#decorative stone hood

[shagtective]

Mediterranean Patio Dallas

Inspiration for a large mediterranean backyard tile patio kitchen remodel with a roof extension

[stlinzk]

Outdoor Kitchen Outdoor Kitchen in Dallas

[le-temps-plus-que-parfait]

Dining in Miami

A mid-sized beach-style u-shaped kitchen with a farmhouse sink, shaker cabinets, white cabinets, quartzite countertops, gray backsplash, stone tile backsplash, stainless steel appliances, an island, and white countertops is shown.

[theclassyhuman]

Austin Dining

[itsonlydana]

Hey hey, saw ur requests were open for Thranduil and knew I needed to submit something!

Could you do a Thranduil x fem human reader where she braids her hair without knowing the significance for elves? They both have feelings for each other but neither has said anything, supper fluffy ending y’know?

Thank you in advance and have a great day!! :))

Beautiful misunderstandings | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem human!reader 👑

You simply wanted to accept an invitation to a celebration, but something about you makes the elves literally drop at your feet. Can Thranduil resolve this misunderstanding, or will he be affected as well?

tags/warnings: just lots and lots of fluff, no warnings

word count: 3,6k

an: to be honest, most of what i wrote is my own headcanons because i did not find lots about hair culture with the elves.. so please: educate me! Are there some hcs in the fandom? :)

+ masterlist + rules + 🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

The forests of Greenwood greet you with open flames of torches licking up their hot tongues against the dark skies, coloring the path the horse trots along in their amber lights and the wooden smoke that fills the air. Evenly distributed along the pathway they light up just enough of Greenwood that it doesn't take away from the sight that awaits you at the end, where the trees give way to an equally decorated bridge and the foliage thins out enough for you to take in the tall arches framing the open doors of the Great Elvenking's halls.

You have already been a guest for many of Thranduil's festivities ever since he established trading relations with your small fisher town. Due to the bond that twirls around the two of you in some unfathomable and complex manner, you also know that nothing he ever does is anything but grande and imposing. 

Still, you can't help but push your lower lip in between your teeth. 

Not once have you gotten the impression of standing out more than the difference in race and status already marked as obvious factors, neither Thranduil nor his elves treated you like you felt right now: 

Completely out of your known waters.

The elvish customs were far too many for you to know them all and you always try your best to consider all and everything that you've learned in the two summers you could consider yourself an acquaintance to Thranduil. Whatever form this acquaintanceship took on is another worry, or rather, another unknown that you can't exactly express to anyone. 

It's nearly as confusing as the steps of the dance you studied in your room before you left this morning, a step forward and two back, Thranduil asking you to accompany him to his dances but never dancing with you. 

Tonight, you want to change this predicament of always ending up in the arms of another elf while the one you yearned for watches from the sidelines! You didn't work this hard for the fabric that hugs your figure in a beautiful dress for nothing and even if the fabric isn't as shiny or light as the dresses the elves wear and the stitches marked your fingertips with the evidence of the labor and long nights, you are proud of the garment. 

The wind plays in the hem as you emerge from the guarded forest and its thick and dense foliage and it winds itself around your legs after you dismount your horse. A quick kiss to his muzzle, followed by an exhale of warm, familiar breath and you hesitantly let a servant take him away, mumbling a soft "Thank you" while you stay where you are and watch until they disappear around a tree.

Nervously you start walking up to the bridge, the reckless water under it crashing against the stone walls and it goes along with the blood that pumps high and fast through your body and rushes in your ears. The atmosphere is loaded, sizzling under the nearly suffocating heat that's only bearable in the cool shadows of the palace in front of you so you don't waste another second. 

You brush off the hood of your riding coat, smoothing out some fly-away hairs that escaped the braid you carefully weaved earlier this day as you duck your head in reverence to be allowed in these sacred halls. 

Whispers catch up to you from outside, a breeze dancing through leaves.

When you lift your chin again, you find that it's not the air affecting nature but rather your presence halting nearly all the elves that gathered on the first bridge inside the caves. 

They say elves are graceful and purposeful in their movements – the way dozens of eyes are locked onto you and lips move in not-so-silent murmurs defiles that claim though.

It's nothing you haven't encountered before, the talks behind your back that came along with Thranduil's attention shining down on you like the sun – hot, engulfing you completely and rendering you breathless as well as a bit sweaty at times whenever he looks at you, and you learned how to handle it. His attention brought forth a lot of awareness of his folk to the woman who visits Thranduil just as often as he rides into your town and becomes the topic of conversations for weeks. What's a girl to do except accept that a King never comes alone?

You're used to elves watching you, most of them in respect. Thranduil's authority radiates onto you, as well as the protection that he swore would lay upon you as long as he's there to give out orders.

The first elf whose eyes you questioningly meet drops to his knees in the same instant, barely a breath of time passing by. 

A gasp leaves your throat.

Words do not follow. They remain echoing in your head, pushed back by the spectacle that spread before you like wildfire. Too fast, too much.

Within seconds of you entering, the buzz of lowered voices dies down as elf after elf either bows or completely meets the ground they are standing on. The spectacle is confusing and throws you completely off; this reaction is nowhere near what you've experienced before and you do the first thing that comes to mind to handle this totally unsuspected confrontation of elves bowing to you, a human from no known family and nothing to your name other than the weight it carries on Thranduil's tongue.

The only thing you manage to stammer is: "Good evening," and a high-pitched, "Thank you?" before you take your legs into your hand and dash over the bridge. 

Thoughts as unstoppable as you run through your mind while you navigate the curving halls of the underground palace, the stonewalls not cool enough to diminish the heat that sits low in your neck, growing the longer you think about all that has happened between Thranduil and you and how it's not much more than nothing but a close alliance of human and elf. 

One that you hope would take on a different turn, because some of the actions by Thranduil could be considered friendlier than one would treat an ally or friend. You think back to all the gifts you have received, the white gems for example that, barely bigger than your nails but woven into the upper part of your braid, reflect the light and throw silver dots against the walls that lead you to the point Thranduil had asked you to meet him in one of his many letters. 

The route involves more encounters with more elves, some bow more subtly, their hands on their chest in a greeting that you do know, and some others, mostly those who've already fallen in barrels of wine and are less sophisticated in their movements in their drunken state who repeat the word "bereth" as if it's a prayer in a language that's far beyond you to make out right now. 

At the end of the hallway, you make out the back of a familiar blonde and even from afar you notice the resemblance that Thranduil's silver circlet has to the silver ribbon you have woven into your hair in a similar way and height how his circlet would look placed on your head. 

Is this what brought such uproar to the elves? Have you accidentally copied their king? 

"Thranduil!" you call out, his name lacking any title though not out of disrespect. You have the highest respect for the King of the Elves and slip a "Your Majesty" rather often into conversations because you know how much he favors his name from your tongue and teasing him like that brings a joy to you that you can't explain anyway else then: 

Hearing him laugh and smile or roll his eyes at your antics fuels the love you harbor for him.

Now is not the time for teasing chit-chat, you are desperate to find out if you have actually misstepped by presenting his gifts like this at a festival that's solely about him.

He turns at the sound of your voice and, oh lord, even his eyes widen as soon as they land on you and you want to perish rather than step any closer but the hurry in your legs and the nervousness in your stomach makes it impossible to do anything else but run to the one soul in this world that brings you comfort. 

You arrive at a full stop, and your heels would have stirred up dust if you were a mare. 

Now it's not only Thranduil's eyes that seem to have developed an inability to stray farther than your head; his mouth falls open as well and he makes no effort to close it again. The fact that this behavior is completely ungracious and ill-mannered has apparently not dawned on him yet. The longer you spend helplessly looking up at him, you swear you can see most of his thoughts visibly inching away behind that baffled expression.

At first, there's nothing.

Then some clarity returns into the blue eyes you love so much and Thranduil exhales a quiet: "Berio nin." 

Now, that's Sindarin you've heard before – that the context he has said these words were moments when he playfully begged the Valar to aid him with you tormented him in some way throws you off your balance even more and you take a step back. 

"I did not–" you start and raise a hand to wave it at all of you, "This, I had no idea. Did I offend you? Or the elves?" 

"Offend?" Thranduil asks bewildered.

"Well, the way they reacted. I wasn't sure," you laugh distraught. Thranduil's eyebrows instantly furrow, and you're quick to follow up: "Not in a bad way!" you explain and he loosens up, "They, um, they bowed? And some may have fallen to the ground?"

"Ah," he chuckles and his reaction calms you a bit. He could've been screaming or throwing you out. If he's laughing this can't be that big of a serious misstep. Thranduil looks at you through lowered lashes and runs his tongue over his teeth, a smile threatening to break through the serious expression he tries to obtain. "I believe a conversation and education is in order. If you would follow me to have this conversation somewhere else," he says and holds out his arm for you to grab.

He leads you around a corner and another one, walking swiftly yet seemingly in no hurry until Thranduil opens a door and quickly pulls you inside the room. 

Candles littered all around light up what you immediately understand to be his private chambers, the many robes you recognize, the colorful falcons with shimmering scented oils and shells full of jewelry, pearls, gems, and rings in gold and silver. There, right where Thranduil stops in front of you to block out your view, you take a peek at a giant bed behind flowy white curtains. 

You blush.

Even more so when you see Thranduil blush as well. His eyes return to your hair again, just like he had on the short walk to these chambers; tilting his head down to you as if some magical force bound him to staring at you in a manner he hadn't done before.

"You are my guest so I see it to be my responsibility to clear up what may have been a–" he pauses and his eyelashes flutter as he thinks of a fitting word, "a misapprehension. Not that you could have possibly known the outcome of what you doubtlessly suspected to be a kind gesture." 

You nervously cross your arms behind your back, intertwining your fingers so you do not meddle or ruffle the carefully layered fabrics of your dress. "I solemnly swear I was not up for any mockery."

His eyes widen again. "I would not have accused you of such!"

You tilt your head in confusion and bite down on your lip, ungraceful as well and a habit you should definitely quit, especially in the company of a King.

"What was it that startled the elves?" You think back to the way Thranduil had reacted, the wide-blown eyes, the pink lips formed to a delicate 'o' – "As well as you, Thranduil. You couldn't even get a word out except for a prayer." You let out a single laugh to cover up your embarrassment. 

The elf lifts his chin higher as if that could prevent you from noticing the blush deepening, growing much more red than just a delicate pink that stands out from his ivory skin but not much that it couldn't be interpreted as a light intoxication of either wine or fresh air. 

"I do not remember that," he lies with a dismissive voice. "Anyway, let me clarify the current dilemma instead of wasting time discussing the past." 

"Definitely not that far back that you could count it as 'the past' but sure," you sigh and decide to ignore the glare he sends you as you confront his very unsubtle passive- aggressive change of topic from him to you. Thranduil had centuries of building up a thickheadedness to lead the Woodland Realm and you had mere months on your hands in trying to push a way through it.

"Well, the behavior my folk portrayed was simply said the respect they pay for any honorable and eminent," Thranduil says, not batting an eye over the unbelievable words that come out of his mouth.

"What?" Your voice is nothing but a high squeal, "Why would they do that? They know I'm just a human!"

Thranduil scoffs, "Just a human, she says. Do not dismiss yourself in any way and most definitely not as just a human. Humans are such fascinating creatures, all those feelings compressed into an ephemeral life and bodies that endure pain and even if you waste away to dust you try to mark down your existence into every stone that you touch." Before you can burst into tears at his rather sentimental and emotional view of your people, he continues in a tone more factual: "To answer your question– you conveyed that I was courting you and they simply knew there would be grave consequences if they did not respect my intended." 

All the air left your body in a singular exhale, thus leaving you to grasp at the few thoughts that stayed through the cut-off of oxygen. Not that they were any good.

Courting you? Being his intended? 

You can only stare at him aghast. 

"But– courting? You weren't, we weren't– there was no courting!" you stammer.

The world is reeling. 

Black spots dance in the corner of your sight.

It takes all your focus to stand still and not sway back and forth, giving in to the abrupt slide downward reality has suddenly become. 

"No," Thranduil says.

A part of you withers at the finality of the statement because of course, he, Great Elvenking Thranduil, would never be caught courting a human. The absurdity of it must be why he was laughing earlier, praying to the Valar to become a witness of what must be your greatest humiliation.

"No, there was. I was simply waiting for your realization as well as acceptance to officially proclaim it."

Now it's your mouth that falls open without any strength left to prevent it.

Thranduil swallows, hard, his jaw set tightly and his eyes fixating on you. "All that I did, and thought to do, was in prospect of taking you as my betrothed," he states; the smallest of quivers underlining the massive impact this admission causes to him. He lifts one hand to his chest, pressing his knuckles against the fabric where underneath his heart lays. "I ache to love, treasure, and worship you. Every second of all the days I may have the pleasure of your company in my life or it shall be colorless from now on."

His eyes glitter, the endless blues of the sky, affection burning in them like the sun, broadening your horizon of what you believed love to be and there is no doubt in your mind that Thranduil's words are nothing but the truth. Confounding as that truth should be, it is that – certainty.

A smile breaks on your face, watery and wet as tears of pure happiness spill onto your cheeks and even if your heart has been on the tip of your tongue at every word you have ever said to him and in every glance that you have ever directed in his way, the need to validate his revelation.

You step carefully step closer and the hem of your dress brushes against his gowns as you close the bit of distance. Thranduil watches cautiously, leaving his hand against his heart, and only tips his chin down to follow you until you step into his personal space. The whole regal and stoic image he portrays even after confessing his love passionately mere seconds ago breaks as you feel his wavering breath and you swear you can hear the loud pounding of his battered-yet-strong heart. 

"Is it my hair?" you ask quietly and catch him off-guard. 

Thranduil smiles and his chest heaves in a deep inhale of air. "Yes," he laughs in an exhale, "Do you wish to know how you managed to completely dismantle me? Rob me of all powers?" 

You nod once and one hand of his comes to rest on your shoulder from where he leads you to a silver basin standing in a corner decorated with more oils and vines climbing the stone walls.

The sight that the clear water inside it shows you, Thranduil standing behind you, more than slightly taller, brings a warmness to your cheeks. Even if the prospect of his image finding a constant in your life from now on is undeniable, you're not sure if you will ever get satiated by it. 

Thranduil slowly reaches the elaborate braid you are so proud of despite the public tumult it had caused. "There are many things sacred to my folk and hair –" he starts and lets his fingers travel the length of free-falling hair, "holds the memories of our history, our connection to the Eldar and kemen – the earth. We do not cut it but rather let it grow to pay our respects to Eru for his creation, the natural and untouched world, flows in us all. It bears the marks of our ancestry though many cultures convey their personal history in many different ways." 

You listen intently, trying not to get distracted by Thranduil's hands smoothing your hair and the deep rumble of his voice wrapping around his language that pulls you into a trance. 

"Among us Sindar, we wave our customs into the very strands of this sacred hair. Our warriors, for instance, adorn themselves with tightly woven braids, serving not only as protection in battle but as a testament to their strength and unwavering discipline."

"The intricate and jeweled braids you wear," Thranduil's fingers glide along the white gems, thus nudging them against your head, "they speak volumes of noble heritage and high standing. Even if you do not have royal blood in your family, a braid like this will be more convincing to the contrary."

You blush as you realize how you unknowingly changed your entire status.

"By adorning your hair with the jewels I bestowed upon you, you declare to all my claim upon you," Thranduil chuckles and meets your eyes in the water, "Braids are the essence of our heritage, denoting rank and occupation, and they speak volumes in courtship."

"Oh," you say, "I knew Elves court through gifts. Would I have known this…"

Thranduil shakes his head, smiling widely as he continues playing with your hair, "You say that but not once have you realized all that I have given to you were of my pursuit."

"Well, I– this wasn't… I thought you were being nice," you sputter and grow even redder in the face.

"Unbelievably rude and ungracious to consider me ni–" he interrupts himself and shivers, "No I will not speak in such obscene language." Thranduil raises an eyebrow before returning his attention to the lesson in courting, "Through these intricate weavings, we convey our intentions and the profound depth of our bonds. While dalliances are not uncommon, my folk only marry once in their life."

"Love is eternal and unwavering, and each twist in our braids declares the union of our souls. By weaving your hopes and pleas for reciprocation into your hair, you speak a silent yet powerful language. The braid you chose, resembling my crown and adorned with my jewels and a silver ribbon akin to my own hair, could not have delivered a clearer message."

"So I basically lied to your elves," you pull a face in shame, "Great."

"You may call it a lie," Thranduil says slowly and his hands travel to rest on your shoulders. You lean into the gentle pull and let him turn you around so that you are face-to-face again. There is a dedication in his eyes, a look of hunger and yearning, "Or," his voice sounds even deeper and reverberates through your entire body, zipping up your spine that you automatically straighten, "You allow me to present our courtship openly if a deeper connection is what you desire to form between us."

Your heart thumps in your chest, double the tempo that one would call normal and it only speeds up when Thranduil cups your face in his hand and his fingertips graze the silver ribbon that sits tightly against your head.

"Allow me," he repeats, quieter. 

"Your word and the world will know you are mine," he pleads.

You waste not a second to ponder over what your heart already decided. "I allow it."

©itsonlydana 2024, character art by MiracleAna on Devianart

[cakelitter]

Pawsitively Yours

Leon x Puppy - Hybrid Fem! Reader

Warnings: age gap, daddy kink, fingering, breeding kink, slight mention of virginity, spanking, degradation

Summary: Leon's new puppy treats him to a relaxing bath after a stressful mission.

Words: 5.1k

a/n: this one took me so long to do omg. rewrote some paragraphs like three times. but anyway, hope you enjoy!!!!

December has started, and with it came the heavy rain fall and bone chilling winds. Leon makes his way to the nearby convenience store, trying to be as quick as possible before the sky starts getting upset again. Bundled up in his coat and boots, he can see the white smoke like fog that forms after each breath.

His nose froze long ago, and he’s only been out of the house for five minutes. His once functional nose now turning a rosy shade of pink along with his cheeks. And so, he opts to breathe through his mouth a bit till he reaches the warmth of the store.

Milk, eggs, bread, milk, eggs, bread, milk, eggs-

His mind keeps repeating, in order to not forget anything. Writing a list would have saved him so much back and forth, but he’d rather do that than give in and actually write one down. It’s actually impressive how stubborn a man can be.

The glowing lights from the festive decoration on the streets are single handedly illuminating his way to his destination. Christmas is right around the corner, and people are filled with excitement and glee. For Leon on the other hand, Christmas is another cold winter day with the advantage of things being half off the next day.

Maybe it’s the traumatic events that he went through, or maybe it’s the fact that he barely has anyone around to celebrate this once in a year holiday with. But Christmas is not as special as it once was.

Opening the glass door, he steps into the warm space. Breathing in comfortably for once without the feeling of pins and needles tormenting him from the icy air.

It doesn’t take him long to grab the items he initially came in here for, while picking up a bottle of whiskey along the way to keep him company. It was calling his name from the wooden shelf it once stood on, and it was fifty percent off. So, he’s technically doing something good. He places his belongings on the register, while making small talk with the old cashier. The man in front of him says something about the weather, old man talk, and as time passes by he is actually starting to like these types of small conversations more and more.

He's definitely getting old.

The yell of an employee interrupts their conversation, alerting everyone around and addressing a customer that sprints out the store with unpaid items in hand. He thought the officer inside of him died a long time ago, but apparently not. He starts chasing the individual, down the street into an abandoned alley way. When suddenly the clanking sound of cans ricochet through the eerie alleyway, as some of the cans their holding slip from their grasp and onto the concrete floor.

He tries his best to not step on any of them. Which shouldn’t be too hard if this damn alley way wasn’t so fucking dark. He can’t see shit in front of him. It’s practically almost pitch black and the person he’s chasing is wearing a black jacket with the hood up. He’s chasing shadows at this point. Hopefully he is even chasing someone in the first place and isn’t having another one of his hallucinations. Running out the store like a crazy person.

All he does know however is that whoever he’s running after is fast, real fast. He’s almost out of breath kind of fast. The I hope they slip so this can be over kind of fast.

His prayers must’ve been answered cause instead of them slipping, they found themselves reaching a dead end. They’re movement ceases and they freeze in place looking at the stone wall blocking their way out.

He stands behind the hooded figure, their back turned to him.

“Turn around.” He orders, voice stern and intimidating. The thief turns around slowly, eyes facing the ground and full of guilt.

“Take that hood off.” Shaky hands comply, revealing their identity. They look up at him, and… are those dog ears?

Your eyes make contact with his, tears brimming in your eyes, reflecting the yellow light coming from the nearby and only street light, horrified of the thought of what is going to happen to you next. Your ears are droopy and wet from he can only assume the previous rain. Eye brows furrowed and your tail from what he can tell is now hiding between your legs, covered by your oversized jacket. The jacket is two to three sizes too big for you, can’t tell if that’s a fashion choice. He’s not up to date with today’s fashion trends. You’re a hybrid. A homeless one, judging by the state of your clothes and hair.

Regardless of the disheveled appearance, you’re a real cutie. Practically begging him silently to pretend like he didn’t catch you, and let you go on your merry way. His eyes drop down to see what you’re holding in your arms and finds three cans of tuna there. You poor thing, hungry and shaking from either the cold or from the possibility of going to jail… or the pound. He’s not sure where they deal with your kind.

He steps closer, and immediately senses the he picked the wrong choice of action as you start growling. Taking the hint, he backs off and nods slowly raising his hands up, making you stop.

The sound of running footsteps enter into the alleyway the two of you are standing in.

“You caught them?” the employee from earlier asks. Your eyes move over to them then back to him. Leon is a firm believer that stealing for hunger isn’t a crime. You were stealing tuna cans for fucks sake, the cheapest kind too. Not a lavish necklace worth millions.

“Yeah…” he can hear your brain cogs working, thinking about how you will get yourself out of this situation. And he could swear that he heard a whine leave your mouth. Hybrids are looked at as a minority, either locket away in cages or poked in labs. And that’s if they weren’t causing trouble. He doesn’t know what the law would do to you in your case… but it’s most definitely not humane. After a moment, he speaks again, not taking his eyes off of you.

“How much did those cans cost?”

That incident was four months ago, and ever since that day he decided to take you in. Leon was very adamant on the idea of not adopting any pets, not having the time to take care of them. But he figured that since your half human, it wouldn’t be too bad.

The first couple of weeks were hard. You’d lock yourself in your room and hide under the covers when he’s home. You’d growl if he tried touching you, and in general was having a hard time adapting to your new space. Leon however, remained as patient as possible. Giving you your time to feel comfortable, and always made it clear that he’s not a threat to you. Although he can’t really blame you for thinking he is, after all, having a man chase you down and corner you in an alleyway isn’t the best first impression to make.

He doesn’t know much about your background. Whether you were experimented on in a lab and somehow managed to escape, or simply tossed into the streets. But it’s clear that your days before meeting him weren’t the brightest. Matter a fact, he didn’t even know what your voice sounded like for the first 3 weeks, and just assumed that your breed didn’t have the capabilities to speak.

Nevertheless, you decided to break this cycle of keeping him away, when he once came home and sat on the couch. You were laying down on the floor on the further end of it. And to his surprise, decided to walk towards him, laying down and placing your head on his boot, instead of scurrying away into your room.

Leon has fought some of the most gut-wrenching bioweapons, designed to end a man’s life in a matter of seconds and managed to end them without breaking much of a sweat. Yet, this is his biggest achievement yet. You wanted to be next to him, instead of telling him to fuck off like usual. With your eyes of course, he still hasn’t unlocked the dialogue option with you at that time.

Ever since then, you’ve made small steps of opening up to him. And now, he’s the center of your universe, the main attraction, your favorite toy. Pawing at him for belly rubs, standing at the door, ready to greet him, as soon as you hear the jingle of the keys, and needing his attention 24/7 whenever he’s home.

You are now a completely different pup compared to the one he found wet and cold in a sketchy alleyway a few months back. You’re playful and energetic. A pain in the ass to take to the doctor for checkups, but nonetheless, a perfect companion for him. Leon likes to believe that you’re a gift sent to him, an early Christmas gift to light up his gloomy days. A thing he never knew he needed.

Ever since you stepped into his life, leaving paw prints behind, he started getting better without even knowing it. Instead of spending nights self-loathing and mourning the person he could’ve been, downing beer after beer. He spends that time now playing with you and watching movies together. Colorful ones though, your attention span isn’t the best…

He anticipated that you would have dog-like characteristics, and you do. Going crazy over squeaky toys, sniffing him for a good fifteen minutes after he comes back home, being obsessed with his shoes and hiding them under your bed, and tilting your head to the side when you’re confused.

Pure innocence, pure puppy innocence is what you are. Which is the reason that made him feel like a creep for his dick standing up whenever you’d sneak into his bed at night, cause you had a bad dream. Wearing skimpy shorts that did nothing to hide your ass, and a tight floral tank top without a bra. Your pouty lips, and soft-spoken voice. Your pretty eyes, and delicate skin.

“Leon…I had a bad dream; can I sleep with you?” Is all he would hear coming from the direction of his bedroom door. You don’t even bother waiting for him to answer, and instead climb into his bed, tangling your self around him. Head nuzzled into his chest, one of your arms and legs draped over his body. It doesn’t even take you longer that a minute to be fast asleep, leaving him an achy mess without even knowing it.

In addition to how you’d sit on his lap while watching a movie. He hasn’t taught you boundaries yet, knowing you, you’d get upset and give him those kicked puppy dog eyes for shooing you off his lap. Cause it makes his dick fucking hard.

It wouldn’t be such a big deal if you stayed still for once. He swears that you can’t stay in one position unless your asleep. As long as that cute little brain of yours is conscious, you’ll keep squirming on him lap, again with those frilly white skirts and revealing shorts, like he isn’t on the verge of losing it.

Worst part of it all, how your cunt always seems to be so wet all the time. Feeling it seep through your panties and onto his pants, making him want to die on the spot. The way your underwear will always have massive wet patches on them whenever he does the laundry. Is that even normal?

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Today he came back home after being away for three weeks. Opening the door, he doesn’t find your figure standing in front of him, with a flashy smile on your face, showing off your sharp canines. Twinkling so perfectly like you didn’t suck his bank account dry with those toys off yours. He raised his eyebrow at your absence and whistled hoping your pick it up in case you haven’t heard the sound of the front door opening. Which is pretty unlikely.

