaenyra, now on the Iron Throne, decreed that Aegon be kept alive, not out of mercy but as a reminder of the price of ambition and betrayal. His mother, Alicent Hightower, was likewise confined, her influence over the realm broken. Helaena, spared through the intercession of her twin sister, remained in the Red Keep, caring for her children and maintaining a fragile peace between the remaining members of the divided family.

In the end, Aegon II perished in his chambers under mysterious circumstances. Some say it was poison, a final act of mercy by his sister-wife Helaena; others whisper that it was his own hand that delivered him from his suffering. The truth remains shrouded in mystery, as does much of the Dance of the Dragons.

The Reign of Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen and the Union of the Houses of Black and Green

Following Rhaenyra’s ascension to the Iron Throne, the realm was plunged into a brief but brutal period of chaos. Yet it was her son, Jacaerys Velaryon, who would ultimately bring the Seven Kingdoms back from the brink. After Rhaenyra’s tragic death, Jacaerys assumed the throne as King Jacaerys I, the first Targaryen monarch to successfully unite the warring factions of Black and Green.

Central to this reconciliation was Jacaerys’ marriage to his cousin, the daughter of Alicent Hightower and twin sister to Helaena, often referred to in histories as the Scarred Princess or The Silent Protector. This union, born of both love and political necessity, helped to heal the rift that had torn the Targaryen family apart. Together, they ushered in a period of relative peace and prosperity, remembered as the Redolent Peace, a time when the wounds of the Dance began to slowly heal.

The marriage of Jacaerys and his queen produced several children, ensuring the continuation of the Targaryen line. Their eldest son, Viserys, would inherit the throne, carrying with him the legacy of both the Black and Green factions, and serving as a symbol of the unity that Jacaerys and his queen had fought so hard to achieve. The peace they fostered, though not without its challenges, proved lasting, a testament to the strength of their bond and the wisdom of their rule.

The Conclusion of the Scarred Princess and Her Terrible Purpose

Yet for all the peace and prosperity she helped bring about, the Scarred Princess carried with her a dark secret, one that weighed heavily upon her throughout her life. This secret, known to only a few, was her bond with the fearsome dragon Morgoth, once known as Cannibal, and her ability to warg into him. This power, unheard among Targaryens, had been both a blessing and a curse, enabling her to protect those she loved but also tying her to a creature of immense and terrible power.

In the later years of her life, as the weight of her past and the fear of what her abilities might mean for her children grew, the queen made a decision that would forever change her legacy. Accounts vary, but it is said that she warged into Morgoth one final time, flying the ancient beast away from Dragonstone, far across the sea, to the lands beyond the known world. There, in the desolate wastes where no man or dragon had ever returned, she released her control over Morgoth, allowing him to live out his days free from her influence. Whether she returned to her body or perished in that distant land is a matter of speculation and legend.

What is known is that after her disappearance, Morgoth was never seen again, and her body, pale and cold, was found in her chambers, her face at peace for the first time in many years. Her children and her king mourned her deeply, and she was laid to rest beside her husband, Jacaerys, in the crypt of Dragonstone he had commissioned to be built for them, a queen who had given everything for her family, for her love, and for the realm.

In the years that followed, she became a figure of legend, remembered not only for her role in ending the Dance but for her quiet strength, her fierce love, and the sacrifice she made to ensure that the darkness within her would never again threaten the peace she had helped to create.

And so ended the tale of the Scarred Princess, a woman who, though born into a world of fire and blood, forged a path of love and redemption, leaving a legacy that would echo through the halls of history for generations to come.

The Shadowlands

Far to the east, beyond the known world, where the sun rises over the jagged peaks of the Mountains of the Morn, lies a land shrouded in mystery and dread—the Shadowlands, a place where the sky is perpetually dark, and the air itself seems to whisper ancient secrets. It is a land where few dare to tread, where magic runs wild, and where dragons, long thought to be creatures of the west, still haunt the skies.

In the vast, foreboding wilderness of these Shadowlands, a great shadow moved across the sky, its wings blotting out the meager light that filtered through the perpetual gloom. This was Morgoth, the dread dragon once known as Cannibal, and within him, the spirit of the Scarred Princess—her consciousness intertwined with the ancient beast's in a bond that transcended time and space.

As Morgoth flew, his powerful wings cutting through the thick, heavy air, the Scarred Princess within him could feel the pull of this strange and ancient land, a place where the old magics still held sway. The landscape below was a desolate expanse of twisted rock and blackened earth, dotted with ruins of civilizations long lost to the memory of men. Rivers of fire ran through the land like veins of molten blood, and the very air seemed to hum with a dark, malevolent energy.

But Morgoth was not deterred by the inhospitable terrain. He was a creature of fire and shadow, a dragon born of the darkest recesses of the world, and this land, so unlike the green hills of Westeros or the sunlit skies of Essos, felt almost like home to him. Here, he was truly free, far from the conflicts of men, far from the eyes of those who would seek to control or destroy him.

Yet even in this place, Morgoth was not alone.As he flew over the darkened peaks, Morgoth sensed it—a presence in the sky, another dragon. The Scarred Princess, her consciousness still entwined with his, felt the thrill of the hunt rise within him, a primal instinct that she could not fully suppress. This was a place where the old ways held true, where dragons ruled, and there could be no sharing of the sky.

Morgoth’s keen eyes spotted the dragon—a great beast, pale as bone, its scales shimmering with a faint luminescence that seemed to draw in the darkness around it. The dragon, larger even than Vhagar, flew with a grace and power that marked it as a creature of immense age and strength, a relic of a time when dragons ruled the skies without challenge.

But Morgoth was not daunted. With a roar that echoed through the mountains like thunder, he descended upon the pale dragon, his massive form cutting through the air with terrifying speed. The other dragon, sensing the approach of its rival, turned to meet him, its own roar shaking the very ground below.

The two dragons clashed in a fury of fire and claws, their roars reverberating through the mountains, sending flocks of terrified birds into the air. Morgoth struck first, his jaws snapping at the pale dragon’s neck, his claws tearing through its scales with savage ferocity. The other dragon fought back with equal fury, its tail lashing out, its own fire scorching the sky as the two beasts twisted and turned in a deadly dance of power.

The Scarred Princess could feel the raw strength of Morgoth’s body, the immense power that surged through him as he fought. She could feel the heat of the fire that burned within him, the rage that fueled his every move. And yet, even as she shared in his primal fury, there was a part of her that remained distant, watching, waiting, knowing that this was the final act of a story that had been building for so long.

Morgoth’s jaws found purchase on the pale dragon’s throat, and with a savage twist, he brought the great beast crashing down to the earth below. The impact shook the ground, sending up clouds of dust and ash as the pale dragon struggled beneath Morgoth’s weight. But it was no match for the ancient black dragon, who tore into its flesh with a hunger born of ages.

The pale dragon let out one last, pitiful cry as Morgoth’s teeth sank deep into its neck, tearing through flesh and bone, ending its life in a torrent of blood and fire. The Scarred Princess, still within Morgoth, could feel the life drain from the other dragon, could feel the satisfaction that pulsed through Morgoth as he claimed his victory, as he consumed the flesh of his fallen rival.

As Morgoth fed, the Scarred Princess allowed herself to fully merge with the dragon’s mind, feeling the primal joy of the hunt, the savage satisfaction of victory. But within that wild exultation was a deep sorrow, a melancholy that came from knowing that this was the end of her journey, the fulfillment of a purpose she had never fully understood until now.

Here, in the Shadowlands, far from the conflicts of men, she had found her final resting place, her final act. She had come to this place to free herself from the bonds of the world, to release herself from the terrible power that had both protected and cursed her. And in doing so, she had become one with Morgoth, with the ancient dragon who had always been her shadow, her companion in the darkness.

The pale dragon was consumed, its bones left to bleach in the eternal twilight of the Shadowlands. Morgoth, sated and triumphant, lifted his great head to the sky, letting out a final roar that echoed through the mountains, a sound that spoke of power, of victory, and of an end.

And then, as the last echoes of that roar faded into the distance, the Scarred Princess released her hold on Morgoth, letting her consciousness drift away, leaving the dragon to his own devices. Her spirit, tired and worn, slipped from the world, leaving behind only the memory of a woman who had walked the path of fire and blood, who had flown with dragons, and who had found peace in the end.

Morgoth, the dread dragon, flew on, his wings beating against the darkened sky, a creature of legend, of terror, and of freedom. He was no longer bound by the will of men or women, no longer tied to the conflicts of the world. He was a force of nature, a creature of the old world, and he would live out his days in the Shadowlands, far from the reach of men.

And so ended the tale of the Scarred Princess and Morgoth, her terrible purpose fulfilled, her legacy left behind in the children she had borne, and the peace she had helped to forge. In the histories that would be written, she would be remembered as a queen, a protector, and a woman who had faced the darkness within herself and emerged victorious.

But in the Shadowlands, she would be remembered as the last rider of Morgoth, the black dragon who had flown beyond the known world, to a place where legends are born and where the shadows never end.

[thewickedjazzy]

“Stay with me, milaya”

➵Pairing: fyodor x afab! reader

➵Summary: fyodor searches for you across countless lifetimes, witnessing you die in his arms again and again. Yet, fate continuously brings you both back together with each of your rebirths.

➵Tags and word count: 5.3k words. sfw, angst to comfort, slight fluff, hallucinations, vivid memories, delusions, shifting scenes, mental health struggles, dissociation.

➵want to read more of fyodor ?

"There is a cruel irony in the fact that you are bound to return to this world, only to be torn away from it time and again. Seven lifetimes, each one a fleeting moment in the endless passage of time. But even as you are reborn, your fate is always the same—a life cut short, a soul never allowed to rest."

The sky is a deep, unforgiving gray, the snow falling gently around him. He stands alone in the desolate landscape, a faint figure against the blanket of white. His breath is visible in the frigid air as he stares down at the burnt-out edges of an old photograph clutched between his slender fingers. The image, though charred, still reveals traces of a face—your face, the one he’s sought in every life.

"Milaya... even now, your features begin to fade from memory, like everything else in this world. But I will not allow time to erase you completely—not when I am so close to finding you again."

His whispers drift on the wind, barely audible but there is an unwavering resolve in his eyes. He carefully traces the faint outlines of your face with his thumb, trying to capture every detail, every curve, every hint of the life that once was. Yet, he knows the futility of it—each reincarnation is a shift in memory, altering your essence just enough to make you a stranger once more.

"This time, my dear," he murmurs to himself, "I will not let you slip through my fingers. I have searched for you across centuries, manipulated the lives of others, all to find you. I will not be denied, not by destiny, not by anything."

Fyodor tucks the burnt photograph back into his coat, his expression stoic as he surveys the snow-covered ground. He is nonchalant, almost detached, but beneath the surface lies a storm—a desperation that he cannot fully suppress.

He begins to walk, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he heads toward the place where he knows you must be. His heart, though often cold, beats a little faster at the thought of seeing you again, of hearing your voice, even if you do not remember him. But he is nothing if not persistent. He will make you remember, one way or another.

Yet there you are, gazing at the sky above you as it transforms into a canvas of burnt orange and fading blue, cinnabar streaks bleeding through the clouds like a watercolor painting. Your thoughts drifted back to a time you thought you'd forgotten—a memory of the day you first met him. It felt distant now, yet the details were so vivid.

He had been unlike anyone you'd ever known. some how he stood out in ways most people didn’t. His features were strikingly beautiful, but it wasn’t just his looks that caught your attention—it was the quiet mystery that followed him wherever he went. His pale skin, almost alabaster, contrasted sharply with his dark clothing, and his eyes—those glowing, enigmatic violet eyes—held depths you couldn’t quite reach. There was often a flicker of pain in them, so subtle it disappeared as soon as it surfaced, leaving you to wonder if you had imagined it.

Which makes total sense. His father 'Mikhail Dostoevsky' was well-known for his austere and viciousness—well after he was granted a nobleman's rank of course— contrariwise, Fyodor was something of a benevolent despot.

The gardens of the palace stretched out before you, a haven full of flowering fragrances, nooks, and crannies of sheer delight.

You caught sight of him standing beneath the glow of the moon, his posture composed as he conversed with his elder sibling. The moonlight cast a soft halo around his figure, making him appear almost ethereal. He seemed unbothered by the festivities around him, his attention focused solely on the conversation. Even in this elegant setting, he exuded a calm detachment, as though the world itself was just an intricate game he was patiently observing.

The path before you was lined with gravel, your footsteps muted by the soft crunch beneath your heels as you made your way through the evening’s parade of guests.

Delicate fairy lights hung in the trees, casting vibrant hues that danced across the faces of those gathered. There was laughter, the clink of glasses, and the hum of casual conversation, but your attention never wavered from him.

As if sensing your gaze, Fyodor glanced your way. His eyes met yours across the distance, and for a moment, everything else fell away—the lights, the music, the crowd. There was something paranormal in the way he looked at you. His lips curved ever so slightly into a familiar smile, one that seemed to say he had already anticipated your approach long before you had made up your mind.

Without thinking, you moved toward him. The space between you disappeared as you stepped into his world, where time seemed to slow. He turned to face you fully, his elder sibling excusing themselves from the conversation as you approached.

“Good evening,” his voice was smooth, a touch of amusement hidden in the depths. “I was wondering when you’d come.”

You hesitated, momentarily taken aback. “You knew?”

“Of course,” he replied, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve been watching me for some time now.”

His words made your heart skip, but you steadied yourself. There was always something about him that made you feel as though you were always a step behind, as though he had already calculated every move before you even realized it.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” you said, finding your voice again. “You stand out, even in a crowd like this.”

His smile widened, but it never quite reached his eyes. “Perhaps, but it’s not the crowd I’m interested in.”

There it was again—that flicker of something deeper, something unreadable. You could sense the burden he carried, a burden of his past, his family’s legacy, and the expectations placed upon him. But beneath all of that, there was something else, something that drew you in even as it warned you to stay away.

“Shall we walk?” he offered, extending his arm toward the gardens.

You nodded, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm as you both began to stroll along the moonlit path. The evening air was cool, and the soft glow of the fairy lights seemed to follow your every step.

“What do you think of all this?” you asked, gesturing to the grand event taking place around you, the celebration, the laughter, the excess.

He looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “It’s fleeting. Moments like these… they’re beautiful, yes. But they fade, just like everything else.”

“But not everything fades,” you ventured softly.

He stopped, turning to face you fully once more. His eyes seemed to pierce through you, reading your thoughts before you could speak them. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but the way he just stood there gazing at you said everything.

“Perhaps,” he finally murmurs, his voice low, “but that’s what makes it dangerous, am I right?”

You weren’t sure if he was talking about the night, about the fleeting beauty of the moment, or about something else entirely. But in that instant, you realized that with Fyodor, nothing was ever simple. He was a puzzle, a mystery, one that you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to solve, but one that you found yourself wanting to.

As you walked beside him, the moonlit scenery unfolding before you, his appreciation for beauty became evident. He had always been drawn to those who possessed a rare allure, and tonight, it was clear that you were his focal point. You were a vision of rare beauty, a one-of-a-kind presence in a world of fleeting appearances.

The scene before you blurs, in an instant, it felt as though time had slowed, and a piercing ringing filled your ears, making you gasp, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of memories.

“He sent you, didn’t he?” he murmured as he tilted your chin to meet his gaze.

Wait.. when did you get here? Where do these memories come from, and why do they haunt you so persistently?

“I’m just following orders,” you replied slowly, bringing your eyebrows together in a slight frown.

“Stay away from this,” he imploded, sighing. “Please, lyubov.” He places a tender kiss on your forehead.

“But fedya...why now? We’re on the brink of ending your father’s relentless corruption,” you argued. “Why give up now?”

But you knew... you know he wants to protect you from the malignant influences of his father’s world. Yet, the very opportunity to dismantle the chains binding him to this sinister system was slipping away. His father’s grip was a malignancy that threatened to stifle all hope.

“Close but no cigar,” he murmured, his chin resting on your head as he inhales your fresh scent.

But he was right. You should've stayed away from those morons ages ago. You made a mistake and paid dearly for it.

In that moment, the same familiar searing ringing in your ears swept across you, pulling you from the depths of your reverie.. it's happening again.

"Fuck, I am such an imbecile." blood spilled from your abdomen, splattering across your trembling hands as you pulled the dagger free. Your back pressed against the cold, damp wall, every inch of movement sending sharp, jagged pain rippling through your body. And slowly but surely, all you can see is the orange sky getting fuzzier and fuzzier as the pain intensifies.

You reached out with a shaking hand, desperately trying to anchor yourself to something, anything, but your limbs refused to obey. Instead of crying out for help, all that escaped your lips is the metallic taste of blood.

“Ah...fuck, not now…” you gasped, the light behind the man standing in the distance, widened with each passing moment. Is this it? Is this how it all ends for you?

You blink, once, twice, trying to focus as everything around you darkens, and just as quickly as you are pulled into this chain of nightmares, you find yourself back in the present as the persistent ringing stops.

Gasping, you sit at your desk, drenched in cold sweat. Your fingers instinctively press against your abdomen, but there’s no blood. No wound. The dagger, the pain, it’s all gone, as if it never existed.

You press harder against your stomach, feeling for any injury, but your skin remains unscathed.

"I need a mirror," you mutter, voice trembling as you push away from the desk and hurry toward the mirror in the entrance. Your reflection stares back at you, eyes wide with panic, face pale, but undeniably yours.

“It’s me,” you whisper in relief, leaning closer, bracing yourself against the cool surface. You reach for the pill bottle on the nearby shelf, your fingers fumbling with the cap as you swallow a dose, desperate to calm the storm inside your mind.

You sit back at your desk again, hands still shaking as you breathe deeply. "It’s fine. I'm okay. It’s all delusions," you whisper, trying to convince yourself.

But you somehow memorise all of these memories like the back of my hand. You call them memories, despite knowing you never actually lived through them, yet they always feel so incredibly real.

They never really leave, do they?

Even now, the phantom ache in your abdomen remains, a cruel reminder of something you’ve never lived through but can feel so vividly. The sky outside your window returns to its soft twilight hues, but you can’t shake the feeling that reality itself unravels around you. Each time you are pulled into those visions, it becomes harder to tell what is real and what is imagined.

While you're sitting there, managing to steady your breath, you wonder—how much longer can you hold on to what’s real when your mind keeps dragging you into a world that feels just as tangible?

You exhale a long, relieved sigh finally calming down as you try to regain your focus. What were you doing again? Ah, yes... finishing your new book.

You type the final words of the epilogue, fingers hovering above the keyboard for just a second longer. The ending comes together, but still, something doesn’t sit right with you... the title. The book is finished, but how can it be complete without the right name? You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head, eyes scanning the screen with tired satisfaction.

You aren’t just any writer, though. Hidden behind your pen name, you’ve become a literary sensation, with fans desperate for even a glimpse of who you really are. But anonymity suits you; fame has never been the goal. The words are the only thing that matter, and the world you’ve built between the pages feels more real than anything else—maybe too real?

Despite finishing the epilogue, something feels unresolved. Titles usually come easily to you, but this one, this book demands something special. Inspiration eludes you. You need a change of scenery... somewhere that can kickstart the creative process again.

With a resigned sigh, you dress quickly, grab your notebook, and head to one of the few places that has become your sanctuary when ideas won’t come: your favourite café.

The café sits nestled on a quiet street, its warm glow inviting you in like your old home. There’s something about the atmosphere, the soft hum of conversation usuallybetween elder people, the scent of freshly brewed coffee, the soft clink of cups against saucers—that always seems to loosen the knots in your mind. You order your usual, find a quiet table in the corner, and set your notebook down, flipping it open to a fresh page.

"The War of Sakura," you scribble, only to strike it out immediately. "No, no, that’s terrible!! Ugh," you mutter to yourself, tapping the pen against your lips in frustration.

You take a sip of your coffee, leaning back in your seat as you stare out the window, hoping for some stroke of genius. Come on, Kurasu Café, work your magic. But the more you stare at the page, the more the words seem to evade you.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice someone sitting down across from you until you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Startled, you blink and look up, eyes widening as they land on the man before you.

It’s him.

For a moment, you’re convinced your mind is playing tricks on you again. The man in front of you has the same striking features, the same quiet mystery, the same piercing gaze that seems to see right through you.

The same man from your memories—the one you’re certain is nothing more than a figment of your imagination, or perhaps a character you’ve written into being.

But no. He’s here, in the flesh, sitting across from you in Kurasu Café.

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly blink, half-expecting him to disappear like a mirage. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes, as though he can read every thought running through your mind.

“Excuse me…?”

He tilts his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You looked like you could use some company,” he says with the same silky smooth voice."You seemed… preoccupied."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, still trying to reconcile the fact that he’s real. The man in front of you is every bit as captivating as the one from your memories, as though he’s stepped right out of the story you’ve been crafting in your mind.

“I—uh,” you stammer, your fingers tightening around your pen as though it can somehow anchor you to reality. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

His smile deepens the same one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he says simply,“but I know you.”

Your heart stops beating for a second. You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. How can he know you? And why does it feel like he’s not just referring to surface-level details of your life, but something deeper, something far more intimate?

You glance at your notebook, half-expecting to see the story you’ve just finished reflected back at you, as though it’s somehow come to life.

He leans forward slightly, folding his hands on the table between you. “You’re searching for something, right?”

You narrow your eyes, “And what makes you think that?”

He shrugs, a graceful gesture that seems too perfect, too practiced. “I can always read your eyes, my dear” he replies. “You’re chasing after a truth that eludes you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. There’s something about the way he speaks, the way he seems to know things about you that you haven’t even told yourself. You should feel unnerved, but instead, you feel drawn to him—just like in those memories, you can’t escape.

“Who are you?” you finally ask, hoping it's not one of your delusions playing tricks on you.

His smile softens, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze, it's the same flicker of pain that's so fleeting you almost miss it. He stands smoothly as he places a card on the table.

“Call me when you’re ready to stop running from your life,” he says, turning to leave.

You watch him go, your mind racing as you stare at the card he’s left behind. No name. No details. Just a single word, embossed in gold.

"Remember."

The café around you blurs, the noise fading into the background as you stare at the word on the card, your mind spinning with questions you can’t answer.

And in that moment, you know—this isn’t over. The story isn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

It's now 1:25 am as you sit at your desk, the dim light of the lamp doing little to coax you into sleep. Your eyes fixate on the card that lies on the desk, the single word "Remember" still taunting you. It feels surreal, like the whole encounter earlier today had slipped from reality into something else entirely. Your fingers brush over the card, tracing the embossed letters, as your mind races to make sense of what happened.

Should you call him?

You hesitate, holding the card between your fingers. Who was he? Could he really know you, or was he just one of your creepy fans, trying to unnerve you by dressing up like the protagonist of your story? You’ve heard of fanatics going to great lengths to mimic characters, but this felt different. Something about the encounter stayed with you, gnawing at the back of your mind.

You shake your head, trying to dismiss it. Maybe it was just an elaborate prank, you think. Maybe he was just trying to scare you. Or worse, trying to manipulate you into thinking your own creations are coming to life.

But even as you try to convince yourself, it doesn’t sit right. No fan, no matter how obsessed, could have pulled off what you experienced earlier. The way he looked at you, as if he had known you forever, made your skin prickle. His words had hit too close to home, and the feeling that he understood something about you—something you barely understood yourself—makes it impossible to shake off the encounter.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart as you finally make up your mind. Your fingers hover over your phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dark room. You type in the number from the card, each digit sending a shiver of doubt through your body.

Placing the phone to your ear, you close your eyes as the ringing begins. Once. Twice. Your heart pounds in your chest, every nerve alive with anticipation. What if he answers? What if he doesn’t?

What if he answers? What if he doesn’t?

Just as the ringing starts to stretch into a third tone, there’s a faint click. You hold your breath.

“Hello?”

His voice is calm, like the same smooth, familiar tone from the café.

You pause, unsure of what to say, gripping the phone tighter. “It’s me,” you finally manage to say.

He chuckles softly, as though he expected your call all along. “Ahh my dear...I was wondering when you’d call,” he says, his voice oh god his voice is so soft. “Did you figure it out yet?”

Your heart races. “Figure what out? What’s going on?” you ask confused. “Who are you?”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll answer at all. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice low and steady. “You already know who I am,” he says. “You’ve always known, milaya.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The room seems to close in around you, the silence pressing down as you try to piece together the meaning behind his words. You want to argue, to demand answers, but something stops you. It’s as though the truth is right there, just beyond your reach, but you’re too afraid to grasp it.

He continues, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “There are no coincidences. I didn’t come to you by chance. I came to you because we both have known each other for way too long.”

Your head spins. What does that even mean? You glance at your manuscript, the story that had felt so real, so vivid—too vivid. The lines between fiction and reality begin to blur, and the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to separate the two.

“What do you mean we know each other?” You whisper, voice trembling.

On the other end, he chuckles softly, a sound that’s too familiar, as if you've heard it a thousand times before in some forgotten dream. The sound pulls you out of your racing thoughts and back into the moment, grounding you in an unsettling way.

"You’ll understand soon," his voice is calm, though it does nothing to ease the knot forming in your chest.

Before you can protest or demand more answers, he continues, "I’ll come to your place, darling. We can talk then."

Panic flares inside you. Your eyes widen as you shoot up from your chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. “What? How do you—” you begin to ask, but before you can finish, his voice cuts through.

“I know where you live,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches. “What… are you a stalker or something?” The question tumbles out, half-accusation, half-fear.

But his response is immediate, eerily calm, “No,” he says. “I’m no stalker. I know because no matter how many things change, no matter how the world twists and turns… the place you live, it always remains the same.”

Your heart races, your mind scrambling to process his words. The place you live… always the same? How could he know that? Why does it feel like he’s speaking of something far deeper than just the physical space around you?

“Please, my dear don’t worry about the details right now,” he interrupts your thoughts. “Just know that I’ll be there soon. And when I arrive, we can talk more about what’s really going on.”

The line goes dead before you can respond. You stare at the phone in disbelief the world around you seems to tilt on its axis, and the comforting normalcy of your room suddenly feels alien. You sit in silence, the unanswered questions swirling in your mind as you hear a soft knock on your door.

You rise from your chair with trembling hands, each step towards the door feeling heavier than the last. When you open it, he stands there—just as enigmatic as before, with that same stoic, detached expression.

He smiles when he sees you, and the smile feels almost out of place with his otherwise stoic demeanor. In his hand, he holds a bouquet of red roses. “Good evening, Malyshka,” he says smoothly. “I thought these might brighten your night.”

Confusion knots in your stomach, but you take the bouquet from him, stepping aside to let him in. The roses are fresh, their scent a heady mix of sweetness and subtle spice. “Thank you,” you manage to say, “Please, come in.”

He moves past you slowly, navigating the living room with the familiarity of someone who’s been there more than a few times.

“I didn’t expect you to show up so soon,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “How did you find my place so quickly?”

He turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours with that familiar look. “As I mentioned earlier, some things remain constant, no matter how much else changes. I’ve always known where to find you.”

“And what exactly do you want from me?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice steady.

He sits on your couch, smiling softly “I want to help you understand the connection we've always shared,” he says. “There’s much to discuss, and I believe it’s time we begin.”

You nod, slightly anxious of what he's about to reveal, “Alright. I’m listening.”

He relaxes his posture, his eyes never leaving yours. “Let’s start with the basics,” he begins. “You’ve been searching for answers, and I’m here to provide them. But first, you need to accept that the boundaries between a life and another are not as rigid as they seem.”

With a deep breath, you take a seat across from him silently waiting for him to continue.

“This is probably the sixth time I’ve been through this,” he continues. “my dear...you have an ability—one that makes you reincarnate. It happens every seven lifetimes, and this one is the seventh and final life.”

You stare at him, your mind struggling to grasp the enormity of his words. “Reincarnation?” you echo, incredulous.

He nods, “Yes. I’ve witnessed you die in my arms time and again. Each time, you lose your memories, and I find you again. No matter how many lifetimes pass, I have always been there. In every life, I have been your one and only—your husband.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he speaks. “But… but how? I’ve been experiencing delusions lately, slowly disconnecting from reality. I- I even went to a therapist, thinking I was going insane, but…”

“But what?” he prompts gently.

“But now I’m starting to think those memories were real,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought maybe the writing affected me, that I was imagining things. But if what you’re saying is true… I’ve been recalling memories from past lives?”

He nods, his gaze compassionate yet firm. “Those fragments were memories from your past lives. The feelings of detachment, the disconnection from reality—it’s all part of your ability’s process. Each lifetime, you’ve struggled with this, but you’ve always managed to find your way back to me.”

You sit back, feeling overwhelmed. “So, all this time, I’ve been recalling memories from past lives? And that’s why I felt so disconnected and unsettled?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “It’s why you’ve felt like something was missing, even when everything else seemed to be in place. Your soul remembers our connection, but the details slip away with each new life.”

Your eyes search his face, trying to find the truth in his words. “Are..are you immortal?”

He sighs softly, a look of resignation crossing his face. “Something like that,” he admits. “I’m not exactly immortal, but I endure through each lifetime. It’s not without its own pain.”

He stands and moves closer, his hands gently cupping your face. His touch so tender making your heart flatter subconsciously leaning into it, his eyes filled with profound...it's heartbreaking. “You have no idea how much I miss you, milaya,” he says quietly. “How much it hurts me to see you slip away from my arms each time. Every time, you’re taken from me by an ability user. The first time, it was my cruel father who killed you. The second time, it was an assassin with an ability. And so it went, one after another.”

His voice cracks slightly as he continues, “But this time? I will never let you go, moya lyubov. I won’t let anything take you from me again.”

Slowly, he leans in, and you find yourself lost in his half-lidded amethyst gaze, the slight glance of pain in his eyes is now gone. You brush a strand of his slightly long hair behind his ear, your knuckles grazing his cheekbones.

"Milaya," he whispers, closing the distance between you, his cold lips gently brush against yours, The moment your lips touch, a warm, relaxing spark ignites deep within you, spreading a soothing glow through your entire body. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home, like finding the missing piece of your heart.

Your body reacts instinctively. You wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. He lifts you gently, your feet barely touching the ground, as he holds you close. His hands rest on your waist, massaging circles onto your skin under your shirt as his kisses start to get sloppier with a sweet, heartfelt heat. It’s as if he’s trying to savor every moment, every touch, to make up for all the years apart.

He gently pulls away, his breath mingling with yours as he murmurs, “You should get some rest, darling,” His words are a tender reminder, and his touch lingers as he softly caresses your cheeks, jaw and chin.

You keep your arms wrapped around his neck, “Please don't leave.”

The Russian man, ever devoted, cannot bear the thought of leaving your side now that you are once again in his arms. With a serene nod and a tender, otherworldly smile, he whispers,

"I will forever be by your side, moya milaya."

A/N: I know this isn’t my best work—I've been dealing with writer’s block lately, especially after spending the last few days working on Kinktober fics. Apologies if any part feels rushed. I also made sure to use past tense for the memories and present tense for the current events, in case you noticed that. Anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this!

[lilacxquartz]

TO SAVE A BROKEN SOUL • suguru geto x cursed spirit fem!reader

ao3 link • masterlist • next chapter >>

summary: roaming around the forest as a neutral cursed spirit spirit, you stumble upon a temple, not quite knowing what sort of nightmare awaited you from the inside.

tags/warnings: dead dove, (upcoming) non-con, violence, yandere, reader insert, weekly updates, dark, multi chapter, horror

Chapter 1: Found

Wandering around the forest in the dead of night was essentially second nature to you. It was survival, plain and simple.

It was how you got by.

Moving from one point to another without a single destination in mind, never knowing where you’d end up next—that’s just what being a cursed spirit was; to be stuck in a perpetual state of endless, aimless drift.

Your journey was lacking direction and your benign existence had swallowed away any purpose you could have had. Regular humans would call this being a ghost, but it felt much worse than that.

To have no purpose, nor an escape.

And despite calling yourself a neutral entity, you stayed far away from human settlements, never daring to get too close. You knew better than to risk it. Accidents were inevitable if you lingered a little too close to people (or a little too long), so you simply didn’t gamble the chance to begin with.

It was easier that way.

It was safer.

The fine line of what separated you from being a neutral spirit and a malevolent one was very thin though, but could have been defined by how you fed. Rather than tempting fate with the potential of human flesh, you chose restraint, resigning you to either not feed at all or to keep your feasts confined to what you found within the forest.

(But the desire was always present; gnawing away at your gradually lapsing self control, clawing at your core—so desperate to let slip… waiting for that perfect moment.)

Sustainability wasn’t that much of a necessity for you otherwise. After all, you weren’t truly alive; at least not in the same way that humans (and living things overall) were.

But sometimes you couldn’t help but crave it. The scent and taste of human flesh—so sickeningly sweet and almost intoxicating—seasoned with the essence of their negativity. A delicacy so potent yet so forbidden.

In that aspect, you were always starving, but you also didn’t mind. The hunger kept your senses sharp which in turn, kept you focused. It was a bitter reminder of who (or what) you could become should you ever let it consume you.

So instead, you roamed. You wandered. You cruised through the trees not bothering a single soul, as a neutral, almost dormant being.

However, this neck of the woods that you found yourself within different somehow. Despite passing through it countless times before, you somehow never stumbled across this particular temple.

The realisation that you were treading on human property hit you all too late, noticing the structure only when you were halfway up a path of rooted stairs. Extinguished lanterns hung above, charred ashes escaping from the blackened wicks, swinging off of overgrown wooden beams that framed along the path.

At first, you thought that it was abandoned.

But just as you were about to take a step inside, intending to take refuge for the night…

…A sound froze you in place.

Footsteps.

Quickly snapping out of your daze, your innate response was to retreat in fear of being spotted. Not everyone could see cursed spirits, but you couldn’t afford to take that chance, knowing that in doing so, you risked compromising your very existence.

But you were all too slow.

A young girl had already caught a glimpse of you; her eyes locking onto your position. A wave of panic swept over you and without thinking—you bolted—desperate to fade back into the inviting darkness of the woods. Back into the shadows where you belonged. Away from the prying eyes of people, or worse, by the unforgiving gaze of sorcerers.

To be seen, to be even be acknowledged for a split second, was to invite danger and that was a price that you simply could not afford to pay.

In your rushed escape, your arm caught on a loose branch that tore into your marbled flesh. The wood cut deep, chipping away at your body like brittle stone. You seethed in pain, emitting a high-pitched whine as inky black blood spilled from your wound, trailing behind you and painting a dark path that led to your position.

You attempted to tune into the forest, to isolate whether or not someone was behind you; hearing the twigs that snapped underfoot like spreading wildfire closing in behind you in a stalking cresendo—they were right behind you—ready to close in at any second.

Your own nerves betrayed you, catching you off guard as your clarity soon became clouded with a surge of panic. Every instinct screamed at you to run in all directions at once, daring you to abandon all sense of logic and to give into your instincts, maybe even…!

But it was all too late.

They caught up to you.

(And whoever it was, they weren’t the least bit kind.)

A sharp gasp escaped your lips as strong hands clamped around your shoulders, wrapping fingers that dug into your flesh to keep you solidified in place. Such horrid pressure that radiated off of the assiliant that felt almost suffocating in how they grounded you. Not only did they manage to capture you, but they also have managed to have rootyou to the spot, sealing off your final window of escape.

Unable to say a word, you instead choked as your breath tore harsh against the air, feeling yourself be thrown backwards. More blood continued to pour as you tanked the landing impact, watching with unease as a tall figure caged you in. You remained statued as they pushed your body right up against the bark of the tree, demonstrating such strength that it began to crack and splinter.

Their touch felt unforgiving, despite the unmistakable scent of being human.

(So who was the real monster here?)

Your mind continued to scream danger, urging you to move, to do anything that didn’t result in remaining still. Every remaining instinct urged for you to fight back before your demise was met, before your existence was erased entirely, before—

“Trying to slip away so soon?” a chilling male voice asked, catching you in the midst of your spiralling thoughts. Their tone was cold, yet somehow deceptively gentle, only seeming to unsettle you further.

You couldn’t trust them.

Not with an introduction like this.

You faltered, your sights submitting to the looming figure before you. Your instincts continued to run wild as your mind warred with itself, begging—pleading—for you to get away, to please, please escape. In a last ditch effort, you tried to push past the man, clawing at his skin in a bid to push him away from you.

But in doing so, you only managed to piss him off further.

Before you even knew it—before you could even react—you were dislocated, struck down and dislocated.

Did he get a hit on you…?

Without a moment’s pause, you involuntarily slumped against the tree, your legs giving way. Your vision blurred as you desperately attempted to focus on the man before you, the moonlight just barely illuminating his face.

From what little you could make out, he could have been a shaman or perhaps even a monk. His attire was traditional, something you recognised as a religious garment.

A peculiar thought crossed your mind: since when were buddhist monks so violent?

He flicked his eyes to the wound you inflicted on him before meeting with your gaze again. “That hurt.”

Once again, you tried to back away, your words barely coming out to defend your cause.

“I-I haven’t even, I haven’t touched the temple,” you blurted out, your delivery barely coherent. “Please, just… let me go.”

You stared him down with an intense glare, hoping to challenge him into finding reason but instead all he did was mirror your gaze; leaving you pooling with confusion (and maybe even dread).

Maybe he wasn’t a regular human, but rather a sorcerer instead.

You really hoped not though, because then you would be in some serious trouble.

His eyes narrowed, his tone remained serious and cold as he spoke up once again, “So you’re admitting that was you lurking around the temple?”

Nodding, you scanned around the vicinity seeking an opportunity to exit, but there was none.

“I won’t come back if you let me go,” you promised.

However, the man didn’t waver. Instead, he seemed to be almost entertained(?) at your attempt to negotiate, as if your behaviour was oddly human to some extent given your status. “Bit of an odd one, aren’t you?”

He crouched down, extending a couple of pinched fingers to tweeze your chin and point your jaw towards the moonlight. You writhed under his grip, feeling unsettled by his invasive and unyielding stare.

“Quite pretty too,” he murmured with backhanded praise, “…for a cursed spirit.”

“Let go of me, I’ll leave and—“

“—hm?” he caught you mid plea. “Who said anything about you leaving?”

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” you asked, your voice carrying a hint of reluctance the longer you remained in his company. You weren’t naïve; you understood fully well what sorcerers were capable of.

What their jobs were.

“Kill you?” he mused, his expression remaining unreadable. “I could. I might. But for now, I’m simply curious about you,” he paused, taking a moment to admire your appearance once again, “so, why don’t you come with me?”

You shook your head violently, attempting to back away as far as you possibly could but he didn’t let you get very far, if anywhere at all.

Instead, he pulled you to your feet as he stood up, his voice adopting a threatening edge, “Let me rephrase that for you,” he leaned in just a bit closer, “come with me or I will exorcise you. Your choice.”

Feeling torn, you finally resigned your fate to the hands of the strange monk. Your stomach gnawed with furious hunger, begging for you to sink your teeth deep into his flesh as both a punishment as well as a chance to buy time to escape. Yet, there was something about him that at the same time that overrode such an urge, something that made you drop your guard around him at long last—and—against your better judgement, to even trust him.

So in the end, you gave in after all, choosing to follow him back to the temple.