Dropping down his bag in the hallway, he walks over to the living room. The older man inspects the area, calling out for you, yet there is no sign of you. Kitchen, same thing. It’s not till he reaches the dining room till he spots out of the corner of his eyes the sight of your fluffy tail sticking out from under the table.

A grin creeps up on his face as he walks towards your hiding spot. He stops a few inches away from where you are and pretends like he’s still looking for you.

“Oh my god, I can’t find her!” He exaggerates, and watches over at how your tail starts wagging.

Cute.

“Where could she possibly be!!” it starts swishing left and right even harder, hitting the chair legs that are on either side of it.

Thump

Thump

Thump

“Is she under the dining table?”

…

“Or is she in my room?”

Thump

Thump

Thump

You’re adorable.

“Oh well I give up. Guess I’ll never find her.” He says throwing his arms defeatedly and turns around to exit the room.

“Boo!” Jumping out from under the table, you reveal yourself. Your arms extending and grabbing his leg. He chuckles and you look up at him with a beaming smile.

“Did I scare ya?”

“Real good, sweet thing.” He replies and crouches down to your level, rubbing behind your ear. Your favorite spot. He helps you get up and you waste no time beginning to sniff him near his shoulder. Face scrunching up at the smell and your eyes meet his again.

“Did you swim in the sewers again?” you ask rubbing your nose.

“I-… yeah”

It’s a long story okay…He needed to get to a certain point but the normal way was blocked so he had to-

Whatever.

Your head nods up and down slowly, knowing your nose is never wrong.

“I’ll go shower.”  He replies, and your eyes light up.

“Want me to help?” You ask excitedly, your tail wagging intensely. “I’ll help you take a bath, and I’ll let you use my rubber duckies too!”

“No honey I-”

You give him those eyes. The ‘you wouldn’t be mean and break my frail puppy heart would you?’ eyes. The eyes that make the strongest agent in the United States, weak. And to no one’s surprise, he gives in.

“Fine, but you only prep the bath and then leave, okay?”

“Don’t you want me to wash your hair like you wash mine?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“…I’ll only prep the bath and leave.” That took you longer to answer than he would like. “Promise? “He asks.

“…”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He nods, making sure that you understood what he was saying. And as soon as you get his approval, you sprint to the bathroom and the sound of the tub being filled follows pursuit.

He sighs, shaking his head with a smile. Walking to his bedroom, he grabs a freshly cleaned towel before making his way to the bathroom. Your figure is kneeling on the floor, hands grabbing the edge of the tub, watching as it fills with water and bubbles.

Turning around, you smile with a tail wag and turn off the faucet once the water has reached the amount, he usually puts for you.

“It’s ready!” He nods and you start to make your way to the door. As you do, he grabs the edge of his shirt and begins lifting it revealing the bare skin beneath. You stop in your tracks and he notices, your eyes looking at his defined muscles without even blinking.

“Out!”

“Okayyy” You whine, brows furrowing as you slowly close the door. Not before taking a final look of course.

He continues undressing and walks over to the tub, it has some bubbles and a couple of rubber ducks floating on top of it. Placing one foot in, the water is a little too hot, but not bad considering it being your first time doing something like that.

The water level rises as he soaks his entire body, feeling his muscles relax. Soothing his aching muscles and bones. A moment later, he pulls himself fully under the water, and then comes back out, pulling his hair off his face, giving him a slicked back hairstyle you always make fun of him for.

The smell of soap and the feeling of finally being safe after three hellish weeks grounds him as he closes his eyes. Once he reopens them, one of your rubber duckies is looking at him.

God, this is a bit weird.

He grabs it and inspects it, it’s mostly in good condition except for a few bite marks here and there. Wonder who those belong to. He examines the duck for a few more minutes, taking in its yellow body and orange beak. You go crazy over these things, he practically needs to drag you out of the tub each time because of them.

The silence around him is broken when he hears the sound of the door slightly opening which is followed by a cold gust of wind. He looks over and sees one of your eyes looking into the room.

“What did I tell you?” He says, but you don’t respond. Thinking you can trick him into thinking that you’re not there, just like how you still think he couldn’t see you back when you were hiding. And to think your breed is supposed to be one of the smartest.  He calls out your name, making you speak and pull the bathroom door open exposing yourself, kneeling next to it.

“I wanted to see if you were having fun…”

“I am now leave.” He says, tone trying to show seriousness. You don’t listen and in lieu, start crawling towards the tub.

“Are you listening to me?” He speaks again, but it falls to deaf ears. How can he blame you for not listening when he has never disciplined you. Spoiled brat. Ever since he picked you off the streets and claimed you as his own, he has not even once, raised his voice or gotten angry at you.

You crawl over and place your head on the edge of the tub. He’s honestly shocked at how shameless you’re being.

“That one’s name is Jerold.” Your voice says, pointing at the duck he forgot he was holding. A pathetic attempt of trying to change the topic. He looks at the duc- Jerold then back at you. Smiling so sweetly with a halo above your head like you just didn’t break his word.

He sighs, realizing there is no use in wasting his breath and places Jerold back in the water. Looking over back at you, he notices that you’re no longer watching his face, but at something else intensely. Curious, he follows your eyes and realizes at what caught your attention. The bubbles in the bath decided to migrate to either side of the tub, making his crotch completely exposed to your prying eyes.

You’re are not even blinking, a thing you do when you’re thinking too hard about something. The snap of his finger cuts your thread of thoughts, making you jump as you look back at his face, the place you should only be looking at from the get go.

“Privacy?”

Your ears go back in shame, it’s like you didn’t even realize that you were staring.

“Sorry… The water just looks nice.” He raises a brow at you. You are a pervert and a horrible liar.

“The water.” He repeats, showing you how ridiculous your lie was. You remain silent for a while, but start getting a bit fidgety. Looking around and getting up and sitting down again, the same way you act when he’s about to give you a treat.

“Can I get in the bath?” You say impatiently. You’ve always loved bath times, and pools, and lakes, and every single body of water that has ever existed. So, this is not unusual for you to ask, but he can’t help but feel like your intentions aren’t pure.

“No.”

“Why?”

…

Good question. Why not? He does think you’re the cutest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. He has fantasized about you before, something he doesn’t like admitting. He has checked you out a few times too… you were once again, wearing flimsy clothing, prancing around him, licking his neck and begging him to touch you and give you rubs. At the end of the day Leon is a man, who is guilty of thinking with his dick a time or two.

But he always resisted his urges. Locked them away in one of the rooms in his mind next to other gruesome core memories and throwing away the key. You were his baby, he’s supposed to protect, care, and provide for you, not fuck you.

By the time the voices in his head are fighting each other, you were quick to take off your clothes. And next thing he knows you’re in the tub with him. He goes to protest against what you’re doing, but you straddle him and place your head on his shoulder.

If that was your plan to shut him up… it worked. You feel warm and soft. The plush of your breast pressing up against his chest as he watches your chest rise and fall. Maybe this is wholesome, not like the two of you are naked and he could practically feel your cunt on his dick. No no no, that would be absurd.

He places his hand on your back, and moves it up and down soothingly. Why is he even rubbing your back? You disobeyed him, shouldn’t he be pissed? The two of you sit in silence for a while, before you remove your head off his shoulder. Arms still on either side of his neck, your eyes meet his. Dropping from his sky-blue eyes, over to his wet lips. Fuck.

You lean in. Fuck fuck fuck.

And you kiss him. Possibly the most delicate kiss he’s ever experienced. Full of pure affection. He doesn’t push you, he doesn’t pull back, he doesn’t lecture you about boundaries. But instead, he takes it. All of his attention on your mellow lips and light breath.

You pull away, locking eyes together. And he sees the blood rushing to your cheeks. Did he ever mention that you were cute? You anticipate him lecturing you, yelling at you, or even kicking you out, for what you did. But he doesn’t.

Remember that voice that was telling him that this is weird? Yeah, it can go fuck itself. He leans in and kisses you lips again. You let out a soft breath at his action, and he can hear the sound of your tail wagging once again even when it’s submerged in water.

Splash

Splash

Splash

Once more, your lips disconnect and you start shifting your hips above him. His dick has already started rising ever since your lips made contact with his.

“Can I wash your hair now?” he laughs.

“Sure, why not.”

And so, you do. Grabbing his shampoo bottle and squeezing some product on your hand before lathering in on his head. Your fingers work the product into his hair, before grabbing the nearby shower head and rinsing it off. The masculine aroma of his shampoo fills the small space as he decides he might as well give you a bath while he’s at it. He goes to grab your shampoo before your hand stops him.

“I want to use yours… wanna smell like you.” His heart could burst out of his chest at this moment. This shouldn’t have turned him on this much, but alas it did. Without complaints, he does what you want. Repeating the same process, you did on his hair earlier.

It doesn’t take long before the two of you walk out the tub. He pats you dry with his towel then himself. This went over rather smoothly, see wholesome just like he said. Everything is under contro- you’re rubbing your thighs together.

“Leon…” Your soft voice calls out to him, grabbing his attention. He hums in response and looks over at your eyes. Stepping closer, you place a soft lick over his collar bone before beginning to kiss the area. Your hand creeps up the side of his neck over to his jaw, coaxing him to accept your touch. And you almost managed to do that, till those voices in his head barged in once again.

He grabs your hand gingerly and whispers. “Baby, I don’t know if we should do this.”

You whine, mouth stopping its assault on his neck to speak. “Please, wanted you to breed me for so long.”

Once again, those voices get thrown out the window, as the words you just said make his brain short circuit. Cursing under his breath, he smashes his lips against yours harshly driving you up the bathroom wall.

You kiss him back fervently. Hands cupping his face as his chest closes the proximity between the two of you. Grabbing your jaw, his hands slither down and cup your mound, receiving yet another whine from your lips. Music to his ears.

His finger then starts making firm circles around your clit making your hips buck forward towards his touch craving more. Your hands scramble around his chest, a puppy like you has probably never experienced something like this before, huh.

His tongue enters your mouth and you accept it gladly. Two of his fingers rub between your folds back and forth. Collecting the slick that is practically dripping down your thigh, your hole is practically weeping. And he groans at the slippery feeling, before plunging two of his fingers into you with ease. Your back arches and you moan into his mouth, as his fingers start moving in and out of your wet heat.

“Who knew my sweet pup was such a slut.” He says pulling your ears closer to his mouth with the iron grip he as on your jaw.

You’re so sensitive, thighs begin to tremble at the way his fingers curl into you, and the real fun hasn’t even started. You can barely stand at this point. Realizing that, he grabs your thighs and pulls you over his shoulder and makes his way to his room. He plops you down on the bed, and you immediately roll over to your stomach, back arched, and ass up in the air like its instinct. He could get used to the sight of this, your face pressed down on his sheets and begging him to fuck you senseless.

“You know sweetheart, I don’t even think I should breed you after you’ve disobeyed me so much today.” He says, hands rubbing over your ass. And upon hearing his words your expression shifts, it feels like he just told you the most heartbreaking news you could ever receive in your whole life.

“Noo please. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah? I don’t believe that.”

“I promise, I won���t do it again Daddy.”

Shit.

You’re into that too.

...Oh, your nastier than he thought. Without even replying, he grabs his cock, slapping it a few times on your ass, precum forming strings connecting the two surfaces. Then bullies his cock into you making your feet kick out with a squeal. His balls are plush against your clit as he completely bottoms out inside of you.

You start drooling over the mattress, hands clutching the sheets beneath you for dear life. And without giving you much time to adjust, he starts moving. You feel so tight around him, its driving him crazy. The squelching sounds of your tight dripping pussy can be heard from a mile away. The fluid dripping from the hole that is connecting the two of you and down onto Leon’s gray sheets. Leaving wet dark gray spots on the surface. Picking up his pace, his hips slam into you harshly, pornographic moans can be heard from the two of you along with the clapping sound of your skin slamming against his.

He grabs your hips and leans in, having your back against his abdomen as he speaks into your ear.

“Here I was thinking you were innocent, not knowing what you were doing. Having your entire pussy on display for me, all wet and needy, waiting for me to fuck you full like the slut you are.”

“Wanted you.” is all you can manage to retort back, voice breaking from the impact each thrust has on you. He chuckles lowly and spanking your ass making you yelp and squirm beneath him before grabbing it. The skin now, hot and red beneath his touch.

“Should’ve spoken earlier sweetheart. I wouldn’t be this rough if I wasn’t so pent up.”

Your pussy is now sucking him in even further as he rabbits his dick into you. His hand moves over and under you, making its way to your clit. Pleasure is slowly but surely fogging up your brain, no thoughts other than Leon floating around in your head.

“Be a good girl and cum for me. And maybe then I’ll breed you.” And just like that, your thighs shudder beneath you as your pleasure blurs out your vision. The idea of being full of Leon’s pups making you see stars.

The tightness that you are gripping Leon in, in addition to your walls spasming around him, makes him tighten his grip on your hips leaving bruises there. His release ensuing yours. You bite your lip at the hot liquid being spurted out inside of you. Making you feel warm on the inside. Leon groans at the intensity of his release, one he forbid himself from for such a long time.

He thrusts a few more times, distributing his cum evenly inside you, and pushing it further up your cunt. He lets out a breath at the sight, one he can’t believe is seeing.

Plopping a delicate kiss on the middle of your back. He pulls out with a squelching sound from both your fluids combined, forcing a whimper out of the two of you at the discomfort. He walks over to the tissue box he keeps on his bedside table, and helps you clean up the mess. Throwing away the dirty napkin and laying down on the bed next to you, his arms open and inviting you.

You cuddle up against his chest, and he places a soft peck on top of your head.

“Thanks for the bath sweetheart.”

divider by: @/picopipi

[animasola86]

🦇 FANGS TO REMEMBER

m!vampires x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 3.6k

On your way back to the party, you come across a graveyard. Unbeknownst to you, you are trespassing onto someone's property, and they are not happy about it. Or are they?

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Vampires! Noncon/dubcon! Threesome! Spitroasting! Biting! (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: This is part 5 of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7 This is the continuation of OPTION 3/PART 4 - but can be read individually, let me just set the scene:

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and after drinking a strange drink, you decide to get some fresh air, running into a werewolf who instantly decides to knot and breed you, and after that ordeal is done, you flee from him, and come across a graveyard...

ADDITIONAL WARNING: This one is very dark. It's more noncon than dubcon, so if you don't like the themes, you can skip it (imagine something dark happening) and read the next part here.

You look around, but there's only one way forward: through the graveyard. It's too dark to see anything else, no maze, no garden, no house, you can't even see the cabin anymore you just left. The night is eerily quiet, no critters, nothing. Even the wind seems to take a break for now.

Inhaling deeply, you hug your arms around your body and take a step through the large wrought-iron gates, looking left and right at the rows of crooked tomb stones. A strange mist wafts close to the ground, giving off an otherworldly glow. The moon is long gone it seems, the sky too cloudy to show any stars, but still you can see the various shapes around you.

You're not easily spooked, usually, but being alone in a cemetery at night makes your imagination run wild, wilder than it has been all evening. The slightest movement makes you flinch as you tread carefully along the path, goosebumps rippling over your exposed skin whenever something brushes against your bare legs. The shirt is soft and warm, but in the end not long enough after all, no matter how hard you tug at its hem.

A sudden shuffling sound makes your blood run cold and you freeze on the spot, your heart beating out of your chest, cold fear gripping your limbs. It came from behind one of the larger tomb stones, decorated with a small angel statue. You stare into the darkness, pressing your lips together to keep the noises from spilling past them. Probably just an animal. Your mind is surely playing tricks on you.

But when the same sound comes from right behind you, you whirl around with a shriek, stumbling back as you see a large black shadow blocking your view. You expect to fall onto your butt, but something keeps you from it, another shadow – and this one has hands. Hands that grip your arms, holding you tightly. Another scream rips from your throat as you thrash about, trying to get away, before another hand finds its way to your mouth, muffling all the noises you want to let out.

Your eyes are wide when the shadows around you form into the shapes of two big men, pale in the eerie light, tall and muscular, dressed surprisingly well for creatures that lurk in the dark.

“What do we have here?” the one with his hand on your mouth says, tilting his head, giving you a smile that makes his handsome face look almost diabolical. “A little rabbit? In our cemetery?”

“Did you get lost, little one?” the other man, the one behind you, whispers as he leans his head closer, rubbing his smooth cheek against yours. It's cold to the touch.

You stiffen, unable to do or say anything. Maybe you're still dreaming, or again. But the way these men grab you feels too real. They are strong. Intimidatingly so. You swallow hard, gasping when the one behind you gives you a deep sniff.

“Ugh, she reeks of dog,” he says with a drawl. “Had some fun with the beast, didn't you?”

Suddenly you feel a hand between your legs, a cold touch, coaxing a muffled yelp out of you as you feel probing fingers right against your warm crotch. “Huh, yeah, he got to her alright. Filled to the brim...” He pulls his fingers away and raises them to your face, and you can see the thick substance coating them. “Too bad, really, I was looking forward to ravaging that sweet cunt...”

You glare at him, both in shock and indignation. He pulls his hand from your mouth and shoves his soiled fingers between your lips. A muffled grunt of protest slips from your throat, but your attempts to get away are futile as the other man still holds your arms tightly. A bitter and slightly salty taste fills your mouth, but with how the man presses his digits onto your tongue you can't do anything but flick it around them, licking them clean.

“At least she seems quite obedient,” he muses with a menacing tone, watching you closely, moving his fingers in and out of your mouth.

“We can still have some fun with her,” the man behind you says quietly, his nose nuzzling your neck. “He hasn't marked her yet. She's fair game.”

“Splendid,” the other replies with a laugh and pulls his fingers away with a wet popping sound. You quickly swallow the spit gathered on your tongue and lick your quivering lips. “So, little bunny, do you wanna try to run? I would die for a little hunt... if I wasn't already dead,” he adds with a reverberating laugh that makes you shiver deeply.

You just stare at him, your chest rising and falling faster. “I don't think she'll come far,” the man rubbing his hands over your arms retorts. “She seems weakened. The beast clearly got her good. Let's just enjoy her until her heart gives out, hm?”

You gasp at the implication, immediately silenced by a hand reaching out to grab your chin. “Fine. It is already enough to hear this beautiful beat,” the man in front of you whispers as he leans closer. “Are you scared, rabbit?”

Your eyes dart over his pale face, and when he bares his teeth and licks them slowly, you stare at his pointy canines. After having just met a real werewolf (or so you think, it's all so fuzzy in your head right now), you shouldn't be surprised to meet actual vampires, in a graveyard no less, pale and cold and strong, with sharp fangs and insatiable appetites, but your body still reacts as if you were indeed just a bunny cornered by two predators. A tiny whimper escapes your throat. “Please...”

“Hmm? Please what? Use your words, darling!” the man behind you snarls, rubbing his nose against your neck before you feel his lips on your pulse, nibbling teasingly.

“Please let me go...” you press out.

“Not going to happen, sweetheart,” he replies, his low voice muffled. “You came to us. Walked right onto our property. It's our right to do with you whatever we like...”

You squirm in his hold when he laps his tongue up your neck. The other man watches you, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip before he suddenly leans closer, pressing his forehead to yours. You gasp, staring at him. “You won't regret it, little one,” he breathes against you. His skin feels cold, but the close proximity makes your cheeks burn up badly. “We'll give you a good time, don't worry your pretty little head!”

And suddenly you are being lifted, nausea rolling over you as you find yourself somehow floating in the air. It's all a blur at this point. Footsteps crunch over gravel and dead leaves, thump against stone plates, old hinges screech as a door is being opened. The fresh air becomes stale and dusty, the light even darker. You move down a set of stairs, but you can't move, your head is swimming, your insides tensing up in a way that borders on painful. You can barely breathe, and you have no idea why.

Candle light flickers to life when the men take you through a large wooden door. Your eyes blink into focus slowly. You seem to be in some sort of mausoleum, old looking, corners full of cobwebs, aged statues lining the walls. In the middle of the round room, there are two stone coffins, both of them open, their heavy stone slabs pushed to the side. You swallow hard, trying to see this as a scene, a decorated room fit for an elaborate Halloween party.

But somehow you doubt this is part of it.

“Excuse the mess,” one of the men says as he walks to the coffins. “We didn't expect company tonight...”

He raises a hand – and as you're being set down on your feet again, you witness how the heavy slab moves seemingly on its own or by a strange unseen force, leaving you even more confused. Both coffins are closed now, and before you can question anything else, you are being draped over the short side of one of them, stomach pressed to the cold stone, arms and legs hanging off the edges. A groan escapes you.

“Let's clean her up first, I can't stand the stink of wolf,” one man says as he steps behind you, pushing your legs further apart. You feel a strange coldness rushing through your body, like water, but not really wet, a sensation that leaves you choking on your own spit. “There, better. Don't you feel better too, darling? No longer stuffed full of disgusting beast semen? Well, I don't want to kink shame or anything, maybe you are into being bred, but we do like our holes squeaky clean – for us to soil all over again.”

You squirm on the stone slab, your hands trying to find purchase on the smooth surface, your legs kicking helplessly, but before you can do anything, the other man steps in front of you, grabbing your chin and lifting your head up. You find yourself face-to-face with his throbbing cock. They don't seem to waste any time, huh? He presses his thumb and finger into your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. You issue a groan of protest that is quickly muffled by his surprisingly warm member. You have no choice but to close your lips around it. (Even if you wanted to bite down on him, you couldn't, his hand is still holding your jaw open.)

“Good bunny, you know what to do, hm?” he tells you, slowly rolling his hips against you, his tip scraping along your gums, teasing at the back of your throat. Saliva pools on your tongue, and you feel the need to swallow it before it drips past your lips. When you do, he groans quietly. “Oh, yes, like that. Do that again.” Somehow his words seem to encourage you, and you swallow around him once more, straining your throat enough for tears to fill your eyes.

Behind you, you feel two cold hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gripping them, pulling them apart, before they slip up your rear and push the large shirt out of the way. “So I assume after your little werewolf ordeal, your poor little cunt is a little tired, wouldn't you agree?” he rasps teasingly. “Good thing you have another hole, huh, my sweet?”

You let out a series of muffled cries around the cock in your mouth when you feel probing fingers between your ass cheeks. “Mhmmnngh!” you croak out, thrashing on the stone slab, trying to get away. A sudden slap on your soft rear makes you howl, but ultimately stops your fidgeting. Your skin burns and throbs horribly. “Shh, relax, rabbit. You can take it. See?”

Before you can react, you feel a strange pressure against your sphincter, a teasing touch but unrelenting, and suddenly you have a finger in your ass. Your tight muscles clench around the thick digit, and you wriggle in your compromised position, almost gagging yourself on the dick between your lips when you push yourself against the man's groin and his cock deeper into your mouth. A jerk goes through your body, your hands fruitlessly trying to hold onto anything.

You don't feel in control of your limbs anymore, it's strange. You can feel everything, but you can't move, only rock back and forth on the coffin. The man behind you pushes his finger deeper, then pulls it out and replaces it with two. The stretch hurts, and you let out a muffled wail. Your noises seem to encourage him when he moves them in and out faster, deeper, a hard press against your protesting muscles.

Meanwhile the man holding your jaw increases the pace of his hips slamming against your face. His cock pushes deep, and you gag violently when he breaches your throat, your body convulsing, spit filling your mouth. He pulls back slightly, allows you to breathe and cough and swallow, but then repeats the motion, and you gag again, and the cycle continues. Your head is spinning by the fifth time he forced his length down your throat, and you feel too weak to protest anymore.

Not even when you notice that the man playing with your ass has added another finger and is plunging his hand hard against your rear, a dizzying rhythm, forceful, stretching you for whatever comes next. You can guess and it scares you. But there's nothing you can do as he suddenly pulls his fingers out with a wet pop and you feel his cockhead pressing against your slightly gaping hole. A deep grunt escapes him when he rocks his pelvis forward, sinking into your depths without mercy, carving his way through your impossible tightness.

Your muffled scream is overpowered by loud gurgling noises as the cock in your mouth pistons in and out fast, always pushing deep, bulging your neck, his crotch slapping into your face with each thrust. You are pushed and pulled, rocked back and forth, impaled front and back, cold hands holding your head up or digging into your hips as the two men use you for their pleasure, their grunts filling the space around you.

Despite their rough handling, you feel a strange heat growing inside you, and you realize that with every slam into your ass or snap into your throat, you are rubbed over the rough stone, and your clit quickly feels raw and swollen from the added stimulation. Moaning into the rapidly moving cock in your mouth, you focus on the good feelings, not the burning friction in your rear, not the rawness of your throat, the lack of air or the helplessness, just the bliss that tries to fight through the pain and discomfort.

But before you can even imagine any edge to fall over, they suddenly slow down, languid strokes that push deep until they stop altogether, one cock buried deep in your ass, the other pushed all the way down your throat as pubic hair tickles your nostrils. Your eyes roll back, your lungs burn, your body spasms fruitlessly. Groans echo in your ear.

“Let's turn her around,” one says.

“You wanna switch places too?” the other replies, almost a little breathlessly.

“Sure, I bet she doesn't mind a little ass to mouth action, huh, sugar?”

A loud slap against your bruised rear makes you gag violently, and as spit fills your mouth and tears stream down your face, you are being rotated on the cold stone slab, arms still hanging limply to the ground while your legs twitch as they're being pushed up and against your heaving chest, opening you up further. Cold air brushes over your exposed skin, and for a short moment they let go of you, cocks pull back, leaving trails of stickiness all over your face and crotch.

You are lightheaded, barely able to function, and that moment of reprieve is short-lived. You didn't even get the chance to swallow or breathe properly before a cock is being shoved back into your mouth. Hands curl around the back of your head, holding it up as the stiff and slimy length is pushed straight into your bruised throat. You can only croak out a muffled grunt before a heavy pair of balls slam against your nose.

“Tongue out,” the man above you orders, and you comply, hoping it'll be easier with your mouth wide open and your tongue extended to guide the throbbing cock in and out. “Good. Just like that. Look at that neck bulging. Ugh,” he continues, groaning as he rams deep into your throat and rests there, cutting off any air flow you may have had earlier. You squirm on the coffin, limbs twitching helplessly.

Before you drift off into unconsciousness, he pulls back and slaps your cheek. The pain drags you back immediately. “No fainting, rabbit, we need you awake for this.” You cough hoarsely, spit and precum flying through the air. You're too weak to open your eyes, and it doesn't matter anyway. His hand is on your neck now, squeezing slightly. “Ahh, yes, listen to that frantic heartbeat,” he rasps, slowly slipping his cock back between your lips. “Are you afraid to choke, hm? Or does that turn you on?”