Unaware of all the dark plans that he had in store for you.

~~~

this is part 2 of lilac’s bite sized yandere nightmares

[deathbyathousandspiders]

HELL–BOUND. ₅

mcu!peter parker | zombie apocalypse au. CHAPTER FIVE.

IN WHICH a run in with cannibals sets you and peter back much further than anticipated.

!! WARNING !! — there’s talk and mention of cannibalism and heavy gore themes in this chapter. discretion is critically advised.

read chapter one | two | three | four.

✨masterlist✨.

4.8k.

A groggy, unforgiving headache greeted your wake as you blinked away what felt like days of sleep. You couldn’t remember half of what happened, what day it was, where you were–but the array of knives along the walls, the sleek cleanliness of the kitchen you were in, the pile of human bones in the corner of the white room–the memories came flooding back. 

You tried to sit up, quick to realize you were bound to the kitchen island by harsh leather restraints. They were tightly bound to your waist, wrists and ankles, keeping you from thrashing too much against the white kitchen counter. Your head rolled around, taking in your surroundings. When it rolled back, your eyes caught Peter, hanging by his own set of leather restraints off the wall. 

The two of you locked eyes in an instant. 

“I’m so sorry–”

“Zip it, Peter!” You fought against the restraints. “Don’t apologize to me until we find a way out of this!” You couldn’t do much when strapped down, and you knew wasting strength by fighting against a countertop would do you no good. You huffed, “What’s your visual from over there?”

Peter took a second to switch gears from his pity party, and you watched it happen. He’d been awake much longer than you, most likely blaming himself for the situation. For how long, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have time to. 

Just as he went to tell you his first mapped escape–route, the doors opened and shut with a loud thud. 

The same man and woman from earlier walked into the room and into your vision, stepping down the stairs and pacing towards you. The psychotic look in their eyes was so clear to you, so obvious. You felt idiotic for not noticing it in the clearing, and even more stupid to not see the hunger seeping through the midst of their staring. 

“I wonder.. Which piece of you should we harvest first?” The woman’s voice hummed in a sickly song, one that made your stomach turn. Her fingers ghosted down your leg, like she was trying to think through which pieces of you would spoil quickest. Which piece of you would taste the best. 

You let out a shudder. 

Peter tugged at his restraints. “Don’t touch her!!” He growled, shouted. He couldn’t just stand there and watch this happen. He didn’t even want to think of what would happen. 

The man pulled out a butcher’s knife and pointed it at Peter. It was the same blade that sliced your thigh before you’d blacked out, standing less than a foot away from his face “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!” It was a roar almost as intimidating as Bucky’s. Peter knew if he spoke another word, he’d not only risk his life, but put yours more at risk, too. 

The woman laughed, somehow finding humor in this. “Oh, how I do love dinner and a show.” She never took her eyes off you, off your thickly cladded body. How you were still dressed was a blessing and a surprise. You were not complaining. 

You were not remembering to breathe, either. 

“Darling?” The woman continued, glancing briefly at her husband, “What’re you craving tonight?” The cruel, sickening smirk growing on her lips was enough to make you whimper. Your arms tugged against the restraints. 

The man caught your right arm roughly, causing you to flinch, stiffen. You stared at him with anticipation, a pleading look in your eyes. You were begging him to stop, to spare you, but no words left your lips. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, and you froze at the way he mirrored the woman’s twisted smirking expression. 

“I could really go for some charred bicep.” The words dripped from his tongue like venom, acid and magma that would have burned your flesh off. And perhaps, that might’ve been better. 

Better than seeing the way he raised that blade so high above his head. Better than hearing Peter’s final beseech to stop, his cry out for you. It would’ve been better than watching the blade chop full speed for your right arm. 

And it felt like the blade went clean through–It had to. It was hot and cold and heat and frost and fire and ice. Hot and cold and cold and hot and aches and burns and you couldn’t stop screaming. The pain was unbearable, stinging and cooling all at once, to the point where you couldn’t comprehend it; the pain overwhelmed you to a place of nonexistence. Pain to a degree of no comprehension, despite the fact that you could feel every waking second of it. You couldn’t breathe. 

Your limbs shook and stilled and flashed with chills and sweats and tears and sobs and bile and cold. You were cold, overheating, everything all at once. You were hurting, uncontrollably screaming. Each pained cry echoed through the room, ricocheting off the walls and immediately etching into Peter’s nightmares. Into yours, too. Into a place so dark in the depths of you, it would birthmark itself somewhere permanent. 

Screaming, bellowing, but were you even making a sound? Was the air around you truly as cold as it was hitting you? The room was spinning. The room was wet. It was hot and cold and burns and aches and far beyond anything you could ever describe, unlike anything you’d ever be able to comprehend. Anything you’d ever experienced, and something you never ever wanted to experience again. 

But he pulled the blade clean out, perhaps an inch above your elbow. And you gasped. You gasped like you’d drowned, like the air would taste cleaner. But it was warm hitting your throat, it was like you were drowning. There was no air in the room, it was water, thickly and warm and dissatisfying. It was death. You had to be dying. 

You didn’t have the mental strength to realize that the man was yelling about how dull the blade was; how the woman hadn’t sharpened the knife. You didn’t realize that your arm wasn’t even disconnected from your body, because to you, it felt like it was. 

The groggy, dizzy, unwakeable daze that lined the corners of the room began catching up to you, and you began to lose taste and touch of what was happening. You felt like you were being engulfed into a terrible dream, an out of body experience. And you couldn’t tell whether the world beyond your consciousness would be better than the phenomena you were experiencing right now. 

But Peter watched the whole thing happen. He watched your blood stain the blemished counters, the crimson he didn’t dare associate with you. He couldn’t even get it through his head that this was happening. Peter didn’t give himself time to gag at the sight, to process that you were about to get cooked and eaten. He was outraged that he’d been stupid enough to let this happen. 

Your cries and screams and thrashes and agony carved into Peter’s memory. He’d never forget this, it would haunt him. Forever. He’d never forgive himself for losing this badly. And the worst of it was that Peter wanted it to be over, so that he could get his turn. He wanted his punishment, to endure the same. He felt that he deserved it. 

He was trembling against the restraints, forgetting his own tears in the chaos of your pain. Peter wished he could take it; he wished more than anything, so desperately, that this was his ailment to live with. That he’d be the one with a disembodied arm. 

Peter fought back his sobs as the two kitchen–aids bickered about the knife. And just as they went back to what they were doing. Just as Peter tried to give himself more will to fight, more reason to bloody his wrists in attempt to escape, the lights flickered. The lights flickered and the two bone–heads looked at each other before the lights cut out. Blacked out, and when they came back up, they lit the grave room with hope. Hope in the form of Natasha Romanoff. 

Bloodied and bruised from what one could guess was remnants of a fight with everyone she’d faced to get here, Natasha took her two pistols and shot both of the cannibals clean through the head and painted the walls. The thuds of their bodies cued Natasha to process what the fuck was happening. Her shoulders slumped, she caught her breath, and immediately rushed to your aid. 

Your deafening cries had died down, weakening. It was scarier than when you’d nearly blasted out their eardrums. They were losing you, fast. Nastasha unbuckled the restraints around your right arm first, ripping the hem of her shirt off before wrapping it firmly around the slice on your lower bicep. The way you whimpered and flinched and your half–lidded eyes widened for a second made even Peter feel queasy, but it had to be done. 

Nastasha uttered a quiet apology as she finished freeing you, quick to take out a syringe from her pocket to push into your already–bruised collarbone. 

“What’re you doing?” Peter rasped out, hating to be skeptical of Natasha’s motives. A flash of worry that HYDRA had gotten to her, that she had worse plans for you rushed through him; the shortest glance at the tears and the panic as he watched the way she rushed over to him made him shake it off. Her fingers fumbled to undo his restraints, trembling, obviously as unnerved and terrified for you as he was. 

Natasha’s face was some form of grim, bare. Some shortcoming attempt at her usual stone–cold demeanor. She was a master at masking her emotions, but Peter could see the break in the dam she’d been holding up. “I gave her a sedative.” She freed his wrists, her voice wavering almost unnoticeably. “It’ll slow her heart rate, keep her from feeling the brunt of this.. It’ll hopefully help her chance at survival.” Peter glanced a few times between you and Natasha, swallowing the last of his tears before putting his head on straight. 

“We need to act fast.” Nastasha cut straight to the chase. “We can’t lose her.” Her words were short with urgency. Her breath was quick as they walked over to the counter, and Peter swore she had a glistening of tears brimming her eyes, but she’d never admit that. And Peter would never ask. 

He simply nodded and agreed. He was willing and ready to help however he could. And he started by picking you up off the island counter and hauling you out of the basement. 

Fresh corpses of the other cannibals Natasha had run into lined the halls, but the path was clear as she led Peter out of the fucked up vacinity. Both your backpack and Peter’s had been placed by the exit, and Nat carried both of them without question. Peter kept his grip on you firm, unshaken. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to you, or ever let you out of his sight again. 

No words were spoken between Natasha or Peter as they emerged from the building in the thick of night. She kept a white–knuckled hold on her pistols, nodding when the coast was clear for Peter and her to rush into the shadows. 

Peter knew she was headed straight for the airport. Once they were on that plane, headed for safety, they could talk about everything that had happened. Why Natasha was missing for a week. Where she was, how she found them. 

The jog to the airport was short, perhaps thirty minutes. With Peter’s heartbeat blaring above his neck, in his throat and all around, he hadn’t been keeping track of time. Whatsoever. His thoughts raced, he couldn’t keep a steady breath, but nothing would distract him from getting you to safety. 

That menacing, monstrous roar shook between the trees close by, but Peter and Natasha couldn’t look back to Bucky as you all approached the terminal. 

Both of them could feel the shaking of the ground beneath his trailing steps, feel the weight of his mutated presence as he loomed closely behind them. Peter kept running toward the airport garage, but Natasha slowed down. 

She yelled something in Russian, making Bucky stop in his tracks entirely. And despite the heartbreak in her eyes as she looked at him, the voice in her head that fought against her, Natasha kept yelling the words; Bucky Barnes’ trigger words. 

He fell to his knees at the phrases, palms pressing to his ears as he screamed and thrashed at no one in particular. The words drove him wild, and gave Nat the window she needed to throw the same shock–net Peter used just hours earlier, and shock him in place. 

Quick on her feet, Natasha sprinted across the terminal, cutting the distance between her and Peter before they both made it to the garage. 

She opened the large metal doors, catching as much breath as she could with the time before running to unlock the aircraft. 

Once the door opened, Peter ran inside, immediately looking for someplace to lay you  down. You remained unconscious in his grip, blood oozing from the fabric banded to your lower arm. It was a gnarly sight for Peter, and he had to fight his nausea for your sake. 

Nat rushed in after him, shut the door and set down the bags, locking them inside before heading to the cockpit. It didn’t take her long before the plane was on and she wheeled the vehicle out into the open. 

“Are you two secure?” Natasha kept that same urgency with her words, hypocritical as she kept her seatbelt off. She prepared the plane for take–off. 

Peter found a stretcher attached to the plane wall, safely strapping you onto it before he buckled a seatbelt of his own. “Secure enough!” He hollered back. 

And before Natasha even gave a response, the plane was out into high gear and they dashed down the runway. The jet was in the air within a matter of minutes, and if you weren’t bleeding out beside him, Peter would’ve found some sense of peace. Every ounce of him was focused on you. 

Before they knew it, the plane was smooth sailing in the sky, through the dusking horizon and a slight gust of overcast. 

Natasha called Peter to the cockpit soon after, nothing wavering from the sense of importance and seriousness she’d been speaking in. But when Peter came to her aid, he could spot the glistening of tears painting her cheeks. 

“I need you to drive.” Nat’s voice showed no sign of crying, nor vulnerability. “Just while I give her stitches.”

Taking a sharp inhale, Peter tried to act like he wasn’t completely panicked by the words. Either set of them. “I, uh– I’ll do what I can.” And before Natasha could even stand up, Peter kept speaking. “How do I do that.. Exactly?”

A smile consumed Natasha’s lips before she could protest, realizing just how much she’d missed Peter. They didn’t have time to catch up yet, though. Not til you were in better stability. She took a deep breath, eying the control panel. She gave a very brief explanation and tutorial on what Peter needed to monitor while she stepped out; although, the jet was on autopilot for the most part. 

Before he knew it, Peter was alone with his thoughts. His bouncing knee, his shaky fingers on the steering unit, and his undeniable urge to turn his head back and check on you every second. He did try to look back a few times, but he was either met with a lightheaded rush of sickness or a thickened throat and tears in his eyes. 

Natasha gave him a task, and he tried to focus on that. If there was anywhere in the world where you could be nursed back to health, it would be Wakanda. So he tried to keep his thoughts set there, and what Wakanda would be like. Peter just couldn’t believe he’d led you to such an injury. 

It took thirty minutes before Peter saw the break between land and the North Atlantic. It was his second time leaving the country, his first time since Germany. Spacing out at the open ocean, the dark space surrounding the dashboard, he reminisced on the reason why he’d been in Europe: the epic fight between Cap and Tony. It led him to miss them, all of them. It only reminded him of how much they’d lost. 

Peter watched the way the skyline divided. The two sets of dark that separated stars and sea, the clouds that freckled the sky, and the waves that waded miles below them. He had to remember to breathe, because they had hours ahead of them before they’d arrive at Wakanda. At least the sight of the rippling waters reminded him of something like stillness. 

Forty minutes in the sky, and Natasha walked back into the cockpit, slumping on the seat next to Peter. Her bloodied hands cradled her head, and she took in the deepest breaths he’d ever seen her take. 

And now, in the dark, in the quiet, Peter finally took a chance to take in Natasha. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d left in a week ago, tattered and scorched, but mainly muddied; now, with a thick layer of blood splotches from this evening alone. 

For the first time in his life, Peter saw Natasha in vulnerability, in fear. It was sobering, and made him motivated to help however he could. If one of them had to be strong, Peter didn’t mind taking that responsibility for a bit. It just wasn’t a scale he thought measured when it came to Natasha Romanoff. 

Her fingers raked through her short red hair, now giving Peter a view of the sorrow in her eyes. “I should’ve never left you kids alone..”

The words filled Peter with cold, heavy, dread. “Is she dead–?”

“No!” Her eyes fell wide, panicked at the thought. “No. I just..” Natasha’s lips pressed to a thin line. “I went to look for Barnes, after I freed Y/N.” She blinked away the tears as quickly as they welled. “And had I just.. Walked her to the house, I could’ve…” Her words got lost on the way out. 

Peter didn’t wait for her to find them. “You can’t think like that.” Part of him spoke to himself as he reassured her. “It’s awful, what happened.. But we can’t blame ourselves for it.” He took a second to let his own words process. “At least, not until she blames us first.”

That got Nat to laugh at least. “I’ve missed you, kid.” The laughter was short to last, both of them catching a glance back at where you soundly resided. Silence fell heavy in the space between the two of them before she sighed, releasing some of the guilt she’d let reign over her shoulders. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

“We’re together now. Let’s focus on that.” Peter cracked a small smile, forcing some of that strength he assumed Natasha needed. “I brought that change of clothes you wanted, by the way.” He found the strength to change the subject, digging through his backpack before handing Nat the clothes she’d instructed. 

With a mix of denial and complete appreciation, Natasha took the clothes with that same small smile. She thanked him. “You really thought I’d look like shit, huh?” She mused a joke, running a ghost of a finger over the fabric of the top like it was too good to be true.  

A more sullen expression transfigured into Peter’s curled lips. “No, I just figured you’d get put through the wringer.” The sentence was slow, more agonized towards the end. But it was honest. 

And it still earned a little reassuring squeeze of the shoulder as Natasha ushered herself to the back to change. 

The next two hours became Peter and Natasha catching up, eying the console but never needing to change any settings. They took the chance to check on your vitals every so often, hydrate, and freshen up. 

It was an overwhelming amount to process. The fact that they’d gotten out of the American ruins, were on their way to the last functioning societal places left on the planet, and had the source to cure the world was a lot. And Peter still had one burning question in mind. 

“So,” He picked at the food in his opened can, spinning the metal container to fidget. “Will she really need to die for them to make the cure?”

Natasha nearly spit her food out from the laugh suddenly caught in her throat. She disguised it with a faint hum. “She told you that she’d have to, didn’t she?” All she needed to see was Peter’s nod to actually let out a chuckle. “Of course she did.”

Something in Peter’s eyes sparked a bit. “Does that mean she won’t have to?”

Her head shook, “She shouldn’t have to. I never finished my notes in that folder, so she probably assumed the worst.” And that assumption was right. “She might be strapped to a bed for a few days while they do some bloodwork, but she certainly won’t have to die.”

Peter’s entire body seemed to melt back into the pilot’s seat, relief overtaking him before he could even release a solid breath. “Thank God.” He’d been holding those words, that breath, since the second the two of you reconnected. Part of him was always scared that he’d lose you once he’d found you again; now, being on that plane, headed to Wakanda, knowing you weren’t getting sent to your sacrificial death, he started to see the world in color again. 

And you did too. 

A thick gasp ripped you from your forced slumber, immediately choked back on winces as your body came to. You took in a few more rapid breaths, trying to latch onto anything familiar about your surroundings, trying to calm yourself from the adrenaline of a nightmare. The pain in your arm throbbed and your upper thigh burned, reminding you of the last time you’d been conscious. Reminding you instantly of what took you captive. “Peter!” It came out like a groan, rasped and lodged back behind your grimace of pain, but it was loud enough. 

You didn’t have to think twice before a haste tread of footsteps could be heard. In the dark of the room, wherever you were, his silhouette could be made out beside you. Warm fingers gripped your right hand, the familiar callouses of Peter’s hold brought you some mental footing. Comfort. 

He kneeled beside the stretcher you laid upon before kissing your knuckles, his lips tracing each. A bit of light caught his features, reflecting off the hot tears lining his eyes. “We got out, you’re safe.” He whispered the words so weakly, they were breaking at the seams beneath the weight of his guilt. You could barely hear them over the high–pitched whirring surrounding the room you were in. 

Tears welled in your own eyes–from the waking of your nightmare, from the overwhelming pain lining your left arm, from the silent realization that you were in a plane right now. You were safe–it was almost too much. Peter wiped the first tear that fell from your eyes, using the same free hand to move strands of your hair from your face. His grip on your right hand adjusted, only growing more secure. 

“We made it out.” He repeated, taking a shaky breath with his pause. “Can you let me say sorry now?” The cries he tried to swallow back put gaps in his hushed question, and you couldn’t bring your trembling lip to give a response. You were overcome with relief, and tried to process the trauma and realization that the two of you made it out of a situation you didn’t think possible to. 

You could only squeeze his hand in reply, and it seemed like more than enough for him. Peter pressed the back of it to his lips again before leaning closer and kissing your cheek. Unlacing your fingers, you held his face gently, wiping his stray tears with your thumb. Peter took in the moment, savoring your touch on his cheek, leaning into it. He soon dipped down, pressing a fragile kiss to your lips. It only lasted a long second or two, but he kept his forehead rested against yours for what felt like much longer. 

“It’s good to know some things didn’t change.” Nat’s voice stood out against the quiet, making you startle from the intimate moment with Peter. She stepped into view, confirming that she was, in fact, alive. Natasha made it out, too. And you assumed she’d been your saving grace against the cannibals. 

A fresh set of tears coated your eyes, much happier than the first. Even in the dark of the aircraft, you could tell she got watery the same moment you did. 

Peter kept hold of your hand, though he moved back a bit to share you with Natasha. She littled the distance between you, pressing a short kiss to your head with apology. With compassion and condolences. “Rest up, kiddo.” She sighed, “Both of you should sleep.” Natasha stood upright, looking you both in the eye. “We’ve got hours to go.”

And you didn’t argue with her. 

The stretcher was spacious enough for Peter to rest on it beside you, getting his first wink of proper sleep in possibly weeks. You slept plenty, but after an hour or so of rest, you got restless. And hungry. 

With Peter sound asleep, you took your time easing out of his hold around you and stretched your leg. The gash on your thigh was worse than you’d realized, but Nat stitched you up quite well. 

Now it was your turn to eat and catch up with Natasha. The two of you sat in the cockpit, talking through everything that had happened on both ends throughout the past week, and Nat even went on to tell you all about what the world was like during your captivity. You’d also sought advice in her about how to go about your relationship with Peter. 

She reassured you that there was nothing selfish about it. 

After a few hours, Peter woke up as well, joining the two of you in the head of the aircraft. It was a monumental moment when he did, because the three of you got to watch the plane fly over land. You made it. You were flying over the African continent. 

And static sparked over the radio system. 

Natasha sat upright, grabbing the walkie microphone and pressing a button on the dashboard. “This is Summersault, does anyone copy?” She used a nickname that you could only piece together based on assumption. The three of you held your breath as the static continued, only cutting out when Nat would press the button on her mic again. “This is Summersault. Does anybody copy? Over.”

Something thick hung in the air as you all simultaneously leaned forwards in your seats. You didn’t know who you were waiting for, but an unanswered call would not be ideal. Having static be the only answer to Natasha could mean a number of things. It did, however, fuel the worry that there wasn’t anything left. That maybe, the Wakanda you thought you were headed for, was nothing but empty buildings and bones and ash. 

You were still miles out from any possible remnants of operating civilization, so the feedback couldn’t be a fluke. Right?

What felt like a minute passed. Perhaps an hour, but you knew it wasn’t, really. Silence made the wait feel dragged. None of you could take your eyes off the console, hoping maybe that your prayers would be answered. 

A crinkle in the static, and the three of you held your breaths, flinching at the change of noise. “I think the codename I gave you was Peppermint Patty.” You never would’ve expected the recipient to have been someone so familiar, but it was Tony Stark who answered your call. He answered your prayer.

[doumadono]

Warnings: violence, viking!Dabi, viking!Shoto, earl!Endeavor, viking!Natsuo, fem!reader, smut (short & not graphic), viking themes, Shoto is a spoiled brat

Summary: in a Viking world of power, secrets and warriors, a young woman captured during a raid finds herself entangled in the life of Dabi, the enigmatic eldest son of the ruthless earl. As secrets, scars, and desires collide, their unconventional connection unfolds in a tale of love, danger, and destiny

Word count: circa 5.9k

A/N: for a few years, I've held a fascination with Viking themes and their historical era. Recently, I had the idea to place Dabi in such a setting and see where the story would take me. I sat down to write and found myself falling in love with this new narrative instantly. While it might seem trivial to some, it's already become a precious gem to me. I plan to unravel the story over six chapters. I hope you enjoy the first one, and I'm open to all opinions. If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series, please let me know ♥

MASTERLIST NEXT CHAPTER KVITRAVN - MHA VIKING AU

ACT I - UNMASKING THE SCARS

As the longship glided silently through the dark waters, the moon cast a pale, ethereal glow on the rugged Viking coastline. The scent of salt and adventure filled the night air, and the crew of fierce warriors, led by Dabi, the renegade son of the brutal, ruthless Viking earl, Endeavor, prepared to make landfall.

Dabi, at thirty years of age, bore the marks of a troubled past. Dabi's once-pale skin was now marred by those burns, darkened like a charred log in the heart of a raging fire. His body bore the scars of a fire that had ravaged him in his youth, a cruel gift from his own father, who had attempted to kill him. But it was these very scars that had forged his determination and honed his indomitable spirit. His hair was the color of snow, and his eyes were as blue as the frost-covered sea. He had a reputation as a fierce warrior, known for his ruthless tactics and the way he fought with the fury of a tempest.

The village he came from was a place of cold stone and rough-hewn timbers, where the Viking way of life reigned supreme. The women of the village shied away from Dabi, for his scars marked him as an outcast. He lived a life of solitude, seeking solace in the wild, untamed lands that surrounded their settlement.

Their destination was a small Christian village, nestled among the rolling hills. It had been raided by Dabi's people before, but tonight was different. Tonight, Dabi's heart was restless, and he was inexplicably drawn to the village's fate.

As the Vikings stormed the village, chaos erupted. Houses were set ablaze, and the cries of the villagers filled the night.

The raucous cries of his men filled the air as the village burned and the spoils of their raid were gathered. Dabi stood at the heart of the chaos, an enigmatic figure in the midst of destruction. A faint, unsettling smile tugged at the corners of his lips, hidden beneath the eerie wolf's jaw mask.

He watched with satisfaction as his warriors, his loyal comrades in arms, looted and plundered. The riches of the Christian village flowed into their grasp, their spoils of war. It was a successful trip by Viking standards, a brutal triumph in the unforgiving world they inhabited.

Amidst the smoldering ruins of the Christian village, the Vikings had unleashed their wrath. Blood had been spilled, and the lives of some villagers had been brutally cut short.

But not all of the villagers had met a swift and merciless end. The Vikings, with a calculated eye, had chosen to capture several women and a few men, sparing them from the fate that had befallen their companions. These survivors would serve a different purpose, as slaves in the service of their Viking captors. Among them a young woman. Her hair was the Y/H/C, and her eyes held the innocence of a world untouched by the brutality of the North.

As the raiders dragged the captives away from the charred remains of their homes, the air was heavy with the weight of despair and uncertainty. These men and women, once free, were now prisoners of a world far removed from the peaceful existence they had known. Their lives had taken a harrowing turn, marked by servitude and the harsh reality of Viking conquest.

For Dabi, this decision was not only about power but also about securing the resources and labor needed to sustain their existence in these harsh northern lands. The villagers had been caught in the merciless currents of fate, and their futures were now inexorably tied to the whims of the Viking warriors who had chosen to spare them for their own purposes.

As Dabi inspected the captured men, his gaze swept over the somber group, each face marked by fear and resignation. But then, as if guided by a force beyond his control, his eyes fell upon a young woman. The sight of her took his breath away, and for a moment, he couldn't lie to himself – she was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes upon.

Despite the dirt, blood, and tears that marred her face, her beauty shone through like a radiant star in the night sky. Her cheeks bore the scars of anguish, her eyes, streaked with despair, created rivulets in the dust and grime that clung to her skin. Her once-neat clothes, now tattered and dirtied, bore witness to the cruel turn of fate she had endured.

Dabi's heart, which had been hardened by the harshness of Viking life, thudded in his chest with a new and unfamiliar emotion. She was a vision amidst the chaos, and in that moment, he realized that there was something more to her than just her physical beauty. There was a strength in her, a resilience that had allowed her to endure even in the face of such brutality.

As Dabi's eyes locked onto her, a strange and unsettling sensation coursed through him. It was a feeling he couldn't quite comprehend, a magnetic pull that defied all reason. In the midst of the chaos and destruction, this woman, captured from the village, appeared before him like an enigma.

Her hair, now messy, and those defiant eyes held a fierce determination that had not been extinguished by the horrors of the raid. She was a picture of vulnerability and strength intertwined, a paradox that captivated his very soul.

Dabi, who had always been driven by the uncompromising resolve of a Viking warrior, found himself unnerved by the intensity of this attraction. He was a man of few words and even fewer emotions, but her presence stirred something deep within him, a longing he could not explain. He questioned the very nature of his emotions, grappling with the unfamiliar warmth that her presence kindled within him, even though they hadn't spoken.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from her. Every time their eyes met, it felt as if the fates themselves had intervened, weaving their destinies together in a tapestry of fire and ice.

Their initial meeting was far from the romantic tales sung by skalds. She was bound and helpless, standing amidst the ash and ruin of her once-peaceful village. Dabi, cloaked in darkened furs, surveyed the captives with an air of detached authority. His icy gaze met hers, a meeting of two souls from opposite worlds. "You," he spoke, his voice as cold as the northern winds, "What's your name?"

The woman's voice trembled as she replied, avoiding looking at him, "It doesn't matter anymore."

Dabi's frustration simmered just beneath the surface as her initial reply didn't satisfy his curiosity. He huffed in annoyance, the cold air from his breath mingling with the tension in the atmosphere. His desire to understand her and the strange attraction he felt only intensified.

Closing the distance between them, he moved with a predatory grace, catching her by the shoulders and forcing her to turn to face him. His grip, firm but not unkind, held a subtle hint of authority. Their eyes locked, his piercing gaze penetrating her soul. "I asked you for your name, woman," Dabi demanded, his voice tinged with impatience. It was a command that brooked no disobedience, his intensity pushing past the boundaries of the tumultuous situation they found themselves in. His own desire to know her name and the unexplainable connection he felt had turned into an obsession, and he needed answers, regardless of the circumstances.