You gag when he presses into your throat slowly, your whole body jerking against the man on the other side, who's holding your legs open and pressed to your chest. You are allowed to cough and swallow before it happens all over again, again and again, and while one man fucks your throat with reckless abandon, the other rubs his cold hand down your mound, teasing at your swollen clit, parting your puffy labia, but then he dips his finger into your ass, completely ignoring your hungrily clenching cunt.

There's no further preparation, and a moment later he shoves his cock into your tight hole, making you wail against the dick in your throat. He lets go of your legs, causing them to flop about wildly with each thrust as he starts pounding into you hard and fast, then you feel his long fingers on your burrowed shirt. You barely register how it's ripped open, but you do feel those cold palms pressing onto your soft mounds, pebbling your skin, your nipples hardening instantly. The touch is almost soothing among all the other things happening to you.

It's a whirlwind of sensations, the lack of air and strain to your throat and jaw on one side, the rough friction and burning heat and hard pummeling on the other. You are moved back and forth on the stone surface, a limp body to be used. You don't know how long this is going on, but these guys seem to have incredible stamina. They just won't stop.

Whenever you feel as if you're slipping into the welcoming darkness, you are slapped and brought back, your cheeks burning and throbbing, but it's only one of many aches by now. You can't decide which is worse, the suffocating stretch when a cock buries deep into your throat, or the rough pummeling of sore muscles when the other cock rams into your tight ass. It's all a blur in the end.

The men are groaning and grunting, snapping their hips against you, uncaring of your discomforts. They're chasing their own orgasms while you remain teetering far away from any sort of release. The room is filled with loud squelching noises, gurgles and slurps, slapping of skin against skin, a soundscape that seems to be your only form of stimulation. Not even the cold hands on your breasts push you further to the edge, they are just there, holding you, groping hard, anchoring you as you are pushed back and forth.

At least they have a rhythm now, in and out in an alternating way, almost like a seesaw, in goes the one in your throat, out moves the one in your ass, and then it's the other way around. And somehow you find comfort in it as you lie there, held in place, unable to move, your eyelids fluttering, tears and snot drying on your sweat-slick skin.

It's then that you feel cold fingers brushing down your quivering belly, down, down, until they rub against your clit, and you arch your back, inhale that cock in your throat, jerk your hips against the one pounding into your ass, and you come, clenching down hard, stiffening, eyes rolling back, bliss exploding through the veils of darkness.

You feel like floating, leaning into the wave of pleasure that washes over you as you let it all happen. And as you do, the men's motions grow jerkier, rougher, faster, and they come too, almost at the same time. Cum shoots down your throat, and you'd expect to feel the same sensation in your ass, but the man there pulls out and empties himself all over your mound and stomach, all the way to your neck. The pressure in your throat loosens then, and similar spurts of wet warmth hit your face.

Raspy breaths make it past your soiled, swollen lips as you lie there with your eyes closed. Strong hands move you until you're lying fully on your back, legs outstretched, arms put at the sides of your body, head supported by the hard stone slab beneath you. Cold fingers trail your skin.

“I wish we could keep her,” you hear a quiet voice that barely makes it past the cotton in your head.

“I'm not risking another war with those savages just because of one puny human...” says a different voice. “We'll find another one.”

“Let's feed and get her back onto the path.”

You blink your eyes open, noticing the two men, the two vampires, standing over you, staring down at you from both sides of the coffin. Their teeth are bared, fangs glistening in the swaying candle light, and before you can do anything, they lean down, one goes straight for your neck, his pointy canines sinking deeply into your skin, and you feel it, despite your fucked-out state, you feel the cold crashing through your veins.

The same sensation happens between your legs, on one of your inner thighs as the other bites down into your soft flesh. You whimper soundlessly, throat hoarse and sore, body too weak to move against the assault. They suck your blood noisily, like the thirsty monsters they are, and you just let it happen, again, what other choice do you have? Your head is spinning as you feel the cold spread through your trembling limbs.

And the world fades...

1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7

End notes: The last part is here!

By the way, this is a nod towards my standalone Vampire oneshot Down the Rabbit Hole which also has dubcon elements and more than one vampire, but isn't as dark.

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

[pforestsims]

I did water replacement for BV Hot Spring once BUT I wanted to have a few more options (mud bath!) so here's CEP extra - it turns water surface into second recolourable subset.

Plus stone recolors matching desert hoods, and two snowy ones.

Ancient Soakalicious Spring [Bon Voyage]

CEP-Extra* and recolors

& Higher Hot Spring Water Level - mesh/cres default

Download (SFS)

*CEP-Extra is only required for water recolors.

*Top pic features decorative effects

Enjoy!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

According to the description, this 1958 mid century modern time capsule in Beverly Hills, CA was only updated where it needed to be, and the rest is original. 3bds, 4ba, 4,000 sq ft, $9.8m. Way overpriced, b/c it's in Beverly Hills.

Definitely original decorative wall panels and fireplace. Nice built-in shelving.

Window with a view next to the dining area.

This is so pretty in the evening.

The lovely green kitchen has granite counters, a wall of glass- enclosed shelving, a newer Aga stove, and a traditional Aga stove. The Aga stoves, alone, are worth about $50k and they're the exact green to match the cabinetry.

Small, cozy TV room.

Nicely redone 1/2 bath has red alligator "skin" wallpaper with an interesting black sink.

Closet doors in the hallway are covered with tropical palm leaf wallpaper.

Large primary bedroom has sliders that open directly to the pool.

The dressing room has a lovely center island.

The floating sink in the bath matches the island.

The other 2 bedrooms are very large and also open directly to the pool.

Outdoor table in front of pretty green gardens.

Covered area of the patio has a stone grill with exhaust hood.

Huge built-in bench by the pool and a firepit.

The pool looks beautiful all lit up at night.

Very nice home, but so pricey.

There isn't a lot of land, either - 0.63 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homes/1070-N-Hillcrest-Rd-Beverly-Hills,-CA-90210_rb/20534654_zpid/?

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TW: attempted baby trapping, detailed writing about burns and scars.

Mother says she was the first witness to your very first steps. 

Surrounded by four newly renovated nursery walls—painted her favorite pink and adorned with decorations Dad hung for a pop of color. Stuffed animals everywhere, even a 43-inch-tall dollhouse waiting to be discovered.

But, of all the toys, that chubby baby girl determinedly balanced herself on her awkward legs. Mother said you smiled widely, showing a toothless grin and extending your tiny hands forward. Eyes wide open when you almost fell, yet the stubborn baby refused to give up until you reached your mother's arms.

Maybe you simply saw something you wanted. Your mother.

How odd. The thought that you ever wanted your mother is an absurd notion. Because as Simon's car sped off, leaving the manor behind you, all you felt was a sense of relief that you had once again escaped her.

Maybe you wanted your mother only when she wanted you too. Lately—for the past few years after you were ten—she acted like she hated you, and children are truly just mirrors of their parents, incapable of hating before being hated first.

Or maybe—so many maybes when it comes to her—Mother didn’t want to hurt you, didn’t intend to instill this distorted image of yourself with every drop of poison she poured on you. Maybe she simply lacked the knowledge and skills to be a mother, lacking a positive role model from the start.

But intentions mean nothing compared to the outcome, the fed-up rational voice asserts. It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it, because in the end she hurt you. The difference between love and hate becomes this fine line that eventually fades and mixes the two together.

It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it this way at first, because the first time turned into the second time, then the third and suddenly now it's the thousandth time. She breeds her pattern and uses it to make you suffocate. And when you try to break free, she looks at you like a disobedient child full of rebellion.

The sickening optimists will tell you to look on the bright side—that it shaped you, made you the woman you are today. But back then, you were a child—you would have grown up inevitably, so going through all that was just an unjust burden.

(All adults do is cause pain, the little girl said.)

Some crackling radio tune played softly as Simon drove in silence through the dark, winding country roads. No questions came—which you were thankful for; you weren’t ready to unpack all that long history just yet. His brown eyes were locked in focus as he steered the car around the turns as if he’d been through this before.

The car slowed and rolled to a stop outside a sprawling two-story building. A pub—from the weathered sign carved on its old stone. Different from the ones in London, of course, this one's cozier and more inviting. Gazing out the rain-spattered window, you squint and see another sign above the door: “The Fox and Hounds Inn.” So they also offer rooms, it seemed.

Simon turned off the engine and twisted in his seat. Reaching behind, he snatched up the suit jacket he had thrown back there earlier. Turning to you, he held it out, signaling you to take it.

“Cover yer ‘ead.” He nods towards the pouring rain outside.

You took it, breathing in Simon’s scent—a hint of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke—as you draped it over your head as a hood. The sound of the door being opened roughly is heard. Simon has rushed out into the downpour and retrieved your bags from the trunk. Slipping from the car, you hurry to take shelter under the pub’s roof, waiting for Simon before going through the door.

The inside of the pub was surrounded by warm hues. Old wooden shelves stood displaying a variety of bottles of spirits, with low lights casting a dim glow. Worn leather booths were occupied by a few locals who had settled in with their pints, while two others shot pool in the back corner. Behind the bar, the bartender paused from wiping glasses; a questioning look flashed across his face before smoothing it once more.

He set his glass down and asked, "What can I get ya?”

“Bourbon. Kentucky, if y’ve got it.” Simon said.

The bartender cocked his head, checking his stock. “Aye, we’ve a bottle or two left.” Turning back to him, he asked again, “Anyth’ else?”

Simon turned to you. “You want anything?”

“I'm alright, thanks.” You answered in a husky voice.

“Just the bourbon then, and a room for the night.”

At that, the bartender just nodded, reaching beneath the bar to produce an iron key, its number as a keychain. “Room six, up the stairs and to your left. Let me know if you’ll be wantin’ breakfast in the morn.” He explained with efficiency, all business, saving more time from nonsense.

The heavy wooden stairs creaked underfoot as you climbed to the room. Reaching the door carved with the number six, Simon twisted the key and pushed the door open. He set the bags on the old table by the window, leaving your suitcase beside it.

Glancing around, you took in the faded floral wallpaper, lumpy bed, and worn armchair—not fancy, but it would do for a night’s rest. You wandered around the room, stopping when you passed a mirror—your own reflection with mascara tracks smeared across your cheeks, lipstick smudging past your lip line.

“Did I just walk around like this all afternoon?” You wiped away the dark trails, hoping to lighten the heavy atmosphere for exactly the reason why. That or it was just you and your guilt for dragging Simon into this unplanned mess.

The effort fell flat, much like your numb heart. Simon was still wound tight as a spring, with the venomous words of that woman replaying in his mind. However, your own perspective perceived his distant attitude as anger. Mother would often give you two days of silent treatment whenever she was upset, so you presumed it was the same case with Simon.

You nearly jumped from his grunt. Out of the corner of your eye, Simon took out his cigarette and lit it, always paying no attention to where he was smoking. Taking a deep drag, he let the smoke curl slowly as he exhaled towards the ceiling.

The bathroom door creaked open at his touch; Simon gave it a sweep of his eyes to access the condition of it—nothing but the basics; thankfully, the shower worked. He turned then, coming over to where you were sitting on the lumpy mattress.

“Shower,” he rumbled, jerking his head towards the bath. “Get that rainwater off ya.”

(You’re angry, aren’t you?)

The conclusion was drawn after his tone sounded colder than normal—his words were curt, as if he didn't wish to waste breath on you. While a part of you argued this was just the way he spoke all the time, another louder voice suggested there was more going on. His brown eyes held a deeper stirring, a visible frown etched into his features. Simon would likely extend the silence if not for the concern that you would trouble him more if you fell ill.

It hurls you into this desperate need to win him over, despite being uncertain if there's an actual competition to be won. You struggle to contain the age-old, desperate question, but you are known to be a failure at everything.

"Are... are you angry with me?” The question leaves you, hanging awkwardly in the air.

At that, Simon's blonde eyebrows furrowed. "What?" he asked, sharp. Like he's offended.

Your heart thudded against your ribs as you struggled to lift your gaze, meeting his stare. “I just… are you angry with me?”

A scoff, then—

“No.” Simon replied curtly. “Why the bloody ‘ell would I be angry with you?” he added, then chastised himself when the words came out harsher than intended.

But the prejudice had seeped into your pores, causing your shoulders to tense and your head to hang low. You hated this—hated feeling like an over-sensitive child, upset over nothing, easily hurt by everything. Lifting your head, you tried to blink away the pricking tears pooling in your eyes.

Simon lets out a hushed sigh before squeezing out his cigarette and sitting down next to you, the bed creaking under the new weight. Outside, the leaves rustle in the cold night breeze. Within these four walls, you both sit side by side in silence.

“I ain't... that is... I’m not angry. Not with you, at least.” He tries to sort out his words. Something kinder but ends awkwardly—nonetheless, acceptable.

A few tears escaped and rolled hot down your cheeks before the blurry world came back into focus. You raised your eyes to his.

“I'm sorry,” you say, almost a whisper. “I'm such a crybaby, I know.”

“None o’ that now,” Simon soothed you, timbre as soft as talcum powder. “Ain't got nothin' to apologize for.”

As he said that, he used his thumb to catch your tears, wiping them away gently, almost as if he didn't want another to stain your cheeks. And under his touch, you became still, like obedient clay waiting to be molded by him. You existed solely for him, willingly presenting your skin as a canvas in case he wanted to brand his name on you. Make me yours, your cheap little heart begged; make me yours until I forget who I am.

(Grant me an identity that isn't me.)

I will shed the pieces of myself now like outgrown armor. The nights are prone to the past—never quiet—and I don't like that.

(Give birth to a new me. Someone who isn't what remains left of that little girl.)

The universe explodes another big bang, and your new world is created as you settle on his lap. So sudden you don't even remember crawling towards him. But as your lips crash into his, devouring his moist flesh with your own in an effort to mold it into one, it no longer matters how. Your teeth clamp down on his lower lip, drawing out a grunt as you bite down lightly and feel the taste of his iron against your tongue. Blood-eater woman.

Your hands cup his jaw, tracing the strong, defined bones beneath the blanket of skin. Then, you drag them down to his thundering neck, following the faint pillars, the curve of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of scar tissue from over-healed wounds.

Simon gasps into your mouth as your hips grind against his, stoking his lust even higher and swelling his cock. He grips your sides, guiding your movements as you seek balance with your grip on his broad shoulders. You moan, pressing your upper body against his face, and he inhales all your scent like he's been deprived of oxygen for ages.

Your desire drips so easily onto your tongue.

Practiced in the efficiency you learned from him, your fingers unbutton his shirt one by one, watching more and more of his skin exposed to you as you unwrap the white fabric off his body.

Simon trailed his tongue down the satin of your dress, tasting it against his gustatory system like a mindless dog. He closes his lips around your erect nipple. Blindly, his digits reached for the laces on your back, tugging it with one unsuccessful pull and two successful ones. The dress undone, your chest completely exposed to his hungry eyes. Simon wasted no time in latching his mouth onto your breasts.

“Ah-! Simon, Simon… slow down.”

You attempted to accommodate his face in your small hands, urging him to meet your gaze. When did you grow accustomed to searching—to decipher the meaning behind his every look, searching for a reflection of your own feelings in his eyes? Hoping to find evidence that he wanted you just as deeply as you yearned for him.

From the moment we first met, Simon had been a confounding puzzle, a conundrum without any clues or leads. An enigma, the deep forest at dusk. He revealed so little, yet, that very scarcity only piqued your curiosity further—inviting the solver girl within you to unravel each layer, to explore every wrinkle in the intricate tapestry that was him.

“I… I want to lead. If that’s all right.” You whispered, looking for disagreement in his gaze.

None, just a gentle squeeze on your hip. He nodded, then, “Alright, love.”

At that, your eyes sparkled, you gave him a smile in return. Biting your lip, you pondered your next move. “Lay down for me.”

Without hesitation, he did as you asked, settling back against the pillows. The roughness of his form was a stark contrast to the linen, muscles rippling beneath inked skin. Eyes as dark as oak never left yours, silently urging you to continue.

Nerves danced inside you, but you chuckled, “I was gonna take this dress off all sexy-like; maybe spin around slow. But you ruined that plan.”

“Should’ve been more patient then, eh?” He said, wetting his lips then.

You sighed, half-shrugging. “Well, I don’t know what sexy moves I can do now.”

“Don’t matter none. You’re always a sight for sore eyes.”

The boldness of his words causes you to throw your head back in laughter. “Are you saying all this just to get laid quicker?"

Simon lets out a raspy chuckle. “Nah,” he watches his own hand travel up your thigh, giving it a squeeze and rubbing slow circles with his thumb. Looking back up at you, you feel your heart skip a beat. “I’m sayin’ it cause it’s the truth. You are the most fuckin’ gorgeous creature I ever did lay eyes on.”

The plum of your lips is pulled into a shy smile. You replay his words in your mind like a wrinkled tape, your soul made to sparkle and float on clouds. He called me gorgeous, you thought.

Simon called you gorgeous—despite everything your mother led you to believe. Despite her words that left you feeling like an hideous being, a flawed and misshapen creature crafted by the hands of an unforgiving God. But he said I was gorgeous, Mother. Most fucking gorgeous.

"Well, you're rather handsome yourself." In truth, this is all amusing—this sudden exchange of compliments between the two of you, with you still sitting right on top of his groin, in your loose dress and Simon shirtless.

But, like an opportunist, you place your finger on the sloping hill of his chest. You feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing—the stuttering of air in his lungs as you make circular motions on his bare skin. “Too bad that you always hide it under a mask.”

The diaphragm beneath his thick skin contracted faintly as he chuckled. Taking your index finger, Simon then held it between his teeth. He sucked the tip slowly and watched you through hooded eyes.

“The mask’s for another reason, darlin’,” he rumbled once he released it.

There it is again. The invisible veil now made visible, taunting you with the reminder that there's always a part of him that remains unknown, no matter how deep you try to dig or how many layers you think you’ve shed. Lately, you'd pushed the limits further than necessary, testing unseen boundaries—just how far were you willing to go, or how far would he allow before growing weary of it?

“And why is that, your mask?”

He gave your thigh another squeeze, his fingers drumming a random rhythm as he considered his response. “That’s a story for another day.” He replied.

It sounded like a promise, felt like an oath. Apparently, your heart found solace in that—in the future and the exact day that story would arrive. You smiled down at him, nodding in agreement.

“Okay, then I suppose that’s a promise, Mr. Simon…”

“Riley,” he fills in the blank space behind. “Simon Riley.”

The heart in the confines of your rib cage throbs with thrill. You smile brightly, testing the full name on your tongue. “Simon Riley…”

After a pause, your hands returned to their task, drifting down his firm torso until they reached his jeans. You made quick work of the buttons, pulling them down and tossing them carelessly to the floor, leaving him in only his gray boxers. Trying to match, you let your gown pool on the floor, leaving you in your black lacy panties.

Here you are, both bare chested, one cloth away from being completely naked. Two imperfect mirror reflections, similar yet distinct in their differences.

You glance back at him, biting your lip to hold back a giggle. His grin greets you in return, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth as his eyes roam approvingly over your form. You stand still, waiting, observing his growing impatience until he finally lets out a raspy chuckle, beckoning you closer with a casual crook of his finger.

“Come ‘ere.”

At his call, you obey like a good obedient girl dedicating her whole life to him.

Crawling onto the bed, your breasts hanging freely with each step your knees take. You stop right above his face, gazing into his warm chocolate with your cheeks blooming red.

Leaning in, you flicked your tongue out to taste the seam of his lips, drawing a soft groan from deep in his chest. Your back stretched to its maximum, arching like a harp as you became greedier and greedier and claimed his mouth completely. Your fond tongue traced his teeth, stroking the velvety softness of his inner cheeks, the contours of his palate. The pricking sensation of his stubble against your chin intertwined with the sweet wetness of your mingled saliva.

Your breasts pressed against his broad chest, the fat melting like popsicles in the hot sun. Swinging one leg across, you sit on top of him with your thighs straddling his hips, feeling the thick mound beneath his boxers from his hardening cock against your soaked panties.

As you began to grind on top of him, Simon grunted into your mouth. He slid his big hands down to squeeze your ass, kneading the soft cheeks as he thrust up to meet your clothed cunt. You moaned at the sensation, breaking the kiss but not tearing your gaze away as you straightened your spine to rock your hips back and forth.

Look at that pair of dark eyes—so devoted in their witnessing of every sway of your tits, with the gaping mouth of a hungry man. He lies beneath you, broad shoulders and thick arms corded with muscle built from the hard days of the military. Blonde hair around his chest, trailing down to his stomach and hidden beneath the tempting waistband of his boxers.

And those scars, of course. Especially that goddamn mysterious scar near his ribs. Were they created by 'bad men' or did you deserve it for the bad deeds you had committed, Simon?

Taking one of his hands, you place it on one of your breasts. Simon closes his hand around it, his thumb and index finger curling into a twist at your nipple. You let out a moan, biting your lower lip in a poor effort to keep another one from escaping you.

"Simon,” you breathed, his length twitching against your cunt.

Rolling your hips, your clothed clit rubbed against his hardness. You closed your eyes, breathing out slowly through parted lips, feeling the friction. He placed his hands on your sides, guiding your movements into a steady rhythm.

“Fuck, look at ya, darlin’…”

Bathed in the dim lighting of this inn, you were a sight he wanted to capture. Sitting on top of him like a long-gone queen reclaiming her place—the very reason for his convulsing cock, the numbing of his brain, his ears tuning out the noise of his old brain. As you continued to roll your hips, he watched every detail and seared it all in the back of his head.

The way sweat slicks and rests on the dip of your collarbone. Kiss-swollen sweet lips, tempting for him to bite or wrap around his throbbing length. Heavy eyelids and dark traces of your mascara.

Fuck, look at those puffy eyes.

Simon had endured his fair share of cuts and gunshot wounds. But nothing prepared him for the invisible grip on his heart when he realized what your cries left behind—puffy and red-rimmed like bruised berries. Fuckin’ hell…

Wanting more, you slide your lace aside. You restart your pace, gasping in pleasure at the new direct contact, the wetness of your building peak coloring the fabric of his boxer darker. The throbbing inside you begins, growing stronger the more you grind. You almost lose your pace—Simon’s large hands grip your hips to guide your movements toward climax.

The tight coil within you twists tighter. You breathe in short, ragged gasps; eyes squeezed shut as white flashes explode behind your lids. The cresting wave rises to a peak, making your thighs tremble.

When it hits, you throw your head back with a cry, Simon supporting your arched back with a strong palm behind you. The heat in your lower belly flushes as your release drips down to his boxers.

You slumped limp against his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around you, waiting for you to catch your breath while he inhaled his own. Christ, your scent is intoxicating—that sweet soap you were devoted to, the perfume he often saw on your dresser, and something natural about you that made his cock throb, begging to be released from the boxers beneath you. It took every ounce of willpower for him not to flip you over and take his fill.

A gentle giggle bubbled up. Simon furrowed his brows, meeting your eyes as you lifted your chin with a lazy smile.

“That was… weird,” you said, confusion written all over your face.

“What’s weird?”

“Well, for starters…” you glanced down between you, tracing a finger along the damp patch staining his boxers and chuckling again when he hissed. “I ruined these.”

Simon chuckled, shifting his hips. “Don’t matter none though, does it? You’re gonna ‘ave them off me soon enough anyway.”

You laugh – the warm, carefree sound from deep within your chest. Cheeks flushed rosy, and you’re sure your eyes sparkled. “Okay, okay. That’s something I might do.”

Leaning down, you brushed your lips against his in almost a chaste kiss. Simon couldn't resist, prolonging it by deepening it gently. He hooked his fingers around the lace loops on your hips, giving a playful tug as your mouths moved slow and sweet.

Breaking away, he narrows his eyes at your black panties. “You can still do them sexy moves takin’ this off, y’know…”

At his words, your smile stretches from ear to ear. Muttering an “okay,” you slip off him and the bed, standing in front of him. He fixes his dark eyes on you, melting the sudden shyness and encouraging you to continue the show. Slowly, teasingly, you begin to peel down your lace, small laughs escaping your throat.

“Well?” you ask, cheeks now rosy as you pose for his eyes. “How’s this?”

“Fucking perfect, darlin’,”

You toss aside your last garment, showing off your fully naked form like some kind of high fashion model. “Your turn now,” you say, walking toward him.

Reaching for the waist of his boxers, you began easing them down as well, eager to harvest the fruits of your ministry for each other. But, as it slid off his ankle, your eyes landed on his skin, and your smile faded, realizing something you hadn't before.

Knotted, mottled skin stretched from his right hip and down the side of his shin. The scars were old, but the memory of the fire that had once caressed him was immortalized in their rugged, rough texture. You tried to avert your already teary eyes from it, but instead found more scars around his legs—some nearly identical to the ones scattered across his upper body, some others resembled surgical scars long healed.

A lump rises in your throat, but you try to smile and crawl back into his lap, trying to lose yourself in whatever follows. But the façade crumbles, and you find yourself frozen, staring at him while fighting back tears pricking the backs of your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” And yet, Simon opens the door for you to broach the subject. Must’ve been something about your expression.

You briefly considered playing dumb, but your chance evaporated when a treacherous tear slipped freely. Hastily wiping it away, you took a shaky breath, focusing your gaze on the ceiling to prevent another from falling. You stared into his eyes again, and Simon saw the composure you had so carefully maintained on the edge of crumbling again.

“Those scars…” Your voice wavered, and you had to pause to steady it. “Were they from your time in the military?”

Watching those pretty lips tremble, tears marring your beautiful face, he felt a sickening clench in his chest. Part of him hated seeing you so sad, while another swelled with something akin to misplaced pride – that this angel was weeping over scars so old they had long since stopped hurting him.

Scars from battles the old Simon had fought years ago. Scars he had seen as part of his creation, marks he bore without feeling.

“Some from service, yeah. Others… more personal-like.” He said it nonchalantly. In his perspective, as proof that it didn’t hurt anymore, didn't need to numb it with ice like he did in the past—so, sweet thing, stop crying over him.

As if that were possible. He could tell you that it happened years ago, but it doesn't matter; it wouldn't lessen the pain even if your human life spanned a hundred centuries. Your tongue seared, heart sliced—someone touched the one you love with the most brutal violence they could choose in this world.