As Dabi's demand hung in the air, she met his unwavering gaze. Her eyes, a mixture of fear and defiance, looked up into his, a silent struggle raging within her. But shortly after, her gaze faltered, shifting to the mask he wore, crafted from the jagged jaw of a wolf. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, a symbol of the fierce, untamed nature of the man who stood before her.

The man, with the mask that lent him an imposing visage, was tall and imposing, easily towering over her. His presence alone was enough to instill a sense of vulnerability in her.

Trembling, she finally surrendered to his demand, her voice quivering as she spoke, "I am Y/N." Her name, offered with a tremor in her voice, was a fragile gift, a shard of her identity laid bare in the face of the formidable Viking who had claimed her as his captive.

For the next two days, the Viking raiders worked tirelessly to pack the spoils of their conquest onto their longships.

Dabi, ever the watchful leader, stood guard over the entire process, ensuring that the riches plundered from the Christian village were securely stowed away. The village's treasures, from precious metals to food supplies, were meticulously organized and divided amongst the victorious Vikings.

The night of their conquest, the Vikings celebrated their successful raid with an infernal party. Driven by the spoils they had claimed, they emptied the Christians' pantries of beer, meat, and mead. The sound of merriment echoed through the night, a stark contrast to the sorrow that had befallen the captured villagers.

However, amidst the revelry, there were dark moments that marred the festivities. Some of the Viking warriors, fueled by intoxication and the ruthless nature of their world, committed terrible acts upon the captive Christian women without their consent. It was a grim reminder of the brutality that often accompanied such raids, where power and desire clashed with the innocence of the conquered.

Dabi, torn between his leadership role and the strange attraction he felt for one of the captives, observed the chaos with a heavy heart. The celebration, for him, was a juxtaposition of the jubilant and the sinister, a reflection of the duality that defined their lives as Vikings.

After days of tireless packing, the Viking raiders were finally ready to set sail for their homeland. The longships, laden with the spoils of their conquest, were now prepared to embark on the journey back to the rugged shores they called home.

Dabi took his place at the bow of his longship, a position of command and observation. His keen, turquise eyes surveyed the captivated people who had survived the ruthless acts of the past nights. They were a motley group, marked by both the physical and emotional scars of the raid. Some carried the burden of their violated dignity, while others were haunted by the loss of their loved ones and the destruction of their once-peaceful village.

The longship that Dabi commanded was the largest among the six that had come to the shore. It loomed like a dark behemoth against the horizon, its figurehead carving through the waves, a symbol of the Viking's ruthless power. Dabi watched as the captives, those who would serve as slaves in their new life, reluctantly boarded the vessel. It was a moment that carried with it a sense of foreboding, a step into the unknown, as they embarked on a perilous journey to a life that was bound by the harsh code of the Viking world.

Dabi's keen eyes never left the captivating young woman named Y/N as she hesitantly approached the longship. She was one of the last to board, and her trembling form didn't escape his notice. She might have tried to mask her fears with a poker face, but the vulnerability that emanated from her was unmistakable.

A faint, almost smug smirk played at the corners of Dabi's lips. He knew that Y/N was not going to be easily sold in any market or to another earl. The strange attraction he felt for her had ignited something within him, a desire to protect and possess her. He understood that she was unique, an enigma amidst the other captives, and he was prepared to put pressure on his father to ensure she remained with their family in their Great Hall.

The journey back home was arduous and relentless, the Viking longships battling through raging storms and colossal waves that crashed against their sides. The tempestuous sea was a cruel reminder of nature's might, a fierce adversary they had to contend with on their voyage.

For days on end, they sailed through the tumultuous waters, each day bringing new challenges and peril. The crew worked tirelessly to navigate the treacherous waves, their lives intertwined with the unpredictable whims of the sea. The longships, laden with their ill-gotten gains, were tossed like leaves in a tempest, and the thunderous roars of the ocean were their constant companion.

Dabi, despite his role as a leader, occasionally took walks along the longship to check on his comrades. It was an excuse, he told himself, but the truth was that he sought to steal moments to take a closer look at the captivating young woman named Y/N. She was bound to a mast, her body curled in a defensive posture, a vulnerable figure amidst the chaos.

One night, as they braved the wrath of the sea, Dabi stood close to the place where Y/N was tied. He leaned against the side of the boat, his arms crossed, gazing into the darkness that enveloped them. The crashing waves and the howling winds created an eerie symphony, but his focus remained on the woman who had become a focal point of his thoughts.

"I was curious how," Dabi's voice suddenly pierced the silence.

Startled, Y/N was pulled out from a shallow slumber she had allowed to envelop her. She blinked, momentarily disoriented. "What?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and apprehension.

Dabi, who had been standing nearby, turned his gaze toward her. "How do you know our language?" he inquired, his words delivered with a curious, almost neutral tone. It was a question that had been gnawing at him, the mystery of her familiarity with their Viking tongue.

Y/N hesitated, her thoughts racing as she grappled with how to respond. The truth was a delicate matter, a secret that she had guarded with her life. "My father was a Northman," Y/N replied, her voice carrying a note of bitterness, "and as long as he was around, he was teaching me some things."

Dabi's response was not immediate, and in the dim light, his smirk was concealed by the wolf's jaw mask he wore. The revelation intrigued him, and the knowledge that she had learned their language from her Northman father added another layer of complexity to the enigma of Y/N. It was a connection he hadn't anticipated, a bridge between their two worlds that he had yet to fully explore.

"What are you going to do to us?" Y/N asked suddenly, the uncertainty in her eyes betraying her anxiety.

Dabi sighed heavily and walked closer to her, resting his hip against the mast to which she was tied. "You'll work for us," he replied simply, his tone carrying a hint of slyness.

Y/N's expression darkened as she processed his words. "So, we're going to be your slaves," she said with a tinge of bitterness, "a beautiful perspective."

Dabi chuckled softly, the sound muffled by his mask. "Well, we Vikings have a different way of looking at things, you see. You'll find our 'perspective' quite interesting, I assure you."

"Why us?" Y/N asked, curiosity mingling with her apprehension.

Dabi's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Your village was raided before, and you happen to possess a huge amount of goods we needed," he replied, the slyness in his voice becoming more apparent. "You could say it's just a matter of unfortunate circumstances."

"You're a monster. You all are. You killed innocent people!" Y/N ground the accusation from the depths of her mind.

Dabi chuckled darkly, his head tilting back slightly. "We? Oh no, sunshine, we're not monsters," he retorted, his voice dripping with a chilling nonchalance. Dabi leaned in closer to Y/N, his voice low and filled with an air of mystery. "You see," he began, a hint of smugness in his tone. "We are Vikings, warriors of the North. Our ways are brutal, but they're also fiercely proud. We live by the sword and sail by the stars. Our world is one of conquest and survival, where strength and cunning are the ultimate currencies." Dabi paused for a moment, as if considering whether to reveal more. "And you, Y/N, have found yourself caught in the wake of our world. Your journey is now intertwined with ours, and how it unfolds, well, that remains to be seen."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the unknown.

Dabi's sharp ears caught the sound of Y/N's quiet sobs, and he turned his gaze toward her.

Her words, filled with pain and anger, washed over him. "I wanna rather die than be a slave," she lamented, "you're animals, killing and robbing for fun. I'll never forgive you for killing my friends."

He let out a low, almost amused chuckle, a sound that resonated with a kind of sly arrogance. "Animals, you say?" he responded, his voice carrying a note of mockery. "Perhaps, but in our world, it's the fittest that survive. We aren't much for sentiment, and the reality is, we did what we had to do to ensure our own survival." Dabi's gaze remained fixed on her, and his tone took on a more cryptic edge. "As for forgiveness, sunshine, that's not something I'm particularly concerned about. We live by the code of the North, and it's a world where the line between predator and prey is often blurred. It's a harsh existence, but it's ours."

As the Viking longships sailed southward through the tempestuous sea, they finally reached their home village, known as Skjaldvargr nestled on the southern shores of Norway.

The arrival of Dabi and his crew was met with a raucous reception. The people of Skjaldvargr, mostly guards and shieldmaidens, had been eagerly awaiting their return. The shieldmaidens, with their fierce eyes and battle-worn armor, stood proudly alongside their male counterparts, a testament to the equality that defined Viking society.

The village came to life with the clanging of shields and the joyful cries of reunion as the raiders disembarked, their ill-gotten treasures in tow. It was a homecoming marked by the spoils of their conquest and the triumphant return of their warriors, a scene that underscored the unyielding spirit of the people of Skjaldvargr.

The longships were expertly unloaded, and the captivated men and women were carefully escorted off the vessels. They were bound together, forming a dispirited line, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and resignation. The captives from the Christian village now stood on the wooden pier, their lives forever changed by the Viking raid.

Dabi was the last to disembark. As he stepped onto the pier, the people of Skjaldvargr erupted into cheers. His name carried weight in the village; he was known not only as a fierce Viking warrior but also as one of the heirs to Endeavor, their ruthless earl. His presence was a symbol of power and authority, and the villagers greeted him with a mixture of reverence and admiration.

The triumphant return of Dabi and his crew marked a momentous occasion in the life of Skjaldvargr, where the spoils of their conquest and the legend of their daring deeds would echo through the halls of their Great Hall. The fate of the captives, bound and silent, hung in the balance, as the world of the Northmen unfurled before them.

Among the men and women on the shore, there was a tall, white-haired male with a thick, long fur draped around his shoulders, a figure that stood out amidst the assembled Vikings.

Dabi approached the man and wrapped him in a warm hug. "Natsuo, brother," he greeted him with a grin that couldn't be seen behind his mask.

Natsuo, the younger of the two, returned the hug, placing his hands on Dabi's shoulders. "Looking good and returning successful again. Wonderful," he replied with a hint of admiration in his voice. He stepped back, taking a moment to study his brother. "But what's all this fuss about a Christian village?" he inquired, his curiosity evident. "You've got everyone talking."

Dabi's smirk only widened as he regarded his brother. "Oh, Natsuo, it's a long story. Let's catch up over a drink at the Great Hall. I have quite the tale to tell."

The brothers shared a knowing glance, the unspoken understanding between them evident in their eyes.

Dabi wasted no time in issuing his orders to one of his men. "Make sure the Y/H/C woman is not sent to the market but is brought straight to the Great Hall," he commanded, his tone devoid of any room for discussion.

His bondsman, ever dutiful, nodded in acknowledgment of the directive.

Natsuo, wearing a mischievous grin, couldn't resist teasing his older brother about the mysterious woman. "Dabi, she must be quite the catch if you're keeping her for yourself," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Hope you're going to share a little!"

Dabi scoffed, playfully shoving his brother's shoulder. "Don't be absurd, Natsuo. She's just a captive from the Christian village. I've got more important matters to attend to," he replied, his tone gruff but carrying a hint of a secret smile. "Now, off to the Great Hall. Father is likely impatient for the reports."

The banter between the two brothers continued as they made their way to the heart of Skjaldvargr, leaving behind the captivated woman who had captured Dabi's attention and a tale that had yet to fully unfold.

His hips moved with swift and forceful determination, and the woman beneath him found herself panting and moaning his name in response. With a final series of intense grunts and thrusts, the young man with distinctive two-coloured hair reached his climax, giving one last deep thrust into the girl, spilling his seed in her.

She gently placed her palm against his cheek, her touch brushing over a scarred, reddened area under his left eye. However, her hand was met with a swift and firm push as he growled, withdrawing from her and hurriedly adjusting his pants.

"No," he snarled, pushing her off his bed with ease. "Get the fuck out now," he demanded, his tone filled with a brusque and dismissive edge.

"But you told me you liked me and that we'd have more time together," the young thrall whispered softly as she gathered her clothes from the wooden floor.

The young man's chuckle was cold and devoid of genuine emotion. "Are you that naive?" he sneered, "I only wanted your pussy, nothing else. Get out of my bed before my father or older brother catch you. You don't want to find yourself in trouble, do you?"

The thrall, disheartened and regretful, quickly dressed and left the room. She entered the main chamber of the Great Hall just as Natsuo and Dabi stepped through the massive doors.

Their father, Endeavor, the fearsome earl of Skjaldvargr, was seated at the throne at the end of the chamber, grinding his axe. His stern gaze bore into his eldest son as they approached, a silent expectation for a report on their latest raid.

"The raid on the Christian village was a resounding success. We looted their coffers, took their goods, and brought back valuable supplies that will sustain our village for the winter. The riches we've acquired are beyond our expectations."

Endeavor nodded, acknowledging the information. "Any captives?" he inquired, his eyes scrutinizing his son.

Dabi continued, "We have several men and women who will serve as thralls. We've also secured a Y/H/C woman who is very unique, father. She possesses knowledge of our language, and I've made the decision to keep her within our Great Hall rather than sending her to the market."

He listened to Dabi's report with a stern demeanor, his eyes narrowing as his son spoke about the captive Y/H/C woman. When Dabi finished, the earl's voice held a note of warning. "You know that you shouldn't be making such decisions without my consent," he admonished, his tone heavy with authority. "But this time, I will let it slide."

Inside, Dabi couldn't help but heave a silent sigh of relief. Endeavor's leniency meant that he would have the opportunity to interact with Y/N more freely, a chance to explore the mystery and attraction that had drawn him to her during the journey home. The knowledge that he wouldn't face immediate consequences for his impulsive decision filled him with a sense of gratitude, even as he maintained his outward composure.

Natsuo, on the other hand, took a seat at the long table, where freshly cooked meat was being served by their thralls. He joined the warriors who had gathered to eat, listening to the tale of their successful raid with a satisfied grin. The sounds of feasting and celebration filled the Great Hall, a stark contrast to the darkness and secrets that had transpired on the longship during the journey home.

As Dabi stood in front of his father, a sudden presence caught his attention. A young man with two-colored hair, neatly groomed but slightly untidy now, had joined them. It was Shoto, Dabi's youngest brother, who had recently celebrated his eighteenth spring. His appearance and demeanor appeared deceivingly innocent, but Dabi knew that his younger sibling was not to be underestimated.

"So, you've returned, brother," Shoto said, his tone dripping with feigned sweetness. He offered Dabi a smile that was almost too saccharine, given the complexities of their family dynamics.

Dabi acknowledged Shoto with a nod, a sense of unease brewing beneath the surface.

Shoto turned his attention to their father, Endeavor, his voice carrying a subtle air of request. "Father, this winter, I want to visit Earl Gizzor's settlement, as we discussed. It's crucial that we maintain good relationships between our settlements."

Dabi furrowed his brow, disbelief tinging his words. "What? How do you intend to do that? We've declared war on them."

Shoto maintained his sweet smile as he responded, "While you were away, brother, father and I reached an agreement. We've decided that it's no longer necessary to wage war with Earl Gizzor. Instead, we've buried the hatchet."

Dabi was taken aback, struggling to process what he was hearing. Earl Gizzor was known to be a man of dubious trustworthiness, and the sudden reconciliation with him left a bitter taste in Dabi's mouth. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss, and the unexpected alliance between his younger brother and their father raised more questions than it provided answers.

Endeavor nodded in agreement with Shoto's proposal, adding his voice to the conversation. "Shoto is right, Dabi. Maintaining alliances and peace with neighboring earls is essential. We can't be at war on all fronts."

Dabi, with a simple nod of acknowledgment, turned to leave the throne area of the chamber. However, before he walked away, he caught Shoto's shoulder, his grip gentle but firm. "You have a fucking sperm on your pants, you little bastard," he grumbled, his voice low and filled with a blend of irritation and brotherly mockery. "Which poor thrall have you managed to lure into your charms this time?"

Shoto, not one to be easily cowed, replied in a wry and cocky whisper, ensuring their father couldn't hear, "You're always looking so closely, brother. Some of us don't need a mask to be charming. If you looked look like a real man, you wouldn't need to be envious of my romantic pursuits," he quipped, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he took a not-so-subtle dig at Dabi, looking him hardly in the eyes.

Their exchange, hidden beneath the veneer of family respect and decorum, hinted at a deeper sibling rivalry and a history of conflicting personalities. The tension between Dabi and Shoto was a thread woven into the very fabric of their family.

Dabi's patience worn thin by the exchange with Shoto. He scoffed and let go of his younger brother's arm. He turned and made his way straight to his chamber, his footsteps heavy.

Natsuo, who had been a silent witness to the situation between his two brothers, watched with a heavy heart. He loved them both and couldn't bring himself to pick sides, but the tension in the air was palpable, and he worried about the growing rift between Dabi and Shoto.

In his own chamber, Dabi wasted no time. He shed his outer layers, discarding the fur, the mask, woolen shirt, and pants until he stood naked in the room. He flopped onto his bed, which was covered with furs, and stared at the ceiling. His mind was filled with thoughts about everything that had transpired during the days, and he couldn't help but wonder about Shoto's intentions and the potential consequences of their father's newfound alliance.

After some contemplation, he decided to take a bath to clear his mind. Dabi wrapped a towel around his hips and called for one of the thralls to prepare a hot bath for him.

As the thrall prepared the bath, the steam filled the room, creating a cozy and relaxing atmosphere. Dabi wasted no time and immersed himself in the hot water of the wooden tub. The soothing warmth seeped into his muscles, and he leaned back comfortably against the edge, closing his eyes.

The scent of the bath's herbs and oils mixed with the steam, creating a fragrant haven that allowed Dabi to momentarily escape the complexities of his world. With each passing moment, the tensions seemed to melt away, leaving him in blissful solitude and the serene embrace of the soothing bathwater.

As you were brought to the Great Hall, everything appeared new and unfamiliar. Fear coursed through your veins as you found yourself surrounded by strangers, most of them men whose eyes bore into you with an unsettling hunger. The air was thick with whispered, lewd comments, but you did your best to avoid drawing attention, keeping your gaze lowered and your composure intact.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, an older woman, a thrall who had been through similar experiences, extended a hand to guide you away from the prying eyes. She offered a reassuring smile as she took your hand and spoke in a soothing tone. "Come with me, child. I'll explain your new duties and help you settle in," she said, her voice filled with empathy. "You'll find your place here, and in time, it will become more familiar."

Her words provided a glimmer of hope in the midst of your fear, as you followed the thrall to begin your new life in the Great Hall, embarking on a journey that held both uncertainty and the possibility of finding your own strength in a world of unfamiliar faces and customs.

The thrall, as she handed you a plain, thick, greyish dress, began to speak about the members of the earl's family. Her voice was gentle and informative, and you listened attentively, eager to learn more about the people you would be serving. In the end, it was your new life.

She explained, "The earl is Endeavor, a formidable leader and the head of this settlement. He's known for his strength and authority, but also for his ruthlessness."

You nodded, taking in the information, and she continued, "Touya, the eldest son, is a fierce warrior, and he's known for his prowess in raids. His younger brother, Natsuo, is more diplomatic, often seeking peaceful resolutions. The youngest of Endeavor's sons is Shoto," the thrall continued, her voice carrying a more cautious tone as she spoke of him. "He can be the most problematic one, especially when it comes to his affairs." Her words were filled with a hint of warning. "Shoto is known for his charisma and charm, but don't be fooled. He's a smooth talker and has a way of getting what he wants." She leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing as she emphasized, "Be careful around him, dear. He may seem charming, but his intentions can be far from virtuous."

Overwhelmed by the realization that you had been reduced to nothing but a slave, a feeling of hopelessness and anger welled up within you. You turned to the elder woman and, with a hint of defiance, you declared, "I don't want to work. I won't be a slave."

The thrall, her expression heavy with the weight of harsh reality, looked at you with a stern gaze. She leaned in closer, her voice low and foreboding as she whispered, "You don't have a choice in this matter, my child, so hadn't I. If you refuse to work, you won't survive for long. This is the way of our world, and it's a harsh one. I arrived here several years ago, after being taken from the settlement of another earl who was killed in a battle with Endeavor, and ever since, I've been toiling for the earl's family. The tasks are far from rewarding, but such is the way of life," she explained, her voice tinged with resignation.

As you inquired about the tall man who cnquered your village, the thrall's eyes held a certain intensity, and she clarified, "It was Dabi. Dabi is his chosen warrior name. His given name is Touya."

You had obediently completed your first task of cleaning the Great Hall, even though it felt like a menial chore that reflected your new life as a thrall. However, when another thrall instructed you to go to another room to help with the bath, you complied without question. With a heavy sigh, you followed the directions and pushed open the door.

As you stepped into the room, a rush of steam enveloped you, carrying a fragrance of herbs that filled the air. Your brow furrowed in surprise, but before you could react further, the steam dissipated. What lay before you was a scene that caught you off guard: a large bed and clothes, and a mask that you recognized from when Dabi had worn it.

Then, your eyes fell upon the figure in the bath, and a gasp escaped your lips, a sound you couldn't control. You took an involuntary step back as the sight unfolded before you. The man in the bath was Dabi, his body covered with a patchwork of purple, dark, scarred skin. These gnarled, wrinkled, and disfigured patches marred much of his lower face and neck, extending past his collarbone, and continued down his arms and legs. Your whimper of shock hung in the air, and you couldn't help but take another step back, horror etched on your face. It was the first time you saw him without a mask.

Dabi's turquoise eyes opened slowly, and he gazed at you with a haunting intensity. "That's you," he whispered, a quiet acknowledgment of your presence, his voice tinged with a hint of mystery and a deep well of secrets.

As the realization of Dabi's disfigured appearance settled in, the room seemed to grow heavy with tension. Your initial shock gave way to a mix of empathy and curiosity, wondering about the circumstances that had led to such extensive scarring.

The room, suffused with the aroma of herbs, steam and the eerie sight of his scars, seemed to cradle you both in its embrace, marking a pivotal moment that was only beginning to unfold.

heathen wolves: @indignant-alpaca @misafiryanki @roast-toast @within-eyesight @crystalwolfblog

[shaarlslec]

me and the devil

words: 6717

introduction/part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 5

warnings/notes: charles leclerc x reader, friends to enemies to lovers type of a thing, blood, slow burn!!

inspired by: Soap&Skin - Me And The Devil, The Neighborhood - Afraid, The Academic - Why Can’t We Be Friends?, lovelytheband - i like the way, The Wombats - Turn , Wallows - Pleaser

masterlist

“I meant every touch, always.” Charles nodded, placing his forehead on yours for your breaths to meet, both hot and heavy, both lusting to be cut by a clash of mouths.

Three hurried knocks to your door made your spine shiver ten minutes after Charles left the room, “I told you I don’t want to ta-” You annoyingly roughly shouted, thinking about the hopeful likelihood that Charles turned on his way back to your door.

Hopeful, that was what your mind was when it came to him, and yet the mouth muttered quite the opposite. Get out, leave – your coping mechanism was showing, always avoiding talking to him about this matter of feelings, always wanting him to leave when all you really sought was for you both to beg the other to stay and figure things out.

And yet, the voice echoing at the other side of the door was not Charles’, “It’s me.” Your manager said in a worried tone, “Are you dressed?” They asked, wide opening the door after your affirmative loud response, “We need to go.” They uttered, making your eyebrows frown in confusion as their tone altered.

“What happened?”

“Disciplinary meeting.” They simply replied, and your blood started to boil.

You disobeyed the team; you know that obviously they were going to grouch you – but could have not they waited for another day or two? Winning the race, taking the first spot in the championship and almostkissing Leclerc was enough for you that day to burst into flames or at least to shut yourself from the world that day, and now you had to deal with this bullshit disciplinary meeting as well.

It went exactly how you would have expected it. You, your manager, and part of your team standing face to face with the team principal and the head strategists alongside with your race engineer and Xavi. Them, congratulating you for your win and thanking you for grabbing important points for the team, and right after that keeping you accountable for your disobedience.

“You cannot pull these moves on us, Y/N.” Fred said, and although you knew how good of a human he is – everyone feared Charles’ words over his. Your team principal had to do his job, Fred was not allowed to let his drivers kill each other on or outside the track. And yet, you were angry – you have been angry for quite some time, and they were all about to witness that type or range that comes from a woman sick of being told by men what to do.  

“But Leclerc can.” You simply clearly and coarsely spoke back to him, “It is okay when your first driver does it, but God forbid I do it too.” You almost spit in between your teeth, causing a grimace on Fred’s face.

You knew you were putting him in a very uncomfortable position, but that was a spot in which Ferrari placed you for two whole years. You needed some sort of revenge, you were only sorry that Fred and the others who were not Charles Leclerc had to go through it – to feel your range, to see your darkened face and to hear your untamed tone. And yet, they helped Charles, they cheered for their “predestined”, and they were the ones who collectively ruined him before Leclerc has decided to turn into the devil.

“Whatever is going on in between you and Char—” Fred begun, and yet his words failed by being cut short.

“Nothing is going on.” You sharply spoke, looking somewhere anywhere else in the conference room and not at him and the people you were disappointing now with your unforgiving insolence. You are turning into me, Charles said. Were you ready to embrace that idea? You pondered that thought, switching glares from one person to the other within your team that were apologizing without words but just enduring eyes. Were you ready to give them hell just as Charles has been doing for the past years? How much was their fault and how much was Leclerc’s? Was the devil made or born? Your chest ached, millions of thoughts rushing through your mind – all about him.

“I hate to bring this up, Y/N.” Fred kept on going, “Your contract ceases at the end of the season.” He almost warned, perfect – another person at Ferrari threatening you, “We would like to extend it for another two.” Your team principal breathed, “That is if you do not cause any more trouble.” Fred highlighted, and you could hear Charles’ words as if they were sitting on the tip of Fred’s tongue.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath in, “What if I told you that I was not able to hear the radio coming in?” You spoke, glare on your race engineer now, “What if I told you that from now on, I am choosing what to hear or not? What are you going to do? Kick me out and replace me with someone else?” You intoned, fingers jabbed on the desk’s edges all tensed up in anger, “Hire yet another driver to be Leclerc’s bitch?” You added, widening all eyes in the room including your manager’s, “I would like to see you try.” You then wrecked, and you loathed yourself at that moment for sounding just like him, for rolling your tongue in the same way as him as you spoke the words, for rousing the same type of fright as Charles Leclerc.

“You are not—”

“You are treating me like I am.” You replied, eyes back on Fred who dared to talk, “Let us race fairly – and you will see who deserves the title of being your first driver.” You exhaled, relaxing your muscles underneath their looks.

Charles was not called into the meeting, though your teammate was very much aware of it happening. He was the one who told Xavi that he needed solutions, and Xavi was more than edger to provide them to him even if they were not the ones to be executed on track. Xavi had its influence within the team, acting like a shadow of Charles whenever the Monegasque had to solve politics. Xavi called for the disciplinary meeting, and Fred was more than edger to not upset his preferent race engineer and driver – the whole team was.

Leclerc’s engineer stood quiet the whole time as you and Fred spoke, mentally noting all the details so they can be shared with Charles. You were aware of that happening, that is why during the meeting your looks would fix Xavi’s the most, as if Charles was watching through the engineer’s eyes. Fierce, unbothered, and ready for whatever Charles was scheming next. You already beat him at his own game on the track, how long will it take until you crack him open outside of it too?

You left the conference room angrier than you had entered it, announcing in a hurried rush towards the accommodation’s exit that you needed to be alone. No celebrations for tonight regards your win, no other interviewers, and no media presence around you. You wanted to clear your head and you knew exactly the way to do it – you were just hopping for no one to remember Charles’ answer to the first question about you during the quiz.

Your teammate watching you leave from afar after Xavi rushed to him and spilled the beans in a mouthful, seeing your poor worried manager trying to keep up with you but giving up once you reached the exit.

Leclerc watched you from one of the windows as you went in your car and heavily pressed the acceleration, zooming out of the parking lot in meters of seconds. That was enough time for Charles to dial one of your very well-known common friends, and family.

“I need you to do something for me.” Charles spoke, and he could basically already envision Arthur’s eyes rolling through the highs of Heaven and then back into the pits of Hell, “It is about Y/N.”

Arthur softly breathed at the end of the call, “What did you do now?” His brother asked, moving further from the group of friends who were celebrating his P6 in today’s race at one of the bars downtown, “Forget that – you are not going to tell me anyways. What do you want me to do, then?” Arthur intoned, knowing very well that no matter how bad Charles fucked up towards you, he was not going to be the one to whom his older brother admits.

Charles’ ego was too gigantic for that, and Arthur was not planning on touching that. You were what was important, little Leclerc was more than edger to help especially after you were not returning any of his congratulatory texts that afternoon after the race.

“I will send you a short list of restaurants that I think Y/N is heading too now.” Charles spoke as he watched your car completely disappear form his sight now, “Meet with her, she needs a friend.” Charles bittersweetly spoke, knowing damn well that he would have preferred for that friend to be him, “No matter how much she will say that she is fine and that she does not need someone to talk to – she does.” Charles pinpointed, remembering all the times when you called for him after something has happened to you, good or bad.

And yet, the circumstances were not allowing Leclerc’s wish to become true. He was the reason Fred threatened you with the termination of your contract, how stupid of him with it be to want to comfort you?

Arthur took a glance over his group of friends, “I am with someone now – why can’t you be there for her if you think she needs a fri-” Arthur stopped at the end of the sentence, friends was not exactly the word to describe your relationship now. Not never, Arthur speedily thought, “Ok then, what do you want me to tell her?” He added, fingers pressing on the ends of his forehead.

“Tell her that –” Charles paused, not finding himself honest to speak the truth to even his brother. She is brave, and fearless, and nothing like me – and I am half of a man for wanting to deprive her of what she truly deserves due to the greediness that lays so still inside my being. That her happiness subjugates mine, and that I have yet to learn how to come to terms with that to not get scorched at the end of it all. Neither she nor I.

“That what?” Arthur annoyingly asked, being feed up already by Charles’ pause that had to be taken for his brothers’ train of thought to derail from its route, “Come on Charles, I do not have all day to argue with you over the phone.”

“That she needs to keep her distance.” Leclerc lied, thinking about what just happened minutes ago and then back in the hotel room – about how much he would have wished to kiss you and touch you, and to convince yourself and him that it was not just for the fun of the game but to tame unspoken long-awaited longings, “On track, I mean.” Charles clarified, and he could feel Arthur’s smile over the huff at the end of the call.

“You are so insufferable.” He spoke, “But then again, like I said – I don’t have all day to argue with you. Send me the restaurants, I must go and get your girl since you are such a scaredy-cat.” Arthur argued, pressing the end of the call on the screen before Charles even got the chance to mutter something back to his brother.

“Y/N is not my gi—” Charles has begun, the phone’s screen returning to normal before he got to finish his sentence. My girl, Charles had to recognize that had a great sound to it – only if you were not the girl he was fighting on track.

Arthur was surprised to find you exactly where Leclerc has indicated. The first two restaurants that the little brother went to were unsuccessful, and yet the third one was just the right one: a hidden Parisian sort of a boutique right across the corner of an unnamed street in the heart of the city. Charles knew your post-race rituals, but you were not expecting him to remember the names of the ones you frequently visited. And yet, Charles did – he has been always paying the best of attention to your rambles when you were getting along and hang out together after your races in cities you happened to be at the same time.

“Why do you like these tiny God-forgotten places so much?” Charles would ask when you first took him to one of the hidden-gem restaurants you found back in Azerbaijan after one of your F2 races during your what was your winning championship.

“First of all,” You excitedly begun as you went through the menu’s pages, “These places have the best food you could taste in the entire city. They usually have ten to twelve recipes that they perfect – and they are cheap as well.” You intoned, finger pointing to one of your favorite deserts, “Second, the staff is really nice, and you don’t have to be worried about people recognizing you and asking for autographs.” You pinpointed, glaring over the space to see only two table occupied beside the one at which you and Leclerc stood at.

“Oh, I see, you are right – you would not want for people to recognize you all the time when you are going to be the most well-loved driver on the grid.” Charles argued, scooping through the menu with big curious eyes.

You chuckled, “I was not speaking about me, Charles.” You paused, relaxing into your seat as you were watching him, “I am talking about you – il Predestinado.” You teased, loving how everyone was catching more and more that nickname for him after his Monza win, “In a few years or so when we come back to this city and you will be the one to restore Ferrari’s legacy back into its place, everyone will want a photo or an autograph from you – I am thinking ahead.”

Charles stopped his search through the menu’s words, “Do you really think so?” He buoyantly asked, and that was one of the times in which you saw the hope that faded from the irises of the boy’s eyes being replaced with anger and greed.

You gently cupped Charles’ wrist into your hand, “I know so.” You affirmatively answered as you rubbed your thumb across the back of the boy’s hand, “Don’t worry, you will do just fine.” You added, retracting your hand from his right when Charles turned his to cup yours within the hold of his fingers that were now just brushing against each other. You placed yours back into your lap, and he reminded still for a while with his fingers longing for yours.

Charles nodded, “I was not joking tough,” The man begun, eyes on yours that were awkwardly paying attention to your lap rather than him as you were rubbing your hands together now in nervousness, “You are going to be the most well-loved driver on the gird once you get your rightful seat.” Charles intoned, “You have this loving heart and pure intentions, and everyone can see that.”

You chuckled, turning your glare on him now, “What’s best?” You wondered with your hands now back on the table catching Charles’ glare on them, wondering exactly what Charles was thinking in the back of his mind – that was to catch your hand into his, “To be the most well-loved driver or the most feared one?”

Charles contemplated your words for a bit, both of you knowing well where he stood at that time. His name representing the hope that all fans had for Ferrari’s return, everyone loving his humbleness and softness.  

“The most loved one, for sure.” Charles finally spoke as he released a heavy breath of air from between his ruddy lips, “Why would you want people to fear you?” He simply asked as his fingers turned the pages of the menu not seeing you smile at the other side of the table before you whispered a short Yes, you are right – you are always right.

Turns out, Charles is not always right. You said now in the back of your mind, years later and alone at what was a very similar table in an alike restaurant. You wanted to understand him, you really did so. Where did the sweet and caring Charles that you knew went? Where did his compliments and wise words vanish? And – was all of it worth it? You shook your head as the waitress places your drink in front of you, snatching away from a conversation that now seemed to be one from a faraway time and from another world.

“Hello gorgeous.” A voice similar of the one ponding in your mind resounded, and yet quite not the same.

You lifted your glare from the table, “Arthur, what are you do—” You paused with a dry throat, “Don’t tell me Charle—” You stopped again, but not because you could not find your words but because Arthur was the one to interrupt them.

“No, no, no.” The little Leclerc announced you as he slid at the table on the seat across yours, “I was with a couple of friends downtown and I saw you through that little window,” Arthur spoke, pointed out what was indeed a little framed window at the end of the restaurant through which it would have been very improbable that you could have been spotted inside. Yet, you were not in the mood to argue with yet another Leclerc, “Do you mind if I sit?” He questioned with care.

Yes. “No,” You spoke, I want to be alone, “I could use a drinking buddy.” You playfully placed your words, ordering another of the same drink you were having for Arthur, watching him enthusiastically clapping both of his hands together after congratulation you on your win today and scolding you for not answering his texts.

Ten minutes after chit-chatting with Arthur and you realized that you, in fact, never wanted to be alone. You needed someone to talk to about what happened today at Ferrari, and someone who understood how fucked up of a situation that was. Also, someone who knew Charles Leclerc as you did – in some matters, even better. You ranted; Arthur was more than keen to listen.

“Where that leaves me now, I ask you.” You gasped throwing your hands in the air, “I shall behave and act like a good lieutenant for your brother just because he demands that so from the team?”

“No, most definitely not.” Arthur replied, what was with you and taking advice from the Leclerc brothers, anyway?

“That is exactly what I thought.” You added, ordering few more drinks with the idea of getting wasted that evening and yet knowing that Arthur was not quite the man to hold his liquor – neither were you.  

“He is troubled now, Y/N.” Arthur gently spoke, thinking about all the times where he saw his brother deep in thoughts regarding the season, racing but mostly especially the ones about you, “Having his hand forced by you might be exactly what he needs as a wake-up call regarding his goals.” Arthur added with softness in his eyes, “I love my brother, but Charles cannot keep this persona for too long – he is too good of a human for that, even if now it might seem like he forgot that.”

You nodded, “I know.” I love him too, you would have wanted to say. Instead, you took a deep breath in, “Enough about me, what is going on with you?” You smiled, wanting to keep your head away from Charles even for a bit now that Arthur was the one standing in front of you, “P6 today in a McLaren! That’s huge.” You winked, patting the man’s shoulder across the table, “You are really planning on getting them back on track.”

Arthur’s eyes rolled, “That is if they were not so stubborn in praising Norris so fucking much.”

You laughed, the on-track banter in between Arthur Leclerc and Lando Norris was the next best thing that excited people during this season besides you and Charles. For the next couple of hours, you talked shit with Arthur – you loved to talk shit with him, you two had always been gossiping besties. Besides that, you drank way too much for both of your own good during all the talk.

Hours passed, evening was now gone, and the city was covered in full-blown darkness split by the streets’ illuminating system. You decided to walk back to the hotel you and Arthur were both staying in by foot to dozen off the alcohol, and that happened to be one long excruciating trip back.

And yet, you loved every single piece of it. Charles was right, although you were not to know what they two talked. You needed a friend, you needed someone to talk to, and Arthur was just right for the job.

You laughed until your stomached pained by the time you made it to the hotel, telling stories about your junior years and making impressions of anyone you could not stand on the grid (current or not).

“Change your fucking car.” Arthur intoned, and you could not help yourself but not to laugh as he was imitating Horner’s voice.

“What a troubled man.” You said in between your chuckles, “Remember that one time when he was riding a horse and his wife said something about the horse being Bottas?”

“Bottas would eat Horner alive.” Arthur almost shouted, and you mimicked a short “shh” to him as you found yourselves at the entrance of the hotel, “We need to behave, little one.” You mumbled, your words as well as your feet stumbling as you were trying to look normal for the people at the reception desk to not figure out that you were simply wasted.  

“Ok here, here,” Arthur spoke, taking your shoulder within one of his arms to stabilize both of your bodies, “You walk right, and I walk left.” He drunkenly explained, “In this way, our bodies will lean on each other, and we will look like we are walking in a straight line.” Arthur further clarified, erupting in laughter as the plan was not making any sense.

People at the reception desk were already staring at you from inside, knowing damn well that you two were not sober. They rubbed shoulders, and one of them even took their phone out to take a picture of you.

“Imagine that” They whispered, “Y/N arm in arm with Charles’ brother – they must be complotting against him, or are they having an affair behind his back?” They proudly spoke, almost shooting the shot before his phone was snatched from his hands by the one, they were so proudly talking about.

“I can assure you that both of your theories are utterly wrong.” Charles spoke with a grim on his face, “Not a word about this.” He threatened, placing the phone back on the counter with dreadful eyes, “Now will you be a dear and pretend you have something else to do in the back with your colleague?” Charles harshly intoned while switching glares in between the two employees who were perplexedly looking at him staring back at them as if he was going to do heavily damage right then and there, stepping away from the reception desk to go outside through the sliding doors and meet you two: his dear brother and his girl.

Charles had heard your laughs from the first floor where he occupied whole for himself and his crew. Frankly, the man has not gotten that much sleep due to the events during the day and once he had heard that you were not in want of a celebration for that evening, he knew you will spend most of the evening with Arthur. That made him worry in ways he was unable to elucidate. Charles’ fear was for the evening not to turn into the night, and for you not to search comfort in the arms he pushed you in without any of your knowledge. Therefore, Charles stood awake, and he waited by the widow for you to come back. Kinda stalk-ish, maybe Arthur was right. Oh, how Charles disliked being lectured by his little brother.

Arthur was the one to first glance at his brother at the entrance while you were clinging to the man’s chest with your eyes pressed together in tears due the laughter evoked. But then, when you heard Arthur’s little “oh” and felt his chest lifting in a sigh, you followed his glare and meet Charles coming towards you.

“Oh,” You muttered too, laughter ceasing to exist as you frowned at your teammate, “You again.” You spoke as soon as Charles was able to hear your words.

“Looks like you are having fun,” Charles said looking down at Arthur’s hand now cupping yours for better stability, “Acting like teenagers in front of people who can and will recognize you.” Charles scolded, and you could visibly see Arthur’s vein popping up at the edges of his forehead.

“Oh look Y/N, dad is here.” Arthur spoke in a harsh tone, and that was for the first time you and Charles exchanged a short, worried glare. Arthur was wasted, even more wasted that you were. And perhaps, that was the only time when he would ever joke about that. Charles let out a sigh, and you slightly shook your head with the idea of sobering up a little bit – you only done yourself worse.

You patted the Arthur’s chest, unclasping your hand from his, “Come on, let’s get you into your room.” You mouthed, acting as if Charles was not even standing two feet away from you.

“Let me take care of that.” Charles interviewed, grabbing Arthur from one of his shoulders so he could depart him from you. Yet, Arthur was reluctant of the idea as he snatched away his shoulder from Leclerc’s grip and tightening even harder the arm that was around you, fingers gripping into your skin with such force that it almost hurt you.

“No, I want Y/N to do it.” Arthur replied, stepping away from Leclerc and grabbing you with him too without any warning causing a harsh balance of your feet.

Charles was quick to react to that too. His hand went immediately on your back, as Arthur’s arm was still locking your shoulders but was unable to react stumbling on his feet as well. Your teammate annoyingly breathed, so close that you were able to feel him on your face and to engage in the man’s scent.

“Your room, now.” Charles spoke, one step away from you now as you regained your balance, “We have a plane to catch in four hours straight to Monaco, you need to sober up.” He added, eyes still on his brother’s grip on you.

Arthur laughed, “You were the one to send me to her – now you don’t want to see us together?” He added in a mockery tone, “Fuck, make up your mind brother.” He added, loosening the strength of his arm around you, letting you out of the grab underneath Charles’ attentive glare.

You shifted away – from both. Crossing your arms at your chest, switching glares from Charles to Arthur and then back on Charles, and with your mind intoxicated with alcohol, you were unable to control your anger anymore.

“So, you lied to me.” You calmly first spoke, pointing your finger to Arthur, “I knew you did lie from the moment you sat at the table, but covering for your brother after knowing what he had the team do today and pretending like you really wanted to be there for me?” You huffed, squinting your eyes at him, “Do any of you even care about me at all?” You asked, eyes fixing Charles now, “Or is this just some sort of a twisted game of throwing ball that you two like to play with people?”

Arthur was the one to speak while Charles remined silent, “Of course, of course, of course we do care – I mean, I do.” The younger Leclerc spoke, taking both of your hands in his, “You were not answering my texts, so all Charles was doing was to help me get a hold of you.”

Rolling his eyes, Charles’ mouth opened to speak, “Do not listen to him, Y/N – it was not like that.”

Your hands were left empty in the air now as Arthur turned to his brother, “Are you really going to tell her the truth or what?” Arthur provocatively spoke, “Do you want me to do that as well instead of you?” Arthur added, and you were more than edger to hear Charles’ response to that inquiry but sadly, as you were expecting for him to act, Charles became avoidant of the question and now only – your teammate eluded your looks as much as he could do so in the presence of a very pissed off little brother.

“Like I said,” Charles paused, placing one of his hands on Arthur’s shoulder to snatch him even further from you and closer to the hotel’s entrance, “Let’s get you to your room, Arthur – we are leaving tom –” Charles repeated, but his sentence was unable to be finished as Arthur took a bold move of punching his brother right in the face.

A loud thump as Arthur’s fist slammed Charles’ jaw, and one heavy breath coming from Arthur after realizing what he has done, “Don’t act like you can control anything and everything at once.” Arthur advised, fires coming from the youngest Arthur’s eyes towards his brother, “Grow the fuck up, brother.” He spoke, untensing his fist.

You gasped before covering your mouth with both of your palms; Charles seemed to be unfazed by Arthur’s swift move, “You are drunk, brother.” He added in a soft tone, “We will get you to your room, alright?” Charles breathed, looking now at you who remined speechless inches away from them.

Arthur felt sorry immediately after punching Leclerc, and you could see that on the boy’s face right away. You nodded towards their direction and the three of you entered the hotel, you quickly glanced over the receptionist desk wondering if anyone saw what happened outside as you worriedly walked behind the two of them who were now exchanging short whispers, you could gather the words, I am sorry and I know.  

“I took care of that.” Charles announced, looking over his shoulder to catch your stare on the boys’ backs – and Charles’ split slightly bloody and bruised bottom lip in the well-lighted hotel’s hall.

You felt guilty all the way to Arthur’s floor because you caused that, you caused the punch although you were not the one to throw it. You were the one to be silent now, although you would have wished to scream from the top of your lungs. And yet, causing yet another fight might not be the best solution. You shortly hugged Arthur goodnight before Charles slammed the door shut, but not before hearing Arthur whispering into your ear, “My part in Charles’ wake-up call.” He giggled, embracing your body tightly despite Charles’ unpleasant look.

Charles followed you to the elevator so he could take you to your room too, your teammate had to make sure that you were getting the right one. You stood in silence, in a deep-oppressive silence as the elevators’ doors closed. Taking a short glance at Leclerc’s lips, Charles caught you lurking.

“Brothers fight.” Charles simply spoke, trying to wipe the blood at the corner of his lip with two of his fingers, “No worries,” Leclerc paused as the wound was twitching and you could clearly see the discomfort on the man’s face, “It happened before too, none of us like to be told what to do – especially when we are drunk.” Charles clarified, remembering all the times in which either him or Arthur threw punches at each other.

You sighed, “That does not seem very healthy.” You spoke, and hearing your voice was everything Charles was in need to ease the pain.

Charles smiled, turning his face to you to take a better look at what he would like very much to call “his girl” out loud and not just somewhere hidden in the back of his mind, “It was not your fault, just so you know.” He added, and the door clicked – you have reached your floor and had to go. And yet, you stayed and oh, how that made Charles’ heart flutter.

“Can I,” You paused with a shortened breath, “Can you at least let me take care of that so I can feel less guilty?” You answered, pointing out to Charles’ bottom lip.

Charles nodded without hesitating, which was very unlike him, you thought. And yet, seeing you with Arthur pleading so you could take his little brother to his room, made Charles realize that his jealousy unmeasurable at the thought of you being with someone else in a hotel room.

And now, you were inviting him into yours. You went straight to the bathroom to get the medical kit, and Charles watched you searching for that as he took a seat on the sides of the bathtub. The split of his lip was not even that bad, Arthur was unable to punch his brother using full force and of course. Charles could have taken care of the wound on his own and yet, now, how could he say no to the opportunity of you making room in between his legs so you could tap his bottom lip to disinfect it?

Charles looked up at you while you were trying to keep your calm. One of your hands went to his shoulder for better stability. You were still quite drunk, and using that excuse was working. You smelled like negroni, and fresh cooked bread. Judging by that, Charles already was guessing what your order was for that dinner. That made him slightly smile, making your job even more difficult. The warmness of Charles’ body so close with yours engulfed you, and it took you to a whole different reality again – one in which you were not racing with the other, one in which you would have pressed your lips against his right then and there, not thinking about any form of a consequence.

“Up.” You breathed, your fingers going from Charles’ shoulder to part of his neck to sustain him.

Charles obeyed, “I have to apo-”

“Shut up.” You quickly spoke, and not because talking would harden whatever you were doing to heal the wound, but because hearing his voice so close to your ears drove you insanely crazy.

Charles obeyed again, this time with a chuckle.

“I told you to shut up.” You insisted, eyes now on him as you were placing small transparent patch over his cleaned grievance, “You really send Arthur to find me?” You questioned, hand retracting from his neck for a split of a second before Charles’ covered yours with his, grabbing you by the wrist. Don’t, don’t depart yet. Charles would have wished to say, but let the eyes do the talking.

“I did, I just –” Charles paused, and amongst all of the pauses he took while speaking to you all day, this one was the longest and it drove you the craziest because he was now looking at you as Charles used to do back in the days – no greed, no jealousy, no fear into his eyes, just sparks of hope, “I know it will sound thoughtless, but I wanted to make sure that you were alright after what happened during the day.”

You sighed, “You could have asked me on your own.”

“You told me to get out of your room.” Leclerc replied, hand still on yours, chest still aching.

“And now I invited you in.” You nervously laughed as you patted Charles’ skin with two of your fingers, leaving your mark, tracing him, making him want more and more as you shifted even closer to his body in between his legs, “It seems like none of us can make our minds about the other – even after all this time.” You slowly spoke, “Were you jealous of him?” You teased even further, your other hand leaning on the man’s tight that was rubbing yours.

Charles nodded; you were having him wrapped around your little finger now – just as he had you this afternoon too, “My brother or not, men calling you “darling” or not.” Charles intoned, as his other hand went on your waist to hold you dearly to him, “I am always jealous.”

A thrumming smile showed on your face as you felt Charles’ fingers uncovering your back and touching your skin without the fabric of your t-shirt standing in-between the two, “I was always jealous on your girlfriends, too.” You finally confessed, feeling like a rock has been lifted from your chest, “Long-term or not, just a fling or not.” You continued, breathing heavily as Charles’ hand went up your spine, “Fuck, Charles.” You breathed right into his ear, feeling him heavy and hard underneath your touch on his crouch, “We can’t.” You paused, getting your hands out of him.

“We shouldn’t.” Charles agreed, lips close to your chest that he kissed, lips going up to your neck and lingering for a bit on the side of your jawline before not even inches stood in between your mouths, “You have been drinking,” Charles stopped right before your lips brushed against each other, “And I, punched in the face.” He then laughed, with his fingers travelling your spine in such fashion that made your entire body crumble, “We need to think this through.” He pondered, and yet it was too late to think – all you ever did was thinking.

“You are right.” You breathed, glaring up at him as he straightened his back to stood up now, “I am drunk, you are in pain.” You added with an unconvincing nod watching him dissipating the distance that still existed in between your bodies with a step and a cup of face within his palms, “Do you mean this?” You asked with big eyes, touching both of his wrists with your hands as you were looking dearly at him.

“I meant every touch, always.” Charles nodded, placing his forehead on yours for your breaths to meet, both hot and heavy, both lusting to be cut by a clash of mouths, “I have a plane to catch early, Y/N.” Charles added, gulping each of his words.

“Excuses.” You nudged, lips searching for Charles’.

“If I don’t make excuses, I will want to kiss you.” Charles softly spoke, breathing as if he was into your lungs now, “And if I kiss you, I will want more.” He added, eyes closed, hands going from your face on your shoulders where he rested his head for a while too, avoiding your lips as much as his cravings allowed, “And If I get more,” Charles whispered, lips caressing your shoulder as he spoke, “I will not be satisfied if I don’t have it all.” He muttered, and you could feel your knees shake and already envision your body falling to the ground, “I want it all, Y/N.”

By all, Charles meant to fully be able to call you, his girl. No games, no flings, no sweet nothings whispered just to swipe you out of your feet. That was – for now, at least – unmanageable to attain. You knew what he meant, and yet the reply you had to give him shattered your insides.

“And you can’t have it all.” You breathed in the same fashion as him, “That will cause more friction on the track, more chances to lose your beloved championship.” You spoke, hating every single word you were spitting, “Go get some sleep for your early flight, Charles.” You hardly spoke, feeling him departing.

One more glance at him and Charles was gone for good. No kisses goodbye, no kisses at all. Just hard feelings shared in silence in between two people in one random hotel bathroom close to midnight. You and Charles, always caught up in between feelings, hotel rooms, and midnights.

[littlejuicebox]

Midwinter Carol 9 / The Snake

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Elf Sorceress OC

Word Count: 2.7K

Story navigation: [1][2][3][4] [5] [6] [7]

Summary/Setting: Based on the prologue/premise from my OneShot “A Midwinter Carol.” / Astarion and the OC broke up after his ascension. She left Baldur’s Gate for fifteen years, only to return just recently. Following the events of “A Midwinter Carol,” Ascended Astarion has been convinced to pursue a new beginning. Will he be able to change who he has become, with the help of his ex-lover or will he ultimately fall victim to himself?

Preview:

He’s covered in the evidence of his wrongdoings. Hells, he can’t speak to Ani like this, with blood literally on his hands, drenched in the crimson color of all his past mistakes. 

Warnings: This will be 18+ / in game spoilers / Eventual Smut / Angst, trauma, fluff / Gore / Violence / PTSD / Astarion’s past trauma

-----

Astarion’s pulse begins to thrum in his ears the moment he sees Eirianwen — or rather, unknowingly sees Delilah, shapeshifted into the appearance of Eirianwen — dart from view, away from the doorframe. His hands and face are caked in slowly drying, scarlet smears of the now-dead Edmund’s blood, but he doesn’t notice. He leaves the partially decapitated head of the foreign spawn, its skull smashed in and ichor spilling out, abandoned on the office floor with the rest of the corpse. 

The immortal elf scrambles forward, out of the office, and desperately calls after the woman he thinks to be his beloved sorceress as she sprints down the marble-floored hallway. There is a split second when Astarion notices the woman's pause and it causes his heart to flutter in brief relief. But then she turns to look at him, and the unmistakable hatred on her visage cuts through the Ascendant like one of her ice knives. Her cold, unforgiving gaze snuffs out the final embers of hope he held in his chest. 

This wasn’t the first instance Ani thought him a monster. He didn’t know what felt worse, her disappointment the first time or her hatred this second time. 

His stomach drops when the woman misty steps away, toward the dungeon, and quickly retreats down into its depths. She abandons Astarion on the upper level of the Palace, his voice still echoing after her. 

Another nice, simple plan burning up in flames from another loss of control. He’s left standing in the charred ashes of his own actions once again. 

Astarion’s heart hammers in his chest, threatening to break through the marbled surface of his skin as he quickly considers all his options. Finally, the Vampire Lord decides that regardless of if he currently wants to face Ani or not, he has no choice. The poison may still be in her system, and if he does not follow the sorceress, the rings will not continue shielding her. 

He refuses to be responsible for that, too. 

With no more than a quickly barked order at his spawn to stay behind, the Ascendant morphs into a cloud of smoke and reanimates in front of the dungeon entrance. He moves to rip the door open with a bloodied, shaking hand, but then suddenly pauses, restless fingers clinging onto a cold, heavy brass knob. 

Ani is going to want to leave. He knows her well enough to know this. Fifteen years later, and this feels eerily similar to the situation that had finally caused her to walk out of the Palace, never to return. 

Though last time, the dead spawn had been his own. Not a foreign one. 

Astarion knows he cannot react in the same manner he had back then, because it will simply drive the sorceress  away. The more he tightens his grip, the faster she slips through his fingers – that was always the way with Ani. He loathed it.

He cannot afford to lose her again. He doesn’t want to lose her again. 

With his hand still clutching the knob, Astarion closes his eyes, bows his head, and steels himself. He sucks in a deep breath in and holds it for a moment or two before his lungs slowly release the unneeded air. When his lids flutter open, the Ascendant notices his disastrous, intimidating reflection in the perfectly polished floor beneath him.

A madman stares back. 

He’s covered in the evidence of his wrongdoings.

Hells, he can’t speak to Ani like this, with blood literally on his hands, drenched in the crimson color of all his past mistakes. 

The Vampire Lord pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hastily swipes it across his face and limbs, aiming to quickly clean himself. His fingers tremble as he works, causing his normally nimble hands to fumble, as he removes what debris he can from his flesh. 

It’s not enough, but it will have to do. 

He’s wasted too much time already. 

With a single sharp inhale, Astarion rips the heavy dungeon door open and descends down the cobblestone steps. He unknowingly walks into the viper’s nest. 

*

Delilah is facing the damp, stone wall of the dungeon as she prepares herself for Astarion’s entry. She knows without a doubt that he will follow her here; his obsession with Eirianwen seems to compel him far beyond what any potion or spell ever could. 

When the shapeshifter hears the creak of the dungeon door, her hand instinctively wraps around the dagger. Ancient arcane magic flickers from the hilt of the God Killer, emitting a warm buzz of energy that tingles at her fingertips and electrifies her entire body with potential. The vision of Edmund’s mangled corpse won’t leave her mind; she suddenly bursts into tears. 

She thinks a part of her might have actually been fantasizing about living an immortal life with Edmund. The possibility of such a future had been there, at least, until the Ascendant violently ripped that opportunity, like so many others, from her hands.

Astarion deserves to die just as violently as Edmund had. He deserves worse, but Delilah will settle for this. 

“Ani…” Astarion calls as he approaches the woman, his voice a soft coo, much like someone might speak to a frightened child. 

The Vampire Lord comes a few steps closer, his boots squeaking across wet stone as he moves painstakingly slowly, unsure what else to do but make his way toward Eirianwen and try, somehow, to smooth things over. He thinks perhaps he should calm her just enough that he is able to coax her back upstairs, away from this space that holds horrible memories for them both. They’d both nearly died here at one point or another; a tremor runs up Astarion’s spine as the memories assault his brain. 