The image must have been absurd—the two of you completely naked in front of each other, yet instead of continuing, you weep over him. But now that you’ve seen it—those scars etched so cruelly and eternally upon his flesh—how do you look away?

"Why... why would anyone want to hurt you?” Your voice trembled, tracing that scar near his ribs that had caught your attention since you first saw it. It stood out, raised and knotted in a way that spoke of a cruel blade—making you wince at the thought of the pain. “Is… is this from your time in the military too?”

“Yeah,”

“What happened?”

Without any real weight, he said, “Got meself ‘anged by the ribs once,” in a light intonation as if it were some kind of joke.

But it wasn’t. My God, you wished it was, but it wasn’t, judging by the scars.

Despite his effort, it couldn’t mask the horror he’d experienced. Your breath hitches in a sob, your hand trying to cover your mouth. Your airway constricts as you imagine how it must have felt for him then. Hanged by the ribs, feeling your skin tear from holding your weight, flesh on display like they do in a slaughterhouse.

And he still manages to shush you, drawing your head to his chest in a tight hug like you’re the one who’s been through it all.

“Twern’t nothin’ – doesn’t even ‘urt no more.”

Pressed against his skin, you seek the usual solace that his heartbeat brings. But your heart remains unsettled, a lingering question nagging at your mind and tongue, refusing to let you find peace until it's voiced.

Raising your head slightly, chin resting upon his chest, you meet his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "And... and the burn scars?”

“House fire during a mission.”

You know that’s not the full truth, but you don’t dare to press it, choosing to spare your heart from more details of his agonies.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt.” You said.

Simon gave a small hum in response. Reaching up, he wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Then stop cryin', love. 'Urts more to see yer pretty face all red and puffy.”

The hands around your jaw bring you closer. This time, he's the first to initiate this new kiss, closing his lips around yours with almost hesitant caution. And you want to cry—you want to cry from how gentle his touch is, and yet someone has handled him in the cruelest way possible.

Here you are, bodies pressed together—chest to chest, skin to skin. You let out a gasp as he grips your ass cheeks, spreading them until the chilly air touches your soaked folds. Simon would rather have those pretty eyes rolled back in pleasure than cry; he would rather have those plump lips parted to moan erotic sounds than sob. He bucks his hips and brushes the fat tip of his cock against your entrance.

Breaking the kiss, Simon gives a slow thrust upwards, grunting as he feels your warm labia. You straighten your back to sit on his pelvis, doing your own set of hip rolls as his hands guide you.

“No more tears f’me, ye ‘ear?” He meets your eyes before lowering it to the tantalizing view of your glistening body, causing another twitch of his impatient cock. “I ain’t worth it.”

The tip of his cock brushes against your folds when he thrusts his hips once more. A small mewl escapes your moist lips, vertebrae drawn like a curve of a bow as his length slowly enters your hole.

“No—no, don’t say that. You’re—mmh!” You stumble over your words, voice shaking both from emotion and physical overwhelm. “You’re always worth it, Simon.”

Sweet thing, unaware of the effect her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheek have on a man as corrupt as him. Struggling to find words while he fills her up, trying to convince him that he's worth something.

“That so?”

Biting your lip, you nod. “Yes,”

“Yeah?”

Without waiting for a reply, he grips your hips and slams you against him in one swift thrust. Your eyes fluttered shut on a gasp as he sank home. He groans at the blissful feeling, the remnants of your last orgasm completely coating him. But he has never been a man of gratitude; the gaping hole near his ribs—right where the scar he has shown you and told you about—seems to consume every fulfillment he might have, leaving him perpetually feeling unsatisfied and not enough.

Right now, he felt utterly insufficient. His old soul was always left wanting for more. That stupid, almost pathetic desire for proof that he would never truly believe—

“Prove it then, love.”

And well, he is a selfish man after all.

Slowly, you begin to move, hips rocking sensually against him, stretching your cunt to take his cock. It’s sloppy at first, until you settle into a rhythm and set your pace. He takes in every beautiful detail of you – your kiss-swollen lips beneath the faint bite of your teeth, your skin shimmering with sweat, your bouncing tits as you ride him, and the way your walls tighten their embrace around his cock with each in and out.

“Tha’s it love, ride me.”

Your cunt fluttered at the encouragement. He traced your curves before stopping at your breasts, twisting and pulling your nipples, eliciting a whimper from your throat. Rolling your hips, you grind your clit against his pelvis. He gives a low grunt.

“A-ah, Simon-!”

Listen to that, his name rolling off your tongue like liquid sin, a constant he never gets tired of. The room temperature rises, an invisible fire burning in his groin as you bounce on his cock. Your fingers dig half-moons on his naked thighs.

The room seemed to burn, almost like reminiscent of the flames that once scorched his lower right side. But this time, the sensation that swept through him was one of pure euphoria. The suffering that had gripped him was erased, replaced by a fierce hunger to shed more than just your clothes. The overwhelming need to be swallowed whole, to reside between your viscera and become the first to be embraced there.

Like a fish out of a tank, your lips formed a perfect 'O'—an invitation he accepted as he slipped his rough fingers into your mouth and tucked them beneath the blanket of your tongue. The brush of warm flesh made his cock throb, drawing a muffled sound from you.

Simon put his free hand to continue steering your hips, maintaining their steady rhythm as they started to falter. The angry crown of his cock pulled out before slamming back in and disappearing between your plump labia. He let his ears feast on your cry, watching your eyes squeeze shut as he reached that sweet spot inside. Saliva dripped, running down the curve of your chin and down between your swaying breasts.

The ah-ah! sound becomes the only thing you can produce after he liquifies your brain into a tangled mess, trapping your tongue under the weight of his calloused fingers.

Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around his length, your climax peeking and cresting, forming high waves. Simon growled through clenched teeth. Your back arched, head falling back as you surrendered to your second peak.

His grip on your hips tightened as a warning. “Off, love—fuck, ye gotta get off, now.”

You did not heed him, continuing to bounce on his twitching cock. He groaned, trying to hold back the inevitable tide of his release.

“Love,” he tries again before calling your name, his own hips stuttering.

“No, please- I’m—I’m on the pill,” you gasped—

And the lie slipped through your lips without thinking.

Even as a part of you knew this was wrong—that you were trying to trap him and you were being reckless—you kept going. Simon stopped trying to get you off him, letting you slam your hips one last time before he emptied thick ropes of seed into your womb.

Sex and your indifference to potential consequences permeated the air, screaming for your attention. A voice curses you in the back of your mind, full of snarls that you have gone too far; that you have hated Mother too much to dismiss everything she says—even the true ones—as nonsense. That you will only live to regret this.

But you have to—it's a necessity, driven by the roots that tell you to cement this bond between you. Sure, it may be born out of a desperate fantasy of your own insecurities, but you need this.

“Nothing can make them stay, my dear. Not for love, not for sex, for all your years of devotion to them, not even for their own flesh and blood!” Your mother is screaming in your head.

(Nonsense. Nonsense, all of it.)

You watch his chest rise and fall; somewhere deep within the confines of his strong ribs is a heart that beats in almost the same rhythm as yours. The dim lighting of the room you only acknowledge when it reflects faintly on the slick of his scar-littered skin. Those brown eyes stare at you beneath a canopy of blond lashes, moist lips pulled into a slight smile under his strong nose—and you return it with a wider one.

Would a child make you stay, Simon?

“Fucking ‘ell, love…” he muttered, still trying to catch his breath.

Unable to resist, you grind against his still-sensitive cock, earning a hiss and a hand on your hip to still you, making you chuckle.

“Don’t do that.” He mutters low and rough.

You nod, another giggle. Leaning forward, you press a quick kiss to his lips. “Okay, okay,” you say. “I’ll be good.”

Settling your head on his chest, Simon then pulls the blanket up before draping it over your naked bodies. You sigh in relief as he wraps his arms tightly around your smaller frame. Pulling you close, he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in your scent.

You trace idle patterns on his skin, murmuring: “My big performance is in a month. I got a special pass for you, so you better not even think about missing it.”

“The swan play?”

“Yeah,” you answered, lifting your head to gaze up at him. "Promise you'll be there?"

Promises are risky business, especially for someone like him. He's well-versed in the knowledge that when someone makes a promise, it means they're up for something that always comes along to fuck it up.

Even so, the words came out before he could stop them. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love.”

Hearing that, your smile threatened to widen, and you plopped your head back flat against his chest before he saw it. Wanting something to focus on, you settled your gaze on the old window at the end of the room. It was still raining outside, but it had softened. The pitter-patter of raindrops sounded more like a gentle, faint tap, reminding you of the squeaking of the bed when you were still making love earlier.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulls you into a sense of peace. Then, there was a sudden urge to open up to him, created from a feeling of indebtedness to him. After all, he had been the one to step in earlier. There's still a lot Simon doesn't know about you, about Mother.

But just as you were about to part your lips, his arms tightened around you. The warmth of his touch made the courage to speak seep away, replaced by a crippling fear of ruining the moment. In the end, you clamped your mouth shut, squeezing your eyes closed as you forced yourself to let things be how they should be—unsaid.

The ghost of your mother's voice echoes in the back of your mind again. As you adjust your position, feeling the unfamiliar wetness on your thighs, you reassure yourself that this time is different; he is different. He’s going to stay. You feel his fingers gently carding through your hair, magically burning away any lingering doubts in the corners of your soul.

After everything, he has to.

The morning sun streams through the thin leaves as you and Simon get out of the car to stop for breakfast at the quaint little restaurant you came across. The chilly air still lingers, urging you to pull your cardigan tighter around you as you wait for the food to be served.

Taking in your surroundings, you notice the worn wooden floors, the mismatched chairs and tables. An old-fashioned cash register and shelves that hang various kinds of souvenirs typical of this small town and character key chains.

When the waiter—who also seemed to be the owner—placed two plates down, Simon ate without hesitation. You reached for your fork, but your eyes were drawn to the clock on the wall. Time was ticking fast—the sand in the hourglass slipping through your fingers with each second. You could almost feel the ground beneath you shifting, the earth seeming to swallow you alive.

Breakfast is over. Simon paid the bill and slipped out first for a smoke while you waited for the change. The owner disappeared into the back, leaving you standing there alone. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, the only sound filling the silence.

Casting your gaze around, you search for a distraction, something to stare at. Your eyes eventually land on the souvenir rack. And there, among the keychains and trinkets, a skeleton charm catches your eye, black and white reminding you of the one Simon hangs in his car.

The sound of the door opening jolts you back to reality. The owner returns with a handful of bills in his outstretched hand. Instead of taking it, you point to the skeleton charm, waiting for the old man to follow your fingertip before asking, “How much for that one?”

As the other door opens with the soft chimes of a bell overhead, you walk towards Simon with a barely suppressed smile. He smells of tobacco like he always does after a smoke. But, you hardly mind; all you care about is the delicate skeleton charm you hold in front of him.

“Look what I got you!” you exclaim, your smile bursting from your lips.

Simon’s eyebrows furrowed, dark eyes studying the little bone-white friend. You wait and wait for him to say something; your legs feel jittery as the small figure swings dangling between your thumb and forefinger.

“It’s..interestin’,” he says, finally taking it from you, studying it closer. “Where'd you get it?”

“The owner had it on the shelf over there,” you say, nodding towards the display. “I.. well, I saw it and thought of you. I hope you like it.”

You watched as crow's feet formed at the corners of his eyes, his mouth twitching into a smile beneath his mask. Then, Simon let out a sound—a chuckle, a genuine one which then turned into a short laugh that spread sensations in your chest.

“Thanks,” Simon said to the owner, who was standing behind the cashier with his own grin.

Then, he turns to you, his arms reaching out to wrap around your shoulders. “An’ thanks to you, too,” he says, almost a whisper, meant for just the two of you. “It’s… perfect.”

Without another word, he pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin as you make your way out of the restaurant. The birds chirping, celebrating a sunny day in the countryside. But this warmth… it’s not from the sun, not from the kinder wind. He opens his car door as he always does, and you slide inside, still with the gentle rumble of his chuckle ringing in your head.

You hoped this would never end.

You hoped—

The short trip to the English countryside was almost over; you had to go back to practice and rehearsals on Monday, and Simon had his agenda of disappearing to God knows where else. You didn’t question it; you didn’t ask anymore. You were comfortable enough with the many question marks that always seemed to surround him. He always came back in the end—that's what matters.

As you neared London, Simon pulled into a petrol station to refuel. He unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. The door closed, and you were left alone with your gray thoughts.

You watched Simon standing outside the car, focused on refueling the tank. Fumbling for your phone, you saw the time – well past midnight. After this, he would definitely drive you home, then disappear for weeks, leaving you to wait. He always came back in the end – that’s what matters, you kept telling yourself.

(But a man who always comes back is a man who always leaves.)

Your eyes drifted to your purse at your feet, where the other phone—the newer one, the one you bought on impulse—lay hidden. Biting your lip, you snatched it up, unlocking it and quickly checking the “Find My” app, making sure the two devices were connected.

Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself, internal debate building but you know which side you’re leaning. This is wrong, probably will do more harm than good to Simon, to yourself—but, you have to, you need this. The same old justification ringing like the old ringtone you’ve memorized by heart. You reach down and carefully drop the spare phone onto the car floor, kicking it to hide it under the seat. Out of sight, out of mind – for now, at least.

Simon slid back behind the wheel after he was done, groaning as his neck popped tensely. He turned to you, brows furrowed.

“Alright?”

Giving a faux smile, you said: “Just a little tired.”

He didn’t question further, just nodded before turning the ignition and buckled his seatbelt. “Not far now,” he turned the wheel out of the gas station. “Just a bit further an’ we’ll be ‘ome.”

The car sped back down the long road. In the darkness outside, you barely made out the shadowy landscape rushing by outside the window, just your faint reflection staring back at you. Everything seemed almost lifeless, except for the soft strains of the radio playing a late-night playlist.

Home, he said. Simon said it as if “home” were so close and existent.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull

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[folfar]

A scientific consideration of cultural preservation in Gideon the Ninth

HYPOTHESIS: the Venus de Milo is in Canaan House

REASONING: John is keen on decoration (the rest of Canaan House, the Mithraeum, his fancy baby-bone crown). John has strong opinions on preserving things he considers ‘worthy’ (the earth, his friends, Shakespeare). Why not famous art? Canaan House is filled with old and rotting portraits - they can’t ALL be of Cyrus and Valancy.

EVIDENCE:

There was a single statue at the end of the corridor where it turned left. It must have once been a person, but the head and arms had been lopped off, leaving only a torso with beseeching stumps. - GtN p130-1 (when Gideon is looking for Harrow)

beseeching stumps?? It’s simply got to be the Venus de Milo. No stumps plead more tenderly:

But she has a head! I hear you protest.

Aha! Now we come to Palamedes and Camilla doing psychometry to figure out the age of Canaan House:

"Fiat lux! If you want to talk improbable, let's talk about this"-a scrape of stone on stone-"being three thousand and some years older than this." A heavy clunk.

About 3000 years older than another part of Canaan House? Hmm! And what’s that Camilla is holding?

“Standing next to him holding a big wedge of broken sculpture and the flashlight was a tall, equally grey-wrapped figure with a scabbard outlined at her hip.”

“The cavalier narrowed her hooded eyes, fidgets gone and absolutely still; then she exploded into action. She dropped the wedge of sculpture with a clonk, drew her sword from its shabby scabbard before the wedge had bounced once, and advanced.”

SCULPTURE!

CONCLUSION: the Venus de Milo IS in Canaan House! However, it was decapitated by known practical thinker and simp Camilla Hect so that Palamedes Sextus could do his carbon dating easier without tiring out his necromancer noodle arms

SECONDARY CONCLUSION: Camilla was going to use the head of the Venus de Milo to bash open the laboratory hatch

[strangelittlestories]

The sign atop the arch was painted in bright primary blue and yellow; it featured a crudely daubed image of smiling dead bodies, atop which in bold capital letters was written: ‘Corpse Market!’

A stooped cloaked figure stepped under the arch. From beneath her hood, big wide eyes looked up at the market’s many stalls. Each was decorated in that same style: vibrant colours, cheery signs, enlivened with cheerful drapes of dyed cotton. And behind the swathed smiles of drapery hung row after row of the dead.

Frost clung to the bodies; though amidst the jolly decor, you would be forgiven for thinking someone had decorated them with shining pale glitter.

The cloaked figure stopped to read a placard hung on one of the stalls. It was illustrated with a woman stepping out of a coffin and giving the viewer a big thumbs up. The text read: “Give a hard-working adventurer a raise!”

As if from nowhere, the market’s proprietor appeared.

“Greetings!” They wore a sleek black frock coat and pressed white breeches, with a blood-red neckerchief providing a pop of colour at the throat. “Are you looking for anyone in particular?

“I was told that, uh, I might be able to find my … my sister here?” stumbled the cloaked wanderer. “What- uh- what is this place?”

“Why, ‘tis as the sign says!” chirped the proprietor. “We are a market of corpses. The physical shells of bold souls who explored the dangerous highs and lows of the world. ‘To help you avoid your final rest and instead achieve new personal bests.’ That’s our motto!”

“You, um, you sell dead people?”

“In a way. It’s more that we provide resurrection services. But plenty of these mighty heroes don’t have people looking for them, sadly. Strays, you see.” The proprietor patted the frozen leg of a cadaver covered in leather and knives as they spoke. “So if you pay the costs of bringing them back, we put that cost as a downpayment against future adventuring services. So can I interest you in a rescue adventurer? You look like the bookish sort, so maybe you need a strapping defender to keep you safe?”

“I’m really only looking for one, you know, one dead person in particular.”

“Of course, you did say. A sister, was it? Let me check our records.” The proprietor produced, from the aether, a huge tome bound in tan hide of some sort. “What was her name?”

“Ava. Ava is- *was* her name.” said the wanderer, softly.

The proprietor’s eyes rolled back into their head and a sudden gust of wind rustled through the pages of the tome. The shadows in the market seemed to lengthen and the multicoloured drapery whipped around them.

“Ah.” The fell wind quelled suddenly and the proprietor’s eyes returned to normal. “I’m afraid we have no Ava currently. My deepest condolences for your present loss.”

“Oh.”

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in someone else instead? A dashing cavalier? A righteous templar? I can do you a deal on a rugged woodswoman - if someone doesn’t take her in the next few days, we’ll have to put her down. In the ground, that is.”

“What? Why?” the wanderer exclaimed, equal parts confused by and caught up in the proprietor’s spiel.

“I can only keep their souls from crossing over for so long, I’m afraid. I’m good with guiding the dead, but even I have my limits.” For a moment, the proprietor seemed very strange; their face too long and too sharp, a shriek hidden beneath their soft voice. Then they slapped the cheerful mask back on. “You know what they say: styx and stones may take my bones, but wards can barely hold me.”

The wanderer thought for a moment.

“Alright. I’ll pay for the woodswoman.”

“You will?” The proprietor’s eyes lit up.

“Yes.” said the cloaked wanderer. “After all, if Ava isn’t here … I may need help finding her.”

---

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[wonderjanga]

I love your headcanons!!! Do you think that with Fawcett being a time bubble and magical influence and when new technology is introduced to the city that it changes? Like the engineers study magic as well due to the proximity to the Rock of Eternity? I'd imagine like perpetual motion machines do exist and parts of the plumbing system are fantastical magic animals. Like the old telephone wires are autonomous snake-like entities that Marvel has to untangle sometimes. (They do get tangled up). It's all very surreal and dream logic stuff.

I would love to see what's under the hoods of their cars. Do they run on pixie dust or dragon tears? Are there small sprites keeping it all together?

I’ve actually never really thought about this but here are some ideas! I think they would study magic when getting engineering degrees cause I’m pretty sure they’d just think of it as apart of engineering maybe. Like for example, when building houses they’d make fairy doors in certain places. I also think that instead of Lightbulbs for street lamps they hire fairies every night to make themselves light up. They get payed in pretty stones. Detectives can hire ghosts to help solve crimes. I think their cars run on either, but they’d be higher quality gas so most people would use normal gas. I also think there would be lawyers who work specifically with cases about fae. There’s gonna be lawyers to get that first born back. People might use magical herbs in everyday cooking too. Like someone might get a dried leaf called mystic petals because when ground up, they taste similar to sugar. (The plant makes hair, skin, and eye color more vibrant) One of the teachers at an elementary school is a Lich that has nothing better to do but teach. Or a Centaur works as a PE teacher. I also think that Fawcett could be so affected by magic that the buildings and sidewalks could be sentient. Like a little kid’s about to trip on a crack and the pavement moves the crack out of the way. Or someone who’s vandalizing a building gets hit in the face when the building pushes a brick out. Certain roads seal up their potholes, and maybe Billy is running down an alley being chased or something and the alley walls close up behind him cutting his pursuers off. The flowers grow all year around in a certain part of a city, it could be hot all the time in another, it could snow frequently in another, and trees could start turning orange and letting leaves fall in another because of the presence of spring, summer, fall, and winter fairies who split Fawcett up into small kingdoms. Billy oversees their diplomatic affairs. You find Santa at the grocery store buying cookie mix because “it’s cheaper here than at the North Pole”. The Spirit of Halloween would start pestering people in beginning of September to put up their Halloween decorations. The Easter Bunny would be a local attraction to go see, as it would be in a meadow every Easter making eggs and giving them to other bunnies to go hide. There’d be tones of restaurants in Fawcett with from from multiple creatures. You can go to a small place on 45th, where you can order from fairies who make sandwiches and soups using traditional fairy recipes and herbs. Or a small stand ran by orcs who sell Owlbear on a stick and roasted Blood Hawk legs. There could be a pair of yetis who sell snow cones using snow from the Himalayas. They have human flavors like grape, and yeti flavors using fruits grown from their tribes. When zombies crawl out of their grave, there’s insurance for both the damage to the coffins and the ruined grave and for people who get bitten. Doctors tweaked the polio vaccine for zombification. Wind elementals help people they favor when they fall. Water elementals help move snow from roads. Earth elementals help with construction. Fire elementals help melt down metals for jewelry stores and factories. Harpies sing for crowds. Gelatinous Cubes can be used as lubricants for machinery and extremely strong glues. I also think the rock messed with time. There are dinosaurs displayed at the zoo. Certain buildings look like they’re from different eras. Gothic architecture, favored by vampires. Victorian architecture. Neoclassical architecture. Also there are wyvern. Though they’re all the size of vultures. They’d have multiple different scale colors which have been made into jewelry or bags. Animal rights activists heavily protested that, and did the same thing they would do to mink coats in the 90’s to the dragon scale items. They threw paint on them. Mimics have exterminators to sniff them out. Shapeshifters wear certain tags while in magical form so they won’t get flagged for animal patrol. There’s also a bunch of other races such as lamia, gorgons, lizard people, homuncules, and goblins.

[skulla-rxcks]

Costumes in the night

Paring: hyunjin x afab reader

Rating: explicit

Genre: smut

Warnings: PIV, squirting

Ktober 14

Taglist: @f3lix00 @channiesgoodgirl @mal-lunar-28 @bangchans-gf5 @fun-fanfics @iwannabangchan @linosluver

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!THIS IS PURE FICTION, NOTHING IN THIS IS REAL ITS JUST A STORY!

Hyunjin and I are going to a costume party with some of our friends. We begin finishing up our makeup before leaving and driving to the party, for this years party we decided to be the big bad wolf and little red riding hood. Hyunjin being the wolf. I finish up my makeup with the final step of putting red lipstick on to match the lipstick I’m wearing. “Ready to go?” He asks me waving around the car keys in front of my face making me giggle. “Of course I am” I reply, looking at Hyunjin and I’s costumes in the mirror. He’s wearing wolf ears with grey sweatpants and a black jacket with nothing underneath, his chest on show.

We walk out of our house, locking up before heading out to our driveway and hopping in the car. “Are you driving or me?” I ask him, looking into his eyes with a mixture love and excitement. “You since I need to message that were on the way” I nod in response and turn the keys; starting the car I reverse out of the driveway and begin driving to the address that the parties at, it’s a different address this time because apparently there’s going to be way more people than last year so it needed to be held in a big enough house for everyone to fit in. We arrive at the house, there’s hundreds of Halloween decorations outside; fake spiderwebs, pumpkins, ghost cut outs and even fake grave stones to finish the look off. We park the car at the end of the street and walk up to the door.

“Look who finally arrived!” Chan says greeting us with a smile and leading us inside, he’s one of Hyunjin’s friends. we walk inside and greet everyone before sitting down at a table with the rest of our friends.

“So who are you guys dressed as?” Han asks us.

“She’s little red riding and I’m the big bad wolf.” Hyunjin responds. “So you’re taking Chan’s thing, strange to see you as a wolf” Han adds on.

Han begins to talk about how he’s going lately with the others adding on things that happened and stuff. While the conversation continues and goes on Hyunjin’s hand creeps up my thigh, slowly moving it higher and higher, eventually pinching my inner thigh making me let out a whimper. “Go get a room guys, Jesus.” Chan chuckles. And so we do exactly that.

We walk up the stairs past all of the drunk couples making out and eventually find a spare room, Frist few times we accidentally walk into people fucking, probably forgot to lock the door, but we don’t care about that. We make our way into a spare room and lock the door.

Hyunjin pushes me onto the bed and helps me take my costume off almost immediately. “Need you.” He says, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants off before taking his dick out, it’s already hard somehow, that was fast.

“Put it in me please..” I beg, reaching into the night stand next to us and finding a box on condoms, making sure it’s the right size before handing one to him. He smirks and rips the packet open and rolls the rubber onto his cock, positioning himself against my wet folds before pushing inside of me with a grunt of pleasure. “Shit!” I gasp, holding him closely as he begins to move inside of me. “Tight..” he mumbles before picking up the pace of his thrusting. “Hyunjin.. baby..” I whimper, wrapping my arms around his waist as he fucks me, needing more of him. “Shh.. just let me fuck you nice and good.” He says, reaching up to massage and squeeze at my breasts, still continuing to fuck me, slowly starting to pound me so hard the bed squeaks and my boobs jump up and down with his pace.

“Cum for me.” He whispers into my ear before gently biting my ear lobe. “Jinnie.. fuck!” I cry out, feeling myself squirt my juices all over him and the bed, completely making a mess for whoever will have to clean it up later. “Let’s go home I.. I need you even more..” I whimper, putting my costume back on before helping him out with his. We say goodbye to everyone and make our way back to the car, ready to see where the night takes us.

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

62 - Reunions and Realizations

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 17.9k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, animal death, past character deaths, mentions of sexual violence and rape, reference to traumatic childbirth

Notes: If y'all thought I wasn't going to shoehorn in this dumb little moment between Jon and Tormund from the show, you were sorely mistaken. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

“What were you doing down there?”

Strange the first question to be asked of you here of all times and places, yet your slight tilt of the head had not indicated that you were returning her question with skepticism. Imagined you did, you were not the easiest person for one to reunite with. But then again, much like her sister, Sansa appeared to be torn between two images as she stood before you. One vastly older and one none changed from the final days you had seen of her. You could even sill picture it.

Her orange red hair down loose in pretty waves to match the gentle shade of violet her dress was, made herself with the collar decorated with flowers all along the edges to match the brightness of the city she then lived in. You wondered how quickly those pretty flowers faded for her once her father was gone. Quickly no doubt. But now she was not that. Her hair was longer, flat and done partially up in the back halfway but not a trace of snowflakes sitting there as was in yours, like her hood had been up until just now to hide where she stood.

She clutched something under her cloak tightly in her hands but from the hidden shadows you could not see it. Choosing instead to answer her question as uncomplicated as possible, “I had someone I needed to see.” Sansa asked no further question, nor did you expect her too. But, she stood awkward and there was her other side. The bright blue eyes so much like Catelyns looking at you in an uncertainty, but also the hint of the child you left behind. Something that wished to reach out, but the woman in her did not know how too. “Sansa, I know things here aren’t what-”

Finding her voice, Sansa spoke up with a question of her own, changing the subject nearly to it’s complete opposite end. “You saw them take Lady back.” You only blinked once in a heavy manner as if attempting to bridge the gap of what she meant, before Sansa continued as she took a step forward. “That night at the inn. You were the last one to see Lady before they brought her back here.” That time you nodded, but only once again, assuming rightfully that there was more on her mind. “Where did they bury her?”

Voice gentle as you spoke, you did not need her to answer the question you knew would follow. “The lichyard. I can show you.”

The lichyard was a small graveyard at the back of the entrance to the crypts near the far castle walls. Used to bury typically servants of the old Kings in the North, but exceptions made many times over to bury others which did not fit. Traditions only meant something it keeping them meant dishonouring those whom passed. Only the Kings and Lords of Winterfell with their immediate family surrounding them, were buried in the crypts and only the highest with statues. Ned Stark had made Lyanna an exception.

Sansa walked close to your side but not quite the degree you could comfortably reach out to her in any way, she was silent and stiff looking around. You didn’t linger in once spot for long, you knew right where to go. The headstone was simple, already coated in snow like a cake doused with a powdery sugar, half covering the lichen growing across the stone all eventually were taken over by.

Her name was etched across it but too was covered by snow. You didn’t rush her with moves or words, simply crouching down to the space and brushing off what was hiding her name plain as day. The wolf carved into the stone under her was not quite as large and fierce as that of the direwolf sigil of the Starks, but then again, much like the smooth and underdeveloped features of Lyannas statue, Lady had died too young to grow into anything which could stand out amongst stone.

Pushing your self back up you moved only feet from Sansa as she looked in silence. A tenseness in her figure and jaw clenched tight as if holding back the urge to let anything come up, as no doubt the woman in her did not wish for you to see the water forming behind her eyes. You would not offer words in her fathers defence, you did not know how she felt of that anymore and would not make assumptions when she stood before the memory of what her remaining siblings all still had. “He made sure she made it here. Lady was born here, she deserved to rest here.”

Sansa only nodded, and seemed to grip whatever she held in her hands tighter. Her voice just as strained as the rest of her gave off the impression of. “You spent time with her after she was gone.”

Only the assurance you could give in such air, “Your father knew the last you saw of her would be a far better memory then that. Even after I-” Forcing your words to be much less blunt and straight forward for once, you sought something a little less harrowing to think of. “After I took care of her when getting her ready to come back here, you still wouldn’t have wanted to see that. If you haven’t been there before to watch an animal die, a companion you love dearly was not a good place to start.”

Sansa nodded, only then finding the courage to come closer. Not rushing her in any way your eyes trailed along as she made her way, kneeling down on the cold ground in front of the headstone. Not reaching out or anything, but her grief was her own, not for yours to judge. Now more then ever before did you understand the Starks connections to their direwolves were something different then an owner to their pet, and you felt that guilt of how she was the only living one whom had long lost hers so permanently.

“I hardly even spoke to him after that. I told Septa Mordane I never wanted to speak to him again, that I would never find it in my heart to forgive him.” Slowly kneeling down beside her, your hands resting gentle on your thighs, eyes bright and wide looking over to hers, the same on her towards Lady but in a far more held back manner. “The last few months he thought I hated him-”

Cutting her right off, your voice was stern. “He knew you didn’t hate him, Sansa. He knew why you were upset, and he never blamed you for it. Your father more then anyone understood how painful it was for you. You begged for mercy in front of the court for him, you pled for his life right before he died.” She nodded but again, you refused to push her for anything further. Where her mind was and what she was thinking or even wanted, you had no idea.

You certainly had no idea what it was which ran through your head, certainly not after the night you had forced yourself into. But, she came to it on her own. The thought, the pain you considered of how long had it been since Sansa faced the reality of what occurred that night, of what it all had spiralled into before it was too late. Pulling it from her cloak, there sat the doll. It looked the way you hoped, as close to what the original looked like as possible. Clutched tight in both hands, your eyes drifted to it as hers did.

“You remembered.”

You nodded knowing she couldn’t see regardless. “I did. I know you weren’t happy with it when your father gave it to you, but it would’ve been one of the last things you truly had from him. Leaving it behind in Kings Landing made sense, how you left there, but it was still something your father gave you. Still a reminder-” Finishing for you, saying it was a reminder that they were family and he had still loved her. “Coming back here hasn’t been easy I imagine, but I thought maybe having just one thing from your father again might remind you that this still is your home no matter how different returning is then you expected. You still belong here with your brothers and sister.”

A hand gentle running through what strands of her hair loose down her back sat, you felt the almost indescribable lean back of her into your touch as her own hand ran much more noticeably over the yellow hair of the doll. “I told him I hadn’t played with dolls since I was eight, and here I am. Eighteen and I’ve carried her around with me for hours.”

The huff of a laugh that left you just barley managed to leave her. “You didn’t have much of a chance to experience the rest of a childhood. None of you did. I think it’s fitting you find part of that, now that you’re home.” The name almost left her lips as you cut it off. “I didn’t give this to you, to bribe you to talk about that. I had it made, to remind you that you’re home, truly home. It’s been a long time I know since you’ve been allowed to think that way, I just want you to remember that.”

Heart breaking at the waver in her voice, the girl you knew came back out. “I still dream about her. That we’re running or she’d curled up with me on my bed. Then I wake up and she’s gone.” Voice cracking as her words faded out, the hand in her hair grew more firm, as you had pulled her the slightest bit closer. The rest of her followed as muscles stopped tensing in her, and something else much needed for her heart begun to fill and shake instead. “Cersei killed her and I blamed everyone but her for it. I wish I never went on that stupid walk with Joffery, we’d have never run into Arya and none of that stupid fight would’ve happened, and Lady would still be here.”

Her body suddenly turning, you felt her fall much more into your side as you wrapped an arm around to gently hold the back of her head keeping her close as you could from where you both sat. The tears fell freely much like you heard through the muffles of her door that same night, but these fell without hangups or hiding. Not right now, with you.

You knew Arya and Jon both would have their own issues to handle with her, but in that moment, Sansa was but that little girl who clutched at your leg growing up always begging her mother to let you stay and be her big sister everyday. That little girl by the time you came to Winterfell with the Kings Company had already felt long gone, but even if only for that very moment in front of Lady’s grave, was Sansa still just that little girl.

A little girl who had never quite come to terms with losing the direwolf she was bonded to in a way no one but the other Starks could ever possibly understand. Just as no one understood what it was like to live without that bond when only having her for months.

For now, you had no doubt Jon wished to handle Petyr Baelish, so you as best you could from just the support love could offer, would try to handle Sansa. Bring her down enough that the rest of her siblings had a chance to reach out as well.

You didn’t know what he had told to her in lies, but you know she would tell you all one way or another in time.

The day she had, one moment you felt a stunning realization fall over you, the next, you felt as if flying through the air falling from one sight to the next. Eyes to eyes to eyes, you felt as if you had never stopped but certain words echoed in your head the longer they flashed by.

“He saw us.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“There’s only one dagger like this in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“He killed your father, he murdered the Hand of the King.”

“Tyrion Lannister. The imp.”

The room was tied, Sansa and Arya both closest to Bran by his side as he gasped for the air you too awoke in need of. On the other was you, as if fallen to the ground sat up partially by Jon keeping you upright and Theon on the opposite. Your name coming firmly from Jon but your eyes only flew up to meet Brans.

Putting together what he saw as you were, his voice breathless still from where he sat spoke through the noise of his siblings as if to you alone in the room. “That’s what it was trying to show us.” Your nod was slow as your mind caught up to your present, the feeling of touch against your skin only barley starting to come back. Neither of you acknowledged the ask from Sansa of what was going on.

Moving passed it, you suddenly felt the wave rush over you. More then even Bran had put together, you had the information that none of them had. You had the information that only one man left alive other then you had, but you were smart enough to put it together which was why-

Shooting up suddenly, Jon and Theon both nearly yanked you back to them the moment you turned to the door, a mutter breathless on you and deaf to their protests as you threw it open and walked out of it, not even bothering saying you needed a moment. One hall then the next, the a door pushing open as you stepped out into the cold of the evening.

Shining in your eyes, forcing a squint, you felt the shiver of cold seep through your thinner clothes and shiver within your bones. Lungs stung filling with the wold air and yet all your mind did felt as if it burned and burned. Overheating like a furnace too worked through and leaving you exhausted and dizzy but it’s flames were memories and it’s smoke was the words which followed.

You knew of those days, Catelyn had told you all when she had arrived at the army camp at Moat Cailin. You knew what Lysa Arryn had done and the lunacy she nearly prevailed with, but yet those details did not at all match what you knew now. Two murders and one failed attributed to the malice of one man, and yet all of it spun a web you had never considered before. He murdered your father, that was what Lysa told little Robin. Lysa put him on trial for the murder of Jon Arryn, but you knew better. You knew the secret Jon had died for and none of that led back to Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion would not poison the Hand of the King to protect a secret that had nothing to do with him, and now that you knew who did it and why, you certainly realized that Tyrion would have not a single reason to want to murder Bran. One Lannister tried to push him out a window, and when that did not work, he was framed by another with a well calculated plan of another.

But more death had come, more fell to the wayside and it was all but forgotten in contrast to the betrayal he stood for in the throne room. Jon had pointed out as Sansa spoke of the day she escaped in suspect. “If Joffery just died, how would he have known it happened or that you fled the scene of his murder, or that you’d be accused?”

Sansa had been honest, and she felt no better saying it then when she learned of it. “Because he killed Joffery. He and someone else, I don’t know who he never said, but he..had someone gift me a necklace, one of the stones had a vial of poison on it and that was the one...” Her hand had traced up as if to go through the motions of a memory she was realizing was part of it, but had saw fit it seemed to not bring it up, for now at the least as she continued. “He knew he had to get me out that day, because he had used me to carry the poison that killed Joffery and Cersei would find out. He knew she’d accuse me of doing it and-”

Jon too, had put together that final piece. “And if Cersei hated Tyrion then she would’ve accused him of helping you.” Littlefinger had wanted Tyrion to be accused, because then fleeing away with Sansa made him look that much more guilty and put more pressure onto trying him then finding her. It was all clever in a rather horrific manner. Every single person in the room had reason to want Joffery dead, but the manner Sansa described it was obscenely a cruel way to die.

Yet that was what had you lightheaded, palms cold against the snow covered stone trying to force the world to cease it’s floating spin. That was three times Tyrion was accused of a crime, and twice Littlefinger was to blame for pointing the finger. But three times he was accused. You all knew the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn, Lysa had said as such in her letter to Catelyn. But she accused Tyrion, and Tyrion wouldn’t have murdered him for Cersei and Jaime’s secret. Lysa accused him because she was told to accuse him. It was foolish to go against Tywin Lannister in that accusation towards even his most hated son, but still he had set the Riverlands on fire for it. Lysa was not right in her mind, but she was not stupid. She wouldn’t accuse him for the sake of it, she accused whom she was told to accuse.

Now she was dead. Everyone involved in the act or uncovering the mystery of Jon Arryns murder was dead, and everyone involved in the act or uncovering the truth of the attempt on Brans life was dead. All but two.

It was that which had you out there. Muttering a whisper you barley could hear over the beating of your heart in your ears. “It was him this whole time.” From the moment the bells tolled signifying the death of the Hand of the King, to the night you stood before the demonic shadow of Catelyn Starks echo was one person always behind it. You hadn’t even heard your name being called or the figure throwing the door open.

Almost jumping the moment he grabbed your arms, you spun with a gasp as Jon steadied you by your upper arms repeating your name firmly. But you were just as lightheaded as seconds before, eyes wide looking up to this grey ones both concerned and angry together did you say what had led you out here in the first place. “It was never about Sansa.” His brows furrowing asking what, before covering that up and trying to pull you inside saying it was freezing out here, you stayed in place as if the thick bog of a swamp had plastered your feet from being able to move. “Barrowton, the Brotherhood, none of it was about getting rid of me to make putting Sansa’s claim up easier.”

Jon cupped the side of your face, the worry growing in him the longer you stayed in such a high strung state like this. “Darling, what are you- what did you see?”

If one asked what yourself and Jon had learned so far North, both of you knew the answer was, too much. This time felt the same, you saw too much and realized what you truly were in this situation. “Littlefinger. He isn’t trying to use me to side against you for Sansa’s sake..he’s trying to convince her to get me as far away from you as quick as she can.” Jon again tried getting you to tell him what was going on, but knew in this state you struggled to form anything close to thoughts well put together as you rambled in hopes he followed. “He wants to isolate me, just like he did in Barrowton. He needs to get me alone because thats the only way he can even try to kill me.”

Jon leaned down to meet your eyes, repeating your name firmly as your skin felt like it shaking under his warmth against the cold. “I know it’s not easy, but I need you to tell me what’s going on, because even Bran isn’t sure what it is you realized that he didn’t, seeing the same things.”

Inhaling deeply, your eyes closing as long as it took to try and will your heart to slow down just a pace enough to feel Jon more then just his warmth, but perhaps that was the cold too kicking a numbness in. “You and Sansa both have parts of his story, some idea of the crimes he’s committed but he knows you both don’t have the full story. He knows you both together could only come up with just enough to possibly find a rightful accusation towards. But he needs me either gone or dead, because I’m the only person left he’s afraid of.”

For a while, you knew your father was a smart man about how he handled what he knew. Jon Arryn, the man he uncovered the truth of Cersei’s children with mysterious died, and he no doubt could sniff out the lie it was only a fever which took him. He fled to Dragonstone and closed off any ability to get to him because he knew too much. Stannis Baratheon was the one man Petyr Baelish feared because he saw through every bit of his weasely facade and would stick his head on a spike before the night was out if he had his way.

But you were even more dangerous then your father to Littlefinger. Because if you were not alive, no one would be able to know the truth of the sins he’s cast out upon the world and people you’ve known and cared for. You could recall Lord Varys telling you and Ned Stark that Jon Arryn was killed for asking too many questions, but you knew why your life had been the target this time. You were the one with all of the answers for those with those questions. “I’m the one person left who knows exactly how many crimes he’s guilty of. He tried to kill me, because I know things he’s done that no one but me is alive who could put it all together.”

Looking up to the cold, Jon turned slightly to pull you into his side. “Letting you stay out here and freeze any longer won’t help, will it?” The shiver ran down your spine, finding the rest of you as Jon pulled your head closer, leaving a kiss firmly at the hair on the side of your head trying to keep you as close to his warmth as possible.

If anything, it did strike those in the room now, that when you were in the same position as Sansa before, it was so far removed from what so closely looked like an interrogation. The white fur once Jons, wrapped around you properly so you could warm up from how strikingly cold your skin had gotten in the unknown time Jon spent trying to follow in your fleeing footsteps. He now sat beside you, to keep his own body temperature helping yours as well as not willing to move away from where you could stay in his reach.

The commotion having woken little Eddard up, the eyes of his siblings tried not to stare at how of all people Jon was the last they expected to see as a father, let alone sitting with his own son in his arms with such a natural ease it was as if he had prepared for it his whole life. Reading each small noise from the baby and moving accordingly, normally giving him part of his fingers to try to reach out and hold with what little grip his tiny hand had, or shifting him a bit more to rest against his side against his torso and facing a bit up to see you.

You had noticed each one as they did but in a very different reading. Trying to put your life at risk, you knew it would not stop there. Restraint was not best suited for a man like Littlefinger. He had shot and hit the target of killing a King before, and you knew what reason would he have to stop this time? Killing the King of the Seven Kingdoms was a far grander pull off then killing the King in the North. Those thirsty for power would not stop at you, they would not stop at Jon, and they would next go for the small bundle snuggled into Jons arms. The one thing you had done in your new life that mattered, given Jon the one thing he truly never thought he would deserve and you refused to let anything take that from him.

The story was new to most, and some details expanded upon to others. A life long passed you, but so deeply woven like a spiders web but the source was the insistent singing of a mockingbird. More then once you needed something to soothe your throat, you weren’t sure you had done this much talking since the night you stood in Moat Cailin refusing to give up your plight to defend Jons life and honour of all the freedoms he had only just acquired for the first time in his life.

Only much more was at stake as you spoke. Bran knew enough to fill in some details, putting together from what he and you saw together slowly in a calm fashion. Arya more then once was visibly shaking in an anger only held back from what you knew was a lack of manner to lash out on. Some of this, Theon knew, he was there to give specifics that you nor Bran could on your own, from his own perspective through his own eyes. Jon did a better job at hiding his anger then Arya, but there was a growing darkness in his eyes that looked more wolf then man as you spoke.

The only whom did not speak a word, was Sansa. So far removed from a single shred of these events, it was all new, and all in a shock she hadn’t seem coming. The danger, the lack of trustworthy she knew of Petyr Baelish paled in comparison. She too sat in silence though, watching the harmony at work. Arya, Bran and Theon all spoke up, all added to the story and conclusions working off of the others theories, but more then that, she watched you and Jon.

Forcing herself not to do it, not to fall down the hole she had before of what to think of Jon. In her worst interpretation, Jon spoke over you and for you. Taking control of your talking instead of allowing you the freedom to slowly let it come out, but yet you could build off of his finished thoughts with ease and he never spoke against it. She felt unsure if he was letting you speak your mind or not, but he had told her as much. That there were things about his relationship with you that she would not understand, but it was full of conflict.

He could sense it too, the way she tried to still figure out what she was looking at, looking for. Still seeking the worst answer, but he couldn’t worry about that right now. Couldn’t allow you to worry about anywhere close to that right now. The facts were out in the open, if you knew too much against Littlefinger and his plan at creating a divide between you and Jon did not work, he could once again resort to violence. To getting others that is, to do violence for him.

By the evenings close, all had much to think about, and Jon had much to plan. He was going to do this the way his father raised him to. Fairly, with honour and justice and without rushing into things with impulse. But then that wave would wash over him once more, almost in a mocking to ask which father did he mean. Jon knew what father he meant, but it felt as if that unshakable darkness did not.

His mind couldn’t be a mess right now, he needed to find a way to clear it and quickly. You almost did not help in that matter, coming up behind him, your hands running up his back and attaching to his shoulders before Jon simply wrapped them around his front for you. Gentle against him as you both stood beside your slumbering son by the open window. “You’re certain we’re ready for this?” Barley turning to glance at you, did a wave of guilt hit, the worry he thought you meant in doubt. “I only mean, we’ve just started to get Sansa to open up, I’ve only just started to-”

Gripping your hands tighter, the intention was clear as you cut yourself off. Jons low rasp almost flying into the cold air and out the window as opposed to finding its way to your ear. “I have everything else ready, we have him right here. Everything he’s done, I won’t let him run this time.”

Nodding, your head moved to rest against his back, something much more calming falling into your senses at his warmth as if the thought of what was to come in certain days did not also fill you with a rising dread. “What if I’m not up for this?” Affirming without thought that you were, you sighed deeply. “We think I am now, but what if I get up there and I don’t know what I think I do?”

He did not falter in his tender hold on your hands against him. “That’s why Bran is there. If you can’t, he can. But you were there for more of this, the other Lords will understand better if they hear if from you firsthand.” Only a nod once more, the feeling of Jon raising up one of your hands to press a kiss to hit, holding it against him there as if pondering leaving another.

You on the other hand, rose up on your toes to press your lips gently to the back of his neck, exposed through fallen strands of dark curls not still kept up from the day. If that was a very well hidden shiver you felt, then you only added to it by pressing another, then another until Jon mumbled your name both in warning and a chuckle vibrating from within his chest. “How did you do it? Convince them to come forward?”

A certainty was thick in Jons voice however, you could see from even behind his grey eyes wide and bright looking out to the starry sky of night beyond Winterfell without any doubt. “He betrayed my father, he tried to hurt you, my sister, my brothers. He’s used nearly every one in my family against each other, it should’ve stopped the day my Uncle Brandon beat him in a duel.”

“So you’re ending it now.” Jon was the one to nod that time, your head returning to rest against his back in a surprising degree of comfort. “Fighting has never worked against him. Perhaps you’re the only one smart enough to use his way of doing things.” Jon only muttered it was practical, not smart but your lips moved into a small smile. “I promise, you are far smarter then you’re giving yourself credit for, Jon.”

The smile on his face was so much brighter against the starlight shining in. “Coming from you.” Muttering in a jest what that was supposed to mean, Jon finally turned you both. Now sideways from the open window, Jons hands found themselves attached to your hips as yours rested high on his chest. The smile shined as beautiful as it always did in his eyes. “Married a smart girl, is all.”

If you had it in you to tease, it was for another day. Not so late at night and not so crawlingly close to what Jon had prepared for, since even before you both left beyond the Wall. Everything you both saw out there, but your nerves raced for this coming here and now of all things. “I’m not doubting you-”

Jon leaned forward, nudging your nose with his. Hot breath dancing across your face with every word. “I know, darling. You’re allowed to be scared, but it’ll be alright. I promise.” Nodding, Jon left your hip, two knuckles tilting your head up so his lips could gently press against yours. His kiss soft and chaste, but your hands wound around the back of his neck as his arm moved to pull you from your lower back further into him. His other keeping you by your jaw tilted to his kiss alone.

Only interrupted by the small mutterings of the bundle below, Jon let out a breathy but heartwarming laugh as he rested his forehead to yours. “That sounds like hunger to me.” Asking almost with a giggle how would he know that, Jon pressed one more kiss to your lips. “He’s my son, that means he has my appetite.”

You could almost roll your eyes, he loved to hint at how he was right all along. He said he knew it was a boy, and he was correct. But finally, it didn’t bother you. You would give him a daughter, and this time around you found yourself actually looking forward to it. Little Eddard didn’t have much of a plan for so long out there, but you both would go into little Lyanna with many. But, Jon for now, was still right.

The thought coming into your head as Jon sat down beside you undoing the laces keeping your dress closed, as you held the baby. Something Maester Wolkan had said, and how in more ways then just winter was what he said clearly true.

Eventually, the Starks are always right.

The morning next, sun hiding behind the clouds in the sky seemed to be making it’s way closer to the middle of Winterfell signifying it was reaching mid day. The warmest hour which the castle would ever get for a long time was right at the peak of morning as it bled into the afternoon and the hustling noise around the courtyard was at it’s busiest. For quite a while now, Jon had walked through with you by his side.

As friendly as Jon was with his people, you were quiet and not disruptive but never shied away from the respect you always gave by his side. Though, what was proving to be disruptive, was how utterly simple it became for attention to wander from task to task to give their greeting to the still small and shy baby you carried warm in your arms beside Jon. Trying to keep a respectful distance from you, Jon was clearly shoving down the urge to keep you pulled close each time you strayed too far from him. Speaking to one person and you another, you felt Jons eyes on you flicker each instance he couldn’t stop himself.

But you allowed the distance, Jon was busy with men far more important then the growing normal of gushing the older women adored giving. Little Eddard was shy, always making noise in protest when someone got too loud or close to him, shifting him up to rest against you, so he could hide in your neck and shoulder with hands grasping what he could pull close of your hair. He never quite put the strands in his mouth, but would keep them in his little fist, and that would always sit close to his mouth, the way an infant would do so with a toy acting as a soother, but just what he had of you.

Sometimes, he would simply refuse to come out from hiding. Tucking himself further into your neck and the blanket warm around him because he didn’t like so much attention so loud and close and so attempting to be physical. Unable to escape the cooing of a group of girls, eventually it seemed you had found saviour in Jon making eye contact with Selyse and gesturing to you.

Your mother coming up behind, hands guiding you by the upper arms with a polite smile and dismissal not easily argued against in her voice. “She appreciates your good will, but there is always much to be done in the life of a Queen.” A muttering of a thanks in your whisper as she kept a guiding grip on you until a respectable distance away, closer to where Jon had made his way in work outside. A jest on your mothers voice seldom heard, “And you wondered why we kept you inside most of the time as a child.”

Turning to look at her, you raised an eyebrow. “Because cooing and grabbing at my son is a common past time for women?”

The jest from your mothers tone though was not a single thing compared to the unfiltered teasing that came from your right from Maege’s sudden appearance. “No, because you grab everyone's attention all day. Good and bad.” Your head whipped up and over to give her a questioning glare when she shrugged with a smirk on her face. “I assure you, your grace, no one is quite as silent and uptight as you while also managing to always be the bloody centre of attention.” Muttering that you didn’t try to do so or enjoy it, she shared a glance with Selyse. “You left Winterfell for almost seven moons and came back with a newborn son. Tell me, in what version of our world would that not make you the centre of attention?”

Your tone dropped, dry and as flat as one could manage without looking at either woman on your sides. “No one crowds around Jon this way.”