He needs to get Ani back upstairs, back into the space that holds far better memories of lovemaking in the bedchamber and waltzing in the great hall. Back into the space that remembers the sounds of their laughter rather than the sounds of their screams. 

Eirianwen isn’t responding to him; the pitiful noise of her crying ricocheting off the walls causes his stomach to twist in knots as he inches closer. His fingers continue to tremble with nerves; he clenches them into balled fists. 

“Ani, darling…” Astarion murmurs as he reaches his hand toward the woman. He thinks he might have to grovel, to convince her to come back upstairs, but the sounds of her tears have completely dissolved whatever might have remained of his pride just before he entered the dungeon. 

The moment his hand brushes against hers, Delilah recoils in revulsion and then strikes in rage. She spins and sweeps the blade in an arc with an uninhibited scream, slicing into flesh, aiming for the Ascendant’s heart.. With the floodgates of wrath open, the woman is a sharp contrast to her normally calculated self and her strike is uncharacteristically haphazard. The blade pierces itself halfway into Astarion’s shoulder with a squelch, startling a yelp of shock from the elf as arcane magic snaps through his system like lightning crackling through the night sky. 

The pain is intense. 

“Eirianwen—” Astarion hisses, a sharp swallow of breath preventing him from saying anything further as his hands wrap around the blade’s hilt. Warm blood trickles in tendrils down his skin. He feels the woman using all her strength to fight back against him, almost as if she is wholly intent on forcing the dagger deeper into his body. 

At first, the Vampire Lord thinks Eirianwen is just terrified and acting in misguided defense. But then he looks down, and his heart shatters.

She is brandishing the God Killer, he realizes, as another thrust of the blade releases a second snapping, azure ripple of arcania which severely dampens his Ascendant strength. His sweating palms lose their grip on the dagger; it slips forward, burying itself to the hilt. 

Eirianwen was the only other being to know the location of the Jaithiman Dagger; they’d found it during renovations to the Palace. When it was discovered, Astarion suspected the weapon was what Cazador had accused him of stealing years ago. Someone had been smart enough to hide it from his predecessor… it just hadn’t been Astarion; he hadn’t even known it existed back then. 

But that meant Eirianwen came to the dungeon and grabbed the blade intentionally. She planned this. This wasn’t simply a rushed act of fear, this was murderous intent. 

She wants him dead. 

The Ascendant's eyes widen in terror as he realizes he’s watched a similar scene play out before, the night that Gale, Faerun’s newest god, showed him a vision of his own future. 

But no, this couldn’t be happening, could it? He’d done differently, he’d chosen differently— he’d tried to talk to Ani, ask her for help—

No, no, no. 

There is still time, he can still fix this. 

Astarion rapidly steps backwards, both increasing his distance from the woman and swiftly removing the blade from his own chest. The trickle of blood from the wound turns into a river running down his doublet, drenching the embroidered finery in crimson. He immediately raises both shaking hands and splays the fingers apart with sweaty, open palms facing the woman in a sign of truce. 

She’s still staring at him with such cold-hearted hatred. He cannot stand it. His heart is cantering in his chest and echoing in his ears as he warily watches the woman approach. 

“Ani– please, put the dagger down,” the elf begs; his voice cracks at the end, and he cannot even be bothered to try and cover the mixture of emotions causing his steely constitution to falter. In a final, desperate plea, he whispers, his throat suddenly dry and voice wavering on every syllable, “meleth e-guilen, just— gods, please—“

There is a minute pause in the woman’s advancement as Delilah processes the incredible idiocy of the bastard before her. Astarion thinks it is Eirianwen that just stabbed him, and yet he still called her the love of his life in their native tongue.

So much power, wasted on this spineless man, made possible only with the help of that stupid sorceress sleeping upstairs. 

Gods, she loathes them both; she’ll happily send them both to hell. 

Delilah screams and surges forward again, brandishing the blade as she aims to slash a line in the flesh of Astarion’s face. Let the real Eirianwen find him on the floor, his visage destroyed beyond recognition, as retribution for what he did to Edmund. 

The Vampire Lord gasps and dodges just enough to narrowly outmaneuver the knife as it aims for his cheek. He isn’t quite quick enough to avoid the weapon making contact with his ear. 

The searing, white-hot pain that instantly surges through Astarion’s ear is almost incomprehensible. An anguished scream is forced from the elf’s throat as he reflexively crouches and clasps his hand over the wound. His shocked mind is reeling as he tries to process what is happening. 

His single source of comfort has turned to chaos. 

Delilah uses Astarion’s distraction to shoot a powerful dome of thunder from her palm, sending the Vampire Lord crashing into the unforgiving stone wall, the back of his silver-haired head cracking into cobblestone. Astarion grunts as he falls to the floor, his vision blurring from the concussive force with which he hit the wall. 

The elf scrambles to his feet, his body still recovering from the blast as his ears ring and blood drains from multiple wounds on his head. Everything moves in slow motion as the woman charges forward again, the dagger suspended over her head with a two-handed grip. Astarion lifts his hand to cast something against her, or perhaps strike her, but his fingers shake with effort as he tries to override his consuming desire to protect the woman that wants to kill him. 

He can’t do it. His love for her will be the death of him. 

If Eirianwen is truly so set on taking his life, then perhaps he is the monster he swore he would never become. If she truly hates him this much, perhaps he deserves it. 

He thinks he understands; he hates himself, too. 

Astarion slams his eyes shut as he waits for the blade’s impact and hopes beyond hope this horrible vision is just one of his many nightmares. He thinks he is going to have to hurt Eirianwen to stop this, and the thought alone makes him consider death, instead. 

Death might be easier than this. 

Astarion hears the dagger slicing through air before blood rushes into his ears again, effectively deafening him as his body prepares for further damage. But the pain never comes. 

When the elf’s eyes snap open, he instantly furrows his brows in confusion. The weapon is lodged into a giant, frozen barricade as fractals of ice shoot about the room. Eirianwen is separated from him by a thick wall of ice. 

When Astarion turns to search for the source of his shield, he peers through the crystalline partition and spots — gods below —  Eirianwen bolting down the dungeon steps, flanked by his two spawns. A sudden wave of realization floods the Vampire Lord’s system in a blend of relief and rage. When his head snaps back to Delilah, she is already tearing the dagger from ice with a frustrated growl. 

He thinks to attack Delilah, but as soon as the weapon is in hand, the shapeshifter disappears from sight. Four sets of eyes try to trace her whereabouts, but the only indication of Delilah’s path is the resounding slam of the secret exit hidden at the end of the corridor. 

The two half-orc spawn move to chase after the shapeshifter, but immediately stop when Astarion barks a gruff, “Leave her; I guarantee she’s already gone.” 

His hand comes to cover the wound still gaping from his shoulder as he groans and leans against the dungeon wall for support. His limbs suddenly feel like lead and his bones ache; there’s a sharp pounding in his head and warm trickles of blood leak from more places than he can count. 

The real Eirianwen dispels the ice barrier with a flick of her wrist and slowly approaches the Ascendant, her eyebrows stitched together as she attempts to process what she just witnessed. 

The sorceress lifts her hand to cast a healing spell, but when she finally catches sight of the blackened veins branching up her arm, she freezes. Her wide eyes flicker from her hand to Astarion’s face, silently asking him thousands of questions with a single worried look. 

Astarion winces and sucks in another breath as he presses his hand harder into his own shoulder, aiming to stop the blood still dribbling from the wound. His gaze flits between Eirianwen’s honey-colored eyes, searching for any of the hatred he’d found in the duplicate pair on the shapeshifter. Something within the Ascendant calms when he doesn’t find a trace of loathing on her face. The breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in slowly escapes him. 

He swallows, and his free hand comes toward the woman’s marred, blackened one. His fingers beckon her as he murmurs, “Good to see you awake. Let’s get you fed and cleaned up, Ani… and then… well, suffice to say we have quite a lot to talk about.” 

Eirianwen blinks but says nothing. Her mind is working to fill in the gaps; the last thing she remembers is Astarion kneeling in front of her at the auction. And gods, she feels as if she’s terribly ill. There is a flicker of hesitation behind her eyes, but then the sorceress flexes her fingers outward and accepts the offered hand. 

Astarion quickly notices the weakness in her grip, but his heart still jumps at the contact. He offers a reassuring squeeze to Ani before guiding her back toward the steps that lead up to the Palace. His thumb is clasped over hers, the digits binding the two elves together as they ascend.

The palm of his hand pressed flush against Ani’s is an exceptionally chaste form of skin upon skin, and yet the elf’s entire body feels as if it’s aflame. 

Astarion is holding his breath again. 

-----

Tags: @anukulee

[daquila]

Pancakes || Gojo Satoru x Reader

synopsis: satoru casually creating hell by making pancakes (aka him being a horrible chef)

The sound of rustling plates, the feeling of a cold side of the bed, and the smell of pancakes woke you up. Satoru was definitely up to no good in the kitchen.

Placing your slippers on, you rush to the scene, expecting to see an unforgiving mess.

“ Good morning, princess! I’m making some pancakes, “ he said, masking a mischievous grin. Surprisingly, the kitchen wasn’t as bad as his previous attempts. The only mess present was the pancake mix that was scattered on the counter.

Satoru tried to persuade you into thinking that ‘a newly-installed kitchen counter that’s covered by a sheet of pancake mix wasn't that bad’— you, however, almost fell for it! The sweet, unforgettable smell of pancakes and Satoru’s handsome face was very convincing.

“ You better finish cleaning up by the time I come back from the shower. “ Satoru releases the loudest ‘yes ma’am’ ever known to history as he raises his hand to salute you.

The sorcerer then makes kissy-faces, blowing imaginary kisses here and there. Even with the urge to swat the kisses away, you shamelessly accepted them. You made your way to the bathroom carrying a towel, while Satoru attempted to clean up his mess.

After you both finished, you finally took a seat. Inspecting the burnt, wobbly pancakes presented by him, you guessed that the messily-piped whipped cream and chunky strawberries made up for its presentation but that doesn’t change the fact that they all looked burnt! You then grabbed a fork and knife to cut through his creation.

Satoru anticipated for your first bite ever since he started making the pancakes. “Sooooo— what do ya think, darling? Am I good enough to marry now, “ he exclaimed, ignoring the fact that you both were already married. He has a habit of constantly proposing to you, asking to be your husband no matter how many times you reminded him that you were already married to him.

You, however, choked in reply, “ HOW THE HELL ARE THESE UNDERCOOKED! “ Those pancakes were charred black— there’s no way a pancake could be that mushy in the middle! Satoru rolled his eyes and let out a loud, disappointing groan.

“ You know what, my instincts were right! I promise to stay away from the kitchen now, “ he said in defeat, grabbing his phone to order some takeout for breakfast. You hurriedly grab a glass of water to wash down whatever you just ingested, silently praying that you won’t get sick from it.

[ltash]

Ethereal

Part 1 "Frozen"

Link to part 2 in the end.

Ghost x Vampire Hybrid Ghost x female reader

Ghost meets you, a vampire hybrid girl in the midst of the Russian Frozen Tundra. Little did he know that you are hiding a secret within.

"She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies." — Lord Byron

In the desolate expanse of the frozen Russian tundra, where the howling winds carried the whispers of forgotten souls, you traverse the icy terrain. With each step, you leave behind a delicate imprint in the snow, your long platinum hair billowing in the frigid breeze.

You are a being of unearthly beauty, your milky white skin contrasting starkly against the unforgiving landscape. Your fragile neck arches gracefully as you scan the horizon with eyes as deep and haunting as a doe's.

Born of human and vampire lineage, you are a creature caught between worlds, torn between your mortal desires and the dark cravings that lurk within your veins. Yet, despite your heritage, you have never tasted the blood that calls out to you with an insatiable hunger.

Loneliness gnaws at your soul as you roam the desolate wilderness, your heart heavy with the weight of loss. Your family, once your anchor to humanity, has perished, leaving you to wander alone in a world that has long forgotten the meaning of mercy.

Days blur into nights as you wander aimlessly, your only companions the haunting echoes of your own thoughts. And though the hunger claws at your insides, you remain steadfast in your resolve, determined to cling to the last vestiges of your humanity.

But as the frozen winds whisper tales of forgotten shadows and lost dreams, you know that your journey is far from over. For in the heart of the tundra, amidst the swirling mists of uncertainty, lies the key to your salvation—or your eternal damnation.

The memory of your father, a true vampire, is a distant echo in the chambers of your mind. He had forsaken your mother when you entered this world, leaving her to raise you alone in the unforgiving embrace of the tundra. Now, with her passing, you are truly alone, left to fend for yourself in a world that offers little solace.

The hunger gnaws at your insides like a relentless beast, its claws digging deeper with each passing moment. You haven't eaten since last night, and the meager provisions in your small hut have long since dwindled to nothing. The last log in the fire has burned to char, leaving you with no choice but to brave the biting cold in search of sustenance.

Wrapping yourself tightly in threadbare furs, you step out into the frozen night, the bitter wind biting at your exposed skin. The landscape stretches out before you, a vast expanse of snow and ice that offers little in the way of comfort.

Your breath mingles with the frosty air as you trudge through the snow, each step a struggle against the elements. Every muscle in your body aches with exhaustion, but still, you press on, driven by the primal urge to survive.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you come upon a small grove of trees, their bare branches reaching out like skeletal fingers against the night sky. With trembling hands, you gather what meager scraps of wood you can find, knowing that it will be barely enough to sustain the fire through the long hours of the night.

As you make your way back to your hut, the weight of your loneliness settles upon you like a heavy cloak. But still, you push forward, determined to endure whatever hardships the tundra may throw your way. For in this harsh and unforgiving land, survival is the only law that matters.

Ghost waited patiently in his safehouse across the frozen lake, the only refuge in this desolate landscape. The lodge, though hidden from prying eyes, offered him every comfort and amenity he could desire, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of his solitary mission.

As he sat in the dimly lit room, the glow of the fire casting long shadows against the walls, he listened intently for any signs of activity on his comms. The snowstorm raging outside had cloaked the world in a shroud of white, making it impossible to see beyond the frosted windows.

But Ghost was accustomed to navigating the treacherous currents of uncertainty, his instincts honed by years of training and experience. He knew that danger lurked in every shadow, that one misstep could spell disaster.

Yet, despite the looming threat that hung over him like a specter, Ghost remained resolute in his purpose. He was a lone wolf, a solitary figure in a world of shadows and secrets. And though the storm raged on outside, he would not rest until his mission was complete. For in the heart of the darkness, amidst the howling winds and icy embrace of the tundra, Ghost would find the truth he sought—or die trying.

"Laswell, you copy?" Ghost said into his comms, his voice steady despite the frustration gnawing at him. He waited, straining to hear a reply, but there was nothing—only the crackling static of the blizzard that engulfed the entire tundra.

The snowstorm had turned the outside world into a swirling vortex of white, cutting off all communication and isolating him further in his safehouse. Ghost glanced at the frosted windows, the view beyond them obscured by the relentless onslaught of snow and wind. He knew that in this frozen wasteland, any attempt to venture out would be perilous.

For now, he was alone, cut off from any support, his mission teetering on the edge of uncertainty. Yet, despite the isolation and the silence from his comms, Ghost remained undeterred. He had faced worse odds before and survived. He would do so again.

Sitting back in the lodge, he began to review his plans, adjusting his strategies to account for the storm. He knew that eventually, the blizzard would pass, and when it did, he needed to be ready. For now, all he could do was wait, his senses attuned to any changes in the storm's fury and any signs of life outside his safehouse.

"Stay focused," he reminded himself, the words a mantra against the encroaching isolation. "Laswell, you copy?" he tried again, his voice resolute in the face of the storm's relentless assault. But the only answer was the howling wind, a reminder of the tenuous grip he had on his mission and his survival.

You sat in your cabin, shivering uncontrollably as the cold seeped through the walls. The mere branches you had gathered for firewood had long since burned to char, leaving you with only the faintest warmth from the dying embers. Your stomach gurgled loudly, a painful reminder that all the food had run out. There were no animals in sight to hunt, driven away or hidden by the relentless snowstorm, and you felt too weak and fragile to track them down even if they were there.

With a final, desperate hope, you decided to venture out into the freezing storm. You wrapped yourself in every layer you had, though it was a pitiful defense against the bone-chilling winds. Grabbing your bow and a few arrows, you stepped out into the white fury.

The wind whipped at your face, biting through your clothing and numbing your skin. Each step was a struggle, your vision obscured by the swirling snow. The landscape around you was a blur of white and gray, and you had to fight to keep your bearings.

You pushed forward, driven by the primal need to survive. The storm roared in your ears, drowning out any other sound, and the cold sapped your strength with every passing moment. Your fingers, clutching the bow, were stiff and nearly useless, but you kept going, each step a monumental effort.

As you moved through the blinding snow, you scanned the terrain for any sign of movement, any hint of an animal that might offer you the sustenance you so desperately needed. But the tundra seemed devoid of life, as if every creature had been swallowed by the storm.

Your vision began to blur, the cold and exhaustion taking their toll. Each breath felt like shards of ice in your lungs, and your steps grew more unsteady. Still, you pressed on, refusing to give in to the encroaching darkness.

Suddenly, through the flurry of snow, you thought you saw a flicker of movement. Summoning the last of your strength, you moved towards it, your heart pounding with a mixture of hope and fear. Your vision swam, the edges darkening, but you pushed forward, driven by the slimmest chance of survival.

In the heart of the storm, with the winds howling around you and your body on the verge of collapse, you clung to that flicker of hope, praying that it would lead you to salvation.

Ghost had lost all hopes of communication as the storm continued its relentless assault. His one last chance was to venture out and try to get his comms to work, to call for an evac before it was too late.

Donning his white thermal puffer jacket and camo pants, he wrapped a scarf tightly around his neck and adjusted his goggles. Holding his sniper firmly in his hands, he braced himself against the icy wind and stepped out into the blizzard.

The cold was immediate and unforgiving, biting through even his layered clothing. Each step was a battle against the elements, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he made his way to the frozen lake. The surface of the lake was a smooth expanse of ice, barely visible through the swirling snow, but Ghost's determination kept him moving forward.

He crossed the frozen lake, each step a calculated risk on the slick, treacherous surface. The winds howled around him, threatening to knock him off balance, but he pressed on, driven by the desperate need to find a working frequency.

On the other side of the lake, the terrain offered little shelter from the storm. The snow whipped around him, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Ghost adjusted his goggles and scanned the area, looking for any signs of higher ground or a break in the storm where he might be able to get a signal.

His fingers, numb from the cold, fumbled with the comms device as he tried different frequencies. Static filled his ears, punctuated only by the howling wind, but he continued to try, his determination unwavering.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a faint signal crackled through the static. Ghost's heart raced as he adjusted the frequency, trying to lock onto the signal. "Laswell, do you copy? This is Ghost. I need immediate evac. Over."

The response was faint, almost drowned out by the storm, but it was there. "Ghost, this is Laswell. We read you. Evac is en route. Hold your position. Over."

Relief washed over him, but he knew the hardest part was still ahead. He needed to hold his position and survive until the evac arrived. With the storm still raging and the cold sapping his strength, Ghost hunkered down, using whatever cover he could find to shield himself from the wind. He clung to the hope that help was on its way, his resolve as unyielding as the frozen tundra around him.

You stumbled forward, the flicker of movement in the snow driving you onward. With your bow in hand, you nocked an arrow, pulling the string back despite the trembling in your fingers. Your vision, blurred by the cold and exhaustion, made it difficult to clearly see the shape moving in the distance.

Taking a deep breath, you aimed as best you could, your focus narrowing to the faint outline in the swirling snow. Your hands shook with the effort, and the cold bit into your skin, but you held steady, hoping this shot would be the one to save you.

With a final, determined exhale, you released the arrow. It soared through the air, cutting a path through the storm. But your weakened state and failing vision betrayed you—the arrow flew wide of your intended target, striking and piercing into a large tree trunk with a solid thud.

Despair washed over you as you watched the arrow quiver in the wood. The movement you had seen disappeared, leaving you once again alone in the vast, unforgiving tundra. The brief glimmer of hope faded, replaced by the relentless reality of your situation.

As you trudged forward, the winds howled louder, and the snow seemed to close in around you. Your thoughts grew hazy, but you clung to the hope that you might still find a way to survive this nightmare, your spirit refusing to be extinguished by the storm.

Ghost continued his trudge through the blizzard, the relentless wind and snow battering him from all sides. He reached a large tree and leaned against it, taking a moment to catch his breath before continuing his way back to his safe house lodge.

Just as he began to gather his strength, a large arrow whizzed through the air and embedded itself in the tree trunk mere inches from his head. Instinctively, he ducked for cover, adrenaline surging through his veins. Bolting his sniper rifle and reloading a round with practiced precision, he aimed towards the direction from which the arrow had come. His vision was blurred by the storm, but he fired anyway, relying on his training and instinct.

The shot rang out, cutting through the howling wind, followed by a piercing scream that echoed through the tundra. It was a scream of pain, unmistakably human, and worse, unmistakably female.

Ghost froze, his heart sinking as realization dawned. He had just shot someone, and that someone was not an enemy. His mind raced as he left his cover and moved cautiously toward the source of the scream, the harsh reality of his actions weighing heavily on him.

Through the swirling snow, he saw a figure collapsed in the snow, her platinum hair spread out like a halo against the white ground. Her bow lay beside her, abandoned in the moment of agony. Ghost's breath caught in his throat as he approached her, seeing the blood staining the snow around her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind. He knelt beside her, his sniper forgotten as he tried to assess the damage. The storm raged on around them, but in that moment, all he could focus on was the fragile, wounded figure before him.

The tundra had brought you together in a moment of desperation and tragedy, and Ghost knew he had to do everything in his power to save you. He was no longer just a soldier on a mission; he was a lifeline for the wounded soul in the snow.

You trudged forward, your steps heavy with the weight of disappointment from your failed shot. The blizzard blurred your vision, making each step more treacherous than the last. Suddenly, a searing pain exploded in your lower belly. A ball of fire—no, a bullet—had pierced through your delicate skin and exited the other side, leaving a burning trail of agony in its wake.

A blood-curdling scream escaped your lips, echoing through the desolate tundra. The bow in your hand slipped from your grasp, landing far from you as you crumpled to the ground. Your snow-white complexion mingled with the icy snow, but the vivid red of your blood stood out starkly against the white.

Gasping in pain, your breaths became shaky and labored. Confusion and fear swirled in your mind. Who could do this to you? Your vision swam as you tried to make sense of what had happened. Your platinum hair fell across your face, obscuring your sight even further.

With the last of your strength, you tried to push yourself up, but the pain was too overwhelming. Darkness crept in at the edges of your vision, and the cold seemed to seep deeper into your bones. Your thoughts became a haze, and the world around you faded away as you slipped into unconsciousness, the blizzard continuing its relentless assault on your fragile body.

Ghost fell to his knees, his heart heavy with regret and shock as he looked at you lying in the snow. He leaned forward, gently stroking your platinum locks away from your face. Your features struck him deeply: your pink, slightly agape lips, platinum lashes, and eyebrows perfectly matching your hair color. Your milky white complexion contrasted with the stark redness of your blood staining the snow.

You looked ethereal, an otherworldly being he had never laid his eyes on before. In that moment, the harsh reality of his mission and the brutal environment faded into the background. All he could see was the fragile, delicate figure before him, so vulnerable and strikingly beautiful.

"Hold on," he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. He quickly assessed your wound, knowing that time was critical. Ghost wrapped his arms around you, carefully lifting your limp body. His training and instincts kicked in, driving him to act swiftly despite the swirling blizzard.

Cradling you against his chest, he moved with determination back towards his safehouse lodge, each step a struggle against the fierce wind and snow. His mind raced with thoughts of how to stabilize you, how to keep you alive until help could arrive.

As he trudged through the storm, the weight of his actions bore down on him. He had shot an innocent being, a beautiful, mysterious creature that he now felt an overwhelming need to protect. The journey back was arduous, but Ghost pressed on, fueled by a newfound sense of purpose.

Reaching the lodge, he gently laid you down near the fireplace, quickly stoking the flames to provide warmth. He grabbed his medical kit, his hands working quickly and efficiently to tend to your wound. Every moment was critical, and he fought to keep panic at bay.

"Stay with me," he murmured, his voice soft yet urgent. "You're going to be okay."

As the fire crackled and the storm raged outside, Ghost focused all his efforts on saving you, hoping against hope that he could atone for his mistake and keep you alive in this frozen, unforgiving world.

Continued..

All parts

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

No permission is given to reproduce my work. Reblogs are welcomed.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 79

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

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

Chapter 79: Vengeance Hungers

AO3 - Masterlist

The sky was a brooding tapestry of heavy clouds as Aemond descended upon Storm’s End on the massive back of Vhagar. The dragon landed precariously close to the cliff’s edge just as the storm above Shipbreaker Bay began its ominous approach, blotting out the setting sun as it should make its descended below the horizon. The vast courtyard within the walls was too constrained for the dragon, compelling them to choose this exposed perch. 

The evening air was brisk and unforgiving, slicing through Aemond as he dismounted from Vhagar. He peeled off his riding gloves–sturdy black leather that had offered some warmth during their flight from King’s Landing–and tucked them into his belt. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he moved through the rocky cliffs that loomed ominously beside Storm’s End, their jagged surfaces sharp against the backdrop of the turbulent sea. The incessant roar of waves crashing against the cliffs mingled with the howling wind, a prelude to the impending storm that carried the sharp, salty scent of rain on its breath. 

Aemond made his way towards the gate set within the massive curtain wall, guided by the glow of torches held by guards. Their flickering light served as a beacon for the men assembled to receive him. Together, they ushered him through the shadowed tunnel within the inner wall and into the base of the drum tower, his boots echoing on the ancient stone with each determined step. 

His presence was immediately imposing as he entered the drum tower, flanked by stern-faced guards. They paced through the shadowed corridors, their footsteps echoing until they reached the central chamber. This grand hall, round and stark, was lit by the flickering glow of braziers and torches that threw dancing shadows on the stone walls. 

There, Lord Borros Baratheon awaited, seated upon the austere stone char that served as the throne of House Baratheon. It was unadorned as Daenera had told him–hard, cold, with sharp edges and devoid of any attempt at comfort. Lord Borros himself seemed an extension of the chair, his demeanor as hard and unyielding as the seat he occupied. 

As Aemond approached, Lord Borros Baratheon adjusted his position on the stone chair, a deep scowl furrowing his brow. His greeting was terse, imbued with a subtle undercurrent of impatience. 

“Prince Aemond,” he began, his voice clipped. “I hear condolences are in order…”

Aemond met Lord Borros’s gaze squarely, his expression unmarred by sorrow. Instead, a sharp, unforgiving smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Lord Borros.”

Borros narrowed his eyes, which mirrored the stormy blue of the tumultuous sea churning outside the castle walls. He leaned forwards slightly, cutting into the conversation with a pointed tone. 

“But…” he interjected, his gaze piercing, “Such news is usually not delivered by a prince…” His words hung in the air. “What brings you here, Princeling?” 

“As you’ve been made aware,” Aemond began, clasping his hands behind his back to adopt a posture of formal authority. “My father, the King, has passed, and his firstborn son has ascended to the throne. My brother, Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, has been crowned in the sight of gods and men…”

At this revelation, a ripple of murmurs spread through the gathered nobility flanking Lord Borros, their expressions a blend of surprise and suspicion. His gaze intensified, a spark of keen interest igniting within–more intelligent than any spark with his brother’s eyes, Aemond thought. 

“A King,” Borros mused aloud, the word echoing slightly in the cavernous hall. “Yet there seems to be some confusion within the house of the dragon. I was under the impression our next sovereign would be a Queen.” He leaned forwards slightly, his tone both inquisitive and challenging. “Forgive my bluntness, young prince, but did not your father choose your elder half-sister as his heir? I recall that my father was compelled to swear fealty to Princess Rhaenyra…”

“Indeed, oaths were sworn during a time when the realm’s stability hung in the balance,” Aemond replied coolly, his smirk growing more pronounced, a thrill of challenge quickening his pulse. His fingers drummed restlessly behind his back, the only manifestation of turmoil breaking through his composure. “However, the King rectified his earlier decision prior to his demise, decreeing that his firstborn son should inherit the crown.”