Mage again had the simple answer always right at the tip of her tongue. “He’s King. How many people would risk getting on his bad side by pestering him day in and out. That’s what he has you for.” Her and your mother both laughed when you so dryly thanked her for the compliment, but your eyes looked to Jon in the distance.

You never saw him truly as Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, but there was no doubt how he got there. He could laugh and joke with his people as much as he too could walk up and jump right into business and waste not their time nor his. He ruled a leader as if he were born to it, but was he? That was a mystery not even your gift of sight could answer, what intentions lay behind his birth truly. Thankful to all the gods, that Jons own son held a meaning straight forward. Born because his father and mother were in love, and tried to bring him into this world for love alone.

A far cry from a bastard boy born for a purpose never told to him nor understood. Yet you thought, the blood that preceded his birth was not so different then the blood shed after little Eddards. But the closer you came to seeing that blue eye and smooth voice with changing intentions, the more you would hold your son a little closer, a little tighter, and part of you wishing you could go to Jon to feel the same for you.

Jon had compared what Ramsay had done to you, to what Rhaegar Targaryean did to his mother, but Benjen Stark had compared what Euron planned to do to you with what Rhaegar Targaryean did to his sister. No matter which way you looked, the truth cold or burning in blood was doused with the same things. How many chances remained for you to escape Lyanna Starks fate? Twice now, it couldn’t be many more.

You could only hope you did not leave Jon to fight the winter storms alone when you did so.

You had vaguely noticed your mother seemingly making some form of gesture towards Jon as if to tell him something not long before finding your way up away from the crowed more onto the landings less busy above. Asking Maege to give you both a moment, with none but you both up there glancing down to the sights did she broach the topic.

Her voice low but with a purpose. “We won’t be able to hide him.” Your brows narrowed, hands gently adjusting the baby more comfortably against you as she took as a continuance. “He is biding his time by not bringing it up, and when he does he will use it to try and paint you as a traitor. You know as well as I do that he has either already figured it out, or knew he was here in the first place.” Asking what was she suggesting with a tightness in your throat, your mother took no personal slight of it. “I put him into hiding to protect him. He isn’t happy he’s been in the equivalent of a prison cell, but he’s been safe. But he won’t be safe for long if we let Lord Baelish dictate the narrative. We need to prepare for the inevitable.”

Low and careful, both of you were aware the full truth being talked around in case of any prying ears. “Are you suggesting I make him reveal himself in front of the court?” Your mother only lowly chastised that you know better then that, giving you the space to come up with the same solution. “I never brought him here for anything like that. Not for my own gain, not to undermine father, none of it. I brought him back here because if he’s with me I know he’s alive and safe. Whatever he wishes to paint me as for doing so to my people, that won’t change anything. Bastard born or not, he might be the only chance to keep the family line alive.”

Cutting through just as low, your mother made a point you had already long since considered. “Naming him legitimate will only cause further troubles between him and your father’s claim.”

Nodding, you glanced down to the still open but heavy hooded eyes of your son resting on your shoulder, hand still keeping strands of your hair close before looking back up to the courtyard. “Being related to the heir of the Iron Throne doesn’t always mean it will come down to that. If I went down to him right now and asked if he wanted it, he’d no doubt look at me as if I’m an idiot. If it weren’t for Arya, he wouldn’t want anything to do with highborns at all in the first place.” Glancing to your side, you caught the question ready to come out and put an end to it before it could form words in her mouth. “Don’t ask me, mother. I really do not wish to even consider a thing about that.”

The unexpected flat jest of words coming from your mother always continued to surprise you in your new times with her. “He’s also your blood. Meaning you know too well what men in this family can be like.” Nodding with a grimace, if you did not think about it you never had to imagine it. It was like attempting to consider Shireen ever having a crush on a boy, you wouldn’t care for them no matter how innocent or good willed they were. Shireen was younger then Arya was now when- but still you never could consider her getting older and being interested in boys.

Speaking up with an exasperation on your voice, it almost made your mother smile in amusement. “Seven hells, is this how you felt when I left for Kings Landing?”

If one could speak even more flat then before, your mother pulled it off without effort. “I felt that way since the day you returned home saying the two closest friends you made in this place were Lord Eddard’s sons.” Your eyes dragged narrow and almost bemused in question as her eyes trailed to the baby down to Jon. “You married one, and had a son with the other. I’m not so sure you can argue by worries were unfounded anymore.”

Not much of a refute could be found. Inhaling deeply, smothering a small smirk you looked back out to the courtyard changing the subject once more back to the more pressing matter. “He’s our blood, so you and I when the time comes have to protect him. We stop hiding him, Littlefinger will name him anyways when the time comes. But he’s our responsibility to keep safe. Ser Davos was the only one to protect him last time, but this time we need to protect him as a family.”

You didn’t need her verbal agreement to know she and you were on the same page. It was but a rare but growing sense of solidarity between mother and daughter not often found in your life, let alone with the woman who did truly birth you. You never had a true stable dynamic of a mother and father no matter which family you lived with, and you failed to keep safe those you loved in both. Three uncles dead, five Starks dead, your own sisters blood on your hands and those were only such direct family.

You couldn’t even consider the death in Kings Landing, what Joffery had done. How many were killed and how few you had ever known the names of. One still lived, but you knew the other. Little Barra ripped from her mothers arms and murdered in front of her, you dared not imagine her screams and cries being forced to watch. You hoped her screams and little Barra’s final cries haunted the ears of the gold cloaks who did it for the remainder of their lives.

There were less of you then there were Starks now, you had to protect what was left of you all, no matter against who or for what. The image of a tall blonde struck within your mind, but you shoved it away. A man as the Hound had not survived a fight with her, and you were none the warrior he was, but if it came down to it? No, you thought. What is here in front of you, handle that. Nothing more, not yet.

It was hardly any time later when the courtyard had become a scene of it’s own, only in different ways then the last two times the return of a Stark came through. You had remained out there for some time on your own, the air not freezing yet but cool enough that you felt the freshness in your lungs, the blanket around little Eddard snug against your front keeping him warm and sleepy, also adding to your yet unwillingness to move.

Some of the approaching riders had been expected, or more accurately, one had. But the guards familiar with those coming and going the more the gates were kept up and closed, the more they knew who was easily welcome. You hadn’t yet moved from your spot watching, the noise surely to come was not one that was conducive to keeping the little one relaxed against you, but the sight surely was one of interest in various ways.

As you had always seen him, a man of the Nights Watch, did Benjen Stark ride into the courtyard, the figure at the back of his horse one which, even at your great distance, did you hold the baby just the slightest bit tighter to your front. She had ropes around her wrists kept at her front with no fuss, and no fight in her eyes but one of a kind of defeat. But Benjen climbing off his horse, she didn’t make any move to climb off either, staying put knowing her fate well before coming here.

With him though, some additions to the company which you had not seen in some months, but the striking feeling inside that their own reunion was going to be a far less strainious one then that which surrounded most of his others in the past weeks. Men around familiar with both found an ease in greeting, especially for Benjen. This was his home, it still was no matter where his duties had come to lay in his life, and there was a degree of ease which could exist in him this way.

But still for now, you stayed put. Eyes trying not to stare at just one in particular.

Jon knew his uncle was set to arrive sometime soon, but the day hadn’t been set. Seeing him out there, and again at Castle Black, that was one thing. But as Jon stepped out into the cold of the courtyard by the main gate did he feel something odd, not so far from where they had last stood together in Winterfell but the circumstances so vastly different. That did not stop of course, the feeling of relief that he had made it.

A grin felt forming on Jons face, did he move, making way to greet his uncle. Though, not the only one with plans it seemed did another ride with him, with plans of his own. If his Uncle Benjen had seen this coming, the amusement derived from it was not any less substantial. The one thing too Jon knew, was that if being a King did not change one thing, it was how he was treated by his closest friends. Certainly in front of others, causing only more to laugh along side his uncle.

Within mere feet of embracing his uncle did Jon feel as if he had been thrown to the side by a great sized boulder. Though, this boulder moved more then the a normal one and was far more eccentric then nothing. With all his strength, Tormund had nearly tackled Jon as if he man was hiding just to take him off guard out of nowhere. Pulling him steady though, both felt that same relief from months of unknown since the last they saw one another.

Were the Jon from years ago to look forward and see he and Tormund greeting again, grasping the other by the arm with a genuine feeling of missing the other, he’d have not a clue what life was in store for him. But it was, and without any bother of formality did Tormund not hold back. “My little crow. Was starting to think we had lost you.”

Sighing out with a nod, letting the memories to accompany that truth sit free Jon could barley get out, “Almost.”

A proper hug shared between both of them, did Tormund have the decency to let Jon address the bigger issue nearby. Though, what he understood of the situation, Jon did not yet know but no doubt would be telling the man in great detail come nightfall.

Jon and Benjen greeting each other much the same albeit less forceful, did he hold Jon by the arm turning towards where she sat on the horse. “Yara.” She barley gave any indicator of return, but Jon did not blame her. There was no hiding what she was here because of. He could register her own slipping upwards and flickering around as if seeking something but not yet finding it.

Benjen getting more to business out of the way, “What should we do with her?”

Glancing back over, Jon thought for a moment but knew whatever he did was only temporary, there was far more behind the simplicity of others within the cells down below then her. “Put her in one of the isolated cells away from the rest.” Looking to Yara and back. “Until I figure out what to do with her long term.” Many he knew would just say to execute her and be done with it, but Jon was aware again, there was much more going on.

And judging by the approaching voice, firm and projecting without any doubt did whatever guilt sat in Yara visibly begin to eat away at her. “I’ll take her.” Jon nodded, and one returning from Theon there was not the animosity he once feared. He had told Theon the truth, all of the truth of what happened, including Jon being the one to kill his uncle, but Theon had come to a conclusion after much thought. Saying that Jon was the one who told him he was a Greyjoy and a Stark, that one family tried to hurt the other on purpose instead of in defence. That there was no question about what was right there, no matter how genuinely Jon tried to place responsibility on his own shoulders.

Yara’s voice was the hint of mocking it had been for much of what Jon knew of her, and yet something so distant it sounded like it almost was meant to torment herself with it and not others. “Brother.”

Theon’s short answer as he helped her down to her feet, but keeping a not so kind hold on her still tied up person, was a bit cold. But that was between them, not for Jon to judge. “Let’s go. Not keeping you out here to make a scene.” If Theon caught it, Jon didn’t know, but he certainly did. The ever so subtle glance she took upwards finally.

Jon following her eyeline, did he spot you higher on the landings, the baby held high on your person in your arms with narrowed eyes looking down. Unblinking but not with the confidence that Theon or Jon would’ve, but with a hesitation and weariness that flared something up within him to go to you, no matter what else he had to handle here and now. Yara said not a word to you, nor you even doing anything but watching and following her retreating figure until she was out of sight. Only then did Jon see you look down to the baby, and disappear into the warmth of the castle finally.

Whatever he did with Yara, Jon wasn’t about to give her the kind of freedom Theon had the right too all those years ago. This was different, had any one of Yara, Victarion, or even Eurons men succeeded, Jon would’ve been desperately planning a war all of his own choosing to get you back, and there was no room to doubt if she played an integral role in almost allowing that. What she did to help him and you after was one, but nothing could be easily forgiven to a wolf almost having his mate taken from he and his son.

A son, it seemed, Benjen had told Tormund about. An arm wrapping around his shoulders, Tormund tugged Jon into his side as they both watched where you had been seconds before. Rumbling low but with a tease so thick one could grasp it in their hands he started already. “Do you want to tell me how the fuck you went out there with her alone, and came back a daddy?”

Jons eyes only looked, a bit darker to Benjen, clearly hiding a very poorly covered up smirk, his defence as unbelievable as was his false attempt to look casual over it. “I didn’t say anything he wouldn’t find out about eventually. Not my fault you never open up.”

Cracking out from Jon almost without a single thought, was his tone dry. “Coming from you.”

Both had a laugh, but Jons attention drawn back to the large man at his side guiding him towards the door inside. “Come on, you can do all your noble shit later. I’m going to need every detail about how the fuck you two have a newborn.” Jon jesting back he assumed Tormund knew how that process worked only had a grunt leaving Tormund in place of a laugh. “Trust me, little crow, I do. You and your girl had been married what? A few months before you put a baby in her and my daughter’s sack of shit husband can’t even get anywhere near doing the same after two fucking years. What’s the point in calling him Longspear if he can’t even use it for the one reason he’s got it?”

If Jon did miss one thing, it was the easy manner Tormund had about almost anything he could speak his mind on. And in the current days where he was surrounded by having to watch what he says and did for the various spying eyes, it was a breath of fresh air he desperately needed.

The opposite side was the truly that, opposite. An unforgiving contrast as one did not know what to say and the other wanted her to say nothing. Theon guided his sister down into one of the isolated cells of the dungeon, releasing her restraints, but the moment she tried, “Theon-” Did he close the locking bars behind her and turned without a seconds thought. “Theon, please, just listen to me-”

Cutting her off with a yell, he didn’t even turn back or stop walking away. “What did you do?” He knew but he wanted her to say it. But the answer was so much less then what he deserved to be told.

“Almost something very bad.”

The echo of the door closing behind him was painful as she stood alone in the cell, but then the guilt set in. She wouldn’t have come and gone without any fight had she not understood her crimes were no ones to answer for but hers. Theon knew it too, but even worse, Yara had almost done it to the one person who acted like the sister she should’ve been to him.

Yara hadn’t done a thing to earn that loyalty, and had not a clue if she could ever recover at this point.

But sisters in one way or another, with what she had done it was you who had every reason to be checked if you were alright. But you sought out Theon, you cared about how he felt here, not to be coddled when you weren’t the one with a family so tormenting as the Greyjoys.

It was frustrating, the degree to which you were not one who could sneak about this castle. Even up on the cold of the battlements, you still were not the one to speak first unseen or unknown. “I’ll tell you the same thing I said to Jon when he told me the truth.” Pausing mid step, your gloved hand braced against the wooden door frame open to the high winds, Theon leaning against the edge looking out to the wintery sight below as he continued, but not with any anger in his tone. “Two of my uncles hunted you both down all the way north of the Wall, trying to kill him so they both could try and separately kidnap you. And the first thing you both want to do is apologize for? For what?”

You hadn’t expected the swiftness he turned to look at you, the narrowing in his eyes challenging what he knew you had come to say. Mouth opening then closing more then once, you swallowed down the uncertainty in how the air suddenly moved and pushed out into the cold more, the firm coverings of the baby keeping him well protected now both kept covered and tucked away close within the warmth of the fur cloak around you both with many feet still between you and Theon. “For your sister, for what happened to Vi-”

Theon almost scoffed, looking at you almost as if about to call you an idiot and his tone backed up the emerging theory. “Jon killed my uncle, because he and my sister tried to kill him. Because they had their men already kidnap you. All because my other uncle ordered them too. Why should either of you be sorry for that?”

Baffled almost by how much he was willing to dismiss what occurred, you did not understand. “Theon-”

He however, had much he understood and thus subsequently a significant amount to say. “Jon told me. The day after you lot got back, he told me what happened himself. He killed my uncle and so he took responsibility for that and my sister. Didn’t leave anything out, wanted me to know exactly what he did because it was my blood he did it too. Then, this afternoon does Benjen Stark show up with my sister as a prisoner with him. So I asked her what she did, and do you know how much she told me?”

You shook your head no, and the answer Theon gave of what she said in response to being asked what did she do, you perhaps had understood the anger here was not directed where you had come to apologize for. “All she said, was that she almost did something very bad. Nothing else. Just that. As if that tells me anything. Jon told me everything, and you were about to apologize for everything.”

Shaking his head, jaw twitching in frustration he looked back out to the cold sight of the wolfswood. Stepping closer, standing beside him with a safe distance from his uncertain demeanour to your quiet voice. “Neither Jon nor I want you to simply accept what happened-”

The scoff bordered on a mocking laugh but towards himself. “I don’t. I’m angry. Jon killed my uncle, because he tried to kill him. My sisters a prisoner, because she tried to kill him too. And all of it happened, because for some bloody reason, Euron wanted you.” Your eyes blinked heavily as if to shoo away the heavy sting of reminder. You had yet to go back to the connection so blatantly made now, you weren’t at all ready for that. So, you stood allowing Theon to speak. “Yara, Victarion, even Euron. They’re my blood, but if I was going to chose them over you I would have long before now. So don’t do what Jon did. Don’t apologize for it.”

A heavy nod, you did not say much else if only out of a lack of knowing what response was appropriate to the strange state he was in. You too, had a feeling Theon was being far more blunt about it with you, then he would have been to Jon. Theon had little qualm about informing you when he thought you were being daft or stubborn, so you thought to give no more reason to garner another lecture about it.

The snow falling against the ground was gentle for once, and the light still bright in the sky above spoke that if would not last much longer, leaving a fresh untouched coat to shine in the moonlight as dark would soon encroach. In the cold winds bringing it, it stung against your cheeks but otherwise well hidden in layers and fur, you were much more quipped to stand out here in this way then years prior in little on purpose.

When anything came into the air again, it was a question which sunk down your throat to strangle you from within. “Only thing Jon wouldn’t answer me was, what does Euron even want with you in the first place?”

All the answers, but that you still did not know. Your shrug registered to the side of his vision just enough it needn’t not require elaboration. The scoff was not directed towards you, but a terrifyingly blue eye was behind your eyes making you feel, for once, as if he was too close. It was uncomfortable, what you knew from dreams and visions and yet now the differences which made his identity not clear, were also similarities detectable in Theon beside you.

The smallest of mannerisms likely all Greyjoys shared, and a despising feeling festered in your gut at the strangers audacity to share it with Theon of all people. Too you knew, it was still difficult giving him a name, as if speaking it even in the private of your mind would bring him back into your world and take what he wanted, no matter what that extended to possibly being.

Theon asked another question, “How did he even know you two were all the way out there or where to tell the others to find you both?” Within a single flash in front of you, it was as if the eagle flew by your very face as his caw screeched in your ear. You knew, but you didn’t want too. Jon was right, a mind more then just a bird existed within the eagle, but it no longer was the mind of a man Jon killed.

Somewhere, somehow, it was overpowered by someone much more terrifying then a man named Orell could have conceived of being. “You’ve been through this part before.” The glee in his voice and shine in his eye as he realized you would not fight against his strength on top of you. He had recognized what someone like Ramsay had done to you, and it only served to excite him more. As if he had just learned, he wouldn’t even need to take time like Ramsay had to, to break you in.

You dared not tell Jon about that part. Though part of you wondered, if you didn’t need too. A Greyjoy already once broke your personal secrets, and told the truth of horrors done to you, to Jon. Neither said it was Theon or what he told him, but you had a feeling Theon sometime between arriving at the Nightfort and the night you learned you were with child, did he tell Jon some of what you spent months hiding from him.

You had little doubt, should this Euron find his way into your life here, he’d speak of what he almost did as well. But unlike Theon, it would be far more like Ramsay. Taunting you in front of Jon for what he refused to say he had done, but enough to anger the White Wolf into something blindingly red and rageful. Surrounded by men using their usage of you, to torment Jon solely because they felt the better men by doing so.

No, you did not wish for Jon to know about that dream just yet. Considering you could see the upturned gaze of Ghosts eyes from down in the courtyard below, Jon was not joking about not letting you out of his sight. If you told him the truth about this one, you may never leave Jon or Ghosts side ever again.

Theon at the least, did not need solid answers to connect much of that on his own without even a sliver of the extending detail you withheld from everyone else. “My uncle died trying to bring you to Euron. And after everything Ramsay did, if stopping all that from happening to you again at the hands of my uncle meant Victarions life? I’d have killed him myself.” You said nothing, not did he need you too. “Yara’s my sister, but I barley knew her. Even before. Then I came back, and..” Theon took a moment, and still you did not speak of what she told you. That day was not yours to intrude on, it was his no matter how much he had told you of it, the second night of your return. “You’re the sister I chose. So you and Jon need to stop trying to pretend like you two have shit to apologize to me for. You don’t. Neither of you do.”

All you could muster was a simple ask. “You didn’t ask her anything else?”

Theon however, gave once more that laugh as if speaking to you like about to call you an idiot. “If I had something to say to her, I’d have done it when she tried begging me to come back to Pyke last year. But I didn’t then, sure as hell don’t now.” Only for another moment did quiet sit between, when as his usual, did Theon find a way to drag out the easily amused side of you in an instant. “Remember when we first met? And I called you a contentious bitch?”

With a dry quickness, it would’ve taken many off guard at the language coming from your mouth were it not Theon. “I believe the phrase you used was contentious cunt, actually. Bitch was the word you used when trying to talk your way out of Lord Stark getting you into trouble.”

The laugh Theon let out was low and mostly breathy, but you joined too. Both looking out to Winterfell as if strangers to that life before. “Right, and I remember it not working. If I didn’t hate you enough already, the man treated you like his daughter.” His mind almost connecting names one to the other, looked more down at you with a narrowed question in his eyes. “Speaking of, how long have you been back and yours hasn’t come to meet his grandson?”

Nodding down to your alone person, you shrugged a shoulder with an ease in your gaze. “Sons are a touchy subject within my family. I don’t really know how much to blame my father for not knowing what to say, even in writing. Not good at communicating the members of my family are.”

“I’ll say.”

Your mouth fell open in offence in an instant as you looked at him incredulously. His shrug of bemused indifference only caused you to lean over and shove at his side with yours, much like a child. All alone, was the only time Theon ever considered returning the gesture. The baby being his only cited reason why he didn’t retaliate, it once more became easy to forget that somehow, some way, he was so closely related to the growing phantom haunting your dreams.

“You let him take a pregnant woman all the way out there?”

Jons elbow was propped up against the table they all sat around, hand pinching the bridge of his nose as his face twisted in frustration. It has so far, been a constant debate about this. About what he had done and if it was right regardless of what he had to do. He wasn’t happy or proud of himself for it, but it had to be done and explaining that to his own companions over and over was getting to be an exhausting ordeal.

On the other end, Sam and Tormund were actually both on the same sides just with vastly different ways of explaining themselves. Gesturing to Jon, who had been silent for some time now, Sam raised his voice in his own defence. “You try telling him he can’t do something once he’s made his mind up. What was I supposed to do? Stand in front of his horse and tell him no? Because I tried that before and he knocked me to the ground.”

Jon only moved his hand enough to take a long, bitter sip of the ale in front of him before letting it thud to the wooden table. Hand that time pressing more against his forehead before letting it run the length of his face. He didn’t even need to say anything, Tormund piped up right away. “He couldn’t wait a few more moons for the baby to be born before running off to get himself killed?”

Why Sam and Tormund of all people were arguing as if they disagreed on the matter, Jon had no idea but they went back and forth regardless. Glancing over to the living quarters where he knew Sam and Gilly slept, part of him wished he told her and little Sam to stay. Maybe they wouldn’t be going in so hard on him were the two of them still there. Enough time had passed that little Sam had grown big enough that he could sit on someones lap all on his own, and it never failed to make Jon smile that the toddler could look at Jon and feel comfortable enough to do so without even asking.

Though, Jon was fully aware that could fall under the possibility of him using little Sam as a shield during this conversation. But Gilly took the both of them to find you, recognizing the three seemed to have things to talk about that Jon didn’t necessarily think appropriate in front of her. The discussion apparently, had continued around him.

“I still don’t understand why you had to bring her, and not ask Edd to give you rangers used to being out there to come with you.” Tormund piping up to include himself and his own people in that scenario when Jon had his fill of being quiet.

Voice raising to something slightly more stern, both recognized the frustration behind it. “If I could’ve left her behind, I would’ve. I didn’t want her out there, I didn’t want her near anything out there but I had to. There was no choice.” Sam softened a bit, moreso recognizing that gloss over his eyes which always seemed to come about in pain of mentioning you. Tormund though, Jon knew understood possibly more then Sam what the things out there were Jon didn’t want you near. “She was barley two months, if I waited until our son was born then you’re asking me to abandon my wife and newborn child and I wasn’t-”

Cutting himself off, he refused to allow the thought to come forward. That was not an option, allowing you the comfort of having your entire pregnancy and labour here where it belonged to happen, only to leave and possibly never come back right away. That wasn’t even what his father did to his wife. His father had gotten Lady Catelyn pregnant right before leaving for war, he probably didn’t even realize until the end he was to have a son when he came back. This was asking Jon to go through the whole nine months with you, be there when you gave birth with the proper care and comfort midwives and a maester could provide you with, and hold his son his arms before leaving you both behind.

He could leave right now and find you, but still, the thought of doing that made Jon feel ill. The thought that he would miss these first precious weeks. Waking up over and over because his son needed something, gently shushing you into not waking up unless the baby needed feeding. Getting you ready in the morning the way he liked, working with you to dress the baby before getting to be the one to wrap him around your person to keep the baby attached to your front. Miss watching you feed little Eddard from your own breast because you refused to let the wet nurse anywhere near him? Feeding the baby had a routine, even when Jon wasn’t there he knew the routine by heart.

He could still recall one night out there, before reaching the Wall, everyone had settled in camp for the night as you had to feed the baby. Just at the very end of gently burping him did just the slightest bit of spit up come out from such a small thing, and the only reaction you both had was to laugh gently. Jon cleaning you without a second thought as you cleaned little Eddards mouth and soothed him gently in your arms before the sensation of it coming up upset him. Naturally by the time you had just let your head fall on Jons shoulder to sleep, did he decide he needed to be fed again because he spit up half of what he ate an hour prior.

If he thought about it, he could still see the way the others tried to pretend they weren’t watching. The way Bran and Benjen both looked at him almost in an awe of what Jon of all people had now, what his life looked like after being separate from them for years. He could see the way Meera glanced between you both and Bran and Benjen. The hiding of a sadness mixed with envy in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around her knees and gazed back into the fire. He knew the feeling of loss in her but too the feeling of being surrounded by family and being all alone.

Yara was too, but Jon knew Meera was almost more hostile towards the Greyjoy then Bran was. Jon has asked her about it, and she explained it almost a bit ashamed. She knew Bran had more of a reason to distrust her, considering that the Greyjoys never actually managed to take anything in Greywater Watch because of how difficult the lands were and as she put it, “Our Keep always moves.” But she also said that she didn’t know much of Euron Greyjoy, but she knew enough that anyone who had tried to help him take you was as bad as him. And separating a father and newborn son from a mother who just gave birth was nothing short of evil.

His voice more of a husk as he pulled himself back by a force into the present discussion. “The plan was to get her home before she gave birth. I never planned to keep her out there and force her to-” The second cut off for himself Jon downed an even more bitter amount which spoke volumes of how he struggled to discuss this the further he had to think of the night.

Tormund gestured to Sam with the mug in hand, “Your girl gave birth out there too, right?” Sam confirmed she did, but did add that in a fairness, she had her sisters all with her and she gave birth at home in her fathers Keep. That Gilly had to raise her son the first months out in the outside North, but she gave birth at home with family. “What about her man, where was he?”

The look Sam and Jon shared, a thought all who knew despised discussing, but Jon took the reigns for Sams sake. Putting it as bluntly as possible, knowing a man like Tormund no doubt wouldn’t need an elaboration on what it meant. “Gilly was one of Crasters wives.”

The laugh the man let out, a single sound almost in a disbelief as something powerful took over like speaking on a long since piece of gossip. “That dirty daughter fucker?” Jon nodded with a look of disgust partially falling over it as it would for many, but Tormund continued. “That crow lover who gave up his own sons to those things?”

Jon and Sam perked up in a moment, the former asking, “You knew about that?”

Tormund nodded. “I knew it, because Mance knew it. Anyone who was anyone knew Craster was giving his sons up to those things, as if fucking your own daughters wasn’t shit enough.” Shaking his head as that more serious wave hit him, Jon knew again that Tormund was well aware that was not just any strange choice the man made one day. “No one knew why, we just knew he did it. You managed to not only woo one of his girls, but took her for yourself? You’ve got more balls then I gave you credit for, Tarly.”

Jon could almost smirk. He wasn’t wrong, Sam was indeed far braver then his father ever saw in him that was certain. For a moment, he almost could hope it wouldn’t come back around, only the talk of Sam and Gilly did not last long. Sam of course, was the prime culprit as he brought you back up. “Jon had to be the one to deliver the baby himself, all on his own.”

Asking if he knew anything about delivering a baby, Jon could only gruff out not much, as Tormund looked at him more seriously, regardless if Jons eyes were glued to a spot of nothing on the table. “Women where I’m from are tough, you know that. But even the best of them have more then enough people around when they give birth. Woman in the clans I grew up in, they go into labour on their own, the men all get their asses up and either move her somewhere with help, or go out and drag help to her. We don’t have your medicine and maesters, but women still all work together when it comes to it. But you two doing it on your own?”

Jon interrupted, that same dark feeling in the put of his stomach of a horrible few hours returning to the surface as it reflected in the way his face twisted. “I delivered the baby, but she was alone.” Neither man said a word. “Something was wrong and she was in so much pain.” Jon finished off whatever was left in the mug as Tormund didn’t hesitate to refill it for him. “I know it hurts but something was wrong that night. I couldn’t comfort her, or even help her. I had to let her suffer through it like torture all alone because I had to focus on the baby.” That darkness that time fell so much closer to a burning self hatred. “We didn’t do it together. I was right there, but I still made her do it all alone. I never would’ve made her go out there if I knew that’s how she was going to give birth. In a cave hundreds of miles from home all alone, screaming in so much pain she genuinely couldn’t even speak. I never wanted that for her.”

Let alone what came after he thought. All the way he dragged you through and back in such harsh, freezing lands, what you both found when you got there...He knew some people would never understand why Jon brought you knowing you were pregnant, but no one hated it more then Jon hated himself for it. Sam finally asked what he hadn’t yet, what he wasn’t sure Jon was ready to say. “So why did you? You said you had no choice, what left you with no choice but to bring her?”

Out of everything they had known of you, of what lurked out there, Jon knew they had not prepared for the answer he gave them. “Because they demanded it.” Tormund asked who, but he knew. “The Others. One of them wanted me to come all the way out there, go to their lands, and they demanded I bring her. They wanted to see her for themselves.” Again the ask of why, but spoken by Sam that time. It took Jon a good long moment of silence to say a word again, but he knew the answer had left out details they’d have no possible way of connecting on their own. “Because she was pregnant with my child.” His own emphasis on the fact that is was his child specifically, not at all the implication of her being pregnant in general.

Tormund asked how they would’ve known that, but Jon had no idea truly. That wasn’t a question of priority by then. Sam however, had the real question with the real answer Jon didn’t know how to go into. “You’ve fought them, you’ve killed them. Maybe they called you out there the same way Lords on opposite sides of a war can sit down and discuss terms, when the solider are all still out there killing each other. But what would be so important about meeting the woman whose carrying your baby to them?”

Jon learned too much, if he couldn’t comprehend it in his own thoughts, how was he supposed to explain it to anyone else? That wouldn’t help them, that wouldn’t prepare them, it was something to haunt few and stay secret. Like it had done so for thousands of years, Jon could only wonder through where did that knowledge stop? Which was the last to know that truth, and why not pass it down? Why leave the rest of them in the dark to it all?

Interjecting into the silence, Tormund asked, “If they wanted her to come with you, why attack her? You said she was attacked by wights twice out there. Why attack her if she was so important?”

Summarizing, Jon was aware they sensed he was talking around something, not to hide, but as if attempting to find the right way to speak it into existence. “It’s like Sam said. The wights are just soldiers, and soldiers don’t know the difference between whose important whose not. They just attack the enemy like their told.”

“The first time sure, but you said they attacked her twice. How many were there the second time around? Six? Seven if you count the baby. Nine adding in those wolves of yours. Why attack only her the second time?”

Opening and closing his mouth, Jon was physically stalling from saying anything further when a stroke of luck granted his struggling mind a mercy. The door opened and there was no better time to interrupt then that very moment. Before that though, the trail followed to get to that opening door was not filled with a path full of nothing of importance.

As you made your silent way down the halls of the crypts, you had the worry festering in the back of your mind that you had no right to invade on his privacy down here.

You did not know him the way his nieces and nephews did, but you could not shake that feeling of a long forgotten care that you had not experienced in years until the night he rescued you from the Ironborn. Your intention was to be as quiet as possible, but little Eddard had a mouth of his own and seeing his mother so tense and quiet for so long had drawn him out to make a small babble as if to grab your attention and cheer you up.

Within an instant, your feet stopped where you stood and a tight, closed lipped smile came over as you breathed a little laugh through your nose at the timing. Turning his head, Benjen Stark looked over to you with his brows raised in an amusement, not hesitating to speak up and break that uncertain silence. “I assume you meant to be more quiet then he let you?” A nod of yes, he reached a gloved hand out, waving you over. “Come closer at least then, I know it echos but there’s no need to shout.”

Coming within a foot or so, he laughed to himself saying wolves don’t always bite, indicating your needless gap as he, almost in a manner like Robb or Jon, just tugged you closer in a comfortable manner, with a more tender grasp not to jostle the little one. “I didn’t want to intrude I know I shouldn’t be down-”

Benjen did not even allow you the chance of finishing. “You’re family. You do belong down here.” Biting your tongue, your eyes cast downwards as you stood next to him for a moment. The firm way he said it without hesitation, still it felt strange of a thing to allow. Calling you family. It was odd when Jon said it to you the day you both stood down here to bury Rickon, and it still felt odd now.

It seemed in his journey, he hadn’t actually gotten very far. Beside where you stood was the statue tall and stern of what you had assumed was Lord Rickard Stark, which meant the large statue before you, even in stone radiating a dashing charm as beside him too was that of his brother, the tomb Benjen had been visiting as you approached was that of Brandon Stark, the one eldest of the previous generation of Stark siblings.

Much like Robb, murdered horrifically far before their time, but unlike Robb, got to rest here memorialized in stone as he deserved. You dared not look at the empty tomb a statue of Robb with the loyal Greywind deserved to stand. A statue would be pointless. There was nothing to bury. An echo of a resting place Robb will never have. At least you thought, Brandon could be visited. No one visited Robb but the carrion crows whom picked apart what the Freys did not desecrate of his body, and the maggots which laid rest the rot left behind until only bones were scattered to the wind.

A low rasp just like Jon though, muttered through with a careful respect through the only flickering sounds of torch flames along the walls. “I was only a boy the last time I saw most of them. Thirteen years old. Brandon was getting ready to marry Cat, so most everyone was down south. I wanted to go, but my father told me what he always told us. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. So I stayed here, and for a long time, I didn’t understand why none of them came back. I didn’t even know Lyanna had been taken until I learned my father and brother were murdered by the Mad King.”

Your eyes looked up to the statue of a man with the reputation of being both hot blooded and dashing, yet again, a feeling deep within you of how much your mind forced you to not look to where the tomb of Robb did not rest.

Benjen continued, the understanding that your silence was not of an awkwardness, but that of a respect to allow him to get out what he needed in his time. It was the same you knew with Jon, let him say it at his own pace or he may never go back to the topic. “It’s not easy to handle. Spending a year not knowing what was happening. The war started with my father and brother dead, and ended with my sister dead. Ned came home suddenly the head of the entire family, with a wife and two sons of his own. I probably had just had my fifteenth nameday when I left. Robb had just turned one, Jon hadn’t even reached that yet. But I left. Ned had a whole new life to figure out and I just couldn’t see where I belonged in that yet.”

Only one question in prompt, your voice was as much of a whisper as could be. “Why the Nights Watch?”

You had heard his answer many times, it felt as it if was the one ingrained in the heads of each member his family. “The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years.” With a pause he found the real answer. “A year before the war, the tourney of Harrenhal, I met a brother of the Nights Watch, told me he travelled the Seven Kingdoms looking for recruits, and it was the first time I had someone able to tell me about what they did, what it was all for. He told me the vow, the one we all swear the night of our initiation. Out of everything he said, I never forget one part. The shield that guards the realm of men. After the realm took away almost everything I had, it felt more important then ever, finding a purpose to guard what was left.” His eyes glanced to you, flickering down to the brighter wide eyes of the baby, now looking up at his back.

Catching the exchange, the curious bright eyed look was so striking as little Eddard looked up at him. “Do you want to hold him?” The very second you even slightly shifted him, did the baby make a protesting noise, turning to hide into you again, causing both you and Benjen to laugh. Running a hand over his head, your voice was a soothing lull towards him. “Come on now, you’ve met him before.”

Slowly turning to face him a little better, Benjen moved just as slow to not startle him. The chuckle still present on his tongue though. “He’s more shy then I last saw him.”

Prompting the baby to look more at Benjen again, those bright eyes shined a smaller flash of familiarity, a small coo of question leaving as the baby looked back up to you who nodded with a smile, resting your head at the side of his with a playful whisper just for him. “See, you’ve met Benjen before, you’re safe with him.” A little hand reached out just barley, causing Benjen in return to pull his gloves off, giving him a small grasp of his own hand as if letting an animal sniff them before accepting anything. Your voice speaking back that time to the man himself, “He’s had a busy week. Presenting him to the Lords and Ladies only meant suddenly everybody wishes to come close or try and hold him, it’s been a bit overwhelming.”

Finally little Eddard allowed Benjen to take him, keeping him held carefully in his arms with a smile, patient to receive one from the baby right back as you both stood there. “You got bigger.” Little Eddard hadn’t made any noise, but not shying away from him was a better sign that he was beginning to remember who this was. Changing the subject swiftly, you suspected he had taken advantage of the easier state you had fallen into for honesty. “Tell me something, what’s all the fighting I’ve heard about between my nephew and niece?”

He did not need to elaborate, it was painfully obvious what he meant, but the truth was of no use hiding. Arms crossing over your front, you glanced towards the statue in front of you once more as if using a distraction. “Petyr Baelish brought her here under the assumption that because Robb was gone without..and not knowing Bran was even alive, it would mean Robb’s crown would pass to her.” Benjen specifying the obvious that it wasn’t as it to prompt you further. “No.”

It was almost easier to explain to Benjen then it had been when more then one Stark so directly involved in the issue was looking at you intently the first time, and never once did he find himself disagreeing. “Good. Never liked the Lannisters, never trusted them. Robb taking away any chance of them getting the North was the right thing to do.” Muttering quietly that Sansa did not make it easy to remember that, Benjen was straightforward about it in a way it seemed he could sense you needed to hear. “She didn’t choose to marry him, but she still did. By law, she’s a Lannister if she likes it or not. You give those yellow haired pricks even an inch to try and take this place, they’ll run with it. My nephew didn’t disinherit her from the family, just his line of succession. There’s worse things to come home to then just no crown. I thought she’d understand that.”

“She should. Or does. But Sansa isn’t the problem, and she’s not the one who will kill to get what he wants.” Meeting your glance, there was only one question on Benjen’s mind and you were grateful to be down in the crypts as you spoke it. “Actually, I came down here to ask you something.”

Asking what, you could see where Ned Stark rested from here, and maybe you thought, it was time he heard the full story too. That is, before everyone else will. One thing at a time, and right now, that one thing was drawing closer and closer to the forefront of what to deal with.

Jon, Bran, Benjen, all of you had different pieces of a story with intentions to come together and put it all together to find a conclusion before it was too late. Petyr Baelish however, needed everyone with their separate sides to stay apart to keep everyone else but him in the dark. But that was why he tried to have you killed after all. Not for Sansa’s claim, not for anything for anyone but himself. You needed to act now, because you and Littlefinger both knew you were the only one aside from him who could pin more on him then he ever had previously thought possible. Or at least, that’s what Jon was now banking on him thinking. Afterall, everyone else was either loyal to him, or was too scared of him to betray that loyalty.

“Don’t admit anything, don’t say anything. He might do whatever he can do divert attention from himself, and you are the best way he could try.”

Asking in a frustration as he walked beside you, the most he complained he had stretched his legs in a week or something close to that. “So why bring me out there, huh? Why go all this trouble to hide me when none of it matters?”

Your eyes tore to the side at Gendry in a firmness and not any hint you were not being extremely serious about this. “The less we could keep you in his attention the better, but he still knows of you and no doubt heard you were here because of me. If you corner an animal enough, they will find the one way they can to bite back and knowing I know who you are and have not said anything about it means he could try and use that as his only way out.” Asking what that has to do with showing his face, you almost snapped interrupting him. “I kept you hidden here for your safety, my mother hid you for your own safety, I will not have him using me hiding you from my own people as proof I am keeping you secret for my own gain.”

You were likely, the most nervous of all of them. Jon had told you he was handling this, and you knew and trusted him, but it did not change how much you were to be at the centre of both. Of what accusation the crime towards him was to be, and what Littlefinger could point to you for in desperation when he finally realized how cornered he had made himself. Perhaps you had felt too similar to last time.

Secrets behind you that were legitimate and fair, and how easily they could be spun into painting you as a traitor, how quickly situations could turn on you. No matter how much you told yourself to trust Jon, you still could feel it. You worried you were all rushing into this, but Jon had reminded you. How often did you think you had more time then you did, only to realize the enemy still cut that time even shorter out of nowhere?

Jon had put it plainly, as long as he thinks he has Sansa on his side he will stay, but as soon as he realizes he doesn’t have the hold on her he thought he did, he has no reason to stay and everything he’s done he will get away with the moment he leaves the North. Something Jon would not let happen.

You could see Arya’s eyes dart over wide and in question the moment you appeared in the main hall with Gendry, but both of you only made your way to where Selyse was standing off to the side, when coming up behind you, was a warm and low voice in your ear all of the sudden. Jons hand on your lower back with a quick ask, “Where’s the baby?” Telling him with Gilly, you could see a little less tensity in Jons eyes when you looked up to him. Keeping him with only those you knew to trust right here and now until it was dealt with. Looking to Gendry then yourself, he was less gentle in a single switch of breath when not directed towards you alone. “Whatever happens, don’t do or say anything if he brings it up. He’ll take any chance to get himself out of this, and he’ll use you two to do it.”

Your mother was the only one with a voice it seemed out of the three of you. “Are you sure we aren’t rushing into this?”

Grey eyes flickering to where Sansa and Arya up behind the main table pretending to look as casual as possible, then to where Bran sat at the tables end. Both he and Meera standing behind him giving him a nod with more confidence then you still felt.

Looking up to him, it was clear Jon held no waver in his eyes. A look something flying before your eyes, was just as sure as Ned Stark stood in the throne room declaring Joffery had to claim. If Jon could read your hesitation, he did not encourage it with any words. “He’s had years to try and plan this, to try and manipulate my sister against me. I’m not waiting to see which member of my family he tries to have killed next to act.”

Guiding you with him up to where you both sat in the meeting hall, Jon was no less serious but something soothing waved up your spine like a shiver as he murmured into your ear again. “I need you to trust me.” Quickly whispering at you always will, Jon pressed a kiss to the side of your head. Hand slipping up to the back of your neck almost in a massaging manner. “We can’t wait any longer, he’ll run the moment he realizes he doesn’t have Sansa on his side anymore and I’m not letting another person who hurt the people I love get away with it.”

Where she would sit beside him, Jon much more even toned asked Sansa if she had it, only to be directed with a brighter look in her eye to Arya beside her. “Arya has it. I knew where it was, but I’m no thief-” Arya glaring up at her arguing she wasn’t either, but the mocking tone of her older sister was far less aggressive then it would’ve been years ago. “Okay I’m less of a thief then you are, happy? It’s supposed to be a compliment.”

“Well you’re still bad at them.”

Jon ignored both of them, moving passed and kneeling more down to his brother, a hand cupping the side of his head. “Are you sure you want to be here for this? All of this? No one will blame you for not wanting to hear about what happened.”

Just as confident as Jon was walking into this though, both brothers held the same certainty, as did the confidence of Meera behind him. “I’m staying. No one’s ever told me the whole truth about that night anyways, good time as any to learn it.” Jon only pulled his brother closer, a small kiss left to his forehead before looking up to Meera, firmly telling her not to hesitate to get him out if it’s too much. “Jon, I’ll be fine.”

Nails tapping at the top of your own chair, you hadn’t even noticed when Jon made his way back to you. “I’d ask if you’re sure you’re ready to do this, but I know the answer is no.” A huff of a laugh left you, not quite reaching your eyes when he turned you to look up at him, the hand on your cheek just barley letting his thumb run over the skin he could reach. A whisper asking once more, if he was sure he wasn’t rushing into this, but Jon nodded. “We might be, but we have to do this, and it has to be now.”

He knew you did not doubt him, but the plan was made so swiftly that you struggled to come to terms with it all, almost a complete opposite of whom you were the last making such grand claims at the side of a Stark. Nothing of that confident highborn girl you were now that you stood as a Queen. “I don’t mean to question you-”

Tilting you up to meet his eyes closer, Jon kept you looking at the brightness of his eyes. Wide and grey as if entrancing you to calm by their very nature. “I’ve been planning this long before he got here, and I’m not letting him leave here until we handle this. I’m not letting him leave period. Not after everything he’s done, what he’s been trying to do. I’m not asking you to stop being worried, I’m only asking you trust me.”

One hand of yours reached up, sitting higher on his chest as Jon almost uncharacteristically grasped it gentle holding it against his chest uncaring of the public nature the affection looked for once. “I trust you.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Nodding, Jon pulled you by the back of your hair close, that time the press of his lips to your forehead was followed by gently tilting your head just enough to leave another on the bridge of your nose. “I told you, I’m protecting you from now on. This is part of that.” Hardly a voice existed as you spoke only for his ears, a worry of what if he still had some of his own, but again, the confidence and calm in Jon was the one thing keeping you from seeing the betrayal so swiftly forced upon you so many years ago. “Darling.”

Dropping your head with a sigh, Jon let a grin sneak out as he cupped both your cheeks to turn you to look back up at him. Your only defence against the handsomeness gracing your eyes was a simple, “I love you.”

Just the slightest hint of teasing, Jon ran his thumb over your cheek again. “I know you do.” If that was meant to make you both roll your eyes and smother a grin, it worked, and there was no hiding it from his watchful, adoring gaze.

But as the other Lords begun to filter into the meeting Hall, Jon turned so you both faced the front, a hand pressing against your lower back as if to ensure you always felt his presence. By the time the final so called guest walked into the room, unlike many meetings always free for the smallfolk to watch did the doors behind him close, as did the ones to rest of the castle halls at the end of the room, and the side doors beside the high table where this particular time, the only ones stood up there, were not the main council. Just wolves all taking a seat, followed by the others with one main in the middle of them finding himself standing out all of the sudden. A question on his lips as he looked around, “Your grace-

Interrupted only by Jons voice, far less soft and much more cold and projecting without leaving any room to question him on the order. “Lord Petyr Baelish, step forward.”

[tswwwit]

Here's a thing! Reincarnation of Dipper who's not in the best of situations. (A Cult)

Got some gore and knives in here so watch out!

In the room of ritual, everything is ready. 

Off in that wide and majestic space, the candles are lit. The circle is drawn. The altar spread with gold and trinkets, little offerings of delight and whimsy, tomes of knowledge. Along with the remnants of the latest sacrifice, dried in long trails down the stone.

The tomes, though. If one looked closely, they would see mostly encyclopedia volumes from like, sixty years ago. Because, yeah, those are going to be so tempting for a being of infinite knowledge.

Long chanting rings through the hallways, preparing the way. The ritual is in less than an hour. In preparation for the service, the servants of their lord make themselves presentable. 

Dipper adjusts his robe - too big for him, by at least one size- and pulls at the neckline. It always drags up against his throat, in a tight, uncomfortable way. He tugs it down again, glaring into the small mirror on the otherwise bare wall.

Bill Cipher is the most powerful being in the universe, and his reach is infinite and his discernment of the mind and mastery of mysteries is unquestionable, yadda yadda yadda. 

Dipper just. Doesn’t know what everyone else here expects to happen. Especially with the setup unchanged from the one he saw last year. And the year before that. And the one before that. 

Odds are, this ritual is going to end up the same as every other one. 

Pointless.

Dipper adjusts his robes again, and smooths out the front with slow strokes. As long as this is going to happen, he might as well avoid drawing attention to himself. He’s had enough ‘attention’ for more than a lifetime.

There’s a rhythm to these ceremonies.  Dipper hears the footsteps, and easily tucks the hood of his robe up, only semi-stumbling as he joins the twin lines of robed figures leading into the ritual room. 

As he tucks his hands together, covering them with long sleeves - Dipper spends another moment to silently sigh. 

He joins the line, ducking his head as he joins in formation. The two lines of followers shuffle on with their long robes brushing the floor. He can hear them whispering to each other; varying levels of excitement, boredom. Talking about plans for after the ritual. He thinks he picks up one of the more devout members, almost humming with anticipation.

Despite the murmurs, the sight itself could be quite impressive. An all-seeing eye, if it was real, might even appreciate it.

Still, all these dramatics are so over the top. Just as fruitless and stupid as every other prayer, or ritual. Never worked before, not gonna work now. Dipper’s not sure why they’re trying the same freakin’ thing, over and over again.

For a bunch of people obsessed with the infinite power and knowledge Cipher represents, they haven’t accrued any. 

And for that matter! If Bill Cipher’s eye is truly all-seeing, why hasn’t he ever responded? His triangle is emblazoned on every wall, and on their robes. You can’t look at a surface without seeing it staring back at you, and there’s no short of devout worshipers, constantly praying and doing rites. 

Dipper dares a glance at one of the long scrawls on the walls, seething slightly at the handwriting. And the grammar.

If he was watching, surely he would have spoken up by now. Even if it’s just to critique the decor, which is tacky as hell.

The main ritual room fills up with warm bodies, and Dipper stands in an inconspicuous place. Just to the left, and not quite entirely in the back. At the front of the room, he can see the priest nodding approvingly, hands tucked behind his back. 

Hidden under the sleeves, Dipper clenches his hands together. Breathing out a silent prayer of his own, to nobody particular. He can stand stock-still through one or two more ridiculous rituals, if it means no more prayers to a blind idiot god.

A week. Maybe two. That’s it.

Then he’ll be out of these robes, and far, far away from here. He’ll never see these people again. He’ll never have to chant a single verse again in slightly incorrect Latin. He’ll never have to kneel, or go before that stone altar again, not even once.

The outside world is - there’s a lot of talk about it. There’s always a lot of talk, more or less colored by personal experiences and levels of permission to go ‘outside’. Dipper’s learned, now, that well over ninety percent of the gossip is lies. 

If his palms still sweat at the prospect, it’s because it’s… New. Different. But it can’t possibly be worse than here, and, like. Novelty is condoned by his not-really-a-god. Trying new things should be standard doctrine - if the priest wasn’t a total idiot.

Not much longer, now. 

Out there, things will be better. Out there, Dipper will have a chance at having a life. 

And there won’t be any trouble, since he’ll keep his mouth shut.

 “Children of Cipher!” The high-pitched voice of the priest rings tinnily through the air. “We are once again assembled!”

Dipper bows in concert with his fellows. Staring at the ground is a good way to not roll his eyes. 

A chant rises up, and he keeps his lips clamped together as he mirrors the ritual bowing and scraping and general genuflection. The priest will go on and on, no matter what he does. 

All it takes to get through this is time. Another round of kneeling, then standing, then kneeling, until they stand at the last word in a thronging chorus.

“Brothers!” A louder, shriller call, now that everyone has been drawn close to a fervor. For all his faults, the priest does know how to read the mood - “Tonight is a special evening!” His arms thrown up, spindly and bare as the sleeves drop near to his shoulders. “Who will bleed for our god?”

The only thing that prevents Dipper from flinching is how much attention that would draw.

He hardly dares to breathe, lest some wayward motion be taken as ‘enthusiasm.’ 

Dipper keeps his head bowed, as murmurs start up around him and  his forehead starts to prickle with sweat. 

Sacrifices happen all the time. Mostly animals. Last year they got a goat, and that was considered a pretty big one and the stew afterwards was filling, and probably tasted pretty good. 

Human blood, though. That’s - They haven’t done this in years. 

The susurration of voices in the background grow louder, and Dipper stays bowed in place. Of course nobody wants to volunteer; ‘willing’ isn’t easily found when it comes to getting a knife in your flesh - but someone’s going to bleed, tonight. The ‘volunteer’ bit will be justified by whatever’s convenient.

Around him there’s murmurs, a few, low arguments. Tension is starting to rise, but for the most part, he’s being overlooked.

He nearly thinks he’s gotten away with it, too, when a hard shove on his back sends him stumbling forward.

“Here, brothers!” The voice rings in Dipper’s ears as he tries to backtrack, slipping on the robes of the person in front of him and dropping painfully to the floor. “The provider!”

Shit, shit, shit. 

Dipper tries to glance back at whatever asshole pushed him, but the crowd’s already grouped together into a bunch of faceless clumps, drawing back from his fall. 