Lord Borros made a thoughtful noise and leaned back, his large hand brushing through his thick, black beard contemplatively. “It appears to me that there’s a succession crisis within House Targaryen. On one hand, a King; on the other, a Queen.”

“There is no crisis,” Aemond countered firmly. “Aegon is the King–”

“If there truly were no crisis, you would not find yourself here, young prince,” Lord Borros interrupted sharply, his voice booming slightly in the cavernous hall as his hand trumped against the smooth stone of his chair’s arm. “You arrive as an envoy of your brother, and while I accept your presence here graciously, understand that I am reluctant to entangle myself in the internal strife of House Targaryen. House Baratheon does not break oaths once made.”

“It was your father’s oath, not yours,” Aemond answered. “It was an oath sworn out of necessity, for a King without a son… House Baratheon may understand this decision, and understand that once the King had his son, the succession changed.”

Lord Borros tilted his head slightly, his stormy blue eyes narrowing.

Aemond continued, his voice steady and persuasive. “It was your father’s oath, not yours. An oath made out of necessity, for a King who at the time had no son. Surely House Baratheon can appreciate that once the King sired a son, the line of succession naturally altered.”

Lord Borros furrowed his brow, his deep voice resolute as he countered, “My father swore an oath to the Princess, an oath that I cannot simply cast aside without appropriate compensation.”

Aemond listened, his expression controlled yet his eye betrayed the calculation behind it. Drawing in a measured breath, he felt a surge of satisfaction ripple through him as the Lord of Storm’s End revealed his ambition. “Of course, my lord. The King would not send me here with empty hands.”

Reaching into his coat, Aemond produced a small piece of parchment and handed it to a nearby guard for delivery. Lord Borros snatched the letter briskly, his eyes staring pointedly at the rolled document as though it would read itself aloud to him before shifting his gaze back to Aemond with renewed scrutiny. 

“Which of my daughters will you marry then?” Borros inquired as he waved the letter towards his daughters, who stood in a silent, expectant line to the left of his throne. 

Aemond’s gaze swept over the young women, each poised and dignified, yet he barely allowed his eye to linger, feeling a twist of discomfort at the suggestion. Returning his focus to Borros, he chose his words with care. “As honored as I would be, Lord Borros, I must decline. I am already betrothed.”

In Lord Borros’s stormy blue eyes, a tempest seemed to swirl, his dark eyebrows drawing together into a scowl of deep displeasure. Aemond carried the pointed look with a spine straight as the sword at his hip, refusing to cower beneath the lord's scornful glare. 

“Ah, yes, my brother’s widow…” He began, his voice dripping with a mix of resentment and suspicion. “Tell me, One-eye,”–Aemond’s expression tightened subtly at the nickname, his jaw clenching though he maintained his composure–“how long after my brother’s untimely demise did you decide to claim her for yourself? It has not been more than four months since his passing!” His voice boomed across the hall, each word sharp and heavy with accusation. “She could very well be carrying his child!”

The allegation hung in the air, echoing off the stone walls, challenging Aemond not just politically, but personally, testing his diplomatic acumen under the weight of moral scrutiny. 

Aemond felt a surge of agitation twist in his stomach at the thought of Daenera bearing Boris Baratheon’s child–and he had to anchor himself before responding to the Lord of Storm’s End, the very man he had been sent to broker an alliance with. His hands balled into fists behind his back, and he gritted his teeth, striving to maintain his composure even as anger flared within him. 

“Lord Borros,” Aemond began, his voice steady despite the tempest brewing within him, “I understand your concerns, truly. The decision to honor the betrothal was made with the deepest respect for your brother’s memory and for the delicate position of his widow–”

“Do not attempt to placate me with empty words,” Borros interrupted sharply, his cheeks flushing a vivid red with his rising temper. “I am well aware of the political machinations at play, but that does not mitigate the affront of how hastily this union was formed. My brother has scarcely been laid to rest, and yet you are poised to marry his widow! Would it not be more fitting to choose a bride who is yet untouched? One whose child you could be certain would be yours?”

As Borros Baratheon hurled his veiled insults and threw his daughters at him, Aemond’s thoughts darkened–his disdain for the man Daenera had been forced to marry simmering just beneath the surface. He imagined the man suffering the torments of the seven hells for the wounds he had inflicted on Daenera–scars she still carried. Aemond’s eye flared with suppressed fury, his fingers twitching with the urge to draw his sword and exact retribution upon the man before him–he envisioned himself presenting Borros’s severed head to Daenera as a grim trophy. She would love it, solely because it would cost them Storm’s End. 

Such thoughts were quickly stifled; the necessity of the alliance holding him back. 

And Borros, keenly aware of this leverage, pressed his advantage. 

“I haven’t come to discuss my betrothal to the princess,” Aemond stated firmly, a clear intention to redirect their discourse. “I am here to propose a different betrothal. Prince Daeron Targaryen, my younger brother, is prepared to offer his hand in marriage to one of your daughters.”

“Prince Daeron?” Borros raised an eyebrow, his skepticism thinly veiled. 

“Indeed,” Aemond replied smoothly, his tone infused with a hint of pride. “The Prince is not only a dragonrider but is also currently studying at the Citadel, while being squire for Lord Ormund Hightower. He is growing into a handsome and intelligent young man.”

“How old is he?” Borros inquired, his interest piqued. 

“Five and ten.” 

“And he’s a dragonrider?” The lord pressed, needed to confirm this fact once more.

“He is,” Aemond confirmed, observing with satisfaction as Borros’s interest transformed into a sharp gleam of intrigue and ambition. The prospect of aligning with a dragonrider–and the potential for future dragons being bound to House Baratheon through the union between Prince Daeron and one of his daughters–promised not just an infusion of royal blood but also a formidable increase in House Baratheon’s influence over the throne. Aemond knew these were advantages a prideful man like Borros Baratheon could hardly ignore. 

“Very well,” Lord Borros finally conceded, his gaze drifting towards his daughters. “Which of my daughters will it be?”

Aemond advanced, his hands clasped behind his back, his solitary eye moving methodically to the first daughter in line. Each step resonated in the hushed chamber, his gaze sharp and assessing as it lingered on each young woman. 

“My oldest, Cassandra,” Lord Borros introduced, his voice carrying a note of pride. “She was the first to flower, and is sure to be able to be with child soon after the marriage.”

Cassandra stepped forward gracefully, her curtsy slow and respectful. As she straightened, her eyes, deep and dark as a stormy sea, met Aemond’s. Her features were set in a stern expression, mirroring the unyielding stone of the castle itself. Her build was robust, with broad shoulders and hips, her presence as stern as her demeanor. To Aemond, she seemed too stern, too immovable, a reflection of her father. And she was much older than Daeron. 

His scrutiny shifted to the next daughter as Borros continued, “Maris. The cleverest of my four girls.”

Aemond’s interest was piqued slightly as he turned his attention to Maris, intrigued by the promise of intellect that her father’s words suggested, wondering if her demeanor might offer a more pliable counterpart to her sister’s stoic fortitude. 

Maris, the second daughter, offered Aemond a clever smile as she bowed, much like her sister had done. Her eyes, a deep, murky shade reminiscent of the sky just before a storm, contrasted sharply with her dark, ink-black hair, which was pulled tightly back, accentuating her angular features. Unlike her robust sister, Maris was slimmer, with narrow hips. Her small lips and absence of pronounced cheekbones lent her a somewhat gaunt, melancholic appearance. Yet, there was an unmistakable spark of intelligence as her gaze swept over Aemond, briefly pausing on his scar. A slight curl of her lip betrayed her disgust, and Aemond felt the sting of it. He gritted his teeth, and swallowed his spiteful words. 

Lord Borros then directed attention to another daughter, “My Floris. The most comely of them all.”

His words seemed to wash over his older daughters, who appeared unfazed by the repeated compliment, indicating it was a familiar refrain. 

Floris stepped forward, her bright smile lighting up her features, her eyes reflecting the same stormy hue as her father and eldest sister’s. She executed a flawless curtsy, her presence radiating grace. Her dark hair was styled into an intricate arrangement, and her figure was willowy, dressed in a fine gown adorned with gold threads and small stones that accentuated her chest. To Aemond, she appeared overly delicate, perhaps even frivolous–sweet and appealing, yet lacking the formidable qualities of her siblings. 

Finally, Borros introduced his youngest. “And Ellyn Baratheon, my youngest, quite adept with a bow, though she has yet to flower.”

Ellyn, the youngest of Lord Borros’s daughters, moved forward, mirroring her sisters with a respectful, though clumsy, curtsy. She was already tall, her frame stretched and lanky, hinting at further growth, her hips promising a difficulty in childbirth. Her hair was dark as coal, and her eyes, a deep blue so intense they nearly appeared black, were set a touch too wide on her face. 

As Aemond watched her, a poignant thought struck him: in another life, he might be choosing a bride for himself rather than acting on his brother’s behalf. This realization twisted something deep within him. Each girl, though of good stock, painfully reminded him that they lacked the specific qualities he had found so bewitching in another–the cornflower blue eyes tinged with violet, capable of reflection both the tempest of the seas and the serenity of a clear sky, the slight pout of her lips, both sweet and deceptively alluring. None possessed the gentle yet commanding curves that haunted his memories–the breasts that fit perfectly within the palm of his hand, soft and pliable, the hips that were made to be gripped, the soft curve of her stomach, or the supple flesh of her ass and thighs. They did not have the touch that could mend as much as it could ruin– and for that, he felt an unexpected relief.

 They were not her.

 And he did not want any of them.

Aemond’s fingers absentmindedly played with the golden ring that encircled his finger, the motion hidden behind his back. His thumb grazed the band, latching on the subtle lever hidden within its design. For a fleeting moment, he felt the needle mechanism flick up under his touch, a small but lethal secret embedded in the ornate jewelry. With a subtle movement, he pressed it back down, securing the mechanism closed once more, all the while maintaining an outward composure that belied the calculating thoughts whirling through his mind. 

“You have fine daughters,” he acknowledged respectfully, addressing Lord Borros with practiced diplomacy. “I believe your second youngest, Floris, would be particularly well-suited for my brother. They are of a similar age and her demeanor suggests a kindness that Prince Daeron would find most agreeable.”

“Well chosen,” Borros responded, his features softening as he smiled at Floris. The girl’s cheeks coloured with a deep blush, while a flicker of envy passed briefly over her sisters’ faces.

Lord Borros then leaned forward, eager to move on to the practicalities of the alliance. “Now, shall we discuss the dowry?”

“The hour grows late, my lord,” Lady Elenda interjected softly, her hand resting gently on her husband’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “The prince has had a long day, and I am sure he’s in need of rest. Might we continue this in the morning?”

Aemond would have preferred to conclude the discussions and return to King’s Landing, but he couldn’t deny that the prospect of a meal, a hot bath, and a comfortable bed was appealing. His body ached from the long flight, and he realized he hadn’t eaten much since the morning. Weighing his fatigue against his desire to proceed, he reluctantly agreed–after all, he had to be sharp for the discussion of dowries. 

Clean and well-fed, Aemond found himself in bed, absentmindedly rubbing the persistent ache gnawing at the inside of his skull. As he settled into the unfamiliar yet plush surroundings, he couldn’t help but wonder if these were the same chambers Daenera had occupied during her visit to Storm’s End after her husband’s death. The thought prickled at his fingertips, stirring a familiar longing within him to wrap his arms around her and find solace in her presence–a need that had haunted him ever since that woeful night. He had confessed then, realizing it was neither mere attraction nor simple affection, nor was it lust, but something far more profound and devastating. His father had taken that confession to his grave.   

Despite the comfort of the bed and the quiet of the night, Aemond’s sleep was restless, his mind swirling with memories and unspoken words.

After breaking his fast, Aemond returned to the Round Hall with Floris at his side, who peppered him with questions about Daeron as her sisters looked on, their glares tinged with envy. They had just begun discussing dowries and arrangements when the sudden echo of a guard’s voice broke through the room, abruptly halting the negotiations. “A dragon has just landed in the courtyard…”

Aemond turned sharply towards the guard, his hands clasped behind his back as he moved to the edge of the room. His heart quickened with a blend of curiosity and annoyance at the interruption. It seemed his half-sister had decided to make her own move, dispatching one of her sons in an attempt to sway the Lord of Storm’s End. Aemond mused over the naivety of their belief that Lord Borros would maintain his allegiance to their faction, especially when the alliance that had bound them had been severed by death. He half-expected to see Jace stride through the door, but to his surprise, it was Lucerys who entered, flanked by guards. 

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” declared one of the guards, his voice booming through the grand hall, heralding the boy’s approach. “Son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” 

Aemond turned towards Lucerys with a slow, deliberate motion that carried the weight and precision of drawing a sword from its sheath. As his gaze finally settled on the boy, a sharp, malicious smirk twisted Aemond’s lips. Lucerys, in response, seemed to momentarily falter under the intensity of Aemond’s stare. His eyes widened, his complexion paled, and a look of palpable fear etched itself across his boyish features. It was as if Aemond could visibly see the boy’s heart drop to the pit of his stomach–a sight that stirred a dark, twisted sort of satisfaction within him.

That cruel part of Aemond reveled in the dread that unfolded across Lucerys’s face–seemed to hunger for it. It was as though this beast that resided within him was bearing its teeth, craving more, thriving on the fear it elicited. It was something sinister and remorseless that stirred, enjoying the unease he instilled in his young rival. 

Good, Aemond thought, I want him afraid.

As lightning crackled outside, its sound snapped sharply against the walls of the drum tower, its energy seeming etching itself into the very stone. The storm that had been brewing finally unleashed its full fury upon Storm’s End, with the wind howling menacingly around the structure’s round walls.

Underneath Aemond’s relentless, steely gaze, the brown-haired boy shifted uneasily, his movements betraying a nervous attempt to muster his courage. His eyes darted from Aemond to Lord Borros Baratheon, flickering nervously before finally resting on the Lord of Storm’s End seated upon the stony throne. Gathering what composure he could, he managed to put on a brave face, though it appeared rather feeble against the crack of thunder. 

“Lord Borros…” he began, his voice barely rising above a murmur when a sudden clap of thunder interrupted him, thrashing through the room like a whip. Regaining his shaken resolve, he continued, “I have brought you a message from my mother… the Queen.”

The certainty with which he referred to his mother as ‘the Queen’ almost coaxed a chuckle from Aemond. He felt the rumble of amusement within his chest but managed to restrain it, opting instead to observe silently, intrigued. 

“Yet, earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King,” Lord Borros interjected dryly, his tone as unyielding as the stone he sat upon–and cut with a certain edge of mockery. “Which is it to be? King or Queen?”

If Lucerys had been the first to arrive, perhaps he might have stood a better chance. But he hadn’t, and Aemond couldn’t help but relish in this advantage, his smugness evident as he allowed his amusement to play across his features while he fixed his gaze on the boy. His stare was cold and unyielding, aking to the chilling touch of a blade poised menacingly at the throat, intended to unnerve and unsettle. 

“The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it,” Lord Borros jeered at the unfolding drama with a scoff, his laughter echoing through the chamber, devoid of any real humor, as it rolled over the tense atmosphere. “What is your mother’s message?”

Despite the intensity of Aemond’s glare, Lucerys held his ground, seeming to find some courage. With a defiant look still aimed at the Lord of Storm’s End, he extended a rolled piece of parchment towards one of the guards. The guard approached, the sound of his footsteps resonating through the sudden silence, only to be swallowed up by another menacing crack of thunder. He took the message and walked across the room, finally placing it into his lord’s expectant hands. 

Aemond’s focus was unrelenting, almost entirely fixed on Lucerys. Despite the ongoing interactions around them, his eye remained sharply trained on the boy. A newfound streak of resolve seemed to fortify Lucerys’ composure, embolden him to meet Aemond’s piercing stare. The boy’s eyes, defiant and steady, refused to cower under the intense scrutiny, and it only served to deepen Aemond’s desire to see him squirm. 

Lord Borros Baratheon’s patience had seemingly worn thin amidst the charged atmosphere. His voice broke through the tension, rough and tinged with irritation as he grumbled, “Where’s the bloody Maester?”

The silence in the Round Hall stretched taut, its intensity rivaling the sporadic thunderclaps from the storm outside and the wind’s relentless whirring around the sleek stones of the keep. The charged atmosphere inside mirrored the tumultuous weather, fostering a palpable unease that seemed to seep into every corner of the room–if there had been any corners. 

Aemond, ever observant, noted the subtle shift in Lucerys’ stance–a slight unease that betrayed him. This small gesture did not escape Aemond’s notice and only served to deepen his amusement. The thought flickered through his mind–did Lucerys actually believe he could best him?

The echoing footsteps of the approaching maester sliced through the heavy air, his chains jingling softly, announcing his arrival. Aemond kept his gaze fixed on Lucerys, choosing not to turn towards the maester or Lord Borros but remaining acutely aware of every movement. Even without seeing, he could feel the tension in the room rise as the master delivered the message to Borros. 

Finally breaking his steady gaze, Lucerys looked towards Lord Borros, just as the lord spoke out, his voice heavy with indignation, booming through the room. 

“‘Remind’ me of my father’s oath,” Lord Borros repeated the words from the letter, his tone darkening with fury. “King Aegon at least came with an offer: My swords and banners for a marriage pact!”

Aemond’s smirk sharpened, his amusement and confidence rising as the tension in the room did the same. 

Lucerys, maintaining his composure, held his head high, seemingly undeterred by the force of Lord Borros’s words. His eyes stayed locked on the lord, defiantly ignoring Aemond as he began to speak. “My mother, the Queen, hopes that our houses’ marriage alliance remains intact. My sister–”

“‘Hope’?! ‘Hope’?!” Lord Borros erupted, cutting the young prince off mid-sentence. His voice boomed through the hall, laden with frustration and disbelief. “The alliance between our houses died along with my brother, and unless your sister is with child, I see no reason that the alliance should continue. I cannot stake the future of my house on mere ‘hope.’”

As Borros’s fury washed over him, Lucerys visibly tensed, his discomfort apparent. Aemond, ever watchful, noted the slight tightening of Lucerys’s grip on his sword hilt, his eyes briefly widening in response. He imagined that this wasn’t the welcome the boy had thought he’d receive. 

“Your sister, commendable as she might have been, pledged to remain a widow to sustain this tedious alliance,” Borros continued, his voice tinged with scorn. “However, I’ve come to understand that she has reneged on her word by accepting a betrothal to Prince Aemond here.”

Aemond felt the piercing gaze of Lord Borros on him, implicating him directly in unraveling the prior commitments between House Baratheon and Rhaenyra. The irony wasn’t lost on Aemond; Lord Borros was closer to the truth than he realized–closer than he would ever know. 

As Lucerys’s gaze shifted to him, Aemond tilted his head slightly, a smug smirk playing at the corners of his mouth–a challenge, daring him to voice his thoughts. He reveled in the clear signs of worry, unease, and fury that danced in the bastard’s eyes–a tumult of emotions that Aemond found almost palpable. Lucerys gnawed slightly at his lip and swallowed thickly, seemingly struggling to maintain his composure before reluctantly pulling his eyes away from Aemond. 

“My sister is held as a hostage in King’s Landing. Any decision to marry would not be her own,” Lucerys countered, his voice carrying a steely determination tinged with an unmistakable quiver of worry. 

“I assure you, Lord Strong,” Aemond interjected smoothly, his voice sharp as a blade, his one eye gleaming with sardonic amusement. The thrill of the exchange quickened his pulse, a flutter of amusement paired with a twist of glee in his stomach. “The decision was entirely voluntary. Perhaps if your mother cedes her ambition for the throne, you’ll be able to attend the wedding and see for yourself how willing your sister truly is.”

Aemond’s words hung in the air, a challenge laden with irony and provocation, skillfully weaving a narrative of consent and volition that masked the complexities and pressure of royal alliances and captivities. 

He held the secret of his marriage to Daenera close to his chest–one that could unravel the tension in the room with a single revelation. He could have disclosed that he and Daenera were already married, could have shown the proof etched into the skin of his palm, and could have taunted Lucerys for his ignorance of his sister’s true feelings. Yet, he refrained. Part of his hesitation might have been pragmatic, aiming not to provoke Lord Borros Baratheon’s anger, especially since he was there to secure an alliance with House Baratheon. But another, more personal part of him wanted to keep this knowledge private, to preserve a last remnant of what they shared, to protect Daenera from the harsh scrutiny such revelation would invite. Why reveal their marriage now, when the realm would witness their union all the same?

Luke’s glare narrowed as he retorted, “Or perhaps, Prince Aemond, you confuse coercion for consent as easily as you confuse treachery for honor. It seems the only way you can secure a bride is by trapping her in circumstances she cannot escape from. My sister would never willingly marry you.”

Aemond gritted his teeth, his tongue pressing against them as venomous words threatened to spill forth. Insult after insult simmered within him, pushing him dangerously close to losing his composure. 

“Be that as it may,” Lord Borros interjected, his tone brimming with impatience, “House Baratheon had honored its commitments to your sister and your house. The alliance now lies buried with my brother. If you seek a new alliance, then tell me, which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”

Lucerys gathered himself, his posture stiffening as he prepared to respond, his voice firm with a shaken resolve. “My lord, I am not free to marry. I am already betrothed.”

Lord Borros’s reaction was swift and biting, each word infused with a mix of mockery and disdain. He scoffed dismissively, “So you come here with empty hands.” His voice carried a derisive edge as he continued, “Go home, pup. And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

Despite the harsh dismissal, Lucerys maintained his dignity. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, meeting Lord Borros’s gaze with unyielding eyes. “I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord.”

Aemond, watching the exchange, felt a surge of exhilaration. His heart thrummed with the thrill of the apparent victory, and as Lucerys turned to leave, a part of him relished the upper hand they had gained. Yet, something within him stirred–a desire to further assert his dominance, to ensure Lucerys did not depart without fully understanding the depths of their enmity. He wanted him to run back home with the tail tucked between his legs. 

Floris gracefully moved from Aemond’s side to join her sisters. Maris welcomed her with a comforting touch, placing a hand on her younger sister’s arm. Her voice, just loud enough for Aemond to overhear, carried a thinly veiled jab. “You should feel fortunate, sweet sister, to wed a prince with all his appendages. Spare a thought for the princess…”

The remark struck Aemond like a barb, twisting in his stomach–an unpleasant reminder of the countless similar insults he had endured since losing his eye. He clenched his teeth, the words resonating in his ears, reverberating within his mind. What had felt like a victory moment’s earlier now soured into something bitter and resentful, coloring his triumph with the dark hues of indignation and anger. 

“Wait,” Aemond called out sharply, his voice cutting through the tension, commanding Lucerys to halt. “My Lord Strong.”

The boy halted, a moment of stillness enveloping him. Then, with measured steps he moved back to the spot he had previously occupied before being dismissed. As he faced Aemond again, the visible signs of his trepidation were unmistakable. His complexion had paled, draining of color, and his lips parted slightly, revealing a flicker of fear. Lucerys seemed to forcibly swallow his apprehension, his jaw clenching tightly. He subtly shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword, his body tensing as if bracing for the confrontation. 

“Did you really think you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” Aemond challenged, taking a measured step closer to the young prince. His hands remained clasped behind his back, maintaining a casual yet commanding presence. He was undeterred by the prospect of Lucerys drawing his sword, confident that he could take him easily. 

“I will not fight you,” Lucerys declared with resolve, his voice steady and clear–dismissive almost. “I came here as a messenger, not a warrior.”

Aemond’s voice was chillingly calm as he drawled, “A fight would be little challenge.”

He knew that should it come to blows, he would easily overpower the boy. But a fight was not what he sought; Aemond craved a different kind of retribution, something that would settle a deeper score. 

“No,” he continued, his tone darkening with a grim intent, “I want you to put out your eye…”

The demand hung in the air, heavy with the gravity of his desire for vengeance, seeking not just defeat but to debilitate and humiliate–as he had been debilitated and humiliated. It was only fair. 

Aemond felt it then–a sharp, familiar pain jabbing at the hollow where his eye once was. It started as a mere pinprick but soon swelled into a forceful throb that made his teeth feel loose, pulsating in tandem with his heartbeat. The scar burned intensely, the ache splitting his skull, a constant reminder of his loss. This pain was an old companion, lingering just beneath the surface, ever ready to surge forth and engulf him, forcing him to relive the moment of loss again and again and again.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, vividly recalling the initial sting when the injury occurred, a pain that quickly rose into a searing, white-hot agony as though he had been branded. He supposed in a way he had been. His blood had spilled thick and warm, clinging to his skin. He could still feel the horrifying sensation of his eye rupturing, the blade slicing through flesh, tissue, muscle, and bone, as his vision dissolved into a haze of black and red.

The memory of the aftermath was just as vivid–the tearing pain as the maester removed the remnants of his eye from its socket, the burning agony as the wound had been cleansed, the sharp bite of the needle as it stitched the inflamed skin closed. 

What had made the ordeal even more unbearable was the injustice of it all. He had been mained for claiming a dragon that was free to claim, yet he was the one who bore the blame of his injury. The perpetrators went unpunished, no retribution for the wrongs done to him. 

The injury had implanted a deep-seated resentment within Aemond, a smoldering rage that clung to him persistently. Upon his return to King’s landing, the wound had become inflamed, necessitating it to be reopened and cleansed thoroughly. During this procedure, he lost his eyelid, the tissue having turned black.  

After the wound had somewhat healed, Aemond made the decision to have it reopened to embed a sapphire in the socket–an attempt to reclaim some semblance of dignity and to avoid the pitying stares that had become all too common. He had read tales of warriors replacing lost eyes with precious stones, and he sought to emulate them. However, it had brought him little solace, and he had taken to wearing an eyepatch instead.

For years, Aemond had carried the weight of this injustice, living with both the physical pain and the humiliation it brought. Now, he felt the time had come to have the debt settled, to demand what was owed to him–a chance to balance the scales that had been so unfairly tipped against him. 

Aemond lifted his hand deliberately, his fingers grasping the edge of the leather patch that concealed his disfigurement. With a calculated movement, he pulled it away, exposing the harsh reality of his injury and the gleaming sapphire that sat within the hollow of his socket. “As a payment for mine…”

He stood defiantly before the boy who had caused him irreparable harm–the one responsible for his maiming and disfigurement, the one who had escaped punishment. This boy, who seemed to know nothing of fear, pain, or suffering, who displayed no remorse for his actions, who had never felt the biting sting of injustice–a poison that had seeped into his very core. 

Aemond took a dark pleasure in observing the change in Lucerys’s expression–the visible drop of his heart as he confronted the extent of the damage he had caused and the creeping fear that began to shadow his features. Witnessing the realization in Lucerys eyes was not sufficient, he sought more than just a momentary flicker of fear; he demanded a deeper acknowledgement of the pain and consequences his actions had wrought. 

“One will serve,” Aemond stated, his voice slicing through the tension, cold and unforgiving. With a deliberate motion, he flicked his coat aside, his lithe fingers finding the familiar hilt of his dagger. He drew the blade with a steely sing, its sound a clear, ominous echo in the chamber.

“I would not blind you.” His words were laden with a chilling mercy–an eye for an eye, indeed, but he offered leniency where none was owed. It was a debt of blood that had to be settled, a recompense for his own loss, dictated by ancient laws of justice. 

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond tossed the dagger. It spun through the air, landing with a clatter to skitter over the floor and stop at Lucerys’s feet, the sound of steel on cold stone resonating more profoundly than the thunder outside. This gesture, laying the instrument of retribution before Lucerys, was both a challenge and a test, a cruel kindness that spoke of the harsh balance Aemond sought to enforce. 

“Mm,” Aemond hummed, the sound almost a purr. “I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

The utter horror that briefly flickered across Lucerys’s face brought Aemond a grim kind of satisfaction. He felt it uncoil within his chest like a viper poised to strike, the beast within him baring its teeth. He believed it was only fair that the bastard should suffer as he had–Aemond wanted him afraid, wanted him humiliated. Yet instead of the outright fear he sought, a defiant spark–spiteful, even–flared in Lucerys’s eyes. His jaw set firmly, he held his head high, though in Aemond’s eye, he had no grounds for such pride. 

“No,” Lucerys answered firmly, and his response ignited an uncontrollable rage within Aemond. To be denied justice, to be refused retribution a second time–it was more than he could bear. 

 A cold, dreadful sensation crept over Aemond as he stared at Lucerys, feeling the pain in the hollow were his eye once was–a chilling, maddening discomfort that seemed to curl within his eye socket, spreading like ice through his skull and scratching at the edges of his consciousness. The words that escaped him were delivered in a cold, drawling tone, laden with accusation. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

Lucerys’s response was defiant; his jaw clenched tightly, his body tensing as he shifted on his feet. “I will not surrender my eye to you. I owe you noth–”

Aemond’s already frayed composure snapped completely at Lucerys’s budding refusal. Rage exploded within him, an inferno as vivid and all-consuming as dragonfire. It obliterated all rational thought, unleashing the beast that lurked within, its fangs bared, thirsting for retribution. 

“Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” Aemond’s voice boomed as he advanced towards the visibly frightened boy. In a swift motion, he scooped up the discarded dagger, its metal scraping loudly against the stone floor, the sound magnified in the tense silence. The blade caught the light from the lightning flashing outside, making it seem as though the storm itself had invaded the Round Hall. Aemond could almost taste the bastard boy’s fear, and it only fueled his desire for retribution–he imagined carving out the boy’s eye, making him endure every excruciating moment just as he had, wanted him to feel the blood as it poured–

“Not in my hall!” Lord Borros Baratheon’s commanding voice cut through the tension as he rose from his throne.

Aemond’s fury was momentarily bridled by the authoritative intervention–remembering that he was here out of duty to his family and house, to secure an alliance. He halted his advance, though his gaze remained fiercely locked on Lucerys. The guards quickly stepped between them, forming a protective barrier. Behind them, the boy stood with his sword drawn, the tip of his blade quivering slightly, and Aemond couldn’t help but think him pathetic. 

“The boy came as an envoy,” Lord Borros continued, his tone firm and authoritative, “I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take Prince Lucerys back to his dragon. Now.”

Aemond, momentarily stalled by the command, stood his ground but slowly rose to his full height. With practiced ease, he spun the dagger within his grip, letting it twirl elegantly before sheathing it at his hip–unbloodied. He thought Lucerys should be grateful for Lord Borros’s intervention; he should consider himself fortunate that Aemond had enough control to hold back. He envisioned Lucerys retreating to his mother, tail tucked between his legs, humiliated and defeated. This image, though not as satisfying as exacting his revenge, managed to soothe the aggressive itch at his fingertips.

As Lucerys sheathed his sword and took a few shaky steps towards the doors, he paused and turned back to face Aemond once more. His expression was unusual, marked by a mix of determination and sympathy–almost pitibal in its sincerity. “I am sorry that it has come to this…” 

The boy’s words carried an unexpected earnestness that only served to set his teeth on edge. The words slithered under Aemond’s skin, twisting into his bones, igniting something dangerous  within him. He fixed his gaze on the bastard, fighting to contain the surge of rage that flared anew in his chest. The pain that normally lurked at the edges of his mind, though palpable, had been somewhat bearable until now. But at Lucerys’s apology, it began to unravel, the icy grip of it clawing into his consciousness with talons that tore through his restraint.

“I am sorry,” Lucerys continued, his tone almost mocking in its sincerity. “I regret that my actions resulted in the loss of your eye but I will not apologize for protecting my brother…”

These words, meant to convey regret, instead felt like a provocation to Aemond, challenging the very control he struggled to maintain. His body tensed, frozen in place yet poised to strike. The words tore through Aemond with blinding ferocity. He was sorry? He was sorry?! The way Lucerys spoke, as if the incident had been a mere mishap, belittled the true extent of Aemond’s suffering. It wasn’t just the loss of an eye–it was the years of excruciating pain that left him writing in bed at times, the endless, agonizing months it took to heal fully. It was the grueling process of relearning basic tasks that once came effortlessly, the way the injury had mutilated and disfigured him, not just physically but in the eyes of those he met. 

Lucerys’s apology failed to capture the humiliation and torment Aemond had endured, how his father would never look at him without seeing the scar first and foremost, how his mother would look at him as though she had failed him, how that scar became the defining feature people noticed. It ignored how deep the scars ran, how the incident twisted him, hardened him into something brutal and cruel–a beast in the form of a  man. 

A fierce, almost primal urge surged through him–he imagined drawing his sword, effortlessly slipping past the guards, plunging the blade into that bastard’s eye, then severing his head to let the sword be anointed in the traitor’s blood. He imagined sending what was left of Lucerys back to his mother in grim retribution.

Yet, as much as he yearned to unleash his fury on Lucerys, a whisper of restraint echoed in the back of his mind, a tenuous thread of self-control keeping him from shattering entirely. The sliver of rationality held him back, a reminder of the consequences that would inevitably follow.

Lucerys continued, his voice steady yet each word, seemingly dismissive and mockingly sympathetic, shredded the last vestiges of restraint Aemond clung to. The small, rational voice in his head was drowned out by the throbbing rage that consumed him. “I hope for your understanding, and perhaps forgiveness one day, but until then, you have my apology for the suffering caused by my hand,”

Aemond’s glare intensified, his eyes burning into Lucerys with such fury that it visibly shook the young bastard. The intensity of Aemond’s rage was enough to send Lucerys quickly turning to exit the hall, eager to escape the palpable hostility. 

As Lucerys left, Aemond felt the rage continue to sear through him, gnawing at his fingertips insistently, engulfing his mind. He turned to Lord Borros, his voice icy, colder than the harshest winters of the North. “I thank you for your hospitality, my lord, and I will have the hand of the King finalize our arrangement, but if you excuse me, I must go.”

His words were formal, yet the undercurrent of his tone conveyed a chilling resolve, as if the coldness of his voice could mask the storm of fury within him. With that, Aemond prepared to leave, his every move reflecting the tumultuous emotions he struggled to contain. 

Aemond didn’t wait for an answer, or perhaps he simply didn’t hear it; he spun on his heel and swiftly exited the Round Hall. The moment he stepped into the corridor, his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. Driven by a storm of rage, he sprinted down the hallways and darted through the tunnel, navigating the winding paths of the curtain wall before bursting into the tempest outside. 

Rain lashed at his face as thunder roared overhead, the elements mirroring his inner turmoil. The rocky terrain threatened to trip him, but his fury propelled him forward unscathed. He reached Vhagar, his hands finding the wet, slick rope that wrapped around the dragon. 

“Hēnkirī kesi urnēptre bona Ilībōños bona ziry zūgagon īlva,” Aemond sneered, his voice cutting through the relentless downpour that threatened to drown out his words. Despite the roar of the rain, Vhagar responded to her rider’s command, a low rumbling emanating from deep within her chest, signaling her readiness. Aemond ascended the ladder with a fervor fueled by his smoldering rage, each step taken with urgent determination as he planned to chase the little bastard through the storm. 

Together we will show that bastard that he should fear us.

By the time he mounted the saddle, he was thoroughly drenched, his hair plastered to his skin, the chill of the rain seeping deep into his bones. Yet, he scarcely noticed the cold; his mind was singularly focused on the objective–to find the boy who had inflicted so much pain upon him and ensure he experienced just a fraction of the fear and helplessness Aemond had endured. 

He wanted Lucerys terrified, utterly humiliated–his rage demanded no less. As he prepared to take flight, every fiber of his being was set on this relentless pursuit, the fury within him as relentless as the storm that raged around him. 

“Ryptēs! Rȳbās!” Aemond commanded, his hands tightening on the leather reins. “Sōvegon!”

Listen. Obey. Fly!

As thunder roared above, Vhagar responded with a low rumble, shaking her massive head as a sign of readiness. She then unfurled her enormous wings, striding towards the cliff’s edge, and with a powerful leap, she allowed herself to drop slightly, the fierce wind quickly catching her wings and lifting them into flight.

Rain lashed at Aemond’s face like a barrage of tiny icicles, each droplet pricking against his skin with icy sharpness, though he barely registered the discomfort, or that the sapphire within his socket were steadily turning to ice as the wind whipped at it. His heart pounded in his ears, nearly drowning out the howling wind and the continuous thunder that cracked through the sky. Lightning streaked across the dense clouds, briefly illuminating the darkened heavens, as they soared into the storm, bound by a mission fueled by vengeance and fury. 

A crude smile stretched across Aemond’s lips, savoring the taste of rain mixed with the wild fury of the storm. They were in close pursuit of the small shadow darting ahead of them, the smaller dragon’s wings flapping frantically against the relentless wind. Aemond cleverly used the cloud cover to cloak their approach, weaving through the dense clouds, allowing them to stealthily stalk their prey from above. 

As they drew into the clouds in front of the smaller dragon, they executed a swift, tight turn before emerging from the thick cloud cover. Aemond and Vhagar burst forth, their sudden presence in front of the smaller dragon meant to be an imposing and terrifying spectacle, amplified by the thick cover of clouds that wrapped around them. Aemond caught a brief glimpse of Lucerys’s red-cheeked, fear-stricken face as they swooped over them, allowing Vhagar to menacingly snap her claws close to them, a clear threat. 

A menacing, maniacal laugh erupted from Aemond’s chest, a sound that bubbled up and spilled from his lips, fueled by the palpable terror emanating from the boy and his dragon. Vhagar joined in with a sound akin to a crackle, a low, reverberating growl that might have been a purr under less ominous circumstances. It was a foreboding sound, promising the unleashing of fiery breath and teeth sharp enough to rend flesh. 

Together, they were the embodiment of true power.

This was a dance of fury and fear, where his shadows cavorted with the gales, their whispers echoing in the thunder, rejoicing in the terror they instilled in the target of his ire. The storm, like a malevolent spectator, seemed to mimic the tempest within Aemond, its rage a mirror to his own, its chaos a reflection of his soul.

As Arrax darted ahead, Vhagar surged forward with a predatory swiftness, her massive maw snapping at the air, her gleaming teeth tearing menacingly close to the smaller dragon. Arrax fluttered about uneasily, trying to evade the larger dragon’s threatening advances. 

Aemond harbored a cold hope that when Lucerys looked back, the sapphire replacing his eye would catch the lightning’s flash, its cruel gleam filling the boy with utter dread. He wanted to haunt Lucerys, to be etched into his mind–it was only fair, as the cruel edge of the blade had been etched into his face. 

Aemond delighted in the chase–delighted in the terror he elicited as they toyed with the smaller dragon. He let Vhagar snap her jaws at the dragon, threatening to tear off its wings or bite into its body. Through the roaring storm, they pursued them relentlessly, refusing to let up. Aemond’s intent was clear: he wanted the boy to experience the same helplessness and humiliation he had endured years ago. 

“I see you! Ilībōños!” Aemond bellowed, his voice clawing its way through the tumult, ensuring it reached Lucerys amidst the chaos of the storm. His shout was a declaration of his presence, a warning that he was unavoidable and ever-present, like the storm itself. 

As Arrax seemed to sense the imminent danger, the small dragon instinctively pulled its wings closer to its body, executing a sharp drive in an attempt to escape. Aemond, relentless, spurred Vhagar to follow. The massive dragon pursued her formidable form cutting swiftly through the air towards the churning sea below. The wind lashed against Aemond’s face with such a ferocity that, had he been wearing his eyepatch, it surely would have been torn off. 

With his voice raw from shouting, Aemond bellowed again. He was uncertain if his words could pierce through the howling wind and the roaring sea as they rapidly descended, but he shouted regardless, his voice echoing with command and threat: “Ozdakōs, mittys!”

Run, fool!

His shout was taut, a challenge thrown into the face of the storm, as much a part of the tempest as the thunder and lightning themselves, all converging to overwhelm the fleeing dragon and its rider. 

Lucerys and his dragon quickly turned and leveled out above the narrow sea, maneuvering sharply to steer towards the cliffs. Aemond and Vhagar were in close pursuit, her immense wings masterfully catching the wind to prevent a perilous descent into the sea. 

Another cruel, discordant crackle escaped Aemond, a sound not entirely human, as if the beast within him had broken through. The rush of their rapid descent invigorated him, his blood singing through his veins with a hot, thrilling pulse. He felt the familiar swoop in his stomach, reminiscent of the exhilaration he felt during his first ascent on Vhagar, when he had claimed the dragon as his own.

As Arrax deftly turned towards the cliffs, Vhagar followed, intent on catching up–a shadow of death closely trailing the boy and his dragon. The smaller dragon managed to slip through the narrow crevice between the cliffs, disappearing like a bug through a crack in the wall. Aemond, reacting swiftly, yanked at the reins, steering Vhagar sharply upwards over the cliffs, temporarily losing sight of their quarry among the rocky outcrops and the relentless downpour. 

Vhagar expressed her frustration with an aggravated roar that mirrored Aemond’s own sneer of irritation. They continued to fly above the cliffs, scouring the landscape below. The sea thrashed violently against the cliffs, its hunger palpable in the storm’s fury. Aemond’s heart thundered in his chest, the pounding rhythm nearly drowning out the storm’s howl, fueling the thrill of the chase that tingled beneath his skin, itching at his fingertips and fluttering in his stomach. He laughed, cruelly so, reveling in the feeling of power. 

“Jemēla gēlȳni enkā!” Aemond called out, his voice a menacing drawl meant to instill fear and provoke a mistake. “Taobus!”

You owe a debt! Boy!

His words cut through the tumult, meant to echo ominously around Lucerys, a constant reminder of who it was that pursued him. Aemond’s command was not just a call–it was a dark promise, woven into the winds of the storm, haunting the fleeing boy with the weight of his impending reckoning. 

Aemond fervently hoped that Lucerys was consumed by fear, that he felt utterly powerless–just as powerless as Aemond had been when the dagger had sliced through flesh and muscle, as hopeless as when he had the remnants of his eye brutally torn from his socket, and as forsaken as he had felt when he had been denied justice, when he had been denied the retribution he deserved. He wished for Lucerys to feel the same crippling fear Aemond had endured when they had turned against him, when they had attacked him for claiming something which was free to claim. 

Most of all, he wanted Lucerys to feel the crippling shame and humiliation he had felt, bearing the scar of injustice. 

The clouds around them were oppressive, heavy and dense, closing in as they navigated the endless gray expanse. Aemond blinked rapidly against the onslaught of rain and wind, and suddenly, a torrent of fire burst from a gray cloud, followed swiftly by a sweeping shadow that darted past them–trailed by a voice whose words were drowned by the wind. The fire curled around Vhagar’s head, hot and searing. Aemond felt the intense heat graze his skin, wrapping them momentarily in a billow of smoke. The heat was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by an icy chill as the warmth dissipated into the stormy air, leaving a lingering cold in its absence. 

Vhagar reared her head in anger, a reaction that Aemond felt deeply within his own chest. The dragon’s fury mingled seamlessly with his own, fueling his emotions as his stomach churned with cold dread. Vhagar plunged through the clouds after Arrax with forceful determination, almost as if personally affronted by the young dragon’s slight. 

A thunderous roar shattered the sky, reverberating so powerfully that Aemond felt it within his chest, louder than the thunder itself as lightning streaked across the heavens. He felt control slipping from his grasp, like wisps of smoke escaping through his fingers. 

“No, no, no, no! No! Serve me, Vhagar!” Aemond commanded desperately, his voice rising over the storm as the dragon thrashed beneath him, snapping its teeth in wild fury. The low rumble of Vhagar’s rage seemed to vibrate through its massive body and into Aemond’s, amplifying his own distress. “Vagus, daor! Dohaerās!”

Vhagar, no! Obey me!

But like any creature pushed to its limits, Vhagar continued her relentless pursuit, utterly indifferent to her rider’s commands–but the will men wield over dragons was finite, and Aemond was rendered a mere spectator as they pierced through the clouds into the brightness of day, leaving behind the swirling tempest below. His heart sank as Vhagar opened her massive jaws, and with a force that seemed to resonate through the very air around them, she snapped them shut around the boy and his dragon. With a single devastating bite, she sheared off Arrax’s head, wing, and tail.  

Lucerys’s shrieks of pain and terror were abruptly silenced as he disappeared into Vhagar’s vast gullet, consumed–a grim meal as Lucerys vanished from the world, swallowed whole by Vhagar.

As Vhagar clamped her jaws around the dragon for a second time, Aemond felt the visceral echo of bones and flesh crunching–a sensation that resonated within his own body so vividly he could almost taste the blood that Vhagar had spilled in pursuit of retribution–vengeance. This second, ferocious bite, severed her prey completely, her head twisting with the violent finality of a hound shaking its catch. Droplets of blood splattered across Aemond’s face, a grim rain marking his countenance despite the clarity of the sky above them.

Vhagar’s victorious roar thundered through the sky, resonating not just externally but deep within the hollow of Aemond’s chest, its echoes reverberating in the chambers of his heart. 

His eye widened as he watched the descent of the mangled remains, following their plummet towards the insatiable sea below. He watched, almost in a trance, as the fragments of what once had been a boy and his dragon disappeared into the cloud-laden abyss, vanishing from sight forever.

In that moment, Aemond’s heart thundered in his chest–a relentless drumbeat that marked the end of the chase, the culmination of his vengeance, and the ominous onset of war. 

Aemond drew his hand down his face, staring at it as smears of blood marked his pale skin, intermingling with the droplets of rain that still clung to him. He released a breath, which morphed into a cold, humorless laugh as his thoughts remained muddled, as wild and tempestuous as the storm still raging below them. 

For years, he had harbored wishes–longings–for retribution, for vengeance. He had fantasized about carving out Lucerys eye as a replacement for his own, desperate to share his own pain and humiliation with the one who forced it upon him–seeking some semblance of the justice that had been denied him. An eye for an eye, blood for blood, a debt that had to be repaid.

It would have been a fair exchange, a way to set the world right–a means to possibly reclaim what he had lost, to somehow piece himself back together and feel whole once more. Aemond mulled over this thought, the notion of justice as an equalizer resonating deeply within him, as if such an act could balance the scales and mend what had been lost. 

Deep within him, there had been a childish flicker of hope that by killing Lucerys might somehow fill the void left by the blade, would somehow miraculously restore his eye–but as he sat upon Vhagar now, he could feel the coldness of the sapphire within his eye socket, and the bitter truth struck him–that the blood he had sought did not, and could not, restore his eye. It did nothing to heal the scar or mend the mangled skin, nor did it address the deeper, more enduring wounds within him.

Deep within him, there had been a childish flicker of hope that killing Lucerys might somehow fill the void left by the blade and would, somehow, miraculously restore his eye. But as he sat atop Vhagar now, soaring above the sea of a storm, feeling the cold touch of the sapphire within his eye socket, a bitter truth settled over him–the blood he had sought did not, and could not, restore his eye. It did nothing to heal the scar or mend the mangled skin, nor did it soothe the deeper, more enduring wounds within him left by the injustice–and far from making him feel whole, the act of vengeance only deepened his sense of incompleteness, leaving him feeling more hollow and wrong than ever before. 

Instead of filling the void within him, it seemed to have expanded, leaving Aemond grappling with the haunting emptiness of a victory that felt ominously akin to defeat. As he sat there, the consequences of his actions set in–this was not merely the ignition of war, but a sacrifice of what he held dear. His honor and reputation were now irreversibly stained–he had made himself a kinslayer, the worst thing a man could be–but what weighed more heavily on his heart was the realization that he had lost the very thing he loved the most; Daenera, the one who had brought warmth into his cold world, the sweet poison whose intoxication he had come to depend upon. 

As he settled back into the saddle, Aemond felt that cherished warmth slipping away, evaporating like mist through his desperate, futile grasp. The loss left a chill in its wake, a cold reminder of what his vengeance had truly cost him. 

And the thought that made his blood turn into ice, was the thought that Daenera would turn away from him–that she would no longer see him.

The beast that resided beside his heart, held at bay by chains of self-control, transformed into something far more vicious and cruel–a monster in its purest form, completely unrestrained. And what else could he become but a monster, if that was all anyone ever saw when looking upon him? 

His heart, if it could still be called that, had turned into something far darker and more malevolent. It became like Valyrian steel–cold, unyielding, and thirsting for blood. It embodied the destructive path of fire, monstrous in its desires, armed with teeth and claws, ready to consume anything in its path.

And this heart.

This twisted, blackened heart, it had become hers–surrendered to the one he feared losing the most. Would she recognize it? Would she recognize him?

Aemond refused to succumb to the pain that threatened to overtake him, the kind that could fill him with fear. Instead, he swallowed his feelings, feeling them fester and burn within the pit of his stomach. He let the monstrous darkness within him take a hold of him, finding it preferable to fear, to regret, to any other feeling. This darkness offered a twisted solace, a shield against vulnerability, ensuring that he felt nothing but a cold, numbing embrace. 

Aemond had always harbored a deep-seated desire for Lucerys’s death–he thirsted for vengeance against the boy who had stolen his eye and sown a seed of darkness in its place. And resonating with his dark wish, Vhagar had executed this desire–sought the revenge he had denied himself. Although Aemond hadn’t set out to kill, it seemed as though the very forces of nature, or perhaps even fate itself, had aligned to bring about this outcome. 

And what can a dragon do but obey its nature?

Vhagar, driven by instinct, acted as dragons wont to do. And Aemond came to understand that he, too, was bought by an inescapable nature, one that was deeply entwined with his desires, his pain, and the justice he had been denied. 

And he found that vengeance truly did hunger–that it was an insatiable force that once awakened, demanded to be satisfied.

[deanlikeshisangel]

he knew the greatness wouldn't last, after all it is the destiny of the stars to collapse

nikolai lantsov's prayer

warnings : none

for more : masterlist

a/n : I haven't gotten the chance to read the books yet so this is based on my interpretation of what could happen in the show's storyline. the line ' it's the destiny of the stars to collapse' isn't mine, I read it somewhere long ago and i can't remember where

a silent prayer falls from his lips as he kneels in front of the golden altar of the saints, moonlight seeps in through the rose coloured glass on the windows, casting a haunting glow across his face.

he laughs to himself, he knew the greatness wouldn't last, after all it is the destiny of the stars to collapse. he wonders if his whole life he was just making up for who he was going to be, if all his good deeds were to make up for all the misery he is going to cause. he wonders if his name is still worth remembering.

he used to have stardust in his soul but now he can feel the monster sinking its jaws into his rotting flesh, charring his bones, grinding them to dust. he can feel his soul fading, it's being replaced by dark edged desire. his heart thumps against his ribcage, it's trying to leave too. his brain is turning to sap and his blood burns with unforgiving rage and hatred. 

this isn't him, he knows that. 

he prays to the saints to just give him just one more day to live, to let him serve his nation, be the king ravka deserves before the sun sets forever. but as always, his whispered prayers are met with deaf ears 

so he screams, have I not given everything? 

[butterbabyflapjack]

Having fun writing tortured messmer 💕

(slight spoilers for chaos hearts)

The world had been so simple, once.

No longer.

Not for many, many years, which have stretched so long their length is far past measure.

You.

You did this.

Or was it his mother?

His mother, fair and light as the wings of a golden bird. Yet a dove with a sinister song this whole land has come only to see the weight of, and can they be blamed?

Such blasphemy, the question. And yet he asks it now. A question he thought not ask till only recently. Never once questioned the worth, the merit, the righteousness of his mother nor her cause throughout this entire crusade, not even as he felt so many lives snuffed out at the merest flicker of his flame. Thousands of lives: gone, in a mortal’s heartbeat, pressed flat beneath his fingers as they tiptoed ‘cross this land with the ease of marble pieces ‘cross some game. They mattered not–they deserved it. Deserved worse. Would have seen his mother, his flesh and blood, bared and beaten and whatever remained of her bloodied, ribboned flesh stuffed inside a cage where she would lose all sense of sanity. Would see her meet such a fate now, or worse, for what she’s done.

They deserved this.

This fiery, unforgiving retribution set out by his mother, enacted by his hand.

So why did his heart grow tight and cold, crystalline in its splinters, at the sight of a horned women clutching her grasping babe; the both of them charred and frozen black in the wasteland which was always left behind his reaching flame?

Tis why he was sent here. To rid this place of the blasphemous, the barbarous, the undeserving.

Was that all he was, then?

Death?

Death to the innocent?

Death to screaming mothers and the tears of clutching babes?

Yet they weren’t innocent.

Far from being so.

These thoughts are foolish. This heartache even moreso.

When did he succumb to such mindlessness?

You did this.

You. And that silken thread of softness hiding underneath the bitter whole of you, like a bloom beneath a blade.

[whumpsday]

K&J: Kane's Whumptober Bites #13

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, reluctant whumper, knives, torture, burns, begging

@whumptober Day 13 (Alt): Hunting / Shaking / Reluctant Whumper

-

This hunter was new, and he was weak.

Not weak in the physical sense– not any more than all humans are, that was. But he was reluctant, Kane could see it: the way his eyebrows creased, the way his lips pursed, the nervous way he held the knife stuck with bits of burnt flesh.

It was something Kane had learned to spot. Had to learn, for his own survival. Hunters like this were the ones to beg for it to stop for today, for a break, for a lesser punishment. The ones who responded to desperate eyes and rasped pleas. Of course, they were far rarer in this place, and most had left early-on when he was still naively defiant.

The signs were more obvious on this hunter than any he’d ever seen.

Kane looked up from where he laid strapped to the board, arms and legs pulled taut and banded to the corners with hot, unforgiving silver. He’d long since given up pulling at it, resigned as his wrists and ankles charred.

“Please,” he begged, choked-up with tears. “Please, sir, I’ll be good. Just–”

No more would be an audacious request, this early on. The hunter had barely started carving into him. DG, the sizzling mark on his collarbone read, bloodless and cauterized. Probably initials. He’d almost every combination of common letters he could think of burned or sliced into him.

As badly as he wanted to plead for no more, he relented for something more realistic. “P-please can I be unbound? I’ll stay still, I promise. I won’t resist. Please, it hurts.”

“Uh– I dunno…” The new hunter looked over, searching for approval from the hunter who’d come down with him.

The older man shook his head. “It’s your decision, Dawsey. Don’t look at me. This isn’t the field, you can do whatever the hell you want. You can keep carving it up, wuss out, or put it out in the sun for all I care.”

Kane sobbed, trembling with the terror of it all. “Please no, mercy, mercy please. I’ll be good!” he cried. “Don’t do it, sir!”

Dawsey looked down at him warily. It was blatant this hunter didn’t possess the sadism of his usual visitors, but was desperate to impress. Kane knew all too well what it was like to be so eager to prove himself like that. He couldn’t believe he’d ever cared so much about it, as if his parents’ opinions were anything compared to the safety he’d taken so for granted.

“Fine,” the young hunter decided, putting too much effort into making himself sound decisive. “But you step out of line and you’re going right back in.”

Kane let out a shaky sigh of relief. “I won’t, sir. Thank you, thank you for your mercy.”

Dawsey released the bindings, though the impressions of the cuffs remained burnt into his skin. Kane only dared move his limbs enough to keep them off the silver, then laid still. He was sure this one wouldn’t be too bad, all considered. His tormentor would relent after a short while if he took the pain well.

He shuddered, bracing himself as the silver knife plunged back into his flesh.

[juni-aldaine123]

A PROMISE OF PROTECTION/ snf ; himfri

・❥・fluff . light angst . oneshot . nightmares . comforting . reassurance . cuddling . frieren looks after himmel . based on a dialogue prompt

༶•┈┈┈┈┈┈୨♡୧┈┈┈┈┈•༶

The night is long and cold, and just as unforgiving despite the years, as Frieren remembers. The fire rumbles and crackles when she adds another branch to the charred remains sitting at the base. She is the first one to be on lookout for tonight, for there are monsters that meander the vales of the Northern Plateau. They even had difficulty setting up a camp tonight for they had to battle the ferocious Abyssal Dragon that had impeded their journey and locate a safe spot to spend the dark hours of night in peace.

Though it was long and odious their conflict with the dragon ended with them being victors. But they didn't win without a few spoils of war after all.

Why, their injuries and the scars they bear now are their rewards! Frieren still thinks it was rather pointless to accost the beast head on when they could've taken the easy and safe path through the woods. But needless to say- Himmel the Hero likes a challenge and is known not to back down when presented with one.

"Being an adventurer comes with its own set of dangers," he often reminds her whenever she asks.

"Besides, now people can traverse these roads without hesitance," he happily told her when she sat beside him by the campfire.

Well, that is what it means to be a hero after all, helping people along the way.

But who helps the hero when he is in need?

Frieren can see Himmel's discomfort from where she sits quite clearly, but she thinks she might not have noticed at she not been looking at him; he makes not a sound as he writhes in pain. He bites his lips and keeps his tears at bay but the elf can see him struggling.

'A nightmare...' So even Hero Himmel isn't exempt from such trivial distress.

She moves to sit by his side and attend to him, holding his hand in her hands and playing with his fingers like he does for her whenever she falls ill.

"Even now...you would rather suffer in silence than ask us for help?" she asks the sleeping man and then roams her gaze over their two unassuming companions snoring away peacefully. Perhaps it is for the best. Surely Heiter and Eisen would've noticed too and they been keeping watch now. Heiter might've even done a better job than her at comforting Himmel and she's not too sure about what Eisen would've done. But she's the only one awake and must do what is to be done to arouse Himmel from his nightmare.

Heiter had once told her how to deal with one. Though it had only been in theory.

Frieren hopes it works on Himmel.

"It's alright Himmel. You're safe. We're safe. What you're seeing isn't true," she whispers in a monotone. But then she gently pulls his head in her lap, like he does for her whenever she claims to take a nap, cradling him like a child. She frees one of her hands and runs her fingers through his hair hoping to ease his pain.

"I'm here Himmel. Frieren is here. Right by your side." And as if her name were a magical spell, all signs of hurt vanish from his body when Himmel hears her and he falls limp in her hold, visibly relaxing. Frieren lets out a small smile, happy to have helped her hero, happy to realise he feels safe from a now fading nightmare.

"I'll always keep you safe Himmel." Lips trembling she breaks out an amused huff when Himmel turns his head and starts to nuzzle his face against her stomach. "Nothing can hurt you when I’m here," she promises and for the remaining night as she watches over their party her hold on his hand doesn't loosen, her embrace doesn't quiver and her fingers don't stop fluttering against his forehead and blue silken locks.

When Eisen wakes up to take over her shift she simply presses a finger to her lips when she sees him open his mouth to question her and then points at his mattress, urging him to close his eyes once again and to allow her to handle this. The warrior understands her well enough and goes back to sleep.

Come morning Himmel is the first one to wake up and find himself looking up at the sleeping face of Frieren.

And he can't help but love her more.

"Thank you Frieren," he calls to the cool dewy breeze.