He levels the worst glare he can manage, even as both his arms are seized by two of his so-called ‘brothers’. The big ones. 

Gritting his teeth, Dipper digs in his heels. Struggling’s ineffective, protesting’s impossible. Gesturing wildly, including a raised finger in the general direction of the asshole who pushed him, Dipper gets dragged to the foot of the altar. 

“See how he offers his flesh! See how he shakes with joy!” The priest jogs his arms in the air. Dipper shakes his head rapidly holding up his hands. “His arms, already offered!”

And for a moment Dipper’s simply annoyed at how obvious it is that the whole damn ritual is a farce. 

“Tonight, we call upon the god! Tonight! We-”

Whatever else he’s yelling about, Dipper doesn’t pay any mind. He’s busy trying to use the loose robes to worm his way out of the guards’ grip. It halfway works, until one of them gets him by the bare wrist and painfully pulls it out.

The cold stone hits his waist. One of his sleeves is drawn to his shoulder. His arm pinned, bare and wrist upraised, on the stone. 

Damn it, if he finds out who shoved him, he’s going to - he arches up, but firm hands hold his shoulders. There’s little time to think about revenge when he’s trying to find a way out of this. Arm, stuck. Shoulders, held. The exits, totally blocked by a bunch of crowded figures. 

In a way, Dipper can’t truly blame them. After all, if the current sacrifice got away, who knows? 

They could be next. 

The priest seems pleased, at least. He paces in front of the altar, gesticulating wildly, and rambling on about god and blood, and other nonsensical bullshit.

Great. They have their ‘sacrifice’ for tonight. So, so super ‘willing’ too, what with how he, quote ‘rushed to offer himself’, end quote. 

Dipper takes a long breath, holding it for three beats. Then he lets it out. 

Okay. If this follows most other ‘human sacrifices’, it should be bearable. Some bloodletting, a nasty scar. Maybe a missing finger, but he’s learned to deal with worse. Push through the moment, wait for it to be over. Soon enough, he’ll be on the other side of this entire godawful situation.

Focusing on the transitory nature of pain helps him steady his breathing. And more importantly, slow his heart rate.

Calming meditation. He can work on that. Though it’s difficult, with the way the priest keeps going on and on about an ‘auspicious night’. Also, the very large, curved, very sharp-looking knife.

Dipper tries his best not to stare at it. Or to linger too much on the thought of knives and flesh and blood. If he could stop thinking, for once in his stupid life, it’ll be over before he knows it.

That’s totally not not the usual knife, though. He wonders where the hell it came from.

Last time, it was some basic utilitarian repurposed chef-thing, with a crudely engraved triangle on the hilt and the blade. This one’s much more… Ceremonial. Sharper, too, with a wicked curve and a gleaming edge, and covered in runes that Dipper’s never seen before.

He mouths a swear as one guard uncurls his fingers from the edge of the altar, turning his wrist back upright. The priest waves the very, very sharp blade around, yelling something that Dipper doesn’t bother parsing, even as his mind races. He can tell it’s definitely not Cipher runes on that thing, and not the old Latin their god prefers. Did someone go outside to find this? Another random artifact that the priest got his hands on? Seems like he’s always picking up useless semi-magic items.

The knife doesn’t feel ‘useless’, though, even from a glance. It radiates a pure and terrifying purpose. 

Especially as it comes down, and rests against his wrist. Almost gently, its point bites a drop of blood from his skin.

The fetid breath of the priest pants over the altar. Dipper turns away, neck twisting as far as he can manage, eyes shut.

Please let this be just a bit. Just a drop. A small, tentative cut to fill a bit of the channels on the stone. There’s a sting to the metal, a slight burn, and though Dipper’s not one of the main Holders of Mysteries or anything, he feels like that’s a very bad sign.

Then he feels. Cold.

It runs down his inner arm, lingering for an instant before blossoming into sharp, bright pain. He nearly chokes on air, cringing into a hunched position as he feels the knife slide.

The catching drag of the old knife would have been painful, but that was mostly used for taking a finger, or maybe dragging across the back of the arm, in a more decorative than productive way of drawing blood. 

The ease with which this knife cuts sends a deep, swirling nausea straight to the pit of his stomach.

“Behold, the flow! The magic gathers, my children!” THe priest’s voice warbles a bit as “With this tool, with this magic, our god will hear our call! He will behold our devotion, and raise us to glory! He will answer-” More and more words, variations on encouragement. Zero substance, all hype. A fanatical motivation speaker, Dipper thinks, half-hysterically. 

Vapid or not, the result is effective. The sight of blood has certainly spurred everyone into a kind of frenzy, whether from fear or fervor, Dipper doesn’t care.

And they’re certainly getting a lot of blood. More than required.

Dipper struggles up against the hold, but it’s pointless. He ‘s stuck there for a few long minutes, oozing out for an audience that can’t even see half the damn thing, and it hurts. 

The red trail gathers, slowly pooling down and into the engraven triangle. Enough to fill the shallow channels easily, which, uh. Dipper’s never seen before. With the other sacrifices it kind of stopped and clotted, but this moves like it’s being wicked along the surface.

He makes a face as  his blood slowly travels through the lines, but can’t see any surface changes, or feel anything that might have been put on the stone.  

Until it connects at the top point. Then it meets, completing the image of Bill with a strange, too-bubbly ‘blorp’. 

Okay. Weird. But that’s plenty, right? Ritual done, blood offered, and now, he should get going.

Lurching upward gets the grip to loosen up on his arms, as the guards loosen their grip a bit. They already have what they need, and hell. Dippers deserves a friggin’ break. With the immediate attention off him, he can dare a glance at his arm - 

And instantly averts his gaze to absolutely anything else. 

The priest turns around, arms raised. Pumping them  in the air, knife glinting in the candlelight. “Yes. Yes!” He swings the blade around, nearly catching one of the big brothers in the side. “See how easily the liquid flows. The power builds! I can feel it - the summoning, in this room tonight!”

The crowd calls out their enthusiasm, a high rising ‘oooh’ noise. 

Dipper sighs, and tries to scoot back away from the altar. It’s done, at least; he’ll just have to cope with the aftermath. Could be worse.

“The other arm, brothers!” A loud, clarion call. Dipper whips his head around,  as the priest lowers his arms - and turns back around. Pointing at Dipper. Again. “I feel the blade crave more!” 

Uh, hello? What?

Dipper glances up at the knife. At how the slight sheen of blood has dipped into some of the runes, the faint glow -  and goes ‘huh’. 

Alright, he’ll admit. It’s definitely magical. 

But he’s beginning to suspect it has less to do with Bill, and a lot more to do with other forces. Ones that might, say, make a ritual flow smoothly. Or make a fanatical asshole even more bloodthirsty.

Behind him, he almost feels the guards shrug, right before he gets shoved against the altar again. One of the assholes even dares to pat his side, in a brief bit of unexpected sympathy. Not that it means anything. 

Dipper longs to curse them out, to scream at every single one of these absolute jackasses. Every one of them is just watching this happen. Nobody thinks about what happens next, ever, including - 

He grits his teeth instead, hard enough that he thinks something might crack.

Everyone follows orders. The words of their supposed ‘god’, filtered through a man who’s fallible and frail and frankly fucking stupid.  Always getting stupid magical trinkets. Always trying to find a link to that demonic god, constantly pursuing magic, and power, and influence. No matter the cost.

Why would he care if one of the too-few worshipers pays the price?

And fuck that.

Before, Dipper struggled as much as he could. Partly from fear, sure. But mostly to make a point. That this was stupid and painful, and wasn’t going to do anything anyway. Knowing that with enough kicking and protest, he might get them to cut things short.

Now, seeing the priest whip the blade back around, raising overhead with both hands - he fights.

A solid kick lands in the left guard’s groin, and he gets his wounded arm back. Dipper clutches it to his chest, but the other’s still pinned and being twisted, now. Another kick gets something softer, and he hears a huff from the priest. Then a loud, angry order to ‘Hold him down!’.

Dipper’s shoved into the stone, stomach digging into the edge of the altar hard enough to make him gag. His head hits the surface, more dizzying than painful. There's a hand gripped in his hair. Then his other sleeve is drawn up, his healthy arm extended over the table. Bare skin exposed, lying over the bloody surface. 

He breathes heavily, nose nearly against the altar. It quickly grows hot from his breath, and moist, too, which is probably why his face feels wet. He doesn’t hear anything but his own harsh panting. 

He never wanted to be a part of this, he never wanted to grow up like this. In a week or so, he was going to get out, and now he’s going to get hurt again, so soon, and he only has so much blood in him. He doesn’t want to die. He shuts his eyes, tucking up against himself. Hoping the weight of his body will drag his arm away where his own strength couldn’t, choking back a tightness in his throat. He was nearly out. He was nearly safe.

He was almost free. 

He breathes harder, shutting his eyes tight. He presses his forehead against the runes, and the blood, and just wishes he wasn’t here. 

Metal clangs on the floor, ringing bright as a bell. 

There’s a sudden intake of breath. Dipper feels the hands release him, a shocked sound. Then the ‘flump’ of a lot of draped fabric, all at once. 

Dipper keeps his face against the stone, breathing slower. That’s. That’s not how any ritual goes.

He can’t waste the opportunity, though. Now that his arms are free, Dipper pulls his sleeve back up, bundling it around the cut. Shit. Does he clench his fist or leave his grip loose? Which one slows blood flow. 

Whatever interrupted this isn’t going to last. He’s only got a few seconds before everyone comes back to whatever passes for their senses, and tries to ‘complete the summoning’, or whatever the hell they were after.

Gotta act. Gotta - Dipper wheels around, panting for breath. 

In front of the altar, all the robed figures in the room have fallen to their knees. The priest’s dropped the knife. Dipper scoots it a little closer to himself with a foot, watching as the zealot raises his arms in devout praise. 

Dipper pauses. Still clenching tight on his wrist, though his sleeve is starting to feel damp. Things don’t just stop like that. The ritual has to continue. People should be surging up to keep the momentum, but the entire room is -

Oh. 

Yeah, now he sees it. 

All the candles were lit before. They give a little light to a room that’s never seen electronics in its life, dim as it is. 

Right now, they’re bursting with flame, rising high enough to cast weird shadows over the cavern - 

And it’s a very bright blue. 

Shit.

Dipper whirls around, unsteady on his feet. Staring at a long, long trail of rising blood. Almost a string, or a reverse droplet, floating up from the triangle carved on the stone. In midair it spreads into a thin web, shapeless and vaguely pulsing. 

Okay. That is definitely magical. And absolutely up to no good. 

He fumbles around - where did he kick the knife? Maybe if he breaks it, it’ll interrupt this whole thing. Who knows what the hell that idiot priest did, or where he got the artifact, or what it does. 

Dipper doesn’t know much about gods, or spirits, or demons, but anything that gets pulled in by a blood sacrifice can’t be a good sign. He spots the damn thing near the opposite corner, and braces himself on the altar. It he’s careful, he can reach it without alerting anyone. Maybe.

Which is when the entire hall fills with bright, loud laughter.

“Well, well, well, well, well!” The voice rings just as brightly as the laugh. Dipper jerks towards the sound, involuntarily, only to see a single eye open inside the breath web of blood. “What do we have here?”

There’s a resounding groan from the crowd. Various people start chanting, but they’re all using different verses, and the priest starts his own, presumably improvised, wail of praise and devotion. The end result is an ear-rattling clamor. 

Dipper looks back at the altar. Watching the blood twist in this way, and that. The eye alights on him for a moment - he freezes - but it moves on from him quickly, examining the room.

There’s a lot to see, too. Maybe terrified, devout worshipers isn’t weird for a supernatural entity, but it’s thoroughly freaking Dipper out. Even the priest is on his knees.

“Boy, it’s been a while since I’ve had this kinda summon!” The net stretches, almost elastic; twisting into limblike shapes, and fractal forms. The slit-pupiled eye rolls back and forth. Then it blinks twice. “Might as well get dressed for the occasion! Hold on a sec.”

The eye shuts into nothingness. Moments later, the blood starts getting really active, pulsing faster, twisting into shapes like it’s alive.

Dipper spares a terrified check on his wrist, but. No, he’s not feeding it, or anything. This is something else. Someone else, taking the material and lending it power enough to grow. 

Even as he watches, there’s a spreading arch of bone and the twist of veins. A fairly glorpy assortment of something between and below what looks like ribs, a strange thick blackness tinged with yellow…

He cringes back, and shuts his eyes. Shit, watching this is deeply unsettling. 

Not that it’s gory, per se - that would imply that something’s being taken apart, when it shouldn’t be. This is something being put together, a way that it shouldn’t ever be.

He backs up a step from the writhing mass, getting more fleshy by the instant. Then grimaces, teetering in place. Blood loss, right. From the asshole who started this whole thing. He levels a glare at said asshole - 

But. Beside him, the priest is quivering with tension. Trembling like he didn’t expect this to happen.

Frankly? Neither did Dipper. For all the times they’ve done a ritual, there’s never been a reaction like this. 

This insane mass, forming insanely out of nothing. Or well, from blood, that spread out in a weird three-dimensional - triangle, oh shit -

He should have known. Should have noticed. This was a summon, and while the object used wasn’t for the right being, maybe that doesn't’ matter with so much gathered intent. 

This is….

Dipper falls, awkwardly, to his knees. Then ducks down in as low a bow as he can manage, pulling the hood of his robe back over his head.

Part of him thought Bill didn’t exist, or at least not in the way these guys talked about him. Maybe they’d latched onto some other spirit or deity, and completely misinterpreted everything. Maybe they’d made it all up, including some of the really old texts. There was never any evidence that their lord and master was real.  

But given what’s happening here…

Like hell is he gonna look like the only person who doesn’t. 

Something - two things - go ‘clack’ on the altar. A few series of taps. 

Then a long, pleased sigh, and the sound of soft movement, like cloth.

Dipper keeps looking down. The hood keeps him anonymous, another faceless shape in the crowd. Just one more figure genuflecting before his - 

Before a god. 

One that might not even deserve a capital letter on the word, perhaps, but still an entity that he should not, under any circumstances, piss off. 

There’s a tap that sounds like a shoe, and a low hum. Something lands beside him with a thud. In the brief moment that he raises his head, Dipper catches sight of black loafers, and long fingers on an oddly human-looking hand. 

He quickly lowers himself more towards the floor, holding his arm tight. 

Yep, just one more super-devoted believer, same as all the others. Super not important enough to notice.

“You know, blood’s usually for blood gods!” Bill Cipher’s voice rings through the room. It’s higher than Dipper expected it to be. One of the fancy-looking black shoes kicks the knife up into the air, where it’s caught by the long fingers of that hand. “Pretty wild for you guys to pull this. With another guy’s artifact, of all things!” A chiding tut, and the knife twirls. “And pretty disrespectful, I gotta say.”

“My lord.” The priest’s voice is dry, even for a guy who already sounded half-dessicated. He rises to his knees, hands clasped together. “We meant no disrespect. We are here to serve you, master. As we always have.”

“Uh huh,” Bill says. In Dipper’s limited sight, he toys idly with the knife, pressing the tip against the finger of an opposite hand. A bead of something dark wells up, and he rubs his fingers together. 

The priest recites several lines of a chant, making a triangle with his fingers. So eager, and so totally missing the disinterest in Bill’s tone- “We have always been searching for you, our worship unending! You honor us with your presence. You shine upon us your infinite glory!”

“Sure you have,” Bill says, sounding, if anything, bored. The blade in his hand flips around between his fingers, then back again. The motion reminds Dipper of a very deadly fidget spinner. “Do tell.”

Which is when the priest surges up, nearly grabbing onto Bill’s thigh. He’s only stopped by a rapid sidestep. 

Dipper cringes back out of secondhand embarrassment. Bad move. Dumb move. ‘Devoted’ or not, Bill was bored already - and infinite beings of pure energy do not like being manhandled by mortals. 

“Let us use this connection, and the blade! Let us complete the sacrifice.” The priest continues, undeterred. Shuffling closer on his knees, he spreads his arms wide, inviting and eager. “The blood could grant you all your power, that you might grant us-”

“Pass.” Bill says dismissively. The knife flashes, and there’s a wet, solid ‘thunk’. 

Dipper catches a brief glimpse of the priest’s face - stuck in shock, pale and lined with age - just before his body falls to the floor, as limp as a ragdoll. The knife handle in his chest props him up at a weird angle, before a swift kick from a black shoe sends it tumbling down the short three steps of the dais.

Dipper cringes into a smaller ball, trying to scrunch himself into invisibility. He watches Bill pass in front of him, standing in front of the crowd. The hand rests on a hip, while the other is raised out of site. Still far, far too close.

On the one hand, Bill’s examining the congregation. Distracted, for a moment. Staying out of his attention is so, so great. 

Dipper curls up in a much, much tighter ball despite that. 

In every single one of his plans to get out of here, Bill Cipher existing wasn’t a factor. Much less his actual, physical presence. All he’d ever thought about was how this was bullshit, that the people he knew were awful - and how hopefully, nobody would notice if he left. Now the ‘god’ himself is here. Standing so near Dipper he could, if he wanted, stupidly touch the hem of his pants.

A distant, insane part of him chimes in with the stupid idea that it’s nothing to really worry about. 

Like, compared to how he’s still losing blood, for example. 

Right. Staunch first, panic later.

Dipper wraps his sleeve around his arm, as subtly as he can, teeth gritted. His first priority is to stop bleeding. No escape plan - or any plan for that matter - is going to be useful if he dies. 

The immensely powerful nightmare god is also a problem, obviously. But in this moment he’s not the immediate threat. 

“Hmmm.” Bill lets out a low, contemplative hum. It resonates in the room, with how deathly silent things have become. “Let’s see here…”

After a pause, he snaps his fingers. “Stand!” 

The entire congregation leaps to their feet. One of them stumbles and gets a swift kick in the side.

“Sit!” Bill commands. Everyone drops to the floor. A low chuckle, then, “Turn around three times and bark like a dog!”

Oh, now that won’t - 

Or maybe it will. Dipper cringes, back pressed against the altar. Don’t just comply, what the hell. Sure it’s a magical god-being, but - fuck. He watches the scene with a grimace. 

Bill, though, seems to be having a great time. He’s bouncing in place, voice bright with enthusiasm. “Do a little dance! Twist yourself until your joints snap! Hell, start a fight with the guy next to you!”

There’s havoc in the room of ritual. Robed figures practically fall all over themselves, and Dipper notes with a nauseating turn that some of them have drawn knives of their own. Chaos reigns; an entire scramble to do each possible thing, all at once. 

And Bill’s laughter rings out over everything, clapping his hands in delight.

Dipper’s trapped in this room with an insane madman, leading a horde of equally insane idiots, and he doesn’t have a way out. He hopes he’ll stay out of notice. He hopes that he’ll live through the next five minutes.

There’s no controlling the situation, but he can improve his odds.

The altar’s pretty close, and Bill’s turned away, for the moment. Dipper scoots back, inching himself towards the corner. With enough shuffling, he might be able to move behind it and get out of sight. 

“Welp,” Bill claps his hands again, this time with finality. Some of the chaos stills. “You’re all annoying, boring little vermin, but maybe you guys could improve. I noticed the blood you used to summon me was real choice stuff!” The exaggerated sound of a kiss. “Very nice.”

Dipper feels sweat building up in his robes, and tries to be very still. Basically part of the ritual scenery. Anonymous furniture, at best.  

“In fact. It was so nice.” The voice continues, at a lower tone. Almost a purr. There’s a clack of shoes on stone. “Let’s see who this little treat is!”

The god seizes Dipper’s wrist - the wounded one, sending a bolt of pain down his arm - and clamps his palm around it, incredibly tight. 

Before he knows it, Dipper’s standing again, involuntarily, staring past his hood into a bright, glowing eye.

He’s meeting his god. He’s been noticed by Bill Cipher. 

So far he’s not trembling, so. That’s one thing he has going for him. 

Bill’s eye flicks down, then up again, almost thoughtful. Any question about his power is quickly tossed aside, because holy shit; the magic is nearly palpable, thrumming into Dipper’s skin and making his heart race. 

He’s also sporting a bright, wide grin, in a face that makes Dipper do a double-take.

Like. He thought - he glances at the triangle on the back of the wall, then to the person in front of him. 

Okay, it’s said that Bill Cipher can take any form he wants, human included, but, like. What?

Thankfully, Bill doesn’t seem to notice any of the insane, stupid things Dipper is thinking. All he does is raise his hand, and with one quick motion, sweep the hood off of Dipper’s head. 

Dipper flinches back. Jaw clenched, eye shut. 

Shit, shit, shit. Special attention. All the scenarios he can think of say ‘not good’. Best case scenario, it’s because Bill wants to thank him, for... Whatever his blood did. The rest of them involve increasingly terrifying ideas about what ‘nice blood’ means, and how much of it Bill might want. All of it, say. Maybe immediately. 

Dipper can’t pull away, not with such a strong hold on his arm. Fighting is downright dumb. Trembling’s happening, despite his best efforts, and the intrusive thought bubbles up that, hey, at least there’s lots of pressure on his wound. Could be worse.

Nothing happens. For several seconds.

Eventually, Dipper peeks an eye open. 

There’s Bill Cipher, looking back at him. His eye is literally lit up, the pleased grin wide on his face. 

Dipper waits for an order, but the god doesn’t speak. He just wiggles his eyebrows. If anything, he looks oddly… expectant?

Fuck. Dipper has to do something. 

What the hell, there isn’t any doctrine for this.

Sure, he knows all of the catechism, and each chant he was taught. He’s got an encyclopedic memory of everything he was taught about this powerful interdimensional god-being, he knows every ritual back and forth. The tenets spring to mind, unbidden: Be obedient, speak his words, serve him in all ways - and most of all, don’t think. 

But Dipper can’t chant. He hasn’t been told to do anything yet. And though it’d be a death sentence, if serving involves more bleeding he’d be tempted to kick again. Hell, he literally just watched everyone else trying the other bits. They did exactly what they were supposed to, and that was ‘boring’. 

He never could stop thinking, though. 

Now, his mind is racing.

A little-known and never-preached fact about Bill Cipher is that he doesn’t, actually, like rules all that much - 

So. 

Dipper offers a hesitant, closed-mouth smile. He wiggles the fingers of his free hand, a bit awkwardly, in greeting. 

Then ducks his head again, wishing he still had a hood to cover his face.

That didn’t make it weird, right? That’s a normal, devout thing to do. Coming from a totally religious guy, who’s only slightly damp from all the sweating.

“Oh.” Bill’s voice lowers to something like a purr. He tucks a knuckle under Dipper’s chin, lifting him to meet his single eye again. An eye that’s glowing now, bright gold and  half-lidded. “Ten outta ten on the offering, guys. Very cute.” 

Which is a little weird, but probably - 

“Y’know what?” And Bill’s grin widens, bright and wild, as his thumb strokes Dipper’s chin. “I like this one.”

Uh oh.

Dipper tries sinking down into his oversized robes, but Bill just fishes around inside them until he can pull Dipper up again by his undershirt. 

“In fact,” Bill declares, sounding proud. He pulls Dipper in closer, hand still clamped painfully tight on his wounded wrist. “I’m gonna keep him.”

What?

Immediately after that declaration, Dipper’s tugged in close, thumping against his side. Bill turns to start barking orders at the congregation, sharp and sneering.

Dipper can’t quite parse it. He’s still running over the last few words in his head. 

In the ritual room, the candles flare even higher, temperature rising to an uncomfortable degree. Dipper watches two worshipers collide with each other in their frantic obedience, and can’t even laugh about it.

‘Keep’, Bill said. 

What does that mean? Everything here is already ‘Bill’s’, in a way. But the way he said it sounded… oddly specific. 

A hopeful part of Dipper chimes in that it might just mean ‘not let him bleed out’, but he’s never been that lucky before, and there’s no reason it would start now.

With everything else going on. With the presence of a god. e. 

The cultists are bustling about; a few of them deposit things near Bill’s feet, like gifts upon the altar. Boxes, totems, more lit candles that Bill idly kicks over onto one of their robes, watching them flail at the sudden burst of fire. 

Eventually, Bill considered the task ‘done’, or close enough. He sighs, shaking his head. “About time, guys! Talk about slow. Hard to get good followers these days.”

Bill clicks his tongue in distaste, then snaps his fingers.

Dipper hears a weird ‘zmmm’ sound to his left. He notices that Bill’s suit is really soft material, and also that he probably shouldn’t be grabbing it like this. 

He doesn’t dare look at the sound. Not when Bill’s turned towards him with smug pride, like he’s pulled off a plan without a hitch. 

“Man, it's only been fifteen minutes, and I’ve had it with these losers.” Bill gives the congregation a look of disgust, then turns back to Dipper. That grin reemerges like the sunrise. “Screw these guys, am I right?”

This time, Dipper’s smile is involuntary. He quashes it fast, but not before Bill notices.

“That’s what I thought.” Bill says, with deep pleasure. He takes a step closer to the altar, pulling Dipper along with a surprising lack of force. “So! What’d’ya say we ditch this joint?”

Dipper doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what’s been happening, either, other than it’s all been going way too fast.

But Bill Cipher is looking at him, still. Present, powerful. Eager for a response. 

Dipper just shrugs.

He wouldn’t know what to say even if he still had his tongue. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Bill says, eminently pleased. Pulling Dipper in closer, with an arm suddenly around his waist. “Hold on tight! It ain’t a bumpy ride, but it’s a weird one.”

Dipper follows as he walks. Partly on automatic, and partly because what the hell else is he supposed to do?

About three steps in, he realizes they’re both walking on thin air, towards and over the altar. 

He jerks his head over, blinking at the source of that ‘zmm’ sound. 

Because of course summoning am interdimensional god-being would leave a remnant. He had to come from somewhere. 

Like, say, a weird red-yellow gap in space, with nonsense things flung around in a black and bizarre starscape. Dipper catches a glimpse of something with two many limbs, and of a series of screaming mouths with no bodies, and a duck and a grandfather clock, tumbling through the air. 

It’s almost like it might be a nightmare dimension. Who could have thought.

With nothing else to cling to, his free hand clamps Bill’s shoulder, tight. 

“You’re my guest for the next while, sapling.” Bill says, squeezing him tight in return as he steps in - and drags Dipper alongside him, stalking into the portal. “Glad to have you!